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يتميز خلاطنا الكهربائي المحمول بتصميمه العصري والأنيق، مما يجعله قطعة أنيقة في مطبخك. بفضل حجمه المدمج وسهولة التخزين، يمكنك حمله معك في أي مكان تذهب إليه. استمتع بالراحة والأناقة في نفس الوقت.طاقة قوية واستخدام مريح: يأتي خلاطنا الكهربائي المحمول بمحرك قوي يضمن الأداء المتميز والنتائج المثالية في كل مرة. بغض النظر عن نوع الفواكه أو الخضروات التي تستخدمها، ستحظى بخلط سلس ومتجانس في غضون ثوانٍ. بالإضافة إلى ذلك، يتميز الخلاط بواجهة سهلة الاستخدام وزر واحد للتحكم، مما يوفر لك تجربة خلط سهلة ومريحة.

[luscious-recipes]

Understanding Lipton Onion Soup Mix

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[winterlico]

TOOTHBRUSH — SJY

ᯓ★ pairing : roommates!Jake x fem!reader / fluff , makeout ᝰ.ᐟ

1.432 ｡ after months of living together, the distinction between "just roommates" and something more begins to haze due to late-night movie marathons, sharing food, and Jake's toothbrush's inexplicable permanent presence in your bathroom.

feedbacks 𖹭 reblogs / O2 edition

It started with a toothbrush. A small, seemingly insignificant thing that should have meant nothing—except, somehow, it did. You weren’t sure when, exactly, the little blue toothbrush became a permanent fixture in your bathroom, but the moment you noticed it, the realization settled in like an itch at the back of your mind, something you couldn’t quite scratch away. It wasn’t yours. And yet, there it was, standing tall beside your own, as if it had always belonged there.

The first time you saw it, it was early morning, and the world still felt like it was moving in slow motion. Your body was sluggish, your brain foggy, the remnants of last night's horror movie marathon lingering like a shadow behind your eyes.

Your feet shuffled across the cold tiles, your fingers automatically reaching for your toothbrush when—pause. There. Right next to yours, a blue toothbrush, its bristles slightly damp, freshly used. It wasn’t an accident. You blinked at it for a long moment, then shook your head, deciding you were too tired to care.

Except, the next morning, it was still there. And the morning after that.

Days turned into weeks, and the toothbrush never moved. It became a staple of your bathroom, sitting innocently beside yours as if daring you to acknowledge what it meant. But acknowledging it meant admitting something you weren’t ready to—because it wasn’t just about the toothbrush. It was about the way Jake had, somehow, started blending into your life in ways you never quite expected.

"Jake," you called from the couch one evening, your voice breaking the easy silence between you. The two of you had fallen into a rhythm over time, existing in shared spaces without the weight of expectations. It was comfortable, effortless even, the kind of companionship that felt like second nature.

Your laptop rested against your thighs, your eyes half-focused on the screen, but your mind was elsewhere—on the toothbrush, on Jake, on the quiet shift that had taken place between you.

Jake, sprawled across the opposite end of the couch, lifted his head lazily, his hair mussed from where he had been lying on it. "Mmm?" he hummed around a handful of popcorn, his expression amused but uninterested.

"Your toothbrush. It’s still in my bathroom."

That got his attention. He turned his head slightly, one brow arching in amusement as a slow smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. "Yeah?"

You frowned. "Yeah? That’s all you have to say?"

Jake shrugged, his shoulders lifting in a nonchalant manner as he popped another piece of popcorn into his mouth. "I mean, I left it there on purpose."

You sat up straighter, narrowing your eyes at him. "Why?"

"Because it’s convenient?" He shot you a grin, the kind that made your stomach do that stupid little flip you tried to ignore.

You scoffed. "Jake, you have a bathroom in your room."

"Yeah, but I like using yours."

You groaned, rubbing a hand down your face. "That’s not how this works!"

Jake just stretched his arms above his head, completely unbothered. "Well, you haven’t moved it."

You opened your mouth, then closed it, then opened it again—only to realize you had no real argument. Because he was right. You hadn’t moved it. And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t really want to.

Things started shifting after that.

It wasn’t anything drastic—no grand declarations, no sudden confessions—but there was something undeniably different in the way you and Jake existed together. It was in the way he started making you coffee in the mornings, always just how you liked it, before you even had the chance to ask. It was in the way you found yourself picking up his favorite snacks at the grocery store, even though he never requested them.

His hoodies, once something that belonged to him, started ending up in your laundry pile, and at some point, you stopped returning them. He never asked for them back, anyway.

The boundaries that once felt so clearly defined between you blurred, softening into something neither of you seemed willing to name. And yet, it was there—in the way he looked at you, in the way your bodies gravitated toward each other, like some invisible force kept pulling you closer and closer together.

It was dangerous, this thing between you. Because roommates weren’t supposed to fall asleep tangled together on the couch. They weren’t supposed to wake up with his arm draped over your waist like a silent claim. They weren’t supposed to feel like this.

One particularly lazy Sunday morning, you stumbled into the kitchen, your limbs still heavy with sleep, to find Jake standing at the stove. The smell of butter and syrup filled the air, warm and inviting, wrapping around you like a familiar embrace. He glanced over his shoulder when he heard your footsteps, his lips curling into that lopsided grin that always made your chest feel too tight.

"Morning, sunshine."

You groaned, rubbing your eyes as you dropped onto a stool at the counter. "Why are you like this?"

Jake just chuckled, flipping a pancake with practiced ease. "Like what?"

"Annoyingly perfect at being a functioning human this early in the morning."

He placed a plate of pancakes in front of you, leaning against the counter with an unreadable expression. "You like having me around."

You didn’t answer. Because the truth was, you did. More than you should.

It all came to a head one night. You walked into your room after a long day, expecting nothing more than quiet solitude—only to find Jake sprawled across your bed, half-buried under your blankets, scrolling through his phone like he belonged there.

You stopped in the doorway, crossing your arms. "Jake."

He looked up lazily. "Yeah?"

"That’s my bed."

"Mmm-hmm." He patted the empty space beside him. "And?"

You exhaled sharply. "You have your own bed."

"Yours is comfier."

Your lips pressed together. "So what, you’re just permanently moving in now?"

He pouts, his gaze fixated at you. something softer flickering behind his eyes. "Would that be such a bad thing?"

Your heart stilled. Because no. No, it wouldn’t.

Jake must have seen something in your face because his voice softened, teasing yet careful. "You know, if you really wanted me to stop using your bathroom, you would’ve moved my toothbrush by now."

You hesitated, then exhaled a quiet laugh, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie—one of yours, the one he stole ages ago.

"No," you murmured. "I guess."

And when Jake grinned, pulling you down onto the bed and kissing you like he’d been waiting forever, you knew.

His lips met yours softly at first, tentative, as if testing the waters of something neither of you had dared to speak aloud. But then something in you shattered—maybe it was the weight of unspoken feelings, or the quiet ache of wanting—and the kiss deepened. His fingers slid into your hair, tilting your face up to his, and a quiet sound escaped you, something between a sigh and a gasp, as Jake pulled you impossibly closer.

It wasn’t rushed, but it was desperate, a slow burn that built and built until it felt like the world had shrunk down to just this—just him. The warmth of his hands, the press of his body against yours, the way his lips moved against yours like he was memorizing every inch.

He kissed you like he had been waiting forever, like he was afraid you might slip through his fingers if he let go. And you kissed him back just as fiercely, your hands fisting into his hoodie, refusing to let him pull away.

When he finally did, both of you breathless, his forehead pressed against yours, he exhaled a shaky laugh. "I guess I’m staying, then."

You laughed too, still dazed, still caught in the lingering heat of his touch. "Yeah. Leave the toothbrush."

And when he kissed you again, you knew—somewhere between stolen hoodies, shared coffee, and the toothbrush that never moved, Jake had become something more.

And you? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

[obsessedwithceleste]

Finding Sunshine

Lorenzo Berkshire x reader

Based on this request 🫶🏽

Summary: soulmate! au in which the writing on your skin will appear identically on your soulmate.

word count: 4.5k

©️ obsessedwithceleste. all works posted here belong to me and should not be reposted or copied in any way or form.

Lorenzo Berkshire was going absolutely insane. What had he been thinking? Oh wait, he hadn’t been. It was a stupid bet. A drunken lapse in judgement that now had his head spinning in circles months later. He thought it should’ve been simple. The whole premise of it was after all.

You could write or draw almost anything on your skin, and it would appear on your soulmate as well. A rather nifty bit of magic, Lorenzo had thought. Probably saved a lot of folk a fair bit of heartbreak over the centuries. There were limits of course. No names. No specific locations or such. Fate couldn’t make it too easy. But still, knowing there was someone out there you were meant to be with, and having a way to find them? Lorenzo found the whole thing to be quite convenient.

And he was so close. He was certain they went to Hogwarts. There were too many coincidences for them not to. The puffapod plant that first week. The hippogriff that had appeared on his forearm the same week Hagrid had brought that beast to the school. It all lined up. A little broom and quaffle on the back of his hand for Slytherin’s first match of the season. But every time he got close, it felt as if they slipped through his fingers.

And that’s where you came in. His best friend. It hadn’t been any different from any of the other usual common room parties, except perhaps Enz had had one too many drinks. And perhaps he had monologued a bit too extensively about how he just wanted to find his soulmate. What could he say? He was a romantic. It wasn't a crime.

“Give it a rest man. At this point your soulmate probably knows exactly who you are, and you’ve scared them off,” Theo groaned, already sick of Lorenzo’s griping. Only a week into classes and he was at it again with this soulmate nonsense.

“He’s probably just too dense to pick up any of the hints his soulmate has been leaving,” you had replied with a laugh, giving Enz a teasing shove.

He just scoffed, looking down at you nestled comfortably next to him on the sofa.

“Oh, bold words from someone who hasn’t found their soulmate yet either,” Enz had retorted, giving you a light flick to the forehead. You bat his hand away.

“Only because I haven’t actually been looking. I’m sure I’d be able to find them faster than your sorry ass.”

It had only been meant as a joke. You both knew that. You and Enz were constantly throwing light hearted jabs at each other. It was basically the foundation of your friendship at this point. But you were also both competitive.

“Yeah? Is that right? Wanna bet on that one?”

And so it had begun.

Two months. That was how long you’d known Lorenzo Berkshire was your soulmate. Your best friend of all people. Looking back, it was rather embarrassing that it had taken you this long to figure it out, especially with how enthusiastically Lorenzo had been searching the school. All this time it had been staring him in the face. Hidden in plain sight.

You don't know what you had been thinking when you had agreed to make a game of it. Idiotic.

It had all started in the first week back of the new school year; with one little, insignificant slip of parchment that had slid onto your desk during another one of Professor Binns' lethargic lessons. It had been far too early in the morning to be listening to the ghost ramble on about yet another goblin rebellion. And at this point, they were all beginning to blend together anyway. Eager for the distraction, you uncurled the small note to find a simple 'good morning sunshine' with a crudely drawn heart next to it. Seeing it had scratched a certain part of your brain, but you couldn't quite put a finger on it at the time. Looking up, Lorenzo had offered a little wave paired with his signature, self satisfied smirk.

It wasn't until the next morning that the pieces slowly began to fall into place. Like every other morning, you awoke to a simple 'good morning' scrawled on the back of your hand with a little heart. Things between you and your soulmate had always been simplistic in your opinion, so you had never bothered to put much thought to it, but now it looked oddly familiar. The itch returned, and you strained to think why this silly little message from your soulmate suddenly felt so familiar.

And that's when it had hit you.

Scrambling now, you dug the note from Lorenzo out of you bag, eyes analyzing each bend and curve of the letters. Identical. How had you been so blind? How many times had you seen Lorenzo’s writing? How many times had you borrowed his notes? Reviewed his essays? Read his letters over summer break?

Sitting back on your bed, your thoughts were running a mile a minute, mulling over what to do with your latest development. You didn't want to believe it. Or maybe you did. Actually, it was more like you couldn't believe it. Did you tell him now? Or ignore it and pretend to be none the wiser? Perhaps fake your death, change your name, and flee the country?

No, you decided. The best course of action was to let him figure it out on his own. (At least that’s what you had thought at the time. Two months in and you weren’t entirely sure you’d made the wisest decision.) But he’d been searching all this time after all. And it just didn't feel like the right time. What if he didn't want you? Clearly it hadn't crossed his mind since in all his years of searching, he'd never once looked at you.

He seemed to want something grand, and perfect, and well, magical. And that just wasn't this.

Closing your eyes, you shake your head to clear your thoughts. Game face. None of that was important right now. The important thing, was that Lorenzo was your soulmate and he was your best friend, and what kind of friend would you be if you didn't make him suffer a bit?

“Look, look, see this? They have to be here,” Lorenzo says excitedly, brandishing his forearm out for you to see a bright pink and purple puffapod smack in the middle, mirroring your own that had been doodled there this morning.

“Wow Enz, a plant. Riveting,” you reply, making your way over to your seat in the greenhouse.

It had been your first drawing to the boy since your little bet a week ago, and you had heard from Theo that Enz had practically been glowing since its appearance.

“Not just any plant, sunshine. A puffapod, which is the plant Sprout said we’d be covering today in class. So clearly, my soulmate is telling me they’ll be here today.”

“An astute observation Berkshire, just one tiny issue. There are classes all bloody day. Who’s to say they’ll be in this class in particular?” You sigh, pulling out your notes.

Look. It’s not as if you wanted to intentionally mislead your friend, but really? No wonder he hadn’t gotten anywhere in his soulmate search, despite it being top of mind each year. If he wanted to know so badly, it wouldn't kill him to put in some work you thought.

Lorenzo groans at your point, his pretty face scrunching up in annoyance as he pulls his sleeve back down.

"I just think that when I see them, I'll know. I'll get the feeling. I just have to keep looking," Lorenzo replies, looking around the class at the other students, studying each face carefully.

"What if they don't want to be found?"

Enzo pauses, your question seeming to mull through his head for a moment before he shakes his head, brushing it off.

“Fine then, how’s your search going? I reckon you haven’t found anything or I wouldn’t be hearing the end of it.”

“That’s confidential I fear,” you reply with a grin, “Wouldn’t want you to sabotage me now, would I?”

A cocky smile returns to Enzo’s face.

“You wound me, sunshine! I would never!” He says dramatically, feigning a knife to the heart.

“Yikes, maybe Theo was right. Maybe you’re scaring your soulmate off with, whatever that was,” you laugh.

“Hush, you. You love it almost as much as you love me,” he replies smugly as you raise a disdainful eyebrow, side eyeing the boy.

"Careful there lover boy, or someone might think-"

Before you can finish your sentence, Professor Sprout bustles into the greenhouse, a cart of brightly colored plants following in her wake.

"It's a wonderful, beautiful day to learn about Puffapods!" she chirps happily, levitating a plant to each student's workbench. "Roll up those sleeves dearies! It's going to be a messy day!"

You feel Lorenzo's curious eyes on you when you don't make a move to roll up the sleeves of your shirt.

"A little dirt never hurt anyone," you say through a tight lipped smile, the drawing on your arm burning a hole through your heart.

Well this sucked. You'd have thought Draco would have learned his lesson after the first time a hippogriff sent him to the hospital wing, but apparently some things never changed.

"Your father will be hearing about this one," Lorenzo groans from his hospital bed, a cold pack pressed to his temple as he glared at the blonde boy in the next bed over.

"It wasn't my fault! If Hagrid just kept those bloody beasts away from me-"

"It was entirely your fault! You provoked that hippogriff for no reason! It was literally just sitting there minding its business!" you cut in, sitting up in your own hospital bed now to scowl at your friend.

Draco, despite being the cause for this whole mess, wasn't even the one with the brunt of the injuries. Just a few scratches and bruises. Enzo on the other hand, had taken a hoof to the head as he tried to pull you out of the way of the rearing beast. Unfortunately, he hadn't been able to save your wrist which was now broken, but it was better than being crushed alive.

"I didn't like the way it was looking at me," Draco grumbles defensively in response.

Oh when you got your hands on the little ferret-

Lucky for him, Madam Pomfrey chose just that moment to burst back through the doors of the hospital wing, tutting at her three newest charges.

"Alright Mr. Malfoy, you can go," she says, giving him a quick glance over before making her way over to Lorenzo to examine the side of his head where he had been kicked.

"Are you sure? I hurt everywhere," Draco whines.

"Mr. Malfoy you are perfectly well, and I have others to look after," Madam Pomfrey replies, dismissing the boy.

Draco lets out a dramatic huff before limping his way out of the infirmary.

"That boy," you hear her mutter under her breath before handing Lorenzo a vial of glimmering red liquid. "Sip of this twice a day until it's gone," she instructs. "Now off with you as well."

Lorenzo glances over at you.

"They gonna be alright?" He asks, taking the vial.

"Oh y/l/n will be fine. Bit of skele-gro and they'll be good as new. Now off you go. They need rest."

Hesitantly, Lorenzo gets up, wincing slightly, before making his way over to you.

"Sorry about your wrist, I didn't- I tried to-"

"It's alright Enz," you interrupt, trying to give the boy a reassuring smile. It comes out as more of a grimace though. "You got me out of there and that's what matters. Thank you."

Lorenzo gives you a weak smile and a short nod before turning to leave.

"Alright then, a bit of this and you should be out by morning," Madam Pomfrey says, bringing another vial over to the bed. "As long as the bones grow back correctly of course."

Salazar help you.

You can feel the sunlight on you before you open your eyes. It had been a long and rough night. Who knew re-growing your own bones would be that painful? Slowly, you let your eyes flutter open, trying to adjust to the light, only to be met with piercing eyes staring down at you.

"Bloody hell Theo," you yelp, jolting awake.

"Interesting sketch you got there," he says, cutting to the chase as he gestures to your arm.

You feel yourself freeze for a split second before you look down at the outline of a hippogriff you had drawn last night. There weren't exactly lots of things to do while Madam Pomfrey was holding you hostage in the hospital wing.

"Enz has pretty much interrogated everyone in your care of magical creatures class. Even Draco."

"Please don't tell him," you whisper, looking down.

"How long have you known?"

"Few days before we made that stupid bet," you reply, head falling back onto your pillow.

"That was almost two months ago."

"I know."

You hear Theo sigh. He's sitting now, bent over, face pressed into his hands when you finally look over.

"It's not my business," he says after an agonizingly long moment, "But don't hurt him. This is what he's wanted since we were kids-"

"I don't want to disappoint him."

You hear Theo let out another long sigh. Then a frustrated groan before he looks back up at you.

"Look. I'm not good at the whole supportiveness thing, but Enzo would never be disappointed. You don't see- Enz adores you okay? He's been a wreck since he left you up here all alone. Sent me up here to check on you because he's too busy baking you apology cookies with the house elves. So just- I don't know, think about it. You two are practically inseparable anyways."

You're almost too stunned to speak. You'd never heard Theo actually sound sincere before. It was weird.

"I- thanks Theo," you say finally.

"Don't mention it. Like actually don't. That was weirdly emotional, and I hated it. Also- try to act surprised when Enz brings you his apology cookies, I don't think I was supposed to say anything about that."

And with that, Theo is gone, leaving his words echoing through your head as you drift back off to sleep.

"This is the day, I can feel it," Enzo announces, pulling on his dark green quidditch robes.

"Bull. You've been saying that shit for years. Focus up Enz," Matt replies. They had a match to win.

"No, no, this time, I have a list. All the possibilities between herbology and care of magical creatures! And there's this," Lorenzo says excitedly, showing off the brooms and quaffle that were dancing across the back of his hand. "They'll be here today. Certain of it."

"You're always certain. Now get you're head in the game, I wanna win," Theo responds gruffly, not quite able to meet Enzo's eyes.

"Fine, I'll shut up, but you'll see," Lorenzo relents, tossing his hands up in surrender.

It had been a brutal game. One they had almost lost to those bloody Gryffindors. They would've been doomed if they hadn't built up such a lead from scoring before Potter caught the damned snitch. That was the only silver lining for the lions. Draco had almost had it too.

"You have a good time, sunshine?" Enz asks, sauntering over to you after the game.

"Watching a bunch of sweaty witches and wizards fly around for a couple hours? Hardly," you tease as the boy wraps you into a bear hug.

“Can’t believe we almost lost to those bloody lions,” Lorenzo mumbles into your hair.

“Hush, you played great,” you reply, your words muffled from being smothered by the brunette boy.

“I did, didn’t I?” Enz says with a cocky grin, finally releasing you.

You continue to talk with your best friend, but it quickly becomes clear that his mind is elsewhere as his eyes flicker between you and scanning the slowly dwindling crowd behind you.

“Looking for someone?” You ask curiously, turning to see what could have possibly caught Lorenzo’s attention.

“No! Well, I don’t know. Maybe? I just thought- I was certain…” Lorenzo trails off, eyes still searching the crowd desperately.

“This about your soulmate?” You ask, reaching out to hold the boy’s arm.

Lorenzo looks down at you and you can see the hurt on his face. There’s a pang of guilt in your chest as you meet his eyes.

“I don’t know what I thought. That they’d make some kind of gesture? That they’d come see me after if we won? Stupid. They have to know it’s me though,” Lorenzo lets out a long sigh. “Sorry sunshine, you’re probably as sick as everyone else of me going on about all this,” he says, running a hand through his tousled hair.

You open your mouth to protest, but before you get the chance Lorenzo presses a quick kiss to the top of your head before turning towards the Slytherin locker room.

“See you tonight sunshine.”

Your eyes follow as he walks away, feet dragging. From over Lorenzo’s shoulder, you can see Theo standing in the doorway of the locker room, eyes drilling into you. He doesn’t say anything, but the message is clear. You needed to tell him.

It was late. Even through the shadowy, murky waters of the black lake, you could tell that the sky outside was dark. And yet, the Slytherin common room was brimming with life, students still riding the high of the win against Gryