#with a book. regular. and liking dogs

[hballegro]

I have a tummy ache so once again I'm laughing and touched by how they made Sam also boring and simple. He likes to drink Light Beer and eat junky microwaved popcorn. Watch movies on VHS that he rented from Blockbuster. Literally the definition of creature comforts but somehow more boring and simple. Amazing

[coquelicoq]

what is bothering me about the title of goblin is of course the order of the adjectives. the lonely and great god. this sounds unnatural in english, i'm not sure if it's because of syllable count or because of the meaning/type of the adjectives, but it should be the other way around. the great and lonely god. the once and future king. you could get away with putting lonely before great if they were separated by a comma instead of "and", thus making "lonely" seem to be modifying "great god" rather than both lonely and great modifying god in an equivalent way, but there's an "and" in there so never mind. i plugged the korean title into google translate and i see that they've just kept the order that the adjectives were in in korean, which is disappointing because if that weren't the case it would allow me to believe that they had done it on purpose for some effect, like to really call attention to the fact of his loneliness through unnatural phrasing that makes it impossible for you to not spend time thinking about the word "lonely". but no it's just that they translated it and then no one was like hey this sounds kinda funky. ah well.

[lookwhatyoumademelou]

.

[tabaquis-creatures]

tangentially related to last post: MASSIVE pet peeve of mine is the weirdly frequent phenomenon of Buck from Call of the Wild being depicted in cover art as some kind of husky/malamute/wolfy/spitzy thing. He's VERY explicitly described to NOT be any conventional sled dog thing. He's a large, mostly St Bernard mix. The book is painstakingly clear on this within the first few pages

[pleaseget-out]

No offense but maybe don’t get a high maintenance dog if ur gone all the time and wait til the last minute to find someone to take care of them.

[trinkettes]

I've been walking my neighbour's dog recently, he's exactly what you would imagine a 7 month old shih tzu/lhasa apso mix owned by an old lady to be like. I wish I could have a neon sign over my head saying

THIS IS NOT MY DOG

I AM NOT THE ONE TRAINING HIM

I am trying to set a good example but I can't make any big changes cause it's not my place and it wouldn't be consistent I swear I would have higher standards if it was my own dog

[yanderenightmare]

how is our little playboy bunny navigating all her apex predator clientele, I wonder

♡ AN: from the Promptlist

♡ TW: nsfw, noncon/dubcon, hyrbid au, sex club, sex worker reader dystopian laws, subjugation

♡ FEM reader

♡ P1: Playboy Bunny

A run-down of your usual clientele?

Your most regular visitors are wolves. They come in big packs of dozens at a time. Cops. Dirty cops. They usually book a private room so that they can be as rambunctious as they want, leaving their guns and badges out on the table just to remind you of who they are.

They like their drinks bitter, their cigars fat, their stakes rare, and usually wind up depriving you of your leotard sometime during the evening when making you sit on their blue laps, passing you around between them as if you were just another piece of meat for them to share.

They can get quite loud and heavyhanded and don’t tip very well, either. So, they’re not your favorite clients. Their fur is also rough and unkempt, and after catering to all their knots, you spend the entire night tossing and turning, trying to dispel all the cum they leave in your womb.

But you know, at least they’re straightforward.

The felines are harder to read. Dogs are dogs for the most part—except for foxes—but big cats differ greatly from one another. 

Lions mostly ignore you as they talk amongst themselves. Politicians, most of them. Congressmen, senators, and such. Their manes are always slicked back with gel, soft and smooth, all dressed in expensive suits steeped in cologne.

They keep you on their lap with a paw on your ass, sometimes squeezing your tail. They just want you to hold their drink and bring it up to their lips when they give you a bounce.

It’s honestly rare for them to do much else than ask you to fetch stuff like more ice or cigars. But sometimes one or two of them will have you join them someplace private. They’ll talk about the wife they have at home. Sharp-toothed and long-clawed and never in the mood to fuck anymore.

They volley with their praise, telling you how soft and sweet you are, such a good bunny rabbit for them, then switching it up with sneers, calling you a slutty little cotton-tail whore.

They scare you.

Jaguars and leopards are a bit different. Wallstreet brokers.

They’ll smooth-talk to you. Heavy on the compliments. Flirting with you and smiling when they make you blush or giggle nervously. They like that—selling it, making you want their touch.

Oh, and when they’ve gotten you really flushed and hooked, they’ll groom you. Using their sand-textured tongue to lap up all that sweet-smelling nervousness like you’re a desert. Kneading your soft parts like you’re their own personal stress-toy. 

But felines are great tippers, even those who don’t use you much. You think they see it as a status thing. 

Birds of prey are the same. They like to talk. Or, talk is a generous term. They’re vain creatures and will mostly ask for your opinion on their plumage and how you like their feathers—if they aren’t just the most magnificent wings you’ve ever seen in your life.

It took you a while to understand them—what type of money they were—but if the tattoos they keep on their skin are any tell, your guess is mafia.

Funny enough, they seem like one of the less dangerous types of clientele you have. They just like having fun for the most of it, always asking you to kiss their rings before they throw the dice. They’re all gambling habits and signed deals, trying to act as sophisticated as possible, even when they’ve all got freshly bloody knuckles on each visit.

But you’re a well-trained bunny, always sitting pretty and never ever asking a single stupid question that might get you in trouble.

Then there’s the hyenas, of course. They find work where they’re wanted. Candy men and loansharks, but mostly just muscle for the real mobsters.

They also come in packs and take a little too many party drugs. Always left drooling all over you, eyes blown wide and bloodshot, rutting as if they’re competing over who can do you fastest or who can do it the most times—you can’t tell—teeth bared as they sink their claws a little too deep into your flesh, almost hard enough to tear your coat and definitely enough to leave spots the boss won’t be pleased to see.

They’re bad with money and are often chased out and banned from coming again. But they have ways of earning their keep, and somehow, they’re always pardoned after a week or two and welcomed back with open arms.

And speaking of being begrudgingly welcomed. Foxes are usually considered runts—not true apex predators, but they're still allowed entry for dubious reasons.

They’re romantic, coming to the establishment in tailored suits and fresh haircuts. Yeah, they might come across as clean, but in truth, they’re scavengers who fight tooth and nail for their cut of the steak.

Blackmailers and extortionists who pawn themselves off as good-faith advisors, meanwhile running their own organization with private investigations going in every direction, always dealing in confidential information they’re not supposed to know.

They're not entirely accepted by the others but are seen for their value nonetheless, if not out of respect and fear.

A strange species, you'd say. They can play well with anyone, not just canines, making it their mission to secure a favor amongst all the big names. Silver-tongued yet sleazy all the same.

You never know what their agenda is—telling you they’ll take you away somewhere, lavish you with the lifestyle you deserve. But you know they’re just trying to get you to spill on your other clients. Surely you must have heard something interesting?

You just smile and play dumb like always—you’re just a bunny, after all, what were they expecting?

Then there are the reptiles—crocs, gators, and snakes. Lawyers, the lot of them. High-profile lawyers.

You have that in common, you suppose. All their clients are your clients, after all.

They like to boast about their winnings. Make you say, “Oh wow!” and “No way, really?”

Oh, and they love to strangle. They’re maybe the most eccentric species you serve—and the most taxing. They’ll slither their tongue in your ear, keeping their hand around your throat, feeling you kick and struggle beneath them, watching your eyes roll back as they nearly squeeze you free of life.

Somehow, they always know the exact moment to let go. And at that point, they’ve achieved their high. Paying double what they’re owed as if in shame before leaving.

Suppose some types enjoy playing with their food more than eating it.

Lastly, there’s the boss. Big Bear.

He calls himself a businessman, but he’s really just a glorified pimp.

He’s begun taking you off floor duty in favor of having you for himself. He’s always had favorites, you’re told. If you play your cards right, he might just add you to his personal harem.

You try your best to cater to him, but his grizzly cock makes your hips feel as if their dislocating each time you take him, not to mention the way he leaves you completely bedridden, feeling like the spoils of a hunt. 

But unfortunately for you, despite your incompetence, he seems to have taken a liking to you.

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[suguann]

tags. fem!reader, boss/employee relationship, stupidly domestic, little wife kink in there somewhere, nanny reader, single dad gojo, breeding kink [18+ only]

You sometimes find yourself wistfully imagining having a family of your own—a soft and sweet little bundle to cuddle and someone strong and capable (competent) at your side. But you can’t think of the last time you’ve been on a date where that person had the same interest in something more serious than casually sleeping around. 

Nannying seemed like the natural conclusion, especially when you’re still settling in a new city and barely scraping by for rent and student loans for a degree you don’t use. 

You pick up a few jobs just to get a feel for it: parents going away for a honeymoon, a last-minute call-in, a weekend business trip. Then a friend of a friend says she makes enough to afford one of those picturesque apartments that overlook tall high-rises and iridescent lights, the very ones you’ve dog-eared in real-estate magazines.

All it takes are a few phone calls and an interview until you’re packing up your apartment and taking the freeway outside of the city to somewhere remote and expensive, your car looking almost out of place parked beside the shiny new one in the long driveway.

You rap on the front door before you lose your nerve, and a few moments later, it opens, and you’re unsure who looks more out of place: this man with a smile too big, dressed for work, immaculate suit dampened by the baby rag slung over his shoulder and what looks like drool on his crisp collar, or you in your scuffed shoes and second-hand store clothes, standing in front of the nicest house you’ve ever seen.

“The nanny?”

“Yes,” you mutter, licking your lips. “That’s me.”

“Good, Ren just woke up from his nap,” he says, opening the door a little wider with a creak. The darkness behind him is almost comforting.

You take a deep breath and pass over the threshold into his home.

The entire time, his hand stays on the small of your back to steer you toward the nursery, and a shiver threatens up the length of your spine.

Three months. That’s how long it takes before your employer poses a problem.

It’s not that he’s a terrible boss; in fact, he’s quite the opposite. He lets you take over one of the many spare rooms in his massive house, pays you double the regular rate, and gives you time off when you ask for it.

It also helps that Ren is cute, only a year old, and still so sweet and tiny. 

Perfect.

The problem lies in that you know what he sounds like first thing in the morning, that he knows how you like your coffee, that he helps you fold laundry in the living room while the baby naps, how you catch him staring anytime you hold his son—his expression shuttered, a foreign thing that you can’t read. It’s all so terribly domestic. 

Terrible in that you think it’s a horrible idea to develop a crush on your boss, that you can’t help but get flustered anytime he so much as looks your way, even if it’s fleeting. How a sleepy smile before he retires to his room for the night can turn your thoughts into a scattered, ill-defined mess of what they used to be until all that’s left are words like spun sugar melting on your tongue.

But also, it’s not normal, at least not from your experience. 

You were lucky in the past if your employer even wanted to know about their kid’s day. Barely saying hello once they walk through the front door before sending money to your bank account.

Satoru—because that’s what he asked you to call him one afternoon while you were in the middle of feeding Ren mashed banana, a lazy smile curling the edges of his lips after you say it for the first time—wants to know everything: what Ren ate, if he laughed, how your day was, if you finally got your hands on that book you’ve been meaning to buy. 

“You don’t have to ask about my day,” you tell him shyly, accepting the glass of wine he proffers you after spending the past hour trying to put a teething baby to bed. “To make me feel better, that is.”

“Would it be so bad if I said I want to? You live here, too.”

You try to separate the two: that he cares as your employer and not for any other reason, and how you sometimes catch the soft look in his eye whenever he looks at you could make you believe otherwise.

Cool fingers cup your chin gently, thumb caressing the top of your cheek, now close enough that you catch a few of the warm notes of his cologne, a move that’s probably very inappropriate between a boss and an employee.

“I never say anything I don’t mean.”

You swallow, nodding, slightly shaky, breath caught in your chest. “Okay.”

“Good girl.” He retreats to his office before witnessing how those two words knock the wind out of you.

He starts saying things like our shopping list, our car—because he gave you the keys to the SUV parked beside his car and hasn’t touched it since; for you and the baby, he said, plus it’s terrible on gas when I drive it to work—our house, our baby. You don’t think he means to do it; it's more of an easy slip in conversation.

But then, one morning, he’s rushing around the kitchen, hair still damp and smelling like his shampoo, as he grabs his coffee and briefcase from the counter, kissing Ren’s forehead first…and then yours.

You’re half convinced that you imagined it—that his lips hadn’t stayed there for a second longer than necessary—until he straightens his tie and heads out for the day with a ‘be good’ tossed over his shoulder, and you’re left wondering if he meant to say that to you or Ren.

It sets off a chain reaction of thoughts whirling away in your head, leaves you wanting and wondering—only ever allowing yourself to fantasize a little when the house is quiet and dark, the baby monitor humming on your nightstand, and images of your boss flit behind closed eyelids as you fit your hand underneath your soft sleep shorts.

In the morning, you worry he can tell what you did, his smile almost too sharp, too something—more teasing than what you’re used to—his hand resting on your lower back as he leans down to kiss Ren’s chubby cheek while you make breakfast.

“I have a meeting this afternoon, so I’ll be late. Want me to pick up some food on the way home?”

No, you think, there’s no way he knows.

You spend most of the morning cleaning and folding the array of graphic onesies Satoru has a penchant for dressing Ren in, and the later half walking around the pool because it’s warm and Ren enjoys splashing around in the water. It’s enough to tucker him out for bed early, unable to keep his eyes open while eating a plate of mashed potatoes.

It’s also the first time in weeks that you have the night to yourself, no baby keeping you busy, no Satoru to—well.

After a long shower, you step out of the bathroom, moving into the hallway. And there are many reasons why you felt confident walking the few steps it took to reach your bedroom. Most revolve around what Satoru told you that morning, so you don’t expect him to be standing there, shirtsleeves rolled up, piercing gaze sliding down the length of you wrapped in a towel and little else.

“I brought home those drunken noodles you like,” he says when his eyes focus back on your face, his whole expression softening into a smile.

A beat. “Thank you,” you whisper, unable to look away.

He tucks the wet strands of hair clinging to your cheek behind your ear. “Why don’t you get dressed, and I’ll join you downstairs?”

The noise in your brain goes static.

You’re unsure what causes it, but everything changes when he comes home early one afternoon and finds you and the baby napping in the nursery. He has this soft look on his face and something else you can’t decipher with his piercing blue eyes settled firmly on you.

Ren coos softly into your shoulder. 

When Satoru picks him up and settles him in the crib, then walks you to your room—here, let me help you—and when he hovers in your doorway, you let him in without question.

He doesn’t waste any time peeling off your clothes, eager to have you naked and splayed out underneath him. You cum on his tongue more times than you can count until you’re silently begging him to fuck you.

He laughs, large hands spread over your tummy. 

“Use your words, baby. I’m not a mind reader.”

You feel like you’re someone else watching you from somewhere else, another body rocking against the length of your boss’s cock, back arching every time you manage to find the friction you need. He’s hard against your back, thick in a way that makes you wonder if he did enough to stretch you out. 

“I-I want—”

All other thoughts are obliterated by the stretch and press of him against your cunt. 

“Think I’m going to keep you,” he rasps, lips dragging over your throat. “Keep this drippy little cunt spread open on my desk whenever I want while the baby naps. Would you like that? For me to fuck you full until you give me a baby.”

You clench, nerves shot.

“Gonna get all round with my baby, stay here forever,” he mumbles when he draws away, and you can’t tell if the words are meant for you to hear or slip out without him realizing. “Fuck—breed my little wife until it takes—”

Your eyes roll up, lost in the little promises he paints across your skin, body shivering over and over until you’re sobbing from it until he has to clamp a hand down over your mouth—shh, you’re going to wake the baby—going limp when he finally cums, pressing as deep as your body will allow, as if he can somehow imprint himself there. 

Wonders if maybe he’s been building up to this moment all along. 

It’s so easy to lay there after, blissed out while he litters kisses across your face and collarbones, letting him lift your hips up to slide a pillow underneath, even though the position is awkward when he tries to cuddle you afterward.

His fingers draw shapes on your stomach, giving you a wistful look, like he can’t believe he’s laying here with his cum still dripping between your thighs—no matter how many times he scoops it up and pushes it back inside you. “Do you think it’ll take?”

And you don’t have the heart to tell him about the little foil packet of pills tucked away in your nightstand.

[officialaemondtargaryen]

Dinner & Diatribes

❝i knew it from the first look of mischief in your eye.❞

Summary: You both swiped right and suddenly you're standing in a stranger's kitchen while he makes you spaghetti.

Pairing: Modern Aegon Targaryen x Reader

Word Count: 5.2k

Author’s Note: this might be the most self-indulgent fic i've ever written, so fair warning. also, thank you tom, who inspired this by saying that dinner & diatribes would be aegon's hozier song. it's just true. anyways, this was really fun to write.

Warnings: language, recreational drug use, alcohol use, fluff, intense sexual situations (including: oral sex - female receiving, sexual intercourse - p in v), just two single people who are horny, more fluff, aegon being so cute that i couldn't stop smiling the whole time i was writing this.

It was precisely 9:39 PM on a Tuesday.

You were sitting cross-legged on your couch, nose deep in a fresh murder mystery that you had been working through for the last two days. There was a lit joint between your fingers that you were nursing, taking little hits so that it wouldn’t completely burn out, and on the cushion next to you, your phone softly vibrates and lights up; a familiar icon flashes across the screen and you can easily make out the words, “It’s a Match” from the corner of your eye. 

It’d been a regular occurrence since you had downloaded that accursed app. 

You’d been single for far too long, according to your best friend, though you hadn’t really noticed. The sweet silence of a solitary life was something that you had enjoyed for the most part. It wasn’t even like your online dating life had really taken off, either. You’d get matches but hardly anyone would reach out in any way that made you feel like they were serious. They wanted your Snapchat username, or they were in an ‘open’ relationship or asking for a threesome, and one guy even asked if you would send him pictures of your feet. Even some of the ones you thought were serious about taking you out- or even just hooking up- would end up ghosting you before anything actually happened. 

“It’s not supposed to be serious,” you could hear your friend’s words rattling around in your brain. You shake your head and focus once again on your book; they have a suspect, it’s the best friend! How fitting.

Once again, your phone lights up and vibrates. Not wanting to be distracted from the plot, you ignore your new match and get back to your mystery with anticipation; the best friend is about to confess. You go to take another hit of your joint and frown upon realizing it’s burnt out. As you move to grab your lighter, in comes another message, and another, and another. You stop what you’re doing and pick up your phone, swiping at the screen until you find the culprit. He’s known only as Aegon T, and according to the one sentence he has written on his profile, he has a dog. You swipe through his pictures- the dog is a golden retriever, the man looks like a golden retriever. 

In the message thread, he’s basically talking to himself. 

There’s four new messages waiting for you, while three little dots begin flashing at the bottom of the screen; disappearing and reappearing as you read what he’s already sent. 

“So, I’m high.”

“And I am making spaghetti… and it’s really good.”

“At least I hope it’s really good, it could just be the weed…”

“I could use a taste-tester, if you’re up for it? I can’t pay you or anything, but it’s honest work 😏”

Aegon begins typing again and you watch the screen, a smirk on your lips. You are 99% sure that the spaghetti is truly an innuendo for what he really wants and have half a heart to just block him, but you watch as those little gray dots continue in the bottom left corner of the screen; he’s going back and forth with himself and you can’t help but find it oddly cute. Your fingers hover over the keyboard as you contemplate a witty response, but before you can even begin typing, he sends a fifth message. 

“That was weird as fuck, right?”

Then a sixth.

“You probably don’t want to come over to some random guy’s house on a Tuesday.”

He finishes up with a seventh message.

“Unless you do…”

He almost sends an apology. After all, what's another message? He’s already fucked this whole thing up; not even giving himself a chance before he nose-dived. If he was being honest, he should just go ahead and delete his whole account; save you from secondhand embarrassment and save himself from repeating the same mistake again in the future. He sets the phone down on the kitchen counter and goes back to ripping bong hits to calm his nerves. Though, he’s unable to keep himself from checking his phone for a response; a response that likely wasn’t going to come and he’d spend the rest of his night feeling like a complete idiot. 

Seven back-to-back messages should have screamed ‘red flag’, but you’re glancing at the clock as if you were seriously contemplating taking this stranger up on his offer. After all, you do have needs just as much as the next person. But, you’re wearing a sweatshirt and a pair of pajama shorts, your hair’s a mess, and you were covered in the crumbs of your munchie snacks. Meaning, you were nowhere close to being prepared for what was sure to happen between you and this random stoner offering you dinner. 

Yet, you respond to him, “I could never turn down spaghetti”. 

Aegon’s stirring the sauce when he gets your message. He’s instantly elated, thrusting a celebratory fist into the air. His fingers fly across the keyboard swiftly, sending another quick message, “Atta girl 🙃 My place is on the corner of 9th and 51st, above Jasper’s.”

“Be there soon,” you reply with haste. 

It was apartment #4 and you made sure to text your friend the address, and given name of your potential murderer, and also share your location for her to keep an eye out.  She says all you have to do is text her at any time if you need her to call and bail you out with a fake emergency. All she asks in return is for you to have fun and let her know if you are planning on spending the night- which was an idea that you weren’t opposed to, but it wasn’t something you were planning on. 

You’re nervous as you stand outside of the door to his apartment, fist hovering for a moment. Now’s the time to make a fast exit- you haven’t met him, you could turn around right now and never meet him. You could wake up alive in the morning, safe in your own bed. Or, you can knock on the door and have what might be a really nice spaghetti dinner with a really nice guy. Hell, he could even be the love of your life and in fifty years you’ll both look back on this day and laugh about how you met on Tinder and how you were stupid enough to go to his house and not a public place. 

Finally, you knock. 

Aegon puts the lid back on his spaghetti sauce and shuffles into the living room. Sunfyre is on the couch with his ears perked; his tail’s wagging and he’s panting eagerly, waiting patiently to meet this new visitor. Aegon whispers over to him, “wish me luck,” and thinks to himself, please don’t be a catfish, please don’t be a catfish, please don’t be a catfish. He peers through the peephole when he approaches the door and there you are, a sigh of relief deflates his chest. 

“Oh, thank God,” you can hear him say as the door swings open. His accent is surprisingly British. “You’re real.”

The very first thing that you notice are his eyes. They’re piercing; somehow blue and lavender at the same time– the color of a warm, summer sunrise and they’re crinkling at the edges as he smiles. He’s wearing a pair of dark gray sweats and a pale green hoodie, and the only word that comes to mind when you look at him is warmth. He’s somehow more attractive in person than he is in the pictures on his profile, which you didn’t think was possible, but he’s standing right in front of you and you can’t help but think to yourself, he doesn’t look like a murderer. 

Then again, neither did Ted Bundy.  

Aegon stands there for a moment, just staring at you, unable to do anything else. His words escape him, he can barely even breathe. You look exactly the same as your pictures; even without the makeup and even in the shitty, fluorescent overhead lights of the hallway. Even in a sweatshirt and pajama shorts, you’re stunning. He’s having a hard time believing that you actually showed up and he doesn’t realize that he’s been staring for much too long until you shrug back at him. 

“Did you think I wasn’t?” You ask with creased brows and a lopsided smile.

The corners of his lips pull upwards as he looks at you, “I don’t know. You’re just so beautiful, I’m still not entirely convinced you aren’t some sort of hologram… or a robot.” 

“Wow, you’re pretty smooth,” you say with a playful smirk, desperately trying to keep your composure— trying to play it cool, hoping that he hasn’t caught on to the fact that you’re secretly spiraling, because it took all of one smile and one compliment and you were done for. “But, I’ll have you know that flattery won’t work on me. I’m here for the spaghetti and the spaghetti alone.” 

“My apologies,” Aegon says with a chuckle as he holds his hands up defensively. “Right this way, then.” 

He steps to the side, allowing you to enter his apartment, and shuts the door behind you. It’s nice, clean, smells like fresh baked bread and tomato sauce. There’s niche artwork adorning the walls, he’s got candles burning, and there’s some lowkey, downtempo R&B playing softly in the background. He quickly moves past you and disappears into the kitchen, leaving you to follow him. 

However, before you can take all of two steps into his apartment, a flash of golden fur is suddenly at your hip, pawing for attention. You drop down to a knee and happily accept any and all kisses from the pup. “Oh! Hi, what’s your name?”

Aegon sticks his head around the corner and says, “That is Sunfyre. In case you were wonderin’, he’s a very good judge of character and I will be consultin’ with him later where you’re concerned, fair warning.” 

You roll your eyes and scratch behind Sunfyre’s ears, his tail thumps in approval. 

“Would you like something to drink?” He continues and disappears back into the kitchen. “I’ve got wine and bottled water. Oh, and milk?” There’s a rustling in the kitchen before Aegon adds with a nervous chuckle, “scratch that, there is no milk.” 

You politely excuse yourself from Sunfyre and step into the small dining room off of the kitchen. 

There’s a grin on your lips, which you pursed so that he doesn’t think you’re laughing at him. Sunfyre joins the two of you and circles around his owner’s legs as Aegon empties an almost full half-gallon of milk down the drain. His kitchen is small but looks to be well used, which you appreciate. You know almost nothing about this man, other than his name- if ‘Aegon’ was even his real name- and the name of his dog, and yet here you were, standing in the threshold of his kitchen with a strange sense of comfortability as if you had been lifelong pals. 

“Water is fine,” you tell him. 

He produces a bottle of water from his fridge and tosses it over to you with ease and goes back to the stove. You step further into the kitchen, taking in your surroundings. The kitchen, like the living room, is covered in artwork and vintage decor- things you’d only find in some obscure thrift store or estate sale. On the refrigerator are a collection of magnets from different cities and countries, real touristy type shit. Some of them even had names on them; Alexander, Aaron, Alistair, Alan, Adolf. 

Maybe these are the names of people he’s killed. 

“You travel a lot?” You ask, trying to keep the conversation going.

“I try to,” he says from over his shoulder as he continues to stir the sauce. You can hear him set the lid back on the pot. “Most of those are from my sister, Helaena. She thinks it’s hilarious to give me magnets with random ‘A’ names since you’ll never find the name Aegon on any of those,” he says from behind you. He’s leaning against the counter with a half glass of wine. You quirk an eyebrow at him, not fully convinced. “She has a few from me that say Helen.”

“Is that her?” You ask, finger pointing to a pretty blonde in one of the many photographs he had pinned up.

He nods and takes a step closer to you. He’s so close that you can feel his warmth, smell his aftershave. The proximity causes you to blush and he smirks in response, leaning over your shoulder as he points to the other people in the pictures. “Those two are my little brothers, Aemond and Daeron,” he claims and then points to two women. “That’s my half-sister, Rhae, and next to her is my mother.”

“The redhead?” You ask surprised, given she didn’t look like she could be old enough to have four grown children. He nods and takes a step back, leaning against the counter with half-lidded eyes and a tipsy blush. “She looks like she could be your sister,” you say softly, turning back to glance at all of the faces; he seemed proud of his family, like they were very close. 

You turn away from the fridge and lean against the counter at his side. It’s quiet for a moment, save for the music and the sound of boiling water where the noodles were cooking. You look at him and the corners of your lips can’t help but twist up into a shy smile, but you bite at the inside of your cheek out of nervous habit. He props himself up on his elbows, taking a sip of his wine, clearly comfortable with the silence. 

“So,” you look up at him and his little smirk grows. “About the job…”

“Ah, yes,” he nods. “As I stated earlier, I won’t be able to pay you a monetary wage, but the position does come with a benefits package.”

“And what exactly would this benefits package include?” There’s an innocent flirtatiousness in your voice that only adds to the tension. 

“Outside of the free gourmet meals that I would be providin’ to ya, which is obviously the most important part,” he smiles and steps to the side to grab a spoon from the drawer and holds it out to you. Your fingers softly close around his as you pluck the utensil from his grasp. He clears his throat to distract from the fact that he was visibly flustered from the slight touch. “There’s also unlimited cuddle sessions,” before he can finish, you shoot him a look. “With Sunfyre, of course! He’s the real boss ‘round here, after all.” 

“Cuddling with the boss?” You quirk an eyebrow and look down at the golden retriever, his eyes round and gleaming; clearly waiting for a hand-out. “Sounds like a conflict of interest to me.”

“Well, if it’s a conflict of interest you’re worried about,” he counters quickly with a soft yet playful tone. “I s’pose we could renegotiate the terms of the agreement and you could have me instead.” 

“I’m listening.”

“He might be better at cuddling for obvious reasons and he might be better lookin’,” Aegon continues. “But, I give better backrubs. I mean, I have thumbs and he don’t. You can’t give decent backrubs without thumbs, can you? Plus, he’s a sloppy kisser.” 

“Oh, you’re really trying to sweeten the deal now, huh? Backrubs and kisses? I must admit, that is quite a compelling offer,” you muse. “It seems my decision hinders on whether or not you can actually cook, wouldn’t want to accept the position blindly, now would I?”

“Are ya doubtin’ my skills?” He asked playfully. 

“No offense, but you possess the aura of someone who could fuck up a can of Spaghettios,” you tell him with a sincere smile. “So, forgive me if I don't get my hopes up.”

Aegon laughs and it’s a warm and infectious sound that fills the kitchen. It’s genuine, as is his perfect smile. You can’t seem to keep yourself from staring; eyes softly tracing every detail of his face– from his full, pink pout, to the scar above his right eyebrow, and the dimple of his chin– thinking to yourself that you’ve never seen a man more beautiful. His smile turns back into a smirk as he notices you staring at his lips and you look up to meet his eyes. There’s something about the way he looks at you that leaves you feeling vulnerable. His gaze softens as you look away, turning your attention back to the spaghetti sauce on the stove in front of you to distract yourself from the blush creeping up your neck.

There’s only one way this night ends.

It was obvious before you even left your house and it was certainly obvious now. 

“Go on, then,” he prods, motioning to the pot on the stovetop.

His eyes are wide with anticipation as you dip into the simmering sauce, stirring it a few times before bringing the spoon to your lips. He’s nervous; it’s his mother’s recipe– one he’s spent years perfecting– but with his luck, you will most likely think it’s steaming garbage. Yet, he watches intently; holding his breath as your perfect lips curl to blow softly, cooling the sauce before you finally taste it. 

The moment the spoon touches your tongue, you're determined to remain impartial. After all, you’ve had your fair share of disappointing meals from men who’ve claimed to be great cooks. Aegon certainly could be the very latest and you wouldn’t be at all surprised. So, you keep your expectations low, and try your hardest to remain stoic, but as the flavors begin to unfold, you can feel your resolve wavering. 

It’s good. Better than most. 

Reluctantly, you have to admit that this is the second-best sauce you’ve ever had, right after your grandmother’s. You glance up at Aegon, who’s watching you with a mix of anxiety and hope, and you can’t help but smile. 

“I have to give it to you,” you say, your voice betraying a hint of admiration. “This is incredible. Almost as good as my grandmother’s.”

The relief and pride that spread across his face makes your heart flutter. 

“Yeah?” He asks with a toothy grin. 

“I’m still not completely convinced that you can actually cook, but you can– at the very least– make some top-notch spaghetti sauce,” you tell him as you place your spoon to the side. 

“Top-notch, eh?” He asks playfully as he begins plating your meal. “I’ll take it.” 

“Don’t let it get to your head,” you say to him with a laugh. “It’s just spaghetti sauce.” 

“Just spaghetti sauce? Don’t let my mum hear you say that,” he says with a smirk, setting a full plate in front of you on the counter. “I guess I’ll just have to work extra hard on the next one.”

“Assuming there will be a next one,” you reply, tone dripping with playful sarcasm. “Though, you have set the bar pretty high tonight. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

“Well,” he murmurs as he steps closer, his body brushing against yours as he reaches around you to grab a plate. His lips are hovering above the shell of your ear, his voice low and teasing, causing your cheeks to immediately flush as the heat between the two of you intensifies. “I’m nothing if not a perfectionist.”

For a split second you expect for him to lean in for a kiss. Your heart is simultaneously skipping beats and racing at the same time; your breath catching in your throat as he leans in— But then he smirks, grabbing the plate and taking a step backwards. He’s doing it on purpose, you realize; his proximity expertly calculated to keep you on edge. You look up at him with wide, sparkling eyes and he knows he’s got you right where he wants you. The soft blush of your cheeks has his blood pumping and sends a surge of adrenaline through him. He’s trying his absolute best to play it cool but the way you’re biting your lip and looking at him has him unraveling.

“Is that so?” You ask, raising an eyebrow. “What other skills do you have up your sleeve?”

His grin widens as he looks down at you, setting his empty plate to the side. His gaze, once again, drops to your lips. “I have a few tricks,” he says softly, his voice filled with promise. “But I doubt you’d believe me if I told you, so how about I just show you?” 

“What?” You ask with a playful innocence. “Before dinner?”

“I’m not really in the mood for spaghetti anymore.” 

“Oh?” Your smirk is only growing. “What are you in the mood for?”

Aegon says nothing, but a confident grin tugs at the corners of his lips as he rests his hands on your hips. He doesn’t hesitate to pull you in by the waist, until you’re pressed against him and his lips are on yours. The kiss is both gentle and urgent and a little bit awkward, as any first kiss should be. You felt like a teenager again, kissing a boy for the first time– butterflies in your stomach and all.

It takes no time at all for you to find your rhythm with him, and he deepens the kiss, pushing you up onto the kitchen counter to meet his height. Your arms naturally drape across his shoulders, your legs wrap around his middle. He’s completely taken over your mind, filling up every tiny space that he can fit into; the smell of his cologne, the scratch of his stubble against your skin, the feeling of his hands squeezing the flesh of your thighs– his fingertips teasing just underneath the hem of your shorts. 

Breathless, he pulls away from you as he pulls your sweatshirt over your head. He stops for a moment to take in the sight of you; clad only in your bra and shorts, lips red and blotchy, swollen and full. You’re looking up at him from under your lashes, softly biting your bottom lip as you wait for him to continue. He gently lifts his hand up to your cheek and traces the curve of your cupid’s bow with his thumb, providing one last show of tenderness before he leans in to capture your lips in another searing kiss. 

His touch is suddenly rushed; spreading a wildfire across your skin in the wake of his lips as he rips off the remainder of your clothes. It doesn’t take long at all before you’re sitting exposed on his kitchen counter in only a thong, blushing wildly and covering your face with your hands. 

“No– no hiding,” he clicks his tongue and pulls your hands away from your face. “I want to see you.”

He whispers a string of profanities and compliments as his starving eyes roam your figure. Self-doubt creeps into your mind and you momentarily consider making a quick exit, convinced he won’t like what he sees, but the way he’s looking at you makes you feel desired in a way you haven’t felt in a long time. 

Aegon’s gaze is electrifying and intense, drawing you in and silencing your negative thoughts instantly. His hands pull you in by the waist, sliding you to the edge of the counter as his lips work their way down your chin and neck; leaving a trail of red marks down to your chest. He hums, smirking as he takes one of your breasts in his mouth. His hand kneads the other, rolling your hardened nipple between two fingers. Your head falls back, lips parted slightly as you breathe out his name. 

Each sound he elicits from you urges him on even further until he’s on one knee, looking up at you from his position with those pretty eyes. He runs a hand up the back of your calf, softly teasing you with his fingertips before tossing your leg over his shoulder. You knew where he was going, and yet, you were still surprised as he began placing open mouthed kisses on the inside of your thighs; shivering in anticipation as goosebumps formed on your skin. 

“You’re so wet,” he says proudly, praising you. 

His eyes are locked with yours as his fingers delicately smooth over your clothed clit. He hooks a finger around the dampened cotton and pulls your thong to the side, groaning at the sight of your perfect pussy. Without wasting another second, Aegon’s mouth is suddenly on you and your hands immediately find the back of his head; fingers curling into the roots of his silver hair. 

You roll your hips against his tongue, cursing out as your legs begin to shake. He moans, face still buried deep in you and the vibrations have you writhing. Both of his arms are wrapped around your thighs now, holding you tight to him, not letting up for even a second. Then he stands, lifting you up onto his shoulders. You squeal in shock, holding onto him tightly, but he doesn’t stop; he continues to devour you as he blindly carries you towards his bedroom. 

When his knees hit the side of his bed, he tosses you back onto the mattress. 

You prop yourself up on your elbows and watch as he strips out of his clothes. . You can see the outline of his arousal; prominent and pressing firmly against the fabric of his sweats. You bite your lip at the sight and he smirks as he catches your stare. His movements are unhurried, giving you ample time to appreciate the sight before you. His hoodie and shirt come off first, then his sweats, and you can’t help but notice the way that his muscles flex with each motion. He’s not overly built, but there’s a solid strength in his frame that is evident in the way he moves.

Outside, headlights from passing cars cast streaks of light and shadows across the walls of his room. It’s quiet, the music in the other room has stopped playing and all you can hear is the sound of your own heart beating in your ears. You swallow thickly, encompassed by the tension of the moment as he crawls up the length of your body; placing tender kisses along your skin. His lips leave a trail of warmth, each touch igniting a spark that travels through your entire body.

When he reaches your face, he pauses, his breath mingling with yours as he hovers just inches away. The anticipation builds, thick and electric in the air between you. His lips find yours in a kiss that starts slow and tender but quickly deepens; fingers threading through your hair as he pulls you closer, his body pressing yours deeper into the plush mattress. Your hands explore his back, tracing the contours of his muscles, feeling the tension and strength beneath his skin and coming to rest on his shoulders; gripping tightly as he continues to worship your body with his mouth. Each kiss, each touch, is deliberate, heightening your senses and pulling you further into the moment.

You curse at the feeling of his girth against your entrance. Your hand moves up to the back of his neck, pulling him down to meet your lips as he presses slowly into you. 

“Oh fuck,” he whimpers into the crook of your neck as his arms become weak. 

He knows that he won’t last like this; it’s been a while and you feel way too good. He’s slow at first, wanting to steady himself and maintain control, but his rhythm picks up quickly; hips moving with an unrelenting rhythm, each thrust bringing you both closer to the edge. You can feel his muscles tense, his grip on you tightening as he buries his face in your neck. His moans are a mix of pleasure and desperation, and you can tell he’s fighting to hold back.

You tighten your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, feeling the overwhelming need to reach that peak together. His pace quickens, the tension in his body building to a breaking point. You feel the same pressure inside of you mounting before it’s suddenly crashing over you like a wave. He follows seconds later, a low groan escaping his lips as he spills into you. The intensity of the moment leaves you both breathless and clinging to each other, bathing in the afterglow. 

“That was incredible,” he murmurs against your skin, head pressed to your chest as you stroke his hair softly. His eyes flutter shut as he listens to the sounds of your heartbeat. 

You hum in agreement, smiling to yourself as you savor the peacefulness of the moment. 

Suddenly, you’re joined by Sunfyre jumping up on the bed, his tail wagging enthusiastically. You smile at him and pat the empty space next to you, inviting him to join your cuddle session. He eagerly accepts the invitation, circling the bed a few times before snuggling up next to you. Aegon lifts his head and smiles, clearly pleased that you would be so open to having the dog in bed with you. He wraps his arm around both you and Sunfyre, pulling you closer. 

“This is perfect,” he says softly, his voice filled with contentment as he lays his head back on your chest. 

"So, about that job offer," you say playfully, your fingers tracing patterns along his skin. "I think I'll accept the position. When would you like for me to start?"

He lifts his head to look at you, a playful glint in his eyes. “How about tomorrow night at seven?”

Before you can respond, a distinct burning smell reaches your nose. Your brows furrow as you sniff the air. “Do you smell that?”

Aegon’s eyes widen in realization. “The spaghetti!” 

He jumps up from the bed, pulling on his clothes quickly, and scrambles into the kitchen. You follow behind him, tossing one of his t-shirts over your head and meet him in the kitchen. 

“I guess I forgot to turn off the burner,” Aegon looks disappointed but then chuckles, shaking his head. He looks at you with a glint in his eye and smirks. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”

“Oh, that sucks!” You laugh, playfully nudging him. “Is it too late to back out of the job now?”

“Way too late for that,” he says as he pulls you into a soft kiss, silencing any doubts immediately. “You’re mine now.” 

“Mm,” you hum against his lips. “But I came here for the spaghetti.”

He chuckles and pulls back slightly. “Will you settle for pizza?”

“I’ll settle for anything, as long as it’s with you,” you say with a smile as you wrap your arms around his waist. “And as long as there’s extra cheese!”

[crescenthistory]

slight air and purging fire

Pairing: Barty Crouch Jr. x Reader

Summary: He's your person and, apparently, you're his flame. Your more-than-a-best-friend spends the evening with you when Regulus needs a break, and you're both happy for the excuse.

Words: 4.1k

Warnings: gn!reader, no use of y/n, pyromaniac!barty, best friends to lovers, undiscussed relationship, just sweet fluff, physical affection, barty is always a bit suggestive, vague references to barty's mental state/trauma, cuddling, banter, implied autistic!regulus, background bsf!moonwater

Note: i haven't written a full barty fic since december, this was so cathartic<33 i still have some small drabbles from my celebration to release but wanted to share this with you before. and yes the title is from shakespeare even though i reference woolf in this, sue me. much love xx

It wasn’t an as common occurrence anymore, as Regulus had become more grounded the closer he got to Remus, but it was an ingrained habit regardless – every now and again, the dark haired boy would come to pull at your sleeve and give you a look.

A desperate exhausted look that clearly read “come get your beast under control”.

Over the years of sharing a dorm with Barty, Regulus had grown not only passionately loyal and affectionate towards him, but also rather sensorially detached. Meaning that most days, he was able to just tune his best friend’s antics out when they were too overstimulating or in his face. When Barty either talked a mile a minute for too many minutes, couldn’t sit still or couldn’t help from physically engaging with Regulus in some capacity, causing him to switch his brain off to deal with all the inputs. However, even the best soldier occasionally needs backup, and lucky for all the boys in their dormitory, said backup waltzed into their lives in year three and had been the only one fully able to quiet and anchor the hotheaded boy.

Your friendship with Barty came as naturally as a sunrise when you were paired together for a Potions project – you were his first desk partner that could thread the balance of stopping him from blowing up your cauldron and still having fun. 

He adored you for it.

You found he wasn’t half bad either.

The nature of your relationship and dynamic changed over the years as you grew up side by side, but the overall sentiment remained the same; you were each other’s person. Barty managed to catch every aspect of you both metaphorically and physically, and with you, Barty could move at a regular pace without losing himself.

You became Regulus’ secret weapon rather quickly when you were integrated fully into their friend group. 

“How do you do it? Why is he… like that with you?” Regulus asked you once in fourth year when Barty had fallen asleep with his head in your lap after three days of refusing to sleep. 

His legs were hanging over each side of the sofa, one shoe mysteriously missing, but he seemed perfectly at peace in your lap. You carded your fingers gently through his hair, separating the green and brown strands with a small smile on your face. “Like what?”

“It’s like he goes quiet.”

You snorted. “Barty is never quiet, even when I’m around.”

Regulus gave you a so-so shrug. “Not literally – but he kind of is, though. He will always be Barty, but it’s like he’s more… at peace. With you.”

You didn’t know why at the time, but you couldn’t meet Regulus’ gaze since he started this line of questioning. “I don’t know. If he is, I’m grateful for it, though. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”

It was probably never fully platonic between you and Barty, you recognise now. Laying on your stomach in your dorm while reading a book only half-focussed with your mind straying away to silver piercings, canine-grins and that laugh. 

He was the best friend you could have, but more so in the same way a dog is or, you’d hope, a husband would be. You shook the thought from your head.

It was a slow development – while you became inseparable friends within a week, the journey away towards a spoken, outlined romantic relationship was a long one. Not in the same way a queue is long, though, more so a cross-country roadtrip with, well, your best friend. 

Barty hugged you properly for the first time a year into your friendship. He cried in front of you for the first time in fourth year, and held your hand in fifth year. Last year, he kissed you for the first time. 

It had been quiet in that complex way Regulus had tried to put into words, where it was very clearly Barty so it was far from calm, but there was a certain peace hanging over the moment anyway. He had been having nightmares the last few weeks of term, so the two of you had taken to co-sleeping in the Room of Requirement, with your dearest prefect Regulus covering for you. Originally, Barty had conjured up two beds, but you swiftly pushed them together and charmed the gap away, giving him some snarky comment about “be sensible, Junior” that he laughed loudly at. 

There was no suggestive intent behind it, not really, just an insatiable desire for closeness. The same desire that had Barty at your side like a magnet from all the way back in third year, the same desire that flared in you each time his father or his pain came near, as if you could protect him with an embrace. 

He would have told you that you could.

It wasn’t clear to you anymore how it began, how one thing led to another. All you knew was that several days into your arrangement, you were still acting like small kids at a sleepover, staying up late because you couldn’t help but giggle. You had been in a half-cuddle but far enough apart to laugh with your entire bodies – one moment you made eye contact with your faces close to each other, your giggles spilling out across his face, the next he was trying to swallow your sounds with his smiling lips. 

There had been a lot of kisses since then, and not too many words about it. 

You would have thought it would tear you apart to live like this, having crossed the boundary over from best friends to something more without outlining it – but as with everything else, this was Barty. There had been no real boundary to cross, it was just waves in water, hand in hand. You knew inexplicably that you were safe in his hands, heart included. 

The oddest aspect of it was discovering that you had discovered a new level of comfort when you thought those had already been exhausted. Lips on lips, lips on skin, air on skin, clothes wherever, hands everywhere. 

With your finger caressing the page, a smile was still faint on your lips, and so was his touch. 

You were brought out of your idyllic mental landscapes by a physical tug on your sleeve. 

Your eyes darted down to the fabric on your left arm, seeing the jumper ruffle as if someone pinched it and be dragged out, as if you were being pulled out of your bed. The sound that escaped you were equal parts laugh and sigh, endlessly endeared by Regulus’ determination to avoid social or overstimulating situations – going to the extent of crafting spells specifically to save him. 

You slapped absentmindedly on your arm, hoping it would notify him with the energy of “okay, okay, I’m on my way”, as you rolled out of bed and made for the stairs.

The development of your relationship with Barty hadn’t come up with your friends yet. Or, you hadn’t let it, always steering the conversation away when Dorcas gave you knowing looks or Regulus whispered with you. This once, you indulged yourself to be selfish and keep him to yourself for just a bit longer.

Which is part of the reason why you leaned over the railing overlooking the common room, whistling as you spotted your group of friends around their favourite fireplace.

Regulus sat in Remus’ lap on the edge of a settee, hiding his face in the crook of his neck, looking picturesque in a way that made your heart ache with happiness for him. Evan was draped across the other side of the settee, feeding grapes to Pandora sat cross-legged on the floor with Emmeline’s head in her lap. Dorcas was absent, likely out training with Marlene, which was a totally normal thing to do with your quidditch rival, shut up you guys.

Your dearest Barty was currently laying balanced on the back of the same settee his friends were in, casting sparkling spells above him, likely to entertain himself in the calm atmosphere.

You understood why Regulus called on you. 

At the sound of your whistle, your friends’ heads whipped around to look at you, recognising the specific tune you only used for them – them being mostly Barty. You got a few greeting cheers from Barty, Evan and Emmeline, but it was the former’s grin that made your own spread.

“B!” you yelled. “Come read with me.”

You could have gone down to sit with them, but the comfort of your dorm was too overpowering tonight. Plus Regulus really really hated when Barty played with physical fire, so you figured you were doing him a double favour, too.

Anyone else making the same request – or rather, demand – to Barty would have received a scoff or a pout, but for you, Barty simply rolled off of the back of the sofa and used the momentum of his fall to run towards the stairs. He ruffled Evan’s hair on the way who flipped him off without looking up.

“Later, losers, love ya,” Barty called as he made it to the bottom of the stairs. 

He took them two at a time and before you knew it he was in front of you, placing his hand right beside yours on the railing as he looked at you with a lop-sided grin. “Thought you’d resigned for the evening.”

You bumped your fingertips into his. “Sort of. Got bored, though.”

His grin widened as he pushed off the railing to walk backwards towards your vacant dorm. “Can’t have that, can we, darling?”

You shook your head with a smile and followed after him, leaving just enough time to look over your shoulder and lock eyes with Regulus, pointing two fingers from your own eyes to his before intertwining them in a symbol of friendship. Regulus rolled his eyes at you with a smile, but Remus – his clearly better half – blew you a kiss. 

When you moved your attention back on the short walk to your dorm, you caught just the end of Barty jogging ahead so he could open your door for you with a theatrical flourish. You paid it little mind, kissing his cheek in thanks as you moved in past him, not waiting to see his reaction, if there was one.

“Where’s your roomies tonight?” Barty’s tone was half-mocking, referring to the endless saga of your two constantly absent dormmates. They were lovely people but so scattered, always either with their various partners or at events or simply just missing somehow.

Though you could hardly criticise as you do guess this is a saga of three, considering how you occasionally would stay over at Barty’s or even the Room of Requirement. You three were a perfect match. 

“Don’t know honestly,” you replied as you made to lay back down on your bed, keeping slightly to the left side. “Something about a breakup for one of them, so either partaking in a good cry session with a friend or making up once again.”

Just a year or two ago, Barty would have transfigured your small dorm bed to extend so he could sprawl out across it to his heart’s content, but to your heart’s content, he didn’t this time – he just laid down on top of your duvet with you, turned over on his side and propping his head up on his hand. “Or maybe making out with someone else, if they know what’s right for them.” Barty knew all about your dormmate’s turbulent relationships from the nights he stayed over while they were there, ranting to the both of you.  

“Oh you know all about what’s right for them, do you?” Your voice was teasing as you got more comfortable on the bed, laying your book on your bedside table.

Barty scoffed, as if to say duh. “Weren’t you going to read to me, sweetheart?” He nodded his head towards the book your fingertips were still lingering on.

The smile that spread across your face was outside your control, but you still maintained an air of sarcasm. “I believe I asked you to come read with me, I didn’t say I would read to you,” you clarified with a raised brow. “And I didn’t think you actually would.”

Barty leaned across from you and nipped the book off the table to hand over to you, the small paperback and his hand barely fitting between you two given the cramped space. “I want to hear you read.” 

He said it matter-of-factly, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, and you supposed it was. You would occasionally read to Barty when he needed help falling asleep, memories that though born from a bad situation rested fondly in your heart.

You took the book from him, opening it to the right page with one hand before looking up at him with appled cheeks. As soon as his hand was off the book, it settled on your hip instead, fingertips sliding beneath your jumper to rest against your skin there.

“Please,” he added when you didn’t reply right away. 

“Whatever my boy wants, right?” Your tone wound up being more affectionate than teasing. “Do you want it read softly or theatrically?”

When he tilted his head sideways to read the book’s spine, some of his hair fell into his eyes, which you promptly pushed back. “Is it possible to read Virginia Woolf theatrically?” he asked with a humoured tone.

“Oh, you have no idea. Obviously I have to do it theatrically now.”

Barty squeezed your hip as he all-but giggled. “Alright, show me the ropes then.”

He folded his arm to lay his head down to rest as his gaze fixated on your face as you read to him. Perhaps you would have felt self-conscious in any other situation, but with Barty’s legs tangling with yours, the scent of his shampoo filling your nose and his hums of approval, you were everything but. 

As you read, Barty pushed your jumper further up so that your side was exposed, enabling him to trace various patterns there while you read. Whether there was any sense to the chaos you wouldn’t know, eyes focussed on the page to give him the most proper experience of how theatrical Virginia Woolf truly could be. 

With Barty, time trickled by in an odd way. You felt as if you were spending centuries together without any of it wearing you down – in the sense that time passed quick but the minutes always carried more meaning when together. You got through two chapters, interrupted by long bouts of laughter when Woolf’s comedy struck through or when your attempt at one of the character’s accents thoroughly failed, before you began to tire out. 

His hand never left your side as you read, and when you laughed, Barty seemed to tackle you in a hug so he could feel every vibration of your laughter run through his own body. 

As you finished up the second chapter, a shiver ran down your spine for reasons you couldn’t quite pinpoint. Barty propped himself back up on his elbow to grab his wand from the nightstand and bring the duvet you were laying on to spread out over you without disturbing your position.

“Want to give that beautiful voice a break, darling?” Even as Barty asked, he was already gently – almost disproportionately so – taking the book from your hands and putting your water bottle into them instead.

You nodded as you put the bottle to your lips, swallowing greedy mouthfuls of water, though not regretting the activity in the slightest. Barty’s eyes followed the movement of your throat, eventually letting them trail up to meet your own as he took your bottle and placed it beside the bed with ease.

When you laid back down against your small mountain of pillows, Barty scooted closer to you and pushed your jumper back up where it had fallen down. He stared at his own fingers’ movements as he dragged just the tips over the curve of your hip, swirling around near your ribs before making the journey back down. He looked hypnotised by the movement, but your own eyes never left his face.

You heaved a large sigh, the one that drags itself from your lungs when you’re completely relaxed after a long day.

Without looking up, Barty asked, “Okay?” You were unsure if he was asking if you were okay, if his touching you were okay or something else entirely. 

Either way, the answer was: “Yes, love.”

At the term of endearment, Barty looked up at you at last, his teeth flashing as he smiled. He let his fingertips trail up the side of your body to your face as his eyes flitted across it, seeming increasingly content with what he found.

The silence was comfortable as you let him trace the lines of your face – your jaw up to your ear, cheekbones, browbones, forehead, nose, lips.

You almost wondered if you could have fallen asleep like this, safe and comfortable in this atmosphere he created that you almost dared call reverent, until he spoke again.

“My flame.” 

He said it absentmindedly as he caressed your face, almost as if he didn’t even notice he said it. His hand couldn’t stay still, using its quest on your face as a form of stimming, sensory seeking in his affection.

“Your what?” you asked quietly, humour laced into your voice that automatically tugged on the corners of his lips. 

“Flame,” he clarified, as if it was obvious. 

When he didn’t elaborate, you poked him teasingly in the ribs – simultaneously taking the opportunity to slip your hand up beneath his shirt to splay across his bare back.

“Just thinking about something Evans told me in Muggle Studies.” His smile grew slowly as he recalled more and more of the memory.

“Since when do you pay attention in Muggle Studies?” When you laughed, your face moved too much for him to trace, and he moved his fingers back into your hair until it evened out again.

He huffed in faux offense for only a second before relenting with a smile and an eye roll. “Only when Evans tells me weird fun facts. She understands what I find entertaining. None of that rain-wear bullshit – I want to know about the crazies.”

“Understandable. Game recognises game.”

Barty pinched your cheek lightly and stuck his tongue out at you. “Is that why we’re friends?”

“You tell me.” Your smile had an undertone he didn’t seem to miss as his expression turned just a fraction more bashful. You pressed your hand more flat against his back in encouragement. “What did Lily tell you about?”

“Oh, nothing.” He looked past you for a second with an absent yet pleased gaze before returning it to your awaiting expression. “Just about how some muggles believe in something called twin flames. It’s basically the same soulmate crap as everything else, divine connections and whatnot. Just people finding another way to explain their love. But I liked the name.”

His eyebrows moved emphatically as he spoke in quintessential Barty fashion. It filled you with a sensation only eased by moving your free hand to wedge beneath his cheek, resting there as a makeshift pillow, thumb brushing across his cheek. “Did you now?” 

He hummed in the affirmative. “I like flames.”

You snorted at that, which made his eyes light up and crinkle.

“No, I mean it–”

“I know you do.”

Barty rolled his eyes but his teeth were still on full display. “Do you want to hear my reasoning or not?”

You pressed your lips together to keep from continuing the banter and nodded. You wanted to see where this would go.

“I like flames. I like how they look, their warmth, how they make me feel. I’m always just itching to see one, to light something on fire or see sparks fly. But not when I’m with you.” 

His expression had neutralised as he kept studying you with an observant gaze – it felt like every twitch or movement held grand meaning to him. You felt like poking fun, but your voice came out almost as reverent as his. “Is this you saying you’re not bored when you’re with me?”

“This is me saying I’m not insane when you’re with me.”

Your smile instantly softened, hand on his back increasing pressure as it slid further up to rest over his heart. “You’re never insane, B,” you whispered. “Not actually, regardless of if I’m there or not.”

His eyes crinkled as if he was smiling, but his lips were pressed together, as if in thought. It wasn’t often you saw him thinking over his words before opening his mouth.

“This is me saying I love you.” His brows twitched into a furrow as he tilted his head sideways into your palm. “I don’t need that… that distraction when I’m with you. My flame.”

Your lips parted momentarily, as an oh died on them. Your eyes moved across his face rapidly, drinking in the expression, committing every open window into his soul to memory. He seemingly let you, a soft smile resting on his lips, though it was more vulnerable than you thought you had seen it.

“Love ya” was common in your friend group after Pandora went on a mission to normalise it between you. Elaborate practical jokes about proposing to one another or being secret lovers were a longstanding tradition. Your special bond with Barty was a given to you.

This, though, this was new – yet it did not feel like uncharted territory as you moved to respond.

Your face gravitated closer and closer to his as your gaze flickered between his lips and his eyes. “Then you might forgive me for saying I love you too, then?”

Barty’s breath hitched, but the sound was quickly taken over by a soft laugh as he leaned his forehead forward the last few centimetres that separated it from yours. “I don’t think there’s anything I wouldn’t forgive you for, darling. Though it might mean you’re more insane than I am.”

You shook your head softly. “Again, you’re not insane, B. That is an oversimplification made solely for jokes – same as how Regulus isn’t actually boring, even when you joke he is.”

Barty furrowed his brows deeply. “Who told you those were jokes?”

Your hand beneath his shirt pinched him, drawing a yelp from him followed by a deep giggle that you happily mirrored.

“No, I know, I know,” he said through a laugh, locking gaze with you through his lashes. “But I do feel crazy without you. That’s how I know.”

You didn’t need to ask what he was referring to. You looked down between you for a moment as you could not contain your smile. A comfortable warmth began to spread through your body, as if something was carved in stone with each touch, each smile.

“I do suppose it’s safer you entertain yourself with me rather than light fire to innocent structures and civilians.”

Barty hummed appreciatively as he took on a theatrically wolfish expression. “And Salazar, do I know how to entertain myself with you.”

This time you pinched him harder as a scandalous bark of laughter escaped you – both of which seemingly triggered Barty to roll his body forward and over you, winding up on the very edge of the bed with you now held flush against him, laughing together like the kids in love you were.

You shrieked as he manhandled you into the chaotic embrace, laughing against his neck as you held onto him tighter. “You beast!”

“Your beast,” he corrected, pressing his forehead back against yours while his palm cupped your cheek fondly. “Right?”

You weren’t ashamed to admit you melted into him; your expression surely lovestruck. “Right.” You nodded, dazed. “Mine.”

His smile twitched repeatedly as he maintained eye contact. “My flame?”

“Yours.”

There was a certain glossiness to his gaze as he pressed his lips together and nodded faux matter-of-factly. “Sounds like a fair arrangement?” 

You had never been more grateful to be fluent in Barty. It made that one sentence hold so much more sentimental worth in your heart.

“I reckon that’s fair, yeah.”

You didn’t wait for Barty to kiss you before you closed the distance between you with enough force to push him off his side onto his back – nearly off of the bed.

Just like the first time, you were laughing against each other’s lips, swallowing more and more of the sounds as you devoured the other, heart and soul.

Unlike the first time, when you intertwined your fingers beside his head and squeezed, there was no question in your heart left in your heart.

[lvrclerc]

✶ FOR THE HOPE OF IT ALL

summary: the italian sun shines on you and oliver's summer idyll, but the month of august trickles away rapidly─ what will happen when it reaches an end? ✷ IVY'S POETRY DEPARTMENT EVENT: « will you love me in december as you do in may? »

F1 MASTERLIST | OB87 MASTERLIST

pairing: oliver bearman x f!reader

wc: 5.2k

cw: summer romance, bittersweet, fluff, hopeful ending, reader has an anxiety disorder, use of y/n, oliver has an injury for plot purposes

note: requested here! first time writing for ollie so i'm kinda nervous, hope i did him justice! also there's not near enough fics of the '25 rookies it's scandalous

♫ like real people do - hozier, august - taylor swift, let it happen - gracie abram

THE LASTING WEIGHT on your shoulders was something you became accustomed to. It settled there long ago. The quickened breaths, the sharp sting behind your eyes almost comforting in its regularity. The clatter of your pen dropping to the floor during another restless study session and the ache in your ribcage as you fought for hopeless takes of serrated air no longer startled you. Your newly-appointed therapist told you, scribbling away on her notepad— “Maybe you need fresh air, time away from university.” As if sunlight could smooth out the tension etched into your bones.

That was what the seaside house was meant to be.

It wasn’t a cottage per se. Just a weather-worn brick-walled home tucked near the Italian coast, kissed by salt and sun and blue shutters faded to memory, ivy hugging the balcony tenderly. You rented it with the help of your parents, who insisted that you go on this trip, but the silence you were standing in was yours alone. You, twenty years old, burnt out, along with a diary you promised your therapist you’ll write in every day, from the soft, sunlit beginnings of May to the cold end of August.

The house in itself was as isolated as it could get, perched above the sea along eroded rocks and concealed from the nearest town and its tourists. It stood alone, in all likeness to you, waiting for inhabitation. The only hint of human life you noticed, as you mindlessly sipped your iced tea from the back doorway, sun warming your knees, was the distant outline of another house, a few kilometers down the coast. Far enough that it’d take a good ten-minute walk to reach it, but close enough so that you could discern the silhouette of a tall man standing in its overgrown backyard.

You didn’t linger much on it. He was but the ghost of civilization— a shadow at the edge of your retreat you weren’t ready to let back in. This was the time to center on your thoughts, peel back the numbness eating at your heart, and relearn yourself. You stepped back inside, glass empty, and didn’t think about him again.

At least, not then.

The month of May passed slowly, honey dripping down the rim of a jar. You mostly stayed in your little alcove of the world, letting the days stretch out in silence. Mornings were slow— toast with jam, milk coffee, the dog-eared pages of half-read books sitting on the sunlounger outside. You wrote in your diary about it, about how you’d paint your nails one day and chip them off the next, or how on other days you’d lie out on the balcony, the crash of the waves lulling you in and out of sleep. You watched the ivy grow and the sky change. For a while, it was nice, soft, and still.

But solitude, even chosen, eventually turns sharp at the edges. By the third week, the silence wasn’t so romantic: you started counting the hours between meals, pacing the kitchen tiles barefoot, and you reread your own diary entries even if you hadn’t spoken aloud in days. The stillness you once craved had started to feel like a trap— yet the worst of it was yourself: thoughts of precious hours you were wasting away instead of sitting at the desk of your dorm room haunted your boredom, similar to a ghost.

Which is why, now and then, when the breeze shifted just right, you found your gaze drifting down a few centimeters down the coast, toward the other house, and the man you suspected might still be there.

To the unknowing eye, you’re sure it could have looked unsettling, but truthfully, you didn’t have anything else to do but to observe. He was a welcoming presence, something that didn’t make you feel so secluded. Some days, the man would tinker with a bike for hours until the sun bled orange. Other times, he’d vanish with a towel slung over his shoulders and goggles in his hand, not returning until dusk. Occasionally, he’d mirror you, barefoot in the garden, basking in the sun. And sometimes—only sometimes—you swore he tilted his head upwards and caught your eyes. On those days, you always turned away first, slipped back inside, and retreated for the night.

Your personal game of people-watching stretched for a week or two before you spoke for the first time.

You spent the afternoon on a small, sheltered beach just a few minutes away from your house. The dry air had nipped at your skin just enough for it to become uncomfortable after a few hours, and the sun-turned—from warm to punishing—had your cheeks tight with the start of a sunburn. You packed up as the sky began to blush with the first hints of sunset, already fantasizing about the cool shade of your living room and the steady hum of the fan. It would have been glorious.

Would have, if you hadn’t locked yourself out.

You jiggled the handle once, twice, but nothing. Your towel slipped from your arms, and you cursed under your breath, pressing your forehead to the wooden door. Saltwater still clung to your skin, your hair stuck to the back of your neck, and the stupid key was sitting smugly on the kitchen counter inside.

A posh, British accent spoke from behind you. “Do you need some help?”

You turned, confused about the origin of the sudden voice, and there he was. The man from the neighboring house.

It was unmistakably him— there was just something about the tousled mess of brown, semi-curls falling in front of his face, the soft eyes crinkled at the corners with barely contained amusement. His skin, darkened by the sweep of summer, looked like it had soaked up every hour of its beginnings. There was familiarity in the delicate shape of him and the easy way he stood, towering over you. The towel in his hand was the same deep navy you’d seen slung over his shoulder days before. His gaze—sharp, steady, curious—felt exactly like it had when you’d caught him looking up at you.

“I, uh… I might?” You stumbled on your words as you answered.

He chuckled, leaning slightly against the fence in front of your house. “Locked yourself out?”

“I wish I could say no,” you nodded, making a noise somewhere between a whine and a laugh.

The man, who looked increasingly more boyish the more steps he took toward you, gripped the door handle. He twisted it a few times before kicking the bottom of the wooden plank and, before your stunned expression, it snapped open. He looked at you with a proud smile. “Don’t worry, people who rent this house usually don’t know about this trick.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “Does that mean you come here often?”

Mortification crashed over you along with realization— you threw an accidental pick-up line at a complete stranger. A stranger who, objectively speaking, was very cute, yes, but still a stranger. You opened your mouth, already halfway through a flustered attempt to walk it back. “Wait— I didn’t mean that like— I wasn’t trying to—”

He let out a surprised, wheezy laugh. “No, no- you’re fine,” he said, grinning now. “I come here every summer, actually. I’m in the house further down the coast.” He seemed to catch the flicker of recognition in your eyes and gave you a knowing smile. “My name’s Oliver, by the way.”

“I’m Y/N,” you replied. “I… I think I’ve seen you around. Sometimes.”

Oliver’s traits softened, and you could see the playful interest behind the darkness of his irises. “Yeah.” His voice dipped slightly. “I think I saw you, too.”

Both of you stood there with the hesitant awkwardness usually reserved for teenagers— which, to be fair, you weren’t far from. He couldn’t have been older than you, early twenties at most. The silence stretched until he announced he had to go, something about needing to work on his bike. You had to abstain to say I know. 

Yet, before he could disappear completely around the corner, Oliver paused. He looked back over his shoulder. “If you ever want company, it’s just me down there. Come by whenever.” You didn’t have to add that you were alone as well. In a strangely comforting sort of way, it looked like he knew.

And it didn’t take you long to take him up on his offer.

It started when your trips to the beach began to align— first by coincidence, but then by something more deliberate. You came to realize that you and Oliver had claimed the same forgotten stretch of land where the sea kissed the rocks, and you drifted toward each other like its tide. At first, it was just run-ins: you, stretched out on your towels, half-asleep due to the sizzling heat; Oliver, standing over you, droplets of salt water falling from his hair onto your flushed cheeks. “What are you doing here?” you’d ask, squinting up at him.

“I like running,” he’d say with a shrug, before his characteristic, mischievous smile reached his lips once again. “And a dip after a run keeps me motivated.”

Oliver started sticking around. He’d keep the last of his water bottle to rinse the sand off your feet, sharing watermelon he’d always accidentally cut a little extra from. He would walk you home, and you’d lead him with slow, lazy steps, to drag the moment longer. Your laughter would echo against the rock and sea walls paving the way to your house, and he’d talk about little things—the birds and the heat—then about bigger things, how the ocean seems to always stay the same but feels different every year, for example. You’d match him, word for word, stories unfurling like waves, and miss him when he’d continue his way without you.

It wasn’t long before the space between your houses stopped mattering. One afternoon turned into an invitation to see the inside of his cluttered living room, and that was it. The next week, Oliver was sitting on your ivy-covered balcony, sipping homemade iced tea with your legs draped over his. Eventually, your days began to blur— his shirt left on the back of your chair, your books forgotten on his windowsill. You stopped counting whose house you were in until it became the house you were in together.

The month of May slipped into June in tentative brushes of the hand and peals of laughter lost to the warm air of summer nights. Oliver had become Ollie by the fifteenth—the nickname fell off your lips naturally—and you spent most, if not all, of your days in each other’s presence. The rhythm between you was almost domestic: you’d wake up and see his bare back at work in the kitchen along with the scent of coffee and discarded pans, or how you now knew his schedule by heart. He’d spend most of his Wednesdays and Fridays fixing up the old bike he’d found rusting in the garage, and he was partial to running on Saturdays. Swimming, however, was reserved for when you were with him. Any day. Every day, if he could have it.

By the time Ollie finished repairing the bike, the first month of summer was waning. One golden morning, with grease all over his fingers, he turned to you and asked if you wanted to visit the nearby town— a trip made easier now that the bike worked. To your own surprise, you said yes.

The town had become another stepping stone in whatever you and Ollie were building. The days spent weaving through the local market were your favorites, brushing past stalls of sun-ripened fruits and handmade trinkets, among which you both stumbled through clumsy Italian that vendors gently poke fun at you for. You’d mangle a greeting, and Ollie would butcher a question about apricots, and still, they’d smile like they knew what you were saying. You chuckled and asked him what the point of living in Modena was if he didn’t speak Italian. “My family’s still British, you know,” he answered. It only made you laugh harder, a sound he seemed to chase.

You never discussed the reason that brought you both to this isolated part of the Italian coast. It never came up, the questions drifted in the periphery— hinted at in the pauses between conversation, but never spoke out loud. It was a silent agreement: you didn’t ask, and neither did he.

But there was one evening, on the crumbling stone wall nearing the edge of town. Your legs were swinging gently over the drop— the cicadas had begun to quiet, the last smear of strawberry gelato clung to your fingertips, and the world was exhaling into night. Somewhere below, a dog barked once and fell quiet. That was when Ollie asked. “So… what brought you here?”

You didn’t answer right away. You wiped your fingers on a napkin that smelled faintly of lemon, tossing and turning the way you could shape your response in your head. “Uni,” you said finally. “Or… me, I guess. Everything just got really loud, and I could barely think about anything else. I stopped sleeping, I stopped eating… setting myself up for failure before I even started, basically.”

Ollie nodded, yet no pity or needless apologies fell off his tongue. “My therapist sent me there to remember how to be a person again,” you added to his silence.

“What about you?” You quickly asked, hasty to get the attention off.

He looked at you, mouth agape in a desire to say something, but ultimately deciding against it. Long seconds passed before the British spoke again. “I race professionally, right now I’m in Formula One.” One look at your face was enough for him to understand you didn’t know anything about motorsports. He continued with a crooked smile. “I, uh… I crashed back in March. Nothing huge, but enough to knock me out for the season, apparently. The doctors told me to rest and take it easy.”

You glanced over, catching the way his profile softened in the lamplight. You had noticed his grimace after long days spent walking around, the painful stretches in his living room when he thought you were still deep in slumber. You never brought it up.

“No one tells you how hard that part is—” Ollie continued. “The not-doing-anything part. I figured I’d go somewhere familiar to make it better, you know?”

Taking your mind off an obsession, when you made it a part of yourself so integral you’re unable to define yourself outside of it, can feel similar to the tearing of a limb— it’s something you carry around, an itch you can’t scratch because your fingernails will start digging for blood. It’s something you knew all too well, it was the reason for your presence on this stone wall.

“Well,” you murmured. “I think you’re going to get into your car next season and show them all the talent they’d missed.”

Ollie huffed a laugh. “Thanks for believing in me, but the car isn’t even—”

“You worked on your bike. You can work on a car.”

“It’s not even remotely the same thing.”

“Tomato, tomato.”

He laughed, curls catching the breeze, nudging his knees with yours. “Then you’re going to make every teacher regret putting you in this state when you go back.”

“That’d be assuming they care.” You rolled your eyes with nothing but fondness. “You’re too nice for the ruthless world of university, Ollie.”

The realization came as gently as the brush of his fingers above yours: you hadn’t thought about it at all. The tint of your skin had darkened, moles and sun-born freckles dusted your shoulders, your voice had picked up hoarser inflections from laughing, salt stuck to you like a robe, and you hadn’t noticed the oppressing heaviness of your shoulder ever since you ran into Ollie. You noticed, though, with a pleasant warmness swirling in your chest, that it seemed to have vanished. You couldn’t recall the last time you felt like the air around you wasn’t enough for your lungs.

In that moment, as the sky bruised deep violet and you could still taste the faint hint of strawberry on your tongue, it didn’t really matter what had broken you both to get there. You were here now, and that was what mattered.

The bike ride back to your house was spent in a sleep-induced haze. Your arms were loosely wrapped around Ollie’s middle, and he was pedaling slowly, not in a rush to get anywhere else but to you. When you reached the front door, you didn’t ask. He just followed you inside, barefoot and spent, and slept in the spare twin bed across from yours. The window stayed open all night. You could hear the sea mixing with his breathing. For the first time in a while, sleep came easy.

June made way for July, arriving in harsh, blinding sunlight, and days that stretched lazily into midnight. With it came a quiet shift, the startling and fluttering understanding that you might want to kiss Oliver Bearman.

It wasn’t in theory, in some hypothetical sunset-glazed movie scene. You wanted to kiss the real him, your Ollie, the one on the stone wall: the boy who stole your sandals to water your neglected garden, the one who wrangled in catastrophic Italian with a vendor for a pack of cherries you craved, the same one who read aloud from whatever your liking had set upon to make fun of it, only to keep reading when you weren’t paying attention.

In the delicate dance of almosts that blossomed over the month of July, you allowed yourself to think he might want to kiss you, too.

The first time it happened, you were both locked out of his house— for a change. A tragic incident involving a missing key and a dinner reservation you were already late for had left you standing outside, your arms crossed, and his sheepish grin doing nothing to help the situation. Ollie suggested the bedroom window. You, naturally, thought he was joking. He wasn’t.

You’d both ended up clambering through the fragile wooden frame like teenagers sneaking in past curfew, laughing so hard your ribs hurt. It was stupid, and maybe a little childish, but it was part of why it always felt so easy with Ollie. When it was your turn to hop off the ledge, he helped you, hands steady around your waist. His hands lingered there a moment too long and as laughter died down, leaving you breathless and dazed, something pulled you closer ever so slightly. Never close enough to break, however.

There was a second time, when Ollie brushed a stray strand of hair after you’d both ran from a summer shower and the touch warmed your forehead for hours. A third, when you fell asleep over each other in the garden during a heat-drenched day and you woke up with his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm. There was a fourth, a fifth, an amalgamation of disarming instances during which your breath hitched in anticipation of what never seemed to come. When he caught you watching him, and never looked away.

The day you kissed him, you found yourself in a predicament you never thought would happen to you. Ollie had just leapt off the cliff.

There was no hesitation or second thoughts in the clean arc his body sliced through the air. The splash below was clean, and right when you thought he’d never find the surface again, his voice echoed upward, bright and breathless as he laughed. “Come on!” he shouted, waving at you. “It’s not even that high!”

You stood at the edge, toes curled against the rock, and you could only disagree with the brown-haired boy the way the water spiraled beneath you. “You’re insane. This is suicide.”

“Oh, you’re the one who climbed up there!”

“I climbed up to watch, not die!” you yelled back, heart hammering. “Also, aren’t you injured? Should you even be jumping off cliffs?!”

He shrugged. “The water’s deep enough.”

You glared, which only seemed to egg him on. “Come onnnn,” he complained. “You said you wanted to feel like a real person again, right? Nothing realer than that!”

Even in the lighthearted argument, you had to see the truth in what Ollie said. You had come to this quiet corner of the world to shake something loose inside of you, to try and find the pieces of yourself you misplaced among the tangy taste of tangerines and the soft mornings. This was the summer you were supposed to stop clenching your fists around fear, and to get rid of the anxious feeling lodged in your throat. Your heart had beaten loudly and unapologetically until now, what was slowing it down except for yourself?

So you took a breath. Two. Then a few steps back.

And jumped.

The fall was sharp, dizzying, and the scream that escaped your lungs was nothing short of horrified. Yet, laughter was wedged between the hiccups of it, and you broke the cold surface with a disbelieving gasp. Ollie was already swimming toward you— his eyes wide in wonder, and his hands reaching for your figure. “You did it!”

“I actually did it,” you sputtered.

Ollie’s hands found the dip of your waist under the water, steadying you against him. There were seconds of silence, filled with the splash of waves and your all too loud breathing. That was when his eyes dipped to your lips.

You hadn’t come there to find something as unreachable as love, and you especially hadn’t expected to fall for someone like Ollie, but somehow he had folded himself into your days and the smallest gaps of you— a placeholder until you could fill them yourself, you imagined. Still, you couldn’t envisage a version of your months without him, his voice, or the steadiness of the soul that comes with the brush of his fingers.

I jumped off a cliff, you thought. I can kiss Oliver Bearman.

So you did.

You surged forward before you could talk yourself out of it, arms slipping around his shoulders as your mouth crashed onto his in impatience. He stilled for only a second— more than enough to make you doubt your actions. But he kissed you back. Just as eager, the smile he put into it charmingly familiar. You could taste sea salt on his tongue, his sun-warmed lips moving hungrily against you, breathing your air and taking it away in the slow rocking of the waves.

You didn’t want it to end, but the lack of oxygen pulled you apart. Ollie’s forehead bumped against yours. “I was waiting for you to do that,” he murmured, dropping another quick kiss to your lips.

“Then you could’ve done it sooner!” You punched his shoulder with a laugh.

“I don’t know, I like it when you take the lead.”

You rolled your eyes, heat climbing up your neck, and dunked him into the water. You didn’t resist when he pulled you under.

The transition from July to August slipped from your attention, seawater between your fingers— impossible to hold onto but clung to your skin all the same. You barely noticed the days shifting; they blurred into one another with a sleepy sentimentality, each marked by rituals you and Oliver had grown to create. Mornings bled into slow breakfast where he’d sneak a bite of your toast before making his own, and you’d pretend to be mad about it even though you always saved the corner piece for him anyways.

There were afternoons spent with your ankles tangled together in the back gardens. He kept a bottle of your fragranced sunscreen in his bag. You knew what music to play when you both cooked dinner with the door open to let the cooler air of the evening sift through the kitchen. It wasn’t dramatic, nor was it sickeningly romantic. It simply came as a natural progression, an obvious evolution in the most beautiful sense— like something that could last, if you let it.

You kissed more often, now, much to both of your delight. At first, it was shy, quick, smiling kisses stolen between absentminded conversations. The further you got used to it, the slower they became: curious, confident, eager to know more about each other in a way you couldn’t quite grasp before. Your hands knew each other’s mapped faces and bodies, your mouth recognized the other’s rhythm. Once, you kissed Ollie with your knees still scraped from a hike he’d convinced you to go to. Once, he kissed you beneath the pouring rain, soaked and giggling like children.

There were times you stayed over, and times he did the same, and it would just happen with no clear decision. Ollie would just end up asleep beside you, together beneath the light covers— somehow, even in deep slumber, his hands would always find yours, his breathing even and warm against your neck and lulling you to sleep.

You thought that maybe you had gotten too brave during your stay, enough to turn your cautiousness foolish, because you caught yourself believing this wouldn’t end. That it didn’t have to. August had felt achingly saccharine, it made you wonder where all that sweetness would go when it ended.

The last weeks trickled like sand in an hourglass in front of your eyes. The weight of each moment slipped past you, yet you tried nothing to catch them. It’s what hurt the most: you had all taken it for granted, you let yourself believe time could stretch forever for the sole reason it felt right. It wasn’t the truth, because the truth was in the dates printed in your calendar and the unread emails from your university. The suitcase under your bed, you carefully avoided.

Another year will start again soon. The patterns you persisted in peeling off—stress, anxiety, the pressure to perform until exhaustion and still look perfect—would be ready to claw their way back beneath your skin, circling you. Ollie knew it as well.

Neither of you said it out loud, yet the end was coming whether or not the words spilled out. It hovered just out of reach, a promise of winter in the chill of the end of summer. You’d catch him staring at the sea a little longer than usual, or watching you tie your hair up before journaling, memorizing the motion. You stopped taking pictures, and he stopped making plans for tomorrow. You still laughed, still kissed, and gripped the hours as if they weren’t running out. There was a grace to the silence— a fragile kind of pretending which somewhat felt like mercy.

But try as you might, pretending can never last long.

The sky was painted deep shades of violet and rust, cicadas humming low in the nature around the steps of the back porch you and Ollie were curled upon. His hand was brushing absent circles on your ankle, head resting between your thighs as your fingers curled in his locks. A pot of pasta was cooling in the kitchen. It should have been a perfect night.

You stared at the horizon, then at your chipped nail polish tangled in his hair. You don’t know what pushed you to ask, what made tonight different. The only thing you knew is that it would have happened nonetheless. “What happens when this ends?” It came out as something similar to a whisper.

Ollie’s fingers paused. He looked up at you, turning around completely, and there was nothing but expectancy in his dark irises.

“I was wondering when one of us would ask,” he answered, voice low.

You breathed out through your nose. No matter the number of times it happened to you, you never succeeded in hiding the tremor in your hands correctly. “I don’t want to keep pretending it’s not happening. I’m leaving because of uni. You’re leaving because of racing. We’ve both known that since the beginning.”

Ollie nodded. “Yeah.”

“I just—” You paused, trying to find the thin breath you were holding onto. “I don’t know what happens next.” You looked at the crescent moons your nails had drawn on the inside of your palms. “I’m going back to school. There’s going to be deadlines and all-nighters and the pressure, and– it’s going to be hard to breathe. I don’t know how long it’s going to take before I… I slip again.”

Your voice cracked. “You never saw me like that, Ollie. You were lucky enough to get the version of me that wasn’t drowning, and I– I don’t know if you’d still want me if you did.” The confession came quiet and vulnerable, but you couldn’t linger on it when you had so many things to say and so little time. “And you’ll be racing again. You’ll have a whole world that doesn’t include this place, or me. I don’t expect you to hold space for me when everything changes.”

You were offering him a bright exit sign, the sole opportunity to be honest and to bring the sunset-colored haze you’d been navigating this relationship with down as softly as he could. There was no promise your heart would be spared the shock, but there was also no need to put it on display if it was the case.

Ollie stared at you for agonizing seconds. The traits of his face, the same you could trace with closed eyes, shifted into something different. It wasn’t fear, nor was it sadness, but a gentler thing that looked like something close to a quiet resolve. He took your hands into his, detaching each fingernail digging into your palm.

“I don’t know what happens either,” he admits, slowly, “and I’m not going to pretend I know what it’s going to look like. I just know I thought about it—about you—a lot. And…” His thumb brushed over your knuckles. “Listen, I don’t need you to be okay all the time. I care about your stupid overthinking, the spirals, the bad habits that drive you crazy. All of it. That stuff’s not going to scare me off. I want you, not just the half of it I met this summer.”

“I’ll be racing, yeah,” he added with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I’ve got time. I can make it.”

Ollie leaned in, just a little closer but enough so you could feel the warmth of his breath along the shape of your lips. “I don’t know what you’ll be like in December, but I want to find out.”

It broke the pressure behind your ribs, only for the burn to rise behind your eyes instead. There was a need in his voice that you hadn’t expected, or maybe was it its intensity. Ollie wasn’t asking you to be better, he was just asking you to stay.

“I want to find out,” he repeated, quieter, in the shape of a promise.

You tried to blink back the tears forming on your lashes, failing miserably. “Okay,” you whispered. Your voice gave up in the middle. “Okay.”

Ollie kissed you tenderly and unhurried, a gentle, wordless reassurance in the movement of his mouth against yours in which you sank, a ship in a storm. Summer was ending, yes, but the world wouldn’t be. This could still be something, and maybe it would.

You couldn’t guess what December would bring, and you didn’t know who you’d be when the skies turned grey and the noise returned. Yet, you hoped.

And for now, hoping was enough.

©LVRCLERC 2025 ━ do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

[delusionsofgrandeur13]

pt. 2

you just saw your ex boyfriend, dick grayson, for the first time since he broke up with you.

you ran into him on the street.

no, like, literally ran into him.

you were walking your mom’s dog for her, a german shepherd she got when you moved out. she’d aptly named him trouble. despite his name, trouble was usually a mellow guy, even if he was huge. walking him was just another thing you were doing to try and ignore the thoughts constantly pounding out a beat in your head.

oh, dick would think this is funny! that’s dick’s favorite color, i should buy it! dick and i should go there on our next date!

and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on, and on and-

anyways, you were definitely trying to keep yourself busy.

any time a memory popped up in your brain of him—

laughing at your jokes, holding you close while you fell asleep, kissing your neck while he thrust into you

—you’d empty the dishwasher, paint your nails, (any color but blue) turn on reality tv, read a book, stuff your face, whatever.

anything to stop fucking thinking about him and his stupid blue eyes and his dumb smile.

you’d been been watching the news, sprawled across the couch. just the regular gotham news: don’t use main street, mr. freeze’s ray iced out the pavement. the iceberg lounge had been raided by the police for the third time this month. the justice league defeated yet another extraterrestrial threat to humanity, blah, blah, blah. you weren’t really watching. the news program ended, and the next one started. a gotham gossip show. they were doing a special segment on the wayne family.

of course they fucking were. even your tv was conspiring against you. you had to resist the urge to chuck the remote at it.

you turned it off instead, heading to your room to get ready for a run.

(running for exercise or running from your thoughts?)

your mom had asked you to take trouble right before you’d walked out the door, and so you grabbed him and his leash and headed out. you’d forgotten the bags for his poop, but you didn’t think you would be out that long, so you just kept on going.

you were wearing the leggings dick had bought you, ones he joked should be a specific blue color. you hadn’t understood then, but you more than understood now. it was warmer, and so you just had on an old sports bra on top, and some converse.

you were not the athletic type. that was dick. probably still was. you wouldn’t really know.

you hadn’t talked since it happened, like three or four weeks ago.

time had become a little fuzzy. your mom said you could stay with her as long as you needed, but you were starting to get the itch to move out.

nothing against your mom, it’s just hard to sob really loudly into a pint of ice cream when she’s there.

and she keeps trying to wash the one shirt of dick’s you still have. you know, fully well, how dumb it is, (and a little gross) but you’re still wearing his shirt every night to bed. and maybe it’s all in your head, but it still smells like him. you aren’t ready to wash it. besides, now that you’re sleeping by yourself, you’re pretty sure it’s helping you fall asleep. something that was hard to do the first few nights without your big warm boyfriend next to you in bed.

it probably isn’t good for you, to keep wearing his shirt.

you’d had your hand between your thighs more than once late at night thinking about being enveloped in his scent. your nights were haunted with thoughts of his body over yours, his phantom voice in your ear. calling you angel, asking you if this was heaven, like the last time you’d had sex.

it definitely isn’t good for you.

but neither is life without dick grayson.

you try not to dwell on the fact that dick had given you a sort of non-reason for the breakup. sure, it got lonely sometimes, or you got anxious for your masked boyfriend, so you cried. so what if your patience wore thin after a few too many “i’m sorry, angel, i can’t make it this time”-s.

you were human!

but you’d never, never once complained about his absence or his commitments to his family.

never.

he’d just assumed you were silently suffering and it really irked you if you thought about it for too long. you still weren’t sure if you were mad at him or sad, or whatever. it felt like your brain couldn’t decide on an emotion so you just got twelve at once. but what you did know for sure was that he was 110% worth it to you. you just wish he’d realize that. see that. instead of just the times you were a little emotionally strung out. your ex boyfriend was too willing to sacrifice his own mental health for the sake of yours and you were sick of it. but you didn’t know if you had the courage to say that to him. or even see him, after the way this breakup had hit you.

your friends had managed to get you out of the house, a few times now.

you’d gotten almost too drunk every time, escaping your friends and going outside to get some air. this time, you saw a guy that looked just enough like dick, and it’d all been too much. so you got out of there. you sat yourself down on the curb, looking up at the hazy rooftops. you were always looking up. always.

and since the break up, you’d noticed the vigilantes of your city more often. maybe there was more criminal activity. maybe you were just paying more attention than you used to.

you’d seen spoiler and orphan, pounding the pavement behind you to run after some seedy looking guy holding a briefcase. you think spoiler tried to high five you on the way past, but there was no way. you wrote it off as your memory embellishing things.

you were pretty sure red hood had nodded at you before disappearing down a fire escape on the other side of the building.

your mom had recently gotten a delivery of security cameras for her house. but she hadn’t ordered them. the shipping address had only the address of some warehouse on the dock, the name just, ‘R.R.’ you’d set the cameras up, but you and your mom both were still baffled about it.

and here, sitting on the curb, you were staring at what looked like a dark figure crouched on the rooftop opposite. they’d been there when you’d entered the club, too.

you squinted, trying to make out shoulders and suit colors, when they stood up, and the light bounced off his shiny cowl.

fucking batman?

you shook your head, trying to shake your drunk brain like an etch-a-sketch. there was actually no way.

a smaller figure, one you hadn’t seen behind the shape of batman (!?) pulled a weapon, a gleaming silver sword, and pointed it at you. your head spun. batman (there was no way) shook his head at robin. he sheathed his sword, throwing his hands up in what looked like annoyance. you blinked, and they were gone.

you weren’t really sure if it had happened or not. you’d been trying not to think too hard about the fact that you still hadn’t seen nightwing. you’d really been trying.

so instead, you were walking your mom’s dog.

trouble had, in fact, pooped, and you were frantically looking around for something to pick it up with. gotham was already shitty enough without the addition of, well, literal shit. the streets were busy, but not crowded, and someone down the block whistled for a cab, catching your attention. you turned, and at the same time, trouble jerked your arm, pulling you backwards into someone walking on the sidewalk. the stranger made a choked sound.

“trouble??”

your heart stopped. you held your breath, turning around.

trouble was at attention, looking up at your ex-boyfriend with his head cocked.

dick’s eyes were wide. his hair shorter than you remember. he leaned down to scratch trouble behind the ears, his biceps and shoulder muscles in hard relief. are you dreaming? you didn’t recognize the shirt he had on, but he was wearing your favorite jeans of his, and his matching converse. your mouth felt like a desert.

trouble trails around the two of you, the leash long. he loves your ex-boyfriend, you know he won’t go anywhere.

“did you cut your hair?” you take a step forward. dick does too.

“i-” he clears his throat. “i did. do you like it?” he shifts his eyes, his cheeks bright pink.

you make a show of looking it over. he turns his head so you can see it from all angles. like he always did when he got a haircut.

your chest hurts.

you nod approvingly, flashing him a weak smile.

“it looks really nice. you’re very-” your face heats as you stop yourself. “it looks very handsome.”

that’s an understatement. you would’ve climbed him like a tree the minute he’d come home looking like that. the way his biceps were bulging out of his shirt sleeves could not be good for his circulation. it was great for yours, your heart was beating a mile a minute.

dick smiles down at you, stepping forward again.

“thanks.” he looks down, taking in your outfit. “nice leggings, ang-” he’s cut off when trouble spots a squirrel and darts, barking wildly. the problem is, trouble had been walking his leashed self around you and dick.

you’re now chest to chest with your ex boyfriend in the middle of a sidewalk, tied to him by rope. you vaguely hear trouble whine at the way his collar bit into his neck from the leash pulling taut. you didn’t even have the time to process the fact that he had almost called you angel. which was probably a good thing.

you’re breathing heavily, while dick doesn’t seem to be breathing at all.

he’s put his arms around you on instinct, and you hate the way you feel like you’re home. a shiver runs up your spine at the sudden closeness, and dick peers down at you through half-lids. your mouth dries up again. you suddenly feel indignant.

“you are not allowed to breakup with me and then show up and look at me like that!” you hiss at him.

you would throw up your hands in exasperation if they weren’t basically pinned to dick’s body. a smile breaks across his face, his bright blue eyes telling you everything you need to know. he stares at you, studying you. you wonder if he can feel how hard your heart is beating.

“alfred taught me a new recipe.” he blurts, his hand clutching at your back.

he’s adorable. but you school your face and raise an eyebrow at him.

“..oookay?”

dick blushes, his face sheepish. “i could make it for you, if you wanted.”

“what i want is an apology.” you look him up and down.

your ex boyfriend grimaces, squeezing his eyes shut. “understandable.”

“on your hands and knees. i think this is one of those begging-for-my-forgiveness type situations, don’t you think?”

dick nods, a strand of hair falling across his forehead. his eyes flash.

“you don’t have to worry about getting me on my knees.”

one heartbeat pounds behind your ribs, the other one between your legs. you huff out a weird sort of nervous laugh.

“oh, i’m not joking.” his lips curve up in a smile, one you know very well. he obviously plans to make up on lost time.

you forgot how charming he was. you have to practically force yourself to breathe. you’d do anything to have the real thing over his old t-shirt. you give yourself a mental shake.

he can flirt all he wants, but what about your heart? you look up at him, and his face softens, his pupils huge.

“can you get us untangled?”

dick nods, whistling for trouble. he frees an arm and grabs trouble’s collar, guiding him back around so the leash falls to the sidewalk. you step back, taking a deep breath. you’re cold at the sudden loss of his body heat. it’s a harsh reminder of reality. you grab trouble’s leash, having him sit. you look at your ex boyfriend.

“thanks.” you take another deep breath. “can you promise me something, though?”

he nods, his face serious. “anything. anything at all.”

“promise you won’t break my heart again?” you hold out your pinky finger.

dick coughs, surprised at your words. he looks down, taking a shaky breath. he’s in disbelief, he’s ecstatic, he’s on top of the world, he…has a lot of apologizing to do.

when he looks back up to offer up his own pinky, his eyes are shining. the sight makes your heart melt. you take his finger in yours, beaming up at him.

he gives you a soft smile in return. “i promise.”

you take your hand back, feeling the most hopeful you have in a month.

a breeze picks up, and the whiff you get reminds you of your earlier predicament. you look down. dick looks down too.

shit. literally.

you forgot about the fact that trouble had used the sidewalk as a toilet.

“is that trouble’s?” he asks.

you nod, making a face. “i forgot the poop bags.”

“rookie mistake.” dick shakes his head, smiling. you look him up and down, and then turn, walking back the way you came.

“text me about that recipe!” you lift your hand in a wave.

“but-..uh, the shit?” he calls after you.

“that’s alllll you, baby!” you yell back, practically skipping away. you feel like you’re floating.

[dragoneyelashart]

not alot, just forever

fluff/ angst/ smut ୨ৎ

a/n: kind of inspired by gilmore girls wc: 8.2k words

the town’s small. not in the cute brochure way, but in the way that everyone knows your last name, and your dog’s name, and what kind of coffee you drink when it’s raining. it’s the kind of place where people wave from their cars, where the hardware store still writes receipts by hand, and where gossip moves faster than cell service.

your café sits on the corner of main and pine, right where the sidewalk cracks from the roots of an old tree no one’s had the heart to cut down. it’s got a crooked front window and a hand-painted sign that’s faded just enough to feel lived in. the inside smells like espresso, warm bread, and whatever candle you remembered to light that morning. vanilla and cedar today, something soft.

you open early. before the sun sometimes. before the bakery next door even finishes their first batch. the regulars come in half-awake, rubbing sleep out of their eyes, trading quiet good mornings and weather talk. you keep the music low. nothing that talks too loud.

there’s a slow rhythm here. the mail truck pulls up at nine. the local high school kids try to sneak in before class, thinking you don’t notice their backpacks and fake IDs. the sheriff always comes by at noon, nods like he doesn’t have time to sit, then stays for twenty minutes.

it’s not flashy. not exciting. but it’s yours. your space, your hands on every corner of it, from the mismatched mugs to the chalkboard menu that smudges no matter how carefully you write.

you built this place like a second skin. like something to belong to.

and even on the days when the sky’s gray and your body’s tired and you want the whole town to just shut up for five minutes, you love it. you love it the way you love an old book. the way you love silence after too much noise.

it’s just past 10 when she walks in.

you don’t even have to look at the clock. you know her footsteps by now, slow, heavy, like she’s already tired of the day. the bell above the door rings a half-second before the scent of outside air slips in with her, warm and full of summer dust.

you glance up. she’s wearing jeans that look like they’ve been through something, cuffed sloppily at the ankle, and a black t-shirt that says i have the dick so i make the rules in bold white letters. subtle, as always.

you roll your eyes before she even says anything.

she catches the look and smirks like she’s already won. “good morning to you too, sunshine.”

“barely morning,” you mutter, wiping down the espresso machine even though it doesn’t need it.

she drops her laptop on the counter table like she didn’t just walk in here with that shirt and expect to be normal about it.

“bold outfit,” you say, eyes flicking back to the phrase stretched across her chest.

she shrugs, sliding onto one of the stools. “had a long night. didn’t really look in the mirror.”

you hum, not sure if you believe her.

her hair’s a little messy, in that “i don’t care” way that actually means she probably spent twenty minutes getting it just messy enough. dark circles under her eyes, but still somehow glowing. she pulls the laptop open like she’s here to get work done, but you already know that’s a lie.

“you actually gonna use that thing?” you ask, nodding to the laptop.

“maybe. depends if you’re interesting enough today.”

“so probably not.”

she grins. “don’t sell yourself short, babe. you’re half the reason i’m even vertical right now.”

you snort. “and the other half?”

“caffeine. spite. sexual tension.”

you don’t respond, but you can feel the heat crawl up your neck. you turn away, pretending to rearrange the croissants even though they’re already lined up.

the café’s in its late-morning lull. a few people are tucked into booths, quiet conversation and the soft clink of ceramic mugs. the sunlight through the windows makes the wooden floors glow, and everything feels a little softer than it should, too peaceful, too golden.

and then there’s her. sprawled out at the end of the counter like it’s her personal front-row seat to your daily performance.

she types something on her laptop. you glance over, probably fake typing, she’s been on the same screen for ten minutes.

but her eyes? they’re watching you.

always you.

you move through the motions, restocking lids, sweeping up stray sugar packets, pulling espresso shots, and you can feel her watching.

not in a creepy way. not in a heavy way. just... there. steady. like background music you’ve started to memorize.

“so what was this long night?” you ask, breaking the quiet.

she shrugs, not looking away from her screen. “went out. stayed out. regretted it halfway through.”

“rough crowd?”

“rough thoughts,” she says, and that’s all.

you don’t push. you never do.

but your fingers slow on the lid stack. and for a second, the silence feels a little too loud.

“coffee?” you ask instead, voice softer now.

she looks up.

“you offering, or trying to get me to pay rent?”

“depends on how annoying you plan to be today.”

“guess you’ll find out.”

you roll your eyes and grab a cup anyway. you don’t even ask what she wants, you already know. you always know.

she watches you make it. you can feel her eyes on your hands, your shoulders, your mouth when you frown at the milk frother.

you try not to let it show, but it’s hard to pretend she’s just another customer when she looks at you like that. like you’re a painting in a museum she keeps sneaking glances at when no one’s looking.

you hand her the cup, fingers brushing just barely.

she takes the cup from your hand, but doesn’t drink it right away. just holds it like it might say something. her fingers tap twice against the lid before she finally lifts it to her lips.

“mmm,” she hums, eyes closed for a second. “you spoil me.”

“you overpay me.”

“you don’t charge me.”

“exactly.”

she cracks one eye open, tilts her head. “that a confession?”

“that’s a mistake,” you mutter, moving back behind the bar.

she laughs, short, a little raspy. it sticks to the air like steam.

you turn toward the sink, rinse out a milk pitcher that didn’t really need rinsing, and she’s still there when you turn around again. legs crossed now, one boot toe tapping against the wooden rung of the stool.

“you sleep at all?” you ask.

“enough.”

“that’s not a real answer.”

“neither was your question,” she says, biting the inside of her cheek like she’s trying not to grin. “you checking on me?”

“no.”

“liar.”

you shake your head, but your lips press into something that’s not quite a smile. she catches it anyway.

“you want half my croissant?” she asks, already tearing it unevenly.

“you haven’t ordered one.”

“semantics.”

she digs into the bag she brought with her , paper, stamped from the bakery two doors down. same one she always swings by before landing here. she slides the smaller half across the counter toward you, crumbs trailing behind like breadcrumbs in a storybook.

you glance at it, then at her. “you didn’t wash your hands.”

“i licked them.”

“you’re disgusting.”

“and yet, here you are.”

you stare her down for a second longer, then take the croissant.

she beams. like she’s won something.

the air in the café is thick with that lazy mid-morning warmth, sun on wood, cinnamon-sugar glaze softening under the heat, the buzz of quiet conversation and distant jazz playing low from the speaker above the espresso machine. you wipe down the counter between customers, slow and methodical. not because you need to, but because it gives your hands something to do.

billie keeps typing now, like she’s suddenly in the mood to be productive. her brow furrows. she chews her straw thoughtfully, even though the drink is hot and has no straw.

“hey,” she says, not looking up, “what’s a better word than bittersweet but, like... not as cheesy?”

you think for a second. “melancholy.”

“too soft.”

“poignant.”

“too smart.”

“complicated?”

she lifts her head, grinning. “you calling me complicated?”

“i’m saying you don’t like big words.”

“i like big mouths,” she says, “and you’ve got one, sweetheart.”

you shoot her a look.

she just winks.

someone new comes in, orders an iced chai and a bagel with too many modifications. you nod along, polite, efficient, not really listening. you make the drink, ring it up, hand it off. they thank you and leave.

when you glance back, billie’s watching again. not sneaky about it. just... there.

you arch an eyebrow.

“what?”

“nothing,” she says, smiling behind the rim of her cup. “you’re just cute when you’re fake-nice.”

“i’m not fake.”

“you hate 80% of your customers.”

“wrong. it’s 85.”

she laughs again, louder this time, and it draws the attention of a woman sitting at the window with her book. you pretend not to notice.

“you ever think about doing something else?” she asks, more casually than you expect.

“like what?”

“i don’t know. something where you don’t have to talk to people.”

you glance around the café, wood counters, low-hanging light fixtures, plants someone gave you two years ago still thriving in mismatched pots. “this is that job.”

“fair.”

she sips again, then rests her chin on her palm. “so you like it here?”

you shrug. “it’s mine.”

“good answer,” she says, voice softening a little. “that’s rare.”

you say nothing, and the silence settles again, not uncomfortable, just full.

like the light coming through the windows. like the sound of spoons clinking on ceramic.

around noon, she kicks off one shoe and folds her leg beneath her. then she pushes her cup toward you across the counter.

“top-up?”

“you’ve had enough.”

“it’s decaf,” she lies.

you stare at her. “it’s not.”

“maybe the real caffeine is the friends we made along the way.”

“that doesn’t make sense.”

“it does in my heart.”

you sigh and take the cup anyway.

“you’re enabling me,” she calls after you.

“i regret everything.”

you bring the cup back, hot and full, and set it in front of her.

she takes it with a mockingly sincere “thank you,” then blows across the top before taking a sip.

“perfect, as always,” she murmurs.

you don’t answer. just keep wiping down the same spot on the counter until it shines.

outside, the sidewalk’s warmed up. you can see the shimmer of heat in the distance, over the roof of the corner store across the street. a couple kids on bikes zoom by, laughing too loud. someone’s dog barks at nothing.

inside, it’s quieter. cooler. more deliberate.

billie’s watching you again. or maybe still.

“you ever take a break?” she asks.

you shrug. “sometimes.”

“you should take one now.”

“why.”

“so i can bother you without you having an excuse to run away.”

“who says i’m running?”

she tilts her head, studying you like she’s trying to solve a puzzle with one missing piece.

then she says, very softly, “nobody.”

and just like that, the moment folds in on itself. not dramatic. not sharp. just a quiet, off-center pause in the middle of a slow day.

you go back to the register.

she goes back to her laptop.

she spins slowly on the stool, back and forth, foot dragging lightly on the wooden rung beneath her. like a child.

“you know you’re my favorite person here, right?” she says after a while.

you pause with your hand on the espresso grinder. “i’m the only person who talks to you.”

“yeah well,” she shrugs. “still counts.”

you don’t reply, just flip a switch. the grinder hums. she watches you like she always does, not just with her eyes, but with her whole body, always leaning in, elbows on the counter like she’s waiting for a secret to slip out of your mouth.

you think about saying something sharp. instead, you grab a clean rag and wipe a spot near her elbow.

“you should actually work,” you murmur.

she sighs, the way she does when she’s about to say something half-serious and ruin the moment. but she doesn't.

instead: “you got a favorite flower?”

you blink.

“what?”

“flower. like, if you had to choose.”

“why?”

she shrugs, lazy. “just making conversation.”

“you never ‘just’ do anything.”

“you’re stalling.”

“i like lilies.”

“classic.”

“what, you expected something weirder?”

“nah,” she says, tipping her head back. “i expected something quiet. like you.”

you glance up.

she’s not looking at you now, just at the ceiling.

the moment stretches longer than you meant for it to. so you cut it.

“i think your laptop just fell asleep from neglect.”

she looks at it like she forgot it was even there.

“honestly, same.”

“what do you even do for a living?” you ask, mostly to change the subject.

“writer,” she says, drawing a little air quote in the sky.

you laugh, “you haven’t written a single word today.”

“i’ve been doing character studies,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward you. “you’re very inspiring.”

“you’re very unemployed.”

she gasps. “slander.”

you shrug. “truth.”

it starts with the rain.

fat drops hammering the windows like they’re trying to get in. you hear it before you see it, the hush of wind curling around the side of the building, the soft tap that builds and builds until it sounds like the sky is cracking open. the street outside is dark and empty, wet pavement glowing in flashes beneath the streetlights. your sign flickers once. holds.

the café is closed.

chairs flipped up on tables. floor freshly mopped. everything quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the storm rolling in above town. you move through it like you always do, towel in hand, mind on autopilot, wiping down surfaces that don’t really need it. the lights are dim, just the low amber ones near the counter still on. enough to see, but not enough to feel fully awake.

and then the door opens.

you hear it, that jingle you know like your own name. and for a second, you think maybe you imagined it. no one should be out right now. not in this weather.

but then she’s there.

billie.

drenched.

her hair’s plastered to her forehead, soaked all the way through. her shirt clings to her skin, black fabric darker with water, jeans stuck to her legs like she waded through a flood. she’s breathing hard like she ran here, though you doubt she did. her boots squeak on the floor.

"you’re closed," she says, but she’s already stepping inside.

"you think?"

she huffs a laugh and pushes the door shut behind her, the sound of rain suddenly muffled.

"thought i’d try my luck."

"what are you even doing out in this?"

she shrugs, like it’s nothing. like she didn’t just walk through a downpour with no umbrella, no explanation, and end up at your door.

"couldn’t sleep."

"so you decided to trespass."

she walks past the front tables, slow and dripping. "you always say that, but you never kick me out."

"you’re getting water all over my clean floor."

she spreads her arms, flashing that cocky grin even as water slides down her neck. "guess you’ll just have to mop again."

"unbelievable."

"consistently."

she peels off her jacket, leather, of course, now soaked through, and drapes it over the back of a chair. she’s shivering a little. you notice it and try not to.

"i’m making tea," you mutter, heading toward the counter. "you’re not getting coffee this late."

"yes, mom."

"keep that up and you’re getting nothing."

"you wound me."

you put the kettle on. the café smells like vanilla and lemon cleaner and storm air, sharp and fresh and oddly sweet. you hear her move behind you, the sound of her shoes coming off, probably. a sigh as she drops into a chair.

you don’t look at her.

two mugs. the good kind. not the chipped ones you give to people you don’t like.

"you okay?" you ask, because the silence stretches too long.

she doesn’t answer right away. just breathes.

"yeah," she says finally, quiet. "just... didn’t wanna be home."

you nod like that makes perfect sense. and somehow, it does.

the tea steeps. you hand her a mug and sit across from her at one of the low tables by the window.

she curls her fingers around the cup like it’s a lifeline. steam fogs up the glass. outside, the rain keeps falling, heavier now. you can’t even see the sidewalk anymore.

for a while, neither of you talk.

just the clink of ceramic. the sound of breathing. a storm outside that makes everything inside feel closer, smaller, quieter.

"you’re not gonna ask me what’s wrong?" she says eventually, looking at you over the rim of her mug.

"no."

she nods, like she expected that.

"you always do that."

"do what."

"give me space. even when i don’t ask for it."

"maybe i’m just polite."

"maybe you just get it."

you don’t respond. the air feels too full again. your tea’s gone cold, but you don’t move.

she shifts in her chair, leans back, eyes tracing the ceiling.

"you ever feel like everything’s just... closing in? like the whole town’s a box and someone’s slowly taping it shut?"

you blink. not sure what to say.

"you could’ve gone anywhere," you say.

she looks at you. eyes darker in this light. softer.

"nah," she says. "just here."

you hold her gaze for a second too long.

then you stand. grab her mug.

"more tea?"

"please."

you walk away. her voice follows, low and warm.

"you’re a softie when no one’s looking."

"shut up."

flashback: the first time she walked in

it was fall. early, before the leaves started to turn.

a tuesday, maybe. definitely slow.

you were behind the counter, wiping down the pastry case and half-listening to the radio. a soft indie track humming through the speakers. it was quiet. the kind of quiet you’d grown used to.

and then the door opened.

billie.

new face. confident stride. a little too loud for the space. sunglasses pushed up into her hair, silver chain around her neck, smirk already in place like she’d been practicing it in the mirror.

"hey," she said, walking right up to the counter like she belonged.

"hi."

"what’s good here?"

"everything."

"bold claim."

"accurate one."

she grinned.

"alright, mystery barista. surprise me."

"you allergic to anything?"

"just commitment."

that made you snort. you hated that it made you snort.

you made her a iced spanish latte with oat milk. handed it over in a to-go cup and watched her take a sip.

her eyes lit up.

"damn. okay. this is actually fire."

"told you."

"don’t get cocky."

"don’t come into my café talking big if you can’t handle the menu."

she blinked. smiled wider. leaned her elbows on the counter.

"i like you."

"you don’t know me."

"yet."

she came back the next day.

and the next.

and the next.

always something different, a bad joke, a new excuse, a worse shirt. but always that grin. always that spark. like she was waiting to catch you slipping. like she wanted to.

and somewhere between then and now, she stopped being a stranger.

and started being something else.

whatever that means.

back in the present, the rain is slowing.

the café feels smaller now. dimmer. she’s curled up in one of the big chairs near the window, tea gone, jacket still damp on the back of another chair.

you’re across from her, one leg tucked under you, fingers tracing the rim of your cup.

everything’s quiet.

"thanks for the tea," she says softly, breaking the silence.

"don’t mention it."

she looks at you, long and unreadable.

"no, seriously. thank you."

you nod.

and that’s it.

almost.

there’s a beat, a breath, where something could shift.

but it doesn’t.

not yet.

but then she shifts forward, slow and deliberate, like she’s testing gravity itself. her eyes search yours, not asking, not begging, just waiting. you don’t breathe. don’t move. until you do.

you lean in.

it’s not dramatic. it’s not sudden. it’s the kind of kiss that feels like it’s been building for years, a question finally answered. her lips are cold from the rain but her breath is warm, and the moment your mouths meet, the storm outside might as well disappear. everything narrows to the press of her hand against your knee, the tilt of her head, the impossible closeness.

it’s quiet. slow. reverent.

when you part, she lingers close, noses brushing.

"took you long enough," she whispers.

"you’re dripping on my chair," you whisper back.

she laughs, and it sounds like something breaking open.

like relief.

like home.

it’s been four years.

billie got out.

not just out of the town, out of the box she used to describe so vividly, the one with the walls closing in. she wrote about it, too. turned those suffocating feelings into paper and ink, pain into poetry, long nights into chapters that other people held in their hands. her first novel hit shelves like a thunderclap. then came the interviews. the book tours. the readings in crowded rooms where people clung to every word she said. she got famous. not explosively, but steadily. like the world had been waiting to hear from her and finally could.

you watched it all from the café.

same sign. same flickering bulb. same uneven table in the corner no one ever wanted except billie.

her name was everywhere, a whisper in literary circles that grew louder until it became a shout: billie. the girl who walked into your life like a storm, then left it drenched and broken behind her.

but you? you were left in the silence that came after.

she didn’t say goodbye.

not a word the next day after that kiss. no phone call, no text, no last look. just gone, like she was never really there.

and that absence? 

you opened the café and found the chair where she sat still damp from her jacket. her cup still on the table, empty. like she’d just stepped out to take a call and never came back.

and maybe you waited longer than you should’ve. maybe every time the door opened for weeks after, your chest hitched just a little. but she didn’t come back. not then. not for a long time. you replayed the last night over and over in your mind. the warmth of her lips against yours, the way her hand pressed into your knee like she was holding onto something too fragile to lose. but the warmth turned cold quickly. the next morning, only a void remained.

your life didn’t stop.

it just got quieter.

it didn’t just hurt. it hollowed you out.

the café felt different after that. the regulars kept coming. tourists in the summer, college kids in the fall. you got a new barista to help with mornings. painted the walls. changed the playlist.

but every now and then, someone would leave a copy of her book on a table. and you’d pretend not to see it.

until you did.

until you read it.

and there you were, in the margins. not named, not spelled out, but unmistakably you. in the taste of spanish latte’s, in the silence between dialogue, in the lines about rain that never felt cold when she was inside.

and it hurt.

because she remembered.

every creak of the floorboards, every clink of a cup felt like an echo of what was lost. you’d catch yourself glancing at the door, half-expecting her to walk back in, drenched and smirking like she always did. but the door stayed closed. the rain fell, but it didn’t wash away the ache. inside you, a quiet storm raged, grief tangled with confusion, love tangled with bitterness.

you wonder if she even thinks about you. if the applause that greets her on stage, the flashing cameras, the whispered praise, do they drown out the memory of that night? or does she feel it too? the loss, the sudden absence that still clings like a shadow?

some nights, the loneliness presses so hard against your ribs you can hardly breathe. you trace the spaces where her fingers used to brush yours, remember the way her laugh filled the room, the reckless hope in her eyes.

but mostly, it’s a dull ache. a weight you carry like a secret, tucked deep beneath the everyday, beneath the routine of opening the café, wiping down counters, making tea for strangers who’ll never know the story you carry.

you tried to move on. tried to believe that the girl who left was gone for good, a chapter closed.

but in the quiet moments, when the world slows, and the storm outside mimics the one inside, you still reach for a ghost.

billie is out there, shining bright and unreachable.

and you’re still here, holding onto the shadow of a kiss that should have meant forever.

some nights, billie lies in hotel beds that smell like bleach and borrowed air, staring at ceilings she doesn’t recognize, wondering what the sky looks like back home.

not the town. not the streets. not the peeling paint on her old apartment door.

just the sky outside your café.

she thinks about the rain.

it always felt different when she was with you. softer. quieter. like it wasn't there to ruin things but to wrap everything in a hush only you and she could hear. the storm that night lingers in her mind more than any interview, more than any standing ovation. she remembers the way your lips felt against hers, tentative, trembling, sure, and how she almost said stay. or maybe don’t let me go. but she didn’t. and the next morning, she ran.

getting out was everything she ever dreamed of. the books. the buzz. the freedom. she doesn’t regret it.

but sometimes she wonders if she mistook escape for healing.

she writes about you. never by name. never directly. but your ghost threads through every chapter. you’re in the spaces between lines. in the quiet barista with gentle hands. in the unfinished love stories. in every mention of coffee and silence and windows fogged by storm-breath.

and no one knows. not really. they think they do. they read her words and imagine someone else. someone flashier, someone louder, someone more tragic.

but it was you.

always you.

she scrolls past the photos of her book signings, smiling faces, hands clutching her novels like they mean something. and they do. they really do. but when the clamor dies down, when the hotel door clicks shut behind her and the minibar hums in the dark, she’s alone.

and in that stillness, she thinks about how you never asked her to stay. how she left anyway. how it was easier to vanish than to risk watching your face fall.

she wonders if you kept the mug she used.

she wonders if you still make tea late at night, for two, out of habit.

she wonders if, maybe, just maybe, you’d want to see her again.

but she doesn’t reach out.

not yet.

because for all the chapters she’s written, that one still terrifies her.

the one where she comes back.

and finds you no longer waiting.

a week passes like fog; thick, slow, heavy.

the town is quieter than usual. even the kids on bikes seem subdued, their laughter dimmed beneath gray skies. everyone’s waiting for something. or maybe mourning something already gone.

the morning of the funeral, the air hangs low. not quite raining, but close, moisture clinging to skin, clouding the edges of windows, making every breath feel heavier.

mr. peterson is gone.

a man whose hands were always smudged with grease, whose voice cracked with too much laughter, who gave away more than he ever charged. he was a fixture in this town. not just a mechanic, not just a neighbor, he was memory made flesh. the kind of person who taught you how to change a tire and how to forgive in the same breath.

you stand near the back of the service, coat buttoned high, fingers knotted tight in your sleeves. the area is full, standing room only. a sea of bowed heads. a tide of grief.

you don’t cry.

not at first.

but when they start reading letters, notes written by kids, old friends, former customers, you feel your chest start to give. like something’s splintering. not all at once. just hairline fractures. soft and slow.

you blink down tears, your throat tight, and when you finally lift your gaze —

you see her.

billie.

she’s near the back. tucked into the shadow of the doorframe. black coat clinging to her body, eyes sharp and distant and aching. she doesn’t belong here, and yet, somehow, she does. she’s the same and not. taller, maybe. more tired around the eyes. her hands are folded in front of her like she’s trying not to shake.

you freeze.

your heart doesn’t beat right. skips. crashes.

she doesn’t see you.

or maybe she does, and she just doesn’t move.

and you don't go to her.

after, the crowd spills out into the misty gray. people hugging, crying, sharing stories in quiet tones. you move with them, pulled along by ritual. but your mind is on her. your skin still humming from the way her presence sliced through the air like a knife.

you don’t speak. you don’t look back. but her shadow follows you home.

you think maybe she’s gone again.

but the next day, you see her.

first it’s just a shape, across the street, moving slow. her hands buried deep in her coat, sunglasses on despite the lack of sun. she walks like she’s listening to old music no one else can hear. then another day. closer this time. standing at the crosswalk. waiting. not crossing. not coming in.

you pretend not to notice.

but of course you notice.

how could you not?

every time the bell above the café door rings, you think it’s her. every stranger with wet hair and tired eyes turns your stomach to knots.

she’s haunting you, and she hasn’t even spoken.

and then, friday night.

the café is dark.

you’ve just mopped the floor. the chairs are up. the last tea cup sits drying in the rack. it smells like lemon and lavender, like peace you haven’t quite earned. you’re locking up. reaching for the switch.

the door opens.

the bell.

your whole body goes still.

slowly, like turning in a dream, you look up.

billie stands in the doorway. wet from the rain. hair curling at the ends. eyes wide, searching.

you can’t breathe.

she’s backlit by the streetlamp, pale gold framing her like something not quite real. water beads along her jaw. she doesn’t speak.

you do.

“we’re closed,” you say, the words flat, automatic.

but it’s not anger in your voice.

it’s fear.

hurt.

history.

she steps inside anyway. closes the door behind her. the bell falls silent. the rain hushes to a whisper against the windows.

“i know,” she says.

you stand behind the counter, both hands gripping the edge. you can feel your heartbeat in your fingertips.

“then what are you doing here?”

her eyes flick around the room like she’s memorizing it. like maybe she’s been seeing it in her head for years and forgot how quiet it really is.

“i couldn’t stay away,” she whispers.

you exhale. sharp. wounded.

“you don’t get to say that. not after four years. not after you left without a word.”

she flinches.

“i know.”

“do you?” you take a step forward, words shaking. “you kissed me and left. didn’t call. didn’t write. just vanished like it meant nothing. like i meant nothing.”

her face breaks at that, creases down the middle like glass spidering beneath pressure.

“you meant everything,” she says, voice low, wrecked.

“then why did you leave?”

“because if i stayed, i wouldn’t have had the strength to go,” she says, eyes locked on yours. “and if i asked you to come with me, you would’ve. and i couldn’t ask you to give this up. the café. your life. you belonged here, and i didn’t even know who i was yet.”

you stare at her.

rain pools at her feet. the floor you just cleaned glistens under her boots.

you should be angry. you are.

but mostly, you’re hollow.

“i waited,” you say. the words barely audible. “for months. i woke up hoping. every day. every day i hoped you’d walk through that door. every day i saved your mug. and then i stopped. because i had to. because you didn’t come back.”

her shoulders tremble. her hands shake.

“i wanted to,” she breathes. “god, i wanted to. every book i wrote, every sentence had you in it. but i scared… i was so scared. of seeing you. of not being what you remembered. of finding you happy without me.”

you say nothing.

the air between you buzzes. too many words. too many memories.

she takes a step closer.

you don’t move.

“i came back,” she says. “because i couldn’t carry it anymore. the silence. the wondering. i needed to see you. even if it hurts. even if you hate me.”

you close your eyes.

because she’s here.

and it hurts.

because you missed her.

and it still hurts.

because part of you never stopped waiting.

and it hurts more than anything.

“i don’t hate you, i could never hate you billie” you whisper.

her breath catches.

you open your eyes and look at her, and she looks so lost. so different. and still so devastatingly familiar.

“but i don’t know if that’s enough.”

she nods. eyes glossy. jaw tight.

“can i sit?” she asks.

“you’re already standing in the past,” you say, voice breaking. “might as well.”

and when she sinks into the nearest chair, small, soaked, shaking, it’s not the reunion either of you dreamed of.

the room is still. too still.

the hum of the fridge in the back is the only sound, low and distant, like a heartbeat underwater. the rain keeps falling against the windows, soft now,more of a whisper than a song. time slows.

you stay behind the counter for a long moment, hands braced against the wood, watching her where she sits,soaking, shivering, small in the big armchair she used to call “her throne.”

she doesn’t look at you.

her eyes are on her hands, clenched in her lap, the knuckles white with strain. her coat is dripping onto the floor. her hair sticks to her cheek. there’s a tremor in her shoulders she’s trying to hide.

you step away from the counter.

cross the floor in slow, careful steps, the echo of your footfalls muffled by the hush. you grab the old throw blanket from the back of the couch,the one customers always fought over on colder mornings. it still smells like lavender and lemon cleaner. you drape it over her shoulders without a word.

she flinches at the contact, but doesn’t pull away.

“you’ll catch cold,” you murmur, voice barely more than breath.

“that’d be fair,” she replies, not looking at you. “at least then the outside would match the inside.”

you sit down across from her, slowly, like the weight of the conversation has aged you ten years. the old table between you is scratched and familiar. there are tea rings stained into the surface. ghostly reminders of better days.

you rest your hands on your knees. open. empty.

she finally lifts her head.

and the moment your eyes meet, it all tightens again, that brutal pull in your chest. her face is thinner, somehow. older. the sharpness around her mouth softened with fatigue. but her eyes are still the same.

still her.

you look away first.

“i made a life without you,” you say softly. “it wasn’t the one i thought i’d have. but i made it.”

her voice cracks.

“i know.”

“and i’m not angry,” you add, even though your throat tightens. “i was. for a long time. but then i got tired. and sadness is quieter. easier to carry.”

she closes her eyes. her chest rises and falls, shallow and quick.

“i hated myself for leaving,” she says. “i still do.”

“then why didn’t you come back?”

“because… i thought it would hurt you more if i did. because i thought you deserved someone who wouldn’t run.” she exhales. “but the truth is, i was just a coward. i was scared that i couldn’t be enough. scared that you’d look at me and see someone smaller than the version you loved.”

you swallow hard.

you want to tell her she was enough. you want to scream that you would’ve followed her anywhere if she had just asked. but the silence has lived between you for too long now. and grief has made your truths quieter.

“i missed you every day,” she whispers. “even when people were cheering for me. even when i stood on stage with my name in lights. none of it felt real. not without you.”

you clench your jaw.

“i watched your interviews,” you say, voice shaking. “i read your books. tried to find myself in the pages. i thought�� maybe i’d show up as a line. a place. something.”

“you were everything,” she says instantly, eyes wide. “you were in every line. i just didn’t know how to say it.”

you go quiet.

a breath.

two.

the rain softens.

finally, you whisper, “you broke me.”

her face twists. like you’ve struck her.

but you continue, slow and steady and wrecked: “you broke me, billie. and then you got famous. you got out. and i was still here, trying to remember how to breathe without you.”

tears trace silently down her cheeks.

she doesn’t wipe them.

“i didn’t mean to ruin you,” she says.

“you didn’t,” you reply. “but you didn’t stay to help me rebuild, either.”

she presses her palms to her eyes. breathes in deep. when she drops her hands, her voice is hoarse, broken open.

“do you hate me?”

the question hangs in the air like smoke.

you take your time.

you think about the nights alone. the mornings with no texts. the empty seat in your café. the ache that never left.

and then you think of her laugh. the way her eyes used to crinkle when she was trying not to cry. the way she kissed you like it meant forever.

“no,” you say. “i never could.”

she lets out a sound then, half sob, half exhale.

you lean back in the chair. arms crossed tightly. like you’re holding yourself together.

and she looks at you, through all the time and space and years between you, and asks the only question she’s ever truly feared:

“can you ever forgive me?”

and for the first time in years, you don’t know.

you just look at her.

and feel everything. and nothing. all at once.

you don’t speak for a long time.

her question hovers in the space between you like smoke , fragile, curling, waiting to disappear.

can you ever forgive me?

your fingers twitch against your jeans. your mouth opens, then closes. it’s hard to say the words, not because they aren’t true, but because they are.

you nod.

slowly. once. then again.

and when you finally look her in the eyes, you say, “yeah. i think i already have.”

billie crumbles in the quietest way, her shoulders fold in on themselves, her hands press over her mouth like she’s holding back the kind of sob that doesn’t come from the throat, but from the bones. her whole body shakes, and you don’t hesitate.

you move to her.

kneel in front of the chair, take her hands gently in yours.

she grips you like she might fall through the floor otherwise.

and when you whisper, “come upstairs,” it’s not an invitation out of pity. it’s not because you feel sorry for her. it’s because some part of you, maybe the oldest part, still aches to be close. to know she’s real. to touch the space between you and feel it finally closing.

she just nods.

no words.

just eyes full of disbelief. and hope. and something like reverence.

you lead her to the back door behind the counter, past the shelves of forgotten mugs and the coat you always mean to mend. the stairs creak beneath your steps. they always do.

it’s not a long climb. but it feels like one.

you unlock the door to your apartment and step inside first.

it’s warm. small. safe.

a little kitchen. a threadbare couch. a desk with papers stacked in neat towers. your bed, tucked into the corner, soft with mismatched linens and the weight of years lived alone. plants line the windowsill, stubborn things, thriving despite it all.

she stands just inside the doorway, blinking slowly, like she’s afraid to breathe.

“this is yours?” she asks quietly, eyes scanning the space.

“yeah,” you say. “it’s not much. but it’s mine.”

she smiles , a soft, broken thing , and nods. “it’s beautiful.”

you move to the kitchen, hands shaking slightly, filling the kettle without asking. she sits at the edge of your bed, silent, watching you like she can’t believe this is real.

when you finally hand her a mug, your fingers brush hers.

electric.

she holds it close to her chest, like it’s keeping her grounded. her lips press to the rim, but she doesn’t drink.

“i didn’t date anyone,” you say suddenly, voice barely audible. “all these years. i tried, once or twice. but…”

you shake your head.

“they weren’t you.”

she looks up.

and you see it , the guilt, the sorrow, the overwhelming, all-consuming ache of someone who’s been waiting to hear that and dreading it at the same time.

“i didn’t either,” she whispers. “there were people. parties. places. but i couldn’t… not really. my body showed up. my mouth smiled. but the rest of me was stuck here. with you.”

you sit beside her on the bed.

your knees touch.

you take the mug from her hands, set it down on the nightstand.

and when you turn back, her eyes are full of tears.

“i’m still in love with you,” she breathes. “i never stopped.”

you exhale, shaky.

and you say, “i know.”

then, softer: “me too.”

her hands find yours again.

and when she leans in, slowly, like she’s asking permission with every inch, you meet her halfway.

the kiss isn’t soft, at first.

it’s desperate.

years of silence, of pain, of longing , all poured into the press of her lips, the way her hands cradle your jaw, the way you pull her in like you’ll never let go again. it’s messy. tear-streaked. trembling.

but it’s real.

and when it slows, when your foreheads press together and you both breathe in the same shaky, broken breath , it’s like the years collapse.

she pulls you into her lap, hands splayed at your waist, holding you like a prayer. your fingers slip into her hair, still damp from the rain.

there’s no rush. no expectation.

just closeness. warmth. the quiet joy of a second chance.

you curl into each other under the old quilt. fully clothed. fully wrecked. fully home.

and in the dark, as the storm outside softens into silence, you whisper into the hollow of her throat:

“this time… stay.”

and she nods, voice catching on the promise she makes like it’s sacred.

“i will.”

you don’t remember who moves first.

maybe it’s her hand brushing against your cheek, thumb tracing just beneath your eye like she’s memorizing the slope of you. maybe it’s you shifting closer, letting your nose nudge hers, your breath catching when she doesn’t pull away.

either way, it’s slow. deliberate.

when she kisses you again, it’s different than before , no rush, no desperation. just depth. quiet and aching and full of things neither of you know how to say. her lips are soft, and there’s a tremble in the way she moves, like she’s afraid she might do this wrong, might ruin it somehow. but your fingers curl in the hem of her shirt and you guide her closer, chest to chest, breath to breath.

you feel her sigh into your mouth , like relief, like surrender.

she kisses you like she remembers everything. like her body has held this memory tight and she’s only now letting it resurface. your hands move together in sync, clumsy at first, tugging at fabric more for closeness than for want. her shirt lifts, yours follows, and the air between you shifts , warm skin pressed to warm skin.

her fingers drag slowly along the curve of your spine, reverent. she kisses down your neck, over your collarbone, her mouth whisper-soft, as though afraid she might spook you. you tilt your head back, eyes fluttering shut, breath stuttering as her lips find all the places she dreamed of tracing over and over.

the blanket slides down around your hips. the rain has stopped, but the warmth remains. your apartment glows in soft lamplight , golden and still. she pushes your hair back, presses a kiss to your temple, then your jaw, then your shoulder.

"you’re still the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen," she murmurs, voice breaking like the words are heavy.

your throat tightens. you don’t answer. instead, you let your body say it , the way you wrap your arms around her waist, the way you guide her down until she’s pressed against you fully, your leg slipping between hers, chests rising and falling in sync.

her hands explore like she’s painting you , palms dragging over your ribs, your waist, the dip of your stomach. her fingers shake, but her touch never falters. her lips find your skin again and again, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of your forgiveness.

you gasp when her mouth meets your sternum, when her fingers trace delicate lines along your side. you feel open. raw. like your heart is resting just beneath the surface of your skin, beating in time with hers.

when her hand trails lower , tentative, trembling , you let out a soft sound, half a gasp, half a plea.

"billie," you whisper, the name a prayer on your tongue. your fingers tighten in her hair, guiding her gaze to yours. there’s no shame in your voice, just aching honesty. "please… touch me."

her breath stutters, like hearing you like this cracks something open in her chest. her hand finds your thigh, sliding up with exquisite slowness, until she’s nestled against you , where the heat between your legs pulses with need and something deeper, more fragile. she pauses, eyes searching yours.

"are you sure?" she asks, voice hoarse.

you nod, breathless. "i need you."

and when her fingers finally press at your sensitive clit, your back arches, not just from want, but from the feeling of being seen. known. forgiven.

she moves with care, every touch a silent apology, every stroke a vow. her fingers pushed deep inside you, your eyes tracing her every move. when she slips her thigh between yours, and you move to meet her, your bodies slotting together in an intimate, aching rhythm.

she moves like she knows your body better than memory, every shift of her hips, every graze of skin, sending heat curling low in your stomach. when her thigh presses between yours and you move to meet her, the friction is slow, electric. it sparks something deep inside you, not rushed, not frantic, just full.

you rock together, breath to breath, skin slick and warm, the rhythm natural, instinctive. her body pressed against yours becomes a tether, grounding and consuming all at once. every roll of her hips draws a whimper from your throat, a sound you can’t bite back, not when she’s watching you like that, eyes dark, focused, like you’re the only thing she sees. billie’s head is thrown back, the feeling of finally having you to herself, driving her insane. pleasure blooms in slow waves. not sharp, but heady. liquid. it builds with every drag of your bodies together, your muscles tightening, trembling, aching for more.

your hands clutch at her, her waist, her back, her shoulders, needing something to hold onto, something to keep you from unraveling completely. and still, she moves with you, against you, as if trying to memorize the exact sound you make when it becomes too much.

you whisper her name like a mantra, over and over, voice breaking around it. her mouth finds your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, every kiss stoking the fire she’s already lit beneath your skin. “billie, fuck, feels so good” you whisper out, running your hands up her chest softly. “yeah? feels good, mama? m gonna have you coming over and over for me,”

a slow kind of desperation, hips rocking, skin to skin, tears slipping down your cheeks as you whisper her name over and over.

"i missed you," you choke out between gasps. "i missed you so much, billie“

she presses her forehead to yours, her hand clutching yours tight above your heads, like she’s holding you together. your legs tighten around her, the tension building.

"i’ve got you my love,” she whispers. “m not leaving now“

taglist: @amara-eilish @bilswifee @iamnicoke @jayjaywetforbils @bittersuitekim @bxllxebxtch @bitchesbrokenpromises @ijustlovemaths @ilovealiceosemann @bilssturns @peytonneilish @chrissv4mp @too-sapphic-to-function @thebluediner @aka-persephone @vijaxx | send an ask or comment if you want to be added to my taglist!

[saffusthings]

second chances

mob boss! lando norris x reader

part forty-one: lost

word count: 4.1k

warnings: this chapter contains strong themes of grief and mentions unhealthy coping mechanisms. reader discretion is advised.

forty | forty-one | forty-two

Y/N didn’t cry much after that night.

Not because it didn’t hurt anymore — but because the pain had settled into something colder, something quieter. The hurt became a folded up little thing she could tuck into her pocket like a gum wrapper, the kind of thing you could carry around without anyone noticing. 

She became quieter too – though not in any obvious way. 

She still smiled at customers. Still made the drinks just the way people liked them. Still answered questions in class and turned in assignments on time. But everything was... dulled. Worn thin. Like the brightness had been turned down on the world and she didn’t know how to turn it back up again.

She spent most of her time at the café now, each of her shifts starting sooner and ending later than the one before. 

Her coworkers noticed the change.

The Y/N they knew — the one who used to hum while she brewed espresso, who always snuck an extra cookie to the regulars and let the college kids study past closing — was quieter now, tired in a way concealer couldn’t fix.

“You should go home,” Susie tried gently on her way out one night as she watched Y/N wipe the already-clean counters for the second time. “You’ve been here more than twelve hours.”

“I’m fine,” she waved her off, not looking up. And she was, really.

She wore clean clothes, answered emails, turned in assignments. She smiled when people expected her to.

She certainly functioned.

Yet there was a wall now — thick and soundproof — between her and the girl she used to be. The one who’d looked at him and seen safety instead of danger. The one who’d kissed a man she didn’t know was capable of murder.

That girl was gone. In her place stood someone quieter, someone less trusting. This new version of her flinched every time the front door creaked open at the café and had to see the face before she could breathe again.

He hadn’t come back.

Not yet.

Maybe he wouldn’t.

She didn’t know what she wanted more — for him to stay gone, or to show up and give her a reason to let him back in. What hurt more than the lies, more than the betrayal, more than the night she held a knife in her shaking hand was the part of her that still wished it could go back.

Not to fix it, not to forgive – just to freeze the moment before it all broke, when she still believed the man who held her was just a little strange, but still safe. 

Still hers.

Soon after, Y/N stopped coming home before dark. Started spending longer hours at the café, telling herself there was always something else to do — inventory, supplier calls, mop the floors again even though they were clean. She picked up more shifts than she needed. Said yes when her professor asked if anyone wanted to stay after and help sort research journals.

She told herself she was moving on.

Unfortunately for her, however, everything in her life was still steeped in his memory.

There was the mug he’d dubbed as his own still in her cupboard, their throw blanket bunched on the couch where they’d up napping one way or another. There was still the half-read book on the nightstand that he’d teased her about, still dog-eared on page 214. She couldn’t be certain if his fingerprints remained embedded anywhere in her apartment, but somehow, she could feel them. 

Y/N could’ve sworn they were still there.

She didn’t delete his number. She didn’t throw away the hoodie he left or scrub the memory of his laughter from her walls. 

That would’ve meant acknowledging what happened. 

And when she finally did come home — late, exhausted, too numb to think — she kept the lights low, brushed her teeth in silence, and crawled into bed without looking at the spot beside her.

The spot where he once slept.

He had taken something good — something pure — and twisted it with lies.

And now she was left sorting through the pieces of something she couldn’t fix, because she didn’t know what was true anymore. What memories were hers to keep, and what had been built on deception from the beginning.

It had felt real. And that’s what made it unforgivable.

At first, it was just a notification – one missed call from a familiar name lighting up her screen like a wound.

Frozen in some sort of trance, she simply stared at it until it stopped ringing.

Then came the texts.

liam!: Please. liam!: Just tell me your okay? liam!: I’m not asking you to forgive me. I just need to know your safe. Read 12:55 AM

liam!: Y/N. liam!: I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. liam!: You don’t have to respond. But I’ll still always be sorry. Read Yesterday

She didn’t block him. She told herself it was so he’d know she was alive, so he’d stop worrying, so he wouldn’t show up.

But as fate would have it, he didn’t stop.

liam!: I shouldn’t of lied liam!: I don’t really know how to be who you needed. I just wanted to be near you liam!: You made me feel like I was more then the worst thing I’ve done liam!: Please let me explain. Please can I talk to you liam!: I can’t sleep. Can’t think strait liam!: I miss you Read 11:57 PM

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t block him. She couldn’t. She told herself it was because she wanted proof — a paper trail in case she needed to file something, explain something. But the truth was simpler.

She wasn’t ready to let go.

So she watched as the texts came in. One after the other.

liam! : Please talk to me

liam! : I didn’t know how to tell you. I never wanted you to find out like that.

liam! : I'm sorry

liam! : I miss you

liam! : Please. Just tell me youre ok

She didn’t answer. Not once.

But against her better judgement, she read every word.

She held her phone in her hand some nights, thumb hovering over the keyboard like maybe, just maybe, this time she’d respond. Maybe just one message. Just to say stop. Or I’m alive.

But she never did.

She’d walk into the café and feel her phone vibrate against her thigh and know it was him. Her thumb hovered over his name more times than she’d ever admit — but she never replied.

It only took a certain amount of concentration, she found, to not focus on the barrage of texts she knew awaited her the moment she would unlock her phone. So really, if she just focused on trying new recipes for the cafe or starting books she’d been meaning to read or walking Kika’s dog while she was out of town, then she wouldn’t have to even acknowledge the existence of those texts until she put her stupid phone on charging each night.

It was simple enough – stay busy, and she could go on pretending Lando never even existed.

Perfect.

The first call came two days after she told him to leave.

She didn’t answer it.

The screen lit up with his name — liam!, the way she’d saved it back when she still believed that’s who he was — and her hand hovered above the phone for just a second too long before she let it go dark.

He called again the next night.

And the night after that.

Eventually, he stopped leaving voicemails. Maybe he realized she wasn’t listening to them. Or maybe he couldn’t stand hearing his own voice echo into a void.

So he continued texting instead. AT least those, he knew, she read.

At first, they were long. Apologetic. Rambling things she never read fully. Things like “Please just let me explain,” and “I never meant for you to find out like that,” and “I swear, I didn’t plan any of it. Not with you.” He told her he missed her. That he couldn’t sleep. That the bed didn’t feel right without her.

She didn’t reply.

The messages kept coming anyway.

Over time, they got shorter. Less coherent. Frustrated.

liam!: I know you’re reading these. liam!: Please. liam!: Say something. liam!: Anything. liam!: I don’t care if you scream at me. liam!: I just need to hear your voice. Read Sunday

Eventually, she stopped looking at them at all.

But still — her phone buzzed at night. Sometimes just once. Sometimes over and over, until she had to silence it and shove it in a drawer just to breathe.

She never blocked him.

She told herself it was because she wanted evidence, just in case. Because cutting him off completely would’ve been stupid, unsafe.

But the truth was much crueler: perhaps some part of her wanted to know he was still trying.

The first time, she thought she was imagining the soft, hesitant knock at the door of her apartment at 11:47 PM. In the middle of getting ready for bed (or at least trying to), she just froze in place. She just stood there in the hallway, staring at the door like it might open itself.

Then it came again – softer this time, like he was worried about waking her, even now.

“Y/N?” His voice was low, broken. “I just… I wanted to say this in person.”

She backed away slowly, hand covering her mouth, breath caught in her throat.

Please, go. Just leave me alone. 

How much more are you going to hurt me?

“I know ’m the last person you want to see. I know I don’t deserve anythin’ from you. But I meant every word I said. Every morning. Every night. Every, like, stupid inside joke. That– that wasn’t fake. That was me. Fuck, I swear to god– It’s me. 

‘S the only real part I’ve got left.”

She squeezed her eyes shut.

“I don’t regret meeting you,” he whispered, almost like these words were meant more for himself than for her. 

“I regret what I did to you. What I hid. But never you.”

Please, she begged. Please just go.

He did, eventually. Hours passed before she heard the sound of his footsteps retreating, before she finally felt like she could breathe again.

Only for him to be back the next night.

Some nights he just knocked and called her name softly, on to leave after he got no response in return. Other nights, he sat outside her door for over an hour, saying nothing. She could hear the way he shifted, the soft sound of his back resting against the wall. If she listened closely enough, she could even hear  the occasional crack in his breathing like maybe he was crying again and trying not to.

It took everything in her not to open the door.

There were a few nights where her willpower waned, her hand hovering over the handle. Sitting there, directly opposite to where he sat on the other side of the door, her body would ache with the memory of him — the once-familiar weight of his arm around her, the warmth of his breath on her neck, the way he used to say her name like it mattered. 

Like she mattered.

It became a pattern after that – not every night, certainly not enough to be predictable. But it happened often enough that she started to expect it.

Sometimes he talked. Sometimes he didn’t. Sometimes he sat there for five minutes, like just being near her was enough.

Once, she found him curled up against the door the next morning, fast asleep, as if the last thing he said had knocked the breath out of him and he hadn’t found the strength to leave.

She didn’t open it.

But she slid down to the floor on the other side and cried quietly into her sleeve. She cried herself sick, her own body torn between being repulsed by his betrayal and needing to be in his arms again like it was oxygen.

She could only cry harder when she remembered the way he kissed her shoulder when she fell asleep on the couch. The way he brewed her favorite tea before she asked. The way he laughed like he didn’t belong to a world so dark, even though he did.

She wanted to believe he could still be that person, but the truth was that he hadn’t lied about loving her. He’d lied about everything else. 

And no amount of heartbreak could make that okay.

On Thursday, she came home late, like always. The hallway smelled like floor cleaner and whatever her neighbors must have cooked dinner, and the lights above her door flickered like they always did.

Y/N stepped forward to open her door, looking down to reach for her keys when–

Lando?

There he was, slumped on the floor just outside her apartment, that familiar mop of curls resting against the doorframe, his arms limp at his sides.

He stood as soon as he heard her.

“Y/N—”

Her keys trembled in her hand. She didn’t say anything. Instead, she only gave him one long look – whether it was out of hatred or heartbreak, he couldn’t quite tell. 

A moment later, she just turned around, and walked back down the stairs, needing to be anywhere but there.

When she returned, Lando was no longer there. Unsure of what she felt was relief or disappointment, she’d nearly missed the small, brightly coloured sticky not stuck to her door.

But she wasn’t so fortunate. Memories of studying late at night, passing note back and forth with him on sticky notes much like this one to help pass the time. Reminders like i’ll take out the trash when i come by tonight or can we get the yogurt covered berries again? stuck to her refrigerator door, evidence of the way their lives had begun to overlap.

It made her angry. It made her furious, in fact, and for no real reason other than the fact that it was yet another reminder of him.

Y/N didn’t hesitate to ignore it in favor of pushing her door open and letting herself in, leaving the note to fall gracefully on her doorstep, unread.

It was nice seeing you today.

Sometimes when he showed up outside her door he’d talk — softly, like he thought she might be listening. Sometimes he told her stories about the café, little things he remembered, like the time she burned a whole batch of scones and tried to pass them off as “toasted." Other times he talked about his past, things she never knew. The kind of confessions that sounded like he was bleeding them out. That maybe no one else had ever heard.

And sometimes, he just sat there in silence.

One night, she heard a quiet thud and opened the peephole to see him curled up beside her door.

Asleep.

His body had gone lax like it’d given up out of sheer desperation, merely succumbing to the exhaustion of some invisible weight on his shoulders. In fact, he didn’t look relaxed at all, if the dark circles under his eyes were any indication. He’s frame had also gotten scrawnier, as if maybe he hadn’t been eating well.

For a moment, a faint memory of warm food delivered at her doorstep flashed in her mind, but it went away just as quickly as it had appeared.

It’s not like that. He’s probably eating just fine. Don’t be stupid.

As she stood on the other side of that door, she tried quite desperately to convince herself of all sorts of perfectly reasonable things – that she should open the door to kick him out again, that she should shout at him, that she call the cops like she’d threatened to and tell them that he was harassing her. 

With her thumb hovering over the call button, the tear that slipped down her cheek and dripped onto her phone screen only confirmed the same cursed truth she’d been doing everything in her power to hide from.

That she simply couldn’t.

Because every night she came home and saw him there — wrecked, waiting — it took everything in her not to fold and forgive him, right then and there. It took everything in her not to remember the way he used to hold her like the world didn’t exist beyond the two of them.

Despite the twisting sensation in her chest, she still didn’t open the door — all because remembering what they were was easier than facing what he was.

It was overcast when she went.

Not raining, but the kind of heavy gray that made the whole world feel muted — like even the sky had the decency to keep its voice down. The cemetery was quiet. Clean. Rows of headstones lined up like a frozen library of stories no one would ever finish reading.

Y/N didn’t come here often.

Not because she didn’t miss Margot. But because every time she stepped between those stones, it reminded her that Margot was really, truly gone. There was no text waiting. No sarcastic note on the café register. No spare bobby pins or blister Band-Aids tucked into Y/N’s apron pocket without asking.

Just a name carved into cold stone.

And now she needed her more than she had in months.

Y/N didn’t bring flowers. Margot would’ve hated that. She wasn’t the type to coo over daisies or pretend roses fixed anything. She would’ve rolled her eyes and said, “If you’re gonna visit me, at least bring gossip.”

So Y/N brought a coffee instead. – hot and with no cream, just the way Margot used to drink it.

She found the grave — small, simple, covered with pebbles and a few crumpled flowers from someone else who remembered. She sat cross-legged in the grass across from the headstone, carefully setting the coffee beside it.

She looked down at the grass, chewing the inside of her cheek until it hurt.

“Hey,” she whispered, voice raw from disuse. “Sorry it’s been a while.”

The breeze stirred the dead leaves behind her. The silence filled the space between heartbeats.

She pulled her knees up to her chest and sat beside the grave.

“I miss you.”

The words came out cracked. Smaller than she meant them to.

“I know that’s not news or anything, but…” She shrugged. “It’s getting harder. Not easier. You always said heartbreak’s just grief that’s still breathing, and I didn’t get it until now. Except this time I don’t even know if I’m grieving the person or the lie.”

Y/N let out a long, shaky breath as she looked down at her hands.

“I don’t know who else to talk to about this.”

She swallowed hard.

“I found out Liam’s not Liam,” she said, quietly. “His name’s Lando.”

Her voice wavered, but she didn’t try to stop it. The words some to spill out now, bubbling over into the silence that finally held enough space to hold what she’d been keeping in for so long. The emotions poured out, hitting her like a wave, winding her with their realized intensity.

“Can you believe it? I fell in love with a liar. With a… with a fucking killer, Marg. A- A mob boss. The mob boss. The one they talk about on the fuckin’ news! 

The one who was there the night you died.”

Her throat clenched so hard she had to stop and force herself to breathe.

“I told him to get out. I meant it. I still do.”

She closed her eyes, leaning her forehead against her clasped hands. Angry tears escaped from the corners of her eyes, warm as the rolled down the cold skin of her cheeks. Hastily, she tried to wipe them away, like doing so would somehow wipe away this deep, burning frustration she felt.

It did no such thing.

The heat of her anger spread through her chest, heating up her flesh until she could feel it. What bothered her even more was how, deep down, she knew this anger wasnt directed at him.

It was directed at herself.

“I meant it, but… I fell for him. I fell so hard. Like, I keep thinking about how he used to stay on the phone with me until I fell asleep, remember? When the insomnia was really bad. Or– Or that time I had a panic attack before the final and he just- he sat outside my class building for three hours, like he didn’t have anything else to do until he knew I was okay.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. 

“And he’d help me study. He’d bring me snacks, too. He’d even let me nap on him when I was too wired to lie down alone. It was like- Like he made it feel easy to breathe, even when everything else felt too loud, y’know?”

Only silence answered in return. A bird chirped somewhere nearby, small and defiant.

Y/N drew in a breath, steadying herself.

“I keep thinking about what you’d say. If you were here, what would you tell me to do? Would you tell me to forget him? To hate him? Because every time I think his name, it hurts. Like, it actually physically hurts.” Her hand pressed lightly to her chest. “Because  every time I see him… my brain doesn’t think, like, mob boss or liar or- or murderer.”

Her throat tightened, but she forced the words out anyway.

“It just thinks him. The man who held my hand when my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. The man who stayed up with me when I couldn’t sleep. The one who helped me color-code my exam notes even though he couldn’t care less about tort reform. The one who—” Her voice cracked. “The one who believed I could actually make it into law school.”

Tears welled up again, but she didn’t fight them this time. After all, maybe this grief would be all she ever had left of him.

“He had this crazy dream that I could do it. That I’d make it. Even when I didn’t believe it myself. He’d sit next to me on the couch and highlight things he didn’t understand just so I wouldn’t feel alone.”

She looked at the headstone.

“I think he really loved me, Margot,” she dared to whisper, the confession fracturing something in her.

She swallowed.

“And I think that’s what’s killing me the most.”

She leaned her head against her knees, curling into herself as the cold seeped deeper into her skin. The grass was damp beneath her boots. Her hands were shaking.

“I don’t know what to do.”

The wind stirred gently through the trees, soft and slow.

“I don’t know how to stop missing him.”

Y/N wiped her face roughly, smearing an ugly mix of tears across her face. It made her feel worse, and that only made her want to cry more.

“I hate him for that, you know? For being the one who believed in me most. For making me want things I didn’t even know I was allowed to want.”

She looked down at the headstone.

“If you were here… what would you say? Would you tell me to push him away?”

She reached out and traced Margot’s name with trembling fingers. The wind picked up again, rustling the trees behind her like applause in reverse. Y/N sat there a while longer, eyes closed, forehead bowed.

Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“But I don’t think you would.”

She blinked fast. Her throat burned.

“I think you’d say you get it. That you’d tell me I’m not crazy for still loving him even when everything in me is screaming not to.”

She swallowed, her jaw trembling.

“Because I do. Love him, I mean. I wish I didn’t, but I do. And it hurts, Margot. It hurts because all I see is what he did. All I feel is that betrayal, sitting in my chest like it’s going to split me open.”

Her fingers curled into the dirt beside her. Anchoring herself.

“But when I see him... when I hear his voice, or think about the way he used to look at me — like I was his safe place — I can’t un-feel it. I can’t un-know how much I loved him. How much I still do.”

She wiped at her eyes roughly, like she could scrub the ache away.

“And I hate that, Margot. I hate that he still owns that part of me. Because I don’t know how to forgive it. I don’t know if I can.”

Silence followed. There was only the wind, gentle enough to not knock over the now-cold cup of coffee that remained her only company as she let herself finally feel it all. 

Hours seemed to pass as Y/N sat there, letting herself miss them both, and wondering which ghost hurt more to love.

a/n: so i know i promised this chapter literal ages ago, but at least it's out? i really wanted to like this chapter, but i think i spent so long on it that i kind of got sick of, so... yeah. not really my favorite work i've put out, but at least it something. hopefully it's still the quality angst you guys deserve :)

[gojoluvs]

Secret & Sacrifices

Toji zenin x reader

summary, "Y/N, a famous actress, fell in love with Toji, a regular civilian who works as a mechanic. They had a baby together, but Toji ended up breaking up with her because he wanted her to live her life to the fullest and was tired of keeping their relationship a secret. Years later, Y/N is engaged to someone else, but she still loves Toji, who now has a new girlfriend. Despite their past, their love for each other remains.”

Tags; Toji x reader, Actress au, Actress x Mechanic, Lovers to Strangers, Hollywood, Celebrity, Parenting, Romance, Drama, Heartbreak, Reconciliation, Fame, Secret Relationship, Working Class, Taboo, Sacrifice.

Warnings; 18+, fluff, angst, smut, actress au, partying, drinking/alcohol, drug usage, romance, jealousy, cursingz

Notes: the tag-list is open! also sorry for any spelling erors too lazy to proof read…

WC; 7k words!

You had everything you could ever want in life.

A successful career as an actress, a beautiful child, and a loving boyfriend, Toji Zenin. He was the one who made you feel like a normal person, treating you with kindness and respect.

He was your pride and joy, the man who swept you off your feet and gave you the most precious gift of all - a child. Despite your parents' disapproval of your relationship, you never let that affect your love for Toji. He was the man of your dreams, the mechanic who came to your rescue when your car broke down one night. It was love at first sight, with his tall and muscular frame and that alluring scar on his face.

This man was the love of your life. The mechanic who you met when your car broke down in the middle of the night. No other cars were passing by except his and he had the courtesy to stop by and help you fix it. When he first came out of the car you were star struck. His tall and well built frame catching your attention and that immaculate scar of his.

The man who came to fix your car in the pouring rain was not only kind and nice, but also considerate. Despite being drenched himself, he made sure you didn't get wet and even told you to wait in your car while he worked. You were skeptical of the idea of love at first sight, but when you saw him, you knew it was real. He was handsome and had a charming smile that instantly caught your attention.

He recognized you immediately, as anyone would. After all, you were the famous face of Japan in the acting world. He spent hours working on your car, determined to fix it without charging you anything. You insisted on at least buying him a drink or paying him for his time and effort in the cold rain.

He refused to charge you anything for his services, but you insisted on buying him a drink or at least paying him for his time and effort. He kindly declined your offer and simply smiled before leaving in his own car.

Days went by, even years went by and you still hadn’t found out who he was. You were 23 when it happened and now you were 25. Sitting down in the park you read your book, sunglasses pinched between your nose and a black hat on top of your head.

These days were your quiet days, the days you could sneak out and sit in the park. Watching kids play and families have a day out with their kids. You drank your water, watching people run past you or jog with their dog. Smiling, you were grateful for this time to relax and escape the hustle and bustle of your busy life as a famous actress.

Suddenly, a dog came bounding towards you, its tail wagging excitedly. It jumped up on you, licking your face and wagging its tail even more. You couldn't help but laugh as you petted the friendly dog. Just then, the owner came over, apologizing for his dog's behavior.

"Ah, excuse me, is this your dog?" you ask as the friendly golden retriever jumps up and licks your face. You wipe the slobber off and look up to see the owner, a man with kind eyes and a familiar face. Suddenly, it hits you, this is the guy who helped you with your car two years ago.

"Oh my gosh, it's you!" you exclaim, standing up and removing your sunglasses. "I can't believe it, I've been wanting to thank you for so long. You really saved me that day."

The man's face lights up with recognition. "Yes, I remember now. You're that famous actress, aren't you? The one who was stranded on the side of the road?"

You nod, feeling a bit embarrassed. "Yes, that's me. And you're the kind stranger who helped me. I never got the chance to properly thank you."

The man bows his head in respect. "It was nothing, really. I'm just glad I could be of assistance."

You smile, grateful for this chance encounter. "Well, I would love to repay you somehow. Can I buy you a coffee or a drink sometime? I'd love to catch up and get to know you better."

The man hesitates for a moment before giving in. "Sure, that would be nice. Here, let me give you my number."

As he scribbles down his number on a piece of paper, you can't help but feel excited for the possibility of a new connection. Who knew that a simple act of kindness years ago would lead to this moment? You thank him and promise to reach out soon before he bids you farewell and walks away.

You had gone out for drinks with him, catching up after not seeing each other for a while. As the night went on, you found out that he had recently broken up with his girlfriend. Despite the heartbreak, he still maintained his belief in kindness and treated you with nothing but genuine care and generosity, not even charging you for any of the drinks.

As you talked, you couldn't help but admire his posture and the way he spoke. You couldn't deny the attraction you felt towards him, especially when he wore that black button-up shirt with a few buttons undone, revealing his toned chest.

The club you were in was one of the hottest spots in town, filled with A-list celebrities and no paparazzi in sight. Feeling bold, you decided to flirt with him and he reciprocated, flashing his charming smile and cracking jokes that made you even more intrigued by him.

As the night went on and a few more drinks were consumed, he placed his hand on your thigh and complimented how stunning you looked in that tight red dress. Your cheeks were flushed with a rosy hue, and his were as well, both of you feeling a bit buzzed but still aware of the intense chemistry between you. It was clear that you both wanted the same thing - each other.

Before you knew it you were walking hand in hand through the city streets, the anticipation and excitement grew between you and your mystery man. You couldn't wait to get back to their apartment, knowing that this was going to be a night to remember.

His hands were exploring every inch of your body, sending shivers down your spine. You couldn't resist the intense desire you felt for him, and you were desperate for him to take you.

As you stumbled into his bedroom, he asked for your consent, making sure you were comfortable with every move he made. But you were beyond caring about anything else but him. You gave him permission to do anything and everything he wanted with you.

He wasted no time in fulfilling your desires. His lips trailed down your neck, leaving a trail of hot kisses and gentle bites. Your moans filled the room as he moved lower, his hands exploring every curve and dip of your body. As he reached your core, he teased you with his tongue, making you squirm with pleasure.

You couldn't hold back any longer and you begged him to take you. With a smirk on his face, he entered you, filling you with pleasure and ecstasy. The two of you moved in perfect rhythm, lost in each other's touch and moans.

After that day, you both couldn't get enough of each other. Every day, he would come to your house after you finished work, his hands clutching a bouquet of beautiful flowers and a box of chocolates. You could see the excitement in his eyes as he saw you waiting by the door, smiling and inviting him in. As he entered, he would throw the flowers down on the counter and practically pull you into his arms. You could feel his strong hands squeezing your ass, his touch sending shivers down your spine.

The soft skin of your ass was no match for his strong grip, and you couldn't help but moan as he devoured you with his kisses. It was like a ritual, but one that you never got tired of. His disheveled hair, evidence of a long day at his shop, only added to his charm as he rushed to see you. You were his drug, something he couldn't keep his hands off of. And you were more than happy to let him have his way with you, losing yourself in the moment as he fucked you numb.

You couldn't believe how much your sex life had improved in the past few months. It was like every time you were together, a new position was unlocked, as if you were collecting new ways for him to pleasure you. And he was an expert, his hands always finding new ways to make you moan and writhe in pleasure. Whether it was squeezing and fondling your breasts or using his long, skilled fingers to fuck you senseless, he knew exactly how to make you scream his name.

But it wasn't just about the amazing sex. You two also went on dates constantly, whether they were small and private or extravagant celebrity parties. You loved showing him off to all of your friends, feeling proud to have such a handsome and charming boyfriend by your side. And everywhere you went, people couldn't help but stare and admire the two of you together.

Life was good, and you couldn't imagine being with anyone else. This was your perfect relationship and you were living your best life with your amazing boyfriend.

The two of you had been in a loving relationship for a year now, and the idea of starting a family together had been on your minds for quite some time. After much discussion, you both felt that the timing was right and decided to have a child together. You even took a break from your busy filming schedule to fully focus on this new chapter of your lives.

You remember spending countless days tracking your ovulation and planning out the perfect time to try for a baby. And eventually, all of the hard work paid off and you were blessed with a beautiful baby boy, Megumi. The joy and love you felt in that moment was indescribable.

Toji was by your side the entire time, never leaving your side as you went through the labor pains. He held your hand tightly, tears in his eyes as he shared in your pain and wanted to take it away from you. He was your rock, constantly reassuring you that you were doing an amazing job and that he was there for you every step of the way.

As you pushed and struggled to bring your baby boy into the world, Toji never left your side. He kissed your forehead, stroked your hair, and whispered words of encouragement and love. And when you finally heard your baby's first cries, tears of joy streamed down both of your faces as you held each other and your newborn son. It was a moment that you would never forget, and one that only strengthened the love between you and Toji.

Crying as he heard the babys cries and watching as you sighed in relief. Staying with you the whole time as the doctors took your baby to clean him up.

“Mm so tired,” You said whispering, you felt pain all over you and your body was sweating profusely. You were in the verge of dying and the doctors immediately took you to the emergency room. Watching as your boyfriend held your child and had tears brimming in his eyes as you were rolled away in the bed.

When you brought your child home it was like a dream, Toji by your side and a beautiful baby boy aswell. People knew about your baby but not about the father. You wanted Toji to have privacy and not get harassed by paparazzi.

You spent your days in bed cuddled up with your boyfriend and your baby. He would always take care of him, changing his diaper and feeding him the breast milk you froze prior. He would cook for you, even thought all he knew what to cook was soup or making a simple sandwich.

He was the one taking care of you, making sure you got everything you needed. Extra blankets, medicine and helping you shower. The first time he saw you, you were terrified. Scared that he wasn't going to find you attractive since you just had given birth.

He treated you with kindness, taking days off work when you were feeling sick. He was like an angel sent just for you.

Monday picnic days were your favorite, going out in the park with your boyfriend and baby. Megumi cooing on your leg as you ate the sand while prepared hy Toji. His arm was wrapped around your waist, peppering kisses around your face.

As you spread out the blanket in the park, you couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment. The warm sun was shining down on you, the birds were chirping, and your boyfriend Toji was setting up the picnic basket. You laughed as Megumi excitedly crawled towards the basket, trying to grab a sandwich before it was even unpacked.

"You're just like your momma, always hungry," Toji joked, ruffling Megumi's hair as he handed him a sandwich. You smiled at the sight of your two favorite boys, a perfect day for a picnic.

As you sat down to eat, Toji wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you in for a kiss. "I love you," he whispered against your lips.

"I love you too," you replied, your heart swelling with love for your little family. As you took turns feeding Megumi and sneaking bites of food for yourselves, you couldn't help but feel grateful for these simple moments.

"Hey, let's take a family photo," Toji exclaimed, pulling out his phone. You all huddled together, making silly faces and capturing the joy of the moment. As you looked at the photo, you couldn't help but feel grateful for these Monday picnic days. All of you, Toji, Megumi, and yourself, were smiling and laughing, enjoying each other's company.

Little did you know, paparazzi were lurking nearby. They snapped pictures of your little family, capturing the love and happiness that radiated from all of you. But these photos would later be used in an article that would ruin your relationship with Toji.

Life was good until that article was released. You had just come home from an award ceremony, feeling proud and accomplished. As you placed your bag down and kicked off your heels, you walked over to your baby's crib. You checked on Megumi, watching him sleep soundly. He was the one good thing that came out of this relationship with Toji.

But lately, things had been tough. You were constantly fighting, and you were tired of it. It seemed like every time you made plans to go out or have a date night, something would come up and you would have to cancel. Toji was tired too, the baby was stressing him out, and not having his girlfriend by his side was making it worse. It seemed like the paparazzi were the only ones benefiting from your relationship.

Your friends had been asking why your boyfriend hadn't proposed yet, even though you had been together for two years and had a child together. But the truth was, your relationship was struggling. Work had been overwhelming, with the stress of balancing your job and being a new mom. Your maternity leave had caused your contracts to pile up, adding even more pressure to your already hectic schedule.

You rarely had time to see your baby and Toji, let alone spend quality time with your partner. And when you did come home, you would often find him already in bed, your son sound asleep. His once playful and loving demeanor had turned distant and cold, his eye bags getting worse from the lack of sleep. And to make matters worse, you hadn't been intimate at all, adding to the growing divide between you two. It was hard to accept, but it seemed that having a child had caused problems in your relationship with your boyfriend.

The final straw for Toji was the day he saw you on TV, snuggled up with Megumi while the baby slept peacefully on his chest. His hand instinctively went behind his head as he reached for the remote, turning up the volume to watch your speech as you accepted the award for best actress of the year. You were stunning in a white silk dress, no doubt from a high-end designer. A wide smile graced your face as you thanked everyone, including your family and your "Babyboy" Megumi.

But Toji couldn't help but feel a twinge of hurt as you failed to mention him. It wasn't because you didn't care, but because he had asked you not to. He didn't want the world to know that he, a simple mechanic, was dating the most famous actress in Japan. He didn't want you to be judged or ridiculed for being with someone of lower status. As he watched you on TV, he couldn't help but wonder if he had made the right decision in keeping your relationship a secret. But in that moment, he couldn't deny the love he felt for you, even if it meant sacrificing his own pride and happiness.

And as he watched the tall, white-haired man wrap his arm around your waist and hug you tightly, Toji could feel a twinge of jealousy and anger bubbling up inside him.

He recognized that man all too well - the asshole actor who had come to Toji's mechanical shop and demanded a refund for his car's motor, claiming that Toji's work was subpar. And now, he was your co-star in a romance movie, which made Toji's blood boil even more. He hated the idea of you filming intimate scenes with someone else, even if it was all just acting.

But what angered Toji the most was the fact that the public saw you and Satoru as the "It" couple, even though you weren't even dating. The movie had made millions, and the audience was convinced that you and Satoru were the perfect couple, solely based on your on-screen chemistry. It was ridiculous and infuriating to Toji, who knew that no one could ever come close to loving you as much as he did.

So yes, Toji was fucking jealous. Toji knew that Satoru was a successful and well-known actor, and he couldn't help but feel inferior in comparison. He looked down at his son, Megumi, and thought about how different their lives would be. Megumi would grow up with a celebrity mother and most likely follow in her footsteps, while Toji would always be just a small mechanic working on cars.

But it wasn't just jealousy that consumed Toji's thoughts. He also felt guilty for feeling this way. He knew that you deserved to live your best life and be with someone who could offer you more than he could. You were a beautiful and ethereal actress, loved by fans all over the world, and he was just a simple mechanic. As he watched you on TV, he couldn't help but admire your talent and grace, knowing that he could never be like that.

But as much as it pained him, Toji knew that he had to let go of you. He couldn't keep holding onto the hope that one day you would choose him over someone like Satoru. He knew that you deserved someone who could give you the world, and he couldn't be that person. So with a heavy heart, Toji came to terms with the fact that he had to let you go, even though it broke his heart to do so.

As you walked up the driveway, your heels clicked against the pavement, the sound echoing off the nearby houses.

You couldn't help but feel your heart beating a little faster as you held the hand of your fiancée, Satoru Gojo. You were both carrying a handful of gifts for your son's 3rd birthday, your first time back at your ex's house since your split 2 years ago.

You were dressed casually in jeans and a tight black top, but your fiancée looked effortlessly stylish in a white polo and jeans, with a Versace belt adorning his waist. As you approached the front door, you took a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves. You knew that this meeting was important, not just for your son, but also for your ex-boyfriend, Toji.

Satoru was the perfect partner, always treating you with love and affection. He would surprise you with thoughtful gifts and take you out on romantic dates consistently, making you feel loved and appreciated. When he proposed, you were overjoyed and eagerly said yes, excited to spend the rest of your life with him.

However, as time went on, you couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy and sadness whenever your son mentioned his father's new girlfriend. You tried to push these feelings aside, but they only seemed to grow stronger with each passing day. Maybe it was because she was just a regular person, working at a flower boutique across from Toji's mechanical shop. You couldn't help but compare yourself to her and wonder if she was better suited for Toji.

You decided to do some digging, wanting to know more about this woman who would now be a part of your son's life. But to your surprise, you couldn't find anything negative about her. In fact, she seemed like a genuinely kind and caring person. She spent her free time volunteering at charity events, using her earnings to donate to various organizations. You couldn't help but feel a sense of admiration for her, and maybe even a bit of guilt for feeling jealous in the first place.

Walking into the house that was once yours and Toji’s, the house were you raised your son until he turned one and a half years old. You felt tears brimming as you continued to walk into the house, passing by the picture frames, pictures of only your son and Toji. Your face no where to be found at the home were you used to wake up every morning, your son and boyfriend cuddled up with you.

The house that was your only source of peace and freedom. The house were you weren’t judged from. Now that you were engaged to Satoru you couldnt help but wonder what it wouldve been like, to be engaged to the father of your son Toji.

You immediately noticed the changes in the house. The once familiar couches and rug were gone, replaced by new, modern furniture. The house that used to bring you comfort now felt foreign and unfamiliar, much like your relationship with Toji.

As you made your way to the backyard, you saw everyone seated at different tables, chatting and enjoying the food that Toji's new girlfriend had cooked. Your heart sank as you realized that you were no longer a part of this family gathering. But then you saw your son, your beautiful baby boy, running towards you with a big smile on his face.

"Mommy!" he exclaimed, his arms open wide for a hug. You couldn't help but smile as you bent down to embrace him, feeling his little arms wrap around your neck. He was getting taller and it pained you to know that you were missing out on so much of his life. Toji had taken custody of him, claiming that you were too busy to raise him, and it broke your heart.

"Hi my love," you whispered as you lifted him up, his head resting on your shoulder. Satoru, Toji's brother, stood next to you and gently patted your son's head before going to place the gifts on the table. As you looked around at the happy faces of your former family, you couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness and longing for what used to be.

You walked with your son, feeling but feel a pang of sadness and nostalgia as you saw Toji's back facing you. He had his arm around his new girlfriend's waist, the sun casting a warm glow on both of them. You couldn't deny that they looked good together, with their matching black short hair and easy smiles.

It had been months since you last saw Toji, and while he still looked the same, there was something different about him. He didn't have that same look on his face that he used to have when he was with you, the one that made your heart skip a beat. You couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy as Toji's girlfriend turned to face you with a bright smile.

"Hello! Nice to finally meet you," she said, extending her hand towards you. You hesitated for a moment, staring at her in disbelief. Taking her hand, you shook it firmly before responding,

"Hello, I'm Y/N. And you are?" Your gaze then shifted to Toji as he turned around, his smile never faltering as he introduced her

“This is Saori, my girlfriend.” He smiled at her before looking back st you watching as your gaze turned to something else not wanting to watch your ex boyfriend be all happy about his new girlfriend.

She was absolutely stunning. You couldn't help but admire her, even though you wanted to hate her for being with your ex. As Toji smiled at her and then at you, you couldn't help but look away, not wanting to see him so happy with someone else.

But as you stole glances at Saori, you couldn't help but notice how she seemed to light up the room. She was wearing a beautiful yellow sundress, adorned with delicate flowers, and it suited her perfectly. Her hair was styled in a cute and carefree way, showing off her flawless facial features.

You wanted to say something, anything, but your words were stuck in your throat. Your fiancé, Satoru, wrapped his arms around you possessively, a smirk on his face as he looked at Toji. "So this is the father of my step-son," he said, his tone slightly mocking. You could feel Toji's eyes on your hand as Satoru interlocked his fingers with yours, rubbing his thumb over your hand.

You stood there, watching your ex with his new girlfriend, you couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy. But at the same time, you couldn't deny the fact that Saori was absolutely beautiful and seemed genuinely kind. You couldn't bring yourself to hate her, even though you wanted to.

Toji didnt know why he hated seeing you with him, maybe it was because he called it, he knew this was going to happened or simply because deep down he knew saori could never be you.

You smiled at them and excused yourself walking towards the table where all your friends sat. Satoru followed you like a lost puppy, not knowing anyone who came to the party besides his soon to be step son

Toji was so fucking jealous and he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because he had always called it, predicting that this would happen, or maybe it was because deep down he knew Saori could never be you.

Making your way to the table where your friends sat, you couldn't help but feel a sense of relief. They were your closest companions from acting school and they always knew how to make you feel better.

"Y/N!" Utahime practically jumped on you, squeezing you so tightly that you felt like you couldn't breathe. She was your pride and joy, your best friend who you had met during acting school. Despite the awkwardness of the situation with Toji and Saori, being with your friends made you feel at ease.

You smiled warmly at your friend, Utahime, she was beaming with excitement as she saw you, and you knew it was because of the news you were about to share. You motioned for your fiancé, Satoru, to come over and he smiled back at you before making his way to your side.

Utahime gave him a quick once-over before her eyes landed on your left hand. "Not let me see that ring!" she exclaimed, giggling as you held out your hand to show off the stunning engagement ring that Satoru had chosen for you.

As Utahime oohed and aahed over the ring, you couldn't help but feel a sense of happiness and contentment wash over you. Satoru was the love of your life, and you were grateful to have him by your side. He placed his hand on your back and pulled you closer, kissing the top of your head affectionately.

Utahime's expression turned serious as she looked at Satoru. "I swear, Satoru, if you ever hurt her-" she started, but he cut her off with a laugh.

"I would never do that to her," he reassured her, his eyes filled with love as he looked at you. "She's the love of my life." You playfully hit his arm, scrunching your nose at him before leaning into his side.

From afar, the heartbroken man watched as you and your fiancee stood together, admiring each other with love and happiness. He couldn't help but feel a sense of longing and pain as he saw you both, knowing that he could have had that kind of love with you.

Toji gazed at you, remembering the days when he would come home from work and see you with your newborn son. He would watch as you read a book for new moms, taking in every moment with your child. He could still hear your laughter and see your smile as you cuddled with your son, a sense of warmth and contentment radiating from you.

His mind then drifted to the times when you would surprise him with his favorite chocolate chip pancakes, your laughter filling the room as he devoured them with delight. Your joy and love were infectious, and he couldn't help but feel grateful to have you in his life well at least before he ruined everything.

But now, as he stood there, he could hear your laughter once again, but this time it was directed towards your fiancee. Saori handed a piece of cake to your son, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

Saori's eyes followed Toji's gaze until they landed on you, the woman he still loved. She couldn't help but feel a pang of jealousy and insecurity as she watched the way he looked at you. It was obvious that he still had strong feelings for you, despite their relationship.

She had always known about your past with Toji, but she never brought it up. It was like the word "love" was forbidden in her household. From the moment she met Toji, she could tell he was kind and sweet, and he still was to this day. But lately, she had noticed a change in his behavior. Maybe it was because of the announcement of your engagement that made him realize he was truly losing you.

She watched as Toji's gaze lingered on you, his eyes filled with longing and regret. And for a brief moment, he caught your gaze and the intensity of his stare made Saori feel like she was intruding on a private moment between the two of you. You glanced at him for a split second before looking back at your fiancée

His heart skipped a beat, a feeling that he had almost forgotten. It was a feeling he used to get when he saw you, and now, inexplicably, it was happening again. As you stood in front of him, he couldn't help but notice the softness in your eyes for a split second. It was a look he had not seen in a long time, a look that gave him hope that maybe, just maybe, you still loved him.

But he knew he couldn't hold onto that hope. He had made his choice when he let you go, and now he had to live with the consequences. As he walked into the house, his footsteps echoed in the empty hallway. It was the same hallway he used to walk down with you, hand in hand, laughing and talking about your future together.

Stopping himself, he placed a hand on his face, trying to push away the memories that were flooding back. He had to stop thinking about you and let you go. He had moved on, started a new relationship with Saori, someone who brought happiness back into his life after he broke up with you.

But deep down, he knew that he would always have a special place in his heart for you. You were his biggest regret, the one that got away. He regretted letting you slip out of his grasp, and now he was left with only memories of what could have been.

Walking into the kitchen, he opened the fridge and grabbed a glass bottle of beer. Popping the cap open, he took a sip of the sour liquor. It was a taste that he associated with you, as it was your favorite drink. He couldn't help but think about how much he missed you, how he would wake up in the middle of the night wishing the one he slept with was you and not Saori.

But he knew he couldn't turn back time. He had made his choice, and now he had to live with it. He took another sip of the beer, trying to drown out the thoughts and memories of you that were constantly haunting him. He had to let you go, for his own sake and for yours. It was time to move on and accept that you were no longer a part of his life.

Placing his half-empty beer down onto the cool marble of the kitchen cabinet, he couldn't help but feel a sense of unease. His motivation was slipping, and he knew it. He hadn't been working as hard as he used to, and it was starting to show. The only thing that still drove him to push harder was you. The thought of coming home earlier and seeing your beautiful face was the one thing that kept him going.

He was lost in his thoughts when he heard the loud stomps of heels approaching him. As he turned to see your body charging towards him, he couldn't help but feel confused. That confusion quickly turned to surprise as you slammed a piece of cake down on the countertop in front of him.

You crossed your arms and raised an eyebrow at him, your eyes locking onto the beer in his hand. "Really, Toji?" you scoffed, "Are you letting your fucking girlfriend feed my child cake now?" Your tone was accusatory, and he couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. But as he looked at you, he couldn't deny how fucking beautiful you looked in that moment. Despite being upset with him, he couldn't help but admire the way the light caught your features and the fire in your eyes.

"It's cake?" he asked, a glint of confusion his eye. You rolled your eyes, knowing exactly where this was going.

"Sato-," you began, but stopped yourself before saying his name. "Toji," you corrected, your arms falling to your sides. "You know how Megumi gets if he eats too much sugar," you reminded him.

Toji's heart broke when he heard you refer to your fiancée instead of him. "Did you just say his name?" he asked, trying to cover up the pain with a chuckle. A small grin curled onto his face, but the hurt in his eyes was hard to miss. "Didn't know you two were fighting so much," he teased, trying to lighten the mood.

But you weren't in the mood for jokes. You scoffed and shook your head, "Believe what you want, Toji. But please tell your girlfriend to not give my son sugar unless I say it's okay," you said, your voice firm. You couldn't help but give him a once-over, taking in his figure with a mixture of longing and sadness. Then, without another word, you turned to leave.

But before you could take another step, you stopped in your tracks. You turned back to face Toji, wanting to say one last thing. "And you should really stop drinking," you said, your voice softer now. "I don't want Megumi to have an alcoholic father, like I did," you confessed, before turning and walking away, leaving Toji alone with his thoughts and regrets.

He walked out back to the party, the sounds of laughter and music filling the air. As he made his way through the crowd, he couldn't help but feel a sense of emptiness inside. But then, he saw his son running towards him with a big smile on his face, and he couldn't help but feel a spark of joy. As he knelt down to hug his son, he couldn't help but notice the familiar features in his face.

He saw a glimpse of both of you in his son's face - the same eyes as yours, the same smile as his. It was like a piece of both of you were still together, living on in your son. Tears welled up in his eyes as he placed his hand on Megumi's chubby cheeks, feeling the softness and warmth. In that moment, he felt a wave of emotions .

He may not have you by his side anymore, but he had your son - a reminder of the love you shared and the memories you made together. And for that, he was grateful.

He may have lost you, but he still had a piece of you with him, and that was enough to keep him going.

Notes; was listening to Glimpse of Us by Joji and it inspired me to write this mini series.. It’s prob gonna have like 5 chapters max since it’s a small series! anyways wrote this at like 3 am welp.. Dividers by @/cafekitsune !!

[txniesha]

Complication Sylus x Non!MC reader pt.4

A/N: hey yall I’m back!!! It’s been a crazy month honestly. I’ve been working my ass off, I got a new dog and he’s bad asf, and moving in is just sooo stressful. Also this damn dog chewed up fuckibg MacBook charger so I don’t have a laptop until I get another one, i hate writing on my phone that’s why this chapter is so short. But here’s part 4 for yall!! Yk I think I spelt Kieran’s name wrong the entire time…

Synopsis: You thought you would be able to get away from him, but it’s never that easy.

Word count: 1420

CW: emotional manipulation, stalking, threats of violence

Pt.5

Zayne had left early that morning as he had to be at the hospital for surgery. He kissed you gently on the forehead and smiled “Text me if you need anything, I'll get back to you as soon as I can” he said before leaving. When he left all, you could think about was the phone call from Sylus that you got the night before. His words haunted you as you knew what he was capable of when he wanted something. What you didn't get is why he still thought he deserved you let alone was entitled to you when he clearly was infatuated with her.  You got up and started to pack your things realizing if you were going to stay in Linkon, you had to get somewhere where he didn't know where you were.  

That was easier said than done, considering the fact you knew no one in Linkon besides Zayne and....him. He was a regular at the lounge, usually coming in there alone looking for information. N109 was an information hub after all and there was no better place to get good reliable information than the lounge run by Onychinus themselves. You had a habit of getting close to regulars who were cute and seemed reliable. You went and picked your shattered phone up off the floor hoping and praying it would come on. It did turn on, so you dialed his number putting it on speaker, so you didn't hold the broken glass on your ear; it rang for a long time before a soft groggy voice answered with a hello. “Hey, Xavier! This is [name], I'm in Linkon and needed help with a thing or two” He lets out a soft sigh and you can hear him shift around in his bed. “Yea what is it” he says his voice calm and deep.  

You explained to him the situation, well not all of it, but enough for him to get the idea. He lets out a soft chuckle “sounds like quite the predicament, but yea you can stay for as long as you need” You thank him and hang up the phone, it dings a second later with the address. It didn't take you long to gather your things considering that most of it was already in a suitcase. You hurriedly checked out of the hotel, checking over your shoulder every second in fear of Sylus being right behind you. You felt like someone was watching you but every time you looked to see there was no one. You entered your taxi quickly, making sure that the number on the license plate matched the one you booked. You couldn't take any chances with a man like Sylus. He had so many people in his pocket that you felt as if you couldn't trust anyone.  

The ride to Xaviers place from the hotel was quicker than you expected. Linkon was a big city, so you didn't expect him to live close to where you were at all. You thanked the taxi driver, giving him a tip as he helped you get your bag and then made your way to his building, clicking the third floor in the elevator to his floor. You found the apartment ‘305’ and composed yourself before you knocked on the door. It opened after a moment showing a groggy and shirtless Xavier, lose sweatpants hanging off his hips and that ever so neutral look on his face. You smile at him, “sorry didn't mean to wake you” he shrugs moving to grab your suitcase lifting the heavy thing effortlessly. “Its fine, I just didn't expect you so soon” he says his voice calm and deeper then normal. You chalked it up to him just waking and followed him inside.  

His apartment was cozier than you expected. The neutral tones of tan and white offsite by the vast amount of lush green plants was surprising. The walls were lined with books, vinyl's, and more plotted plants. “You really have a green thumb don't you” you say with a smile “sorry to barge in like this” you say apologize again. He doesn't say anything but just walks over to you holding two cups of coffee and hands one to you. You thanked him, taking a sip, it was sweeter than you expected.  He just nods and sits next to you. He took a slow sip of his coffee, eyes dragging over you, not with hunger like you were used to, but curiosity. You’d always been a bit of a mystery to him in the lounge. Friendly, flirty, but distant. Now here you were, cracked and worn at the edges. “Are you okay” he says in his usual tone. You hesitate for a moment and then nod putting the cup on the coffee table. “Yea, I'm just a little tired, didn't get much sleep last night” he stares at you for a second before once again nodding. You forgot just how quiet he could be sometimes.  

You two sat in silence for a while, sipping on the hot drinks. He finally speaks up, “You’re running from him, right?” he asks looking at you. Your breath hitches and you look away suddenly feeling uncomfortable. How could he know that it was Sylus. “I don't know who you’re talking about” you say feigning ignorance. He lets out a small scoff “You work for Onychinus even if it is only at a bar; The only person that could have you this afraid is him” he says his voice now taking on a different tone “if you're in danger you need to let me know, I can make sure you're safe” his hand finds its way to your arm and gives it a soft reassuring squeeze. You still refused to look at him, afraid he would see right through you. You shrugged his hand off and pull your knees up to your chest trying to comfort yourself. “I really don’t want to talk about it honestly” you say looking away.

Xavier didn’t push. He just sat there beside you, the noises of the city filtering in through his slightly cracked windows making it not completely silent. The silence wasn’t awkward. It was heavy with everything you weren’t ready to say. Youb finally sighed, “is there somewhere i can smoke?” you ask him with a sigh after a while. He looks at you his eyebrow raised, “you smoke? I never seen you do that at the lounge.” you let out a laugh at this “it's because at the lounge I have to keep up appearances?” He lets out a small laugh, the sound soft and refreshing, “Sure just go out of that door out to the patio, try not to burn any of the plants” You rise from the couch and go out to the patio. The patio was beautiful, covered in big, beautiful plants of all colors. You leaned against the railing and lit up your cigarette, finally feeling a sense of relief as the nicotine stick filled your lungs.  

You were enjoying your cigarette when a giant crow landed right next to you where you were on the railing. It scares the shit out of you causing you to let out a scream. The bird didn't move, just stood staring at you as you screamed in fear at the giant thing. It didn't look natural, its eyes were red, and it had this almost metallic gleam to it as if all of it wasnt fully a bird. Xavier came running out of the apartment at lighting speed, looking around for the threat. He was a bit disappointed to see a giant bird sitting on the railing instead of an actual threat. The bird observed him for a moment before taking off into flight silently.

The cigarette fell out of your hands; they were shaking uncontrollably. Xavier stepped beside you, observing the space around you. “That wasnt just a bird” he says his tone taking a serious tone. You nod your head in agreement. It was clear that thing was sent here. That would mean that he found you faster than you expected. “Xavier, I have to go. Its not safe here anymore” you say panic rising in you. You turn quickly from him and start walking back into the apartment. He follows you, catching your arm once you were both fully inside. He turns you around to face him, the neutral look he always had now replaced with one of genuine concern. “You’re not going anywhere. Obviously, he's looking for you. I can protect you, I promise.”  

He convinced you to stay, the promise of his protection being enough to win you over, but nothing could ease the fear and anxiety you felt. You had never done anything like this before with Sylus, so the thought of what he would do terrified you. You knew he would never physically do anything to hurt you but you were still afraid. You sat on the couch, nervously picking at your nails. The nails that were once groomed to perfection yesterday were chipped, some even broken off, from all the anxiety induced biting you did to them over the past hours not even realizing. Your phone buzzed beside you; you almost didn't pick it up fearing it was Sylus but was confused to see an unknown number calling. You looked over to Xavier who had somehow fallen asleep next to you.  

You answer the phone a little confused, “hello?” you say cautiously. It was a moment of silence before the person spoke up. “So you are trying to hide from me” his deep voice says. There was a sense of playfulness imbued within the statement. You tense up not wanting to say anything. “This is unlike you, to be testing me in such a way. I would find it irritating if you weren't making this so fun” he says in his usual calm voice, you could almost hear the smile that was on his face. “I'm not hiding” you lie, the words sounding unbelievable even to yourself. He chuckles at the statement “You could at least sound like you've convinced yourself of that little lie.” You groan in frustration “why are you doing this Sylus! Everything you've done since you came back from your little disappearing act has been for her.” He lets out a tsk “Don't make this about her, she has nothing to do with your actions” he says the irritation starting to creep in trough every word. “If it wasnt for her we wouldn't even be where we are now” you snap.  

He sighs “I didn't call you to argue about petty things. You don't have a choice anymore. Comeback willingly or I'll just have to come and get you” Your breath hitches and look over to Xavier who was still sleeping peacefully. “And don't think he can save you” he says and then the line goes dead. Yiu sat there in silence for a moment and then moved to get up. You didn't want to put Xavier in harm's way so you thought it would be best to follow what Sylus says. As soon as you moved to get up from the couch Xavier grabs your arm. You look at him and he was wide awake now “Sit down, don't move.”  he says sternly. “Xavier, I have-” he silenced you with just one look that showed that he was being serious. You decided that you've had enough of testing these dangerous men and sat back down without arguing. He doesn't say anything else and jsut closes his eyes laying his head back against the head of the couch.  His hand was still wrapped around your arm, not tightly but just firm enough to let you know not to try anything else.

You look over at Xavier his eyes still shit, you knew he wasnt asleep. His hand traced soft circles on your wrist, it was almost as if he was trying to calm your nerves. “Xavier he's-” you start. “I know” he says his eyes still closed. You leave it there not wanting to discuss it any further. “hes not someone that scares me so you have nothing to worry about” he finally says. You just nod and close your eyes, not wanting to think about this any longer. Outside the apartment across the street, Mephisto sat still. He was watching ytou both closely, waiting on his masters next step.  

You didn't realize you fell asleep, until you woke up to what sounded like creaking in the apartment. You opened your eyes, the place was pitch black aside from the trails of moonlight streaming in from the peaks of the semi open curtains. You felt Xaviers hand on your wrist tighten and you could guess that it wasnt him that made the floorboards of the apartment creak. “Knock knock, anyone home” you hear a playful voice call out in the darkness “idiot you're supposed to actually knock first” you hear the same voice say. Your breathing quickens at the familiarity of the voices. Xaviers grip on your wrist was now lethal and you say a flash of light emitting from his side. The light now lit up the apartment and you saw the figure, well figures. There stood two familiar faces, well mask, of Luke and Keiran. You stood quickly bringing Xavier up with you. “Happy to see us boss lady” the playful voice of you recognized as Luke spoke up. Xavier steps Infront of you, his sword made of his evol positioned in front of him.  

“Ohhh scary” Keiran's voice says playfully “i bet it makes your bones vibrate when it slices through it” he adds. Xaviers grip tightens, and his voice was deathly serious now, a tone you had never heard before “Its only one way to find out” He swings the sword, but Keiran moves quicker, avoiding the swing of gracefully. “Woah man we’re here under strict orders from the boss man. He didn't say fight only to retrieve” You scoff “if he sent you two, he expected blood shed” you say. Luke gasps in mock offense “Rude! He sent us because we know how valuable you are to him” Keiran shakes his head in agreement “if you don't come back with us the boss man may just break down in tears, you wouldn't want our poor boss to be sad would he” Keiran say putting his hand over his heart.  

“Shes not going anywhere” Xavier says. Luke groans and throws his arms int he air “Who even are you! You're really starting to get on my nerves” Lukes's voice becomes serious when saying the last sentence. This was bad, really bad. If you didn't go with them who knew what they would do to Xavier. The twins were fun sure but were true sadist at heart. “The boss is getting impatient” Keiran says his voice no longer playful either, as Mephisto comes and lands on the window seal that was wide open. You sigh and make your decision. You manage to pull your hand out of Xaviers grip and the way he reached back out to catch it broke something in you. Luke got to you first though pulling you towards him. “Xavier, if I don't go with them now, next time he sends them they won't be in a playful mood” you say to him. Luke and Keiran both nod in unison. “He would chew us out so bad we would have no choice but to take it out on you” Keiran says shrugging his shoulders. Mephisto caws loudly and Luke and Keiran both look at each other “welp time to go, playtimes over.” Keiran says. They drag you to the door as you tried not to look back at Xavier “also don't try to follow us pretty boy, Boss won't be too nice next time” Luke says as they close the apartment door behind them.  

 

As they walk you out of the apartment you shrug their hands off “Where is he?” you say irritated. “Chilllll boss lady, you'll see him soon enough” Luke says. “You know you're his favorite; he's been going crazy these past few days” Keiran says as they lead you to a car. They opened the door to the back seat and there sat Sylus. “Look who willingly decided to come with us boss!!” Luke says cheerfully. Sylus just smirks and nods. “We’ll make sure the grey-haired freak upstairs doesn't try anything” Keiran says ushering you inside. Sylus doesn’t say anything he just watches you slide into the seat next to him. You flinch slightly as the door slams shut.  

His fingers trail the side of your arm, making you tense up in anticipation of his next actions. Hes quiet at first, as his gloved hand traced invisible lines on your arm. His touch was soft and deliberate and made you feel as if he was leaving a trail of fire from how hot it was. “You could have at least called and told me you were leaving” he says his voice terrifyingly calm. “Don't you think I out of anyone deserves a goodbye” You don't respond, you didn't even want to look at him. The space in the car felt a lot smaller under his intense gaze. His fingers trail back up your arm, the gloved hand lightly wrapping around your throat lightly. His fingers press into your jaw tightly and he forces you to look at him. “I should be angry, hell I should be livid honestly” he says quietly his face getting closer to yours “But the way you looked under him last night tells me i need to try harder with you” You could feel the color drain out of your face at the realization of him knowing. You shouldn't care about what he knows and how he feels about it but you are all too aware of the consequences of his feelings.  

“What do you want me to say to that” you shoot at him and he tsk at your attitude. “You dont have to say anything” he says his grip tightening slightly and his thumb caress to and you could sense his irritation. “But….you are going to feel the consequences of trying to leave”

He lets go of your face and taps the privacy window between the two of you and the driver. The car starts up and starts to move at a steady speed. He reaches over buckling you into your seatbelt. He grabs your face and makes you face him again as he speaks “But for now, just enjoy the drive” he says softly and presses a soft kiss to your forehead.

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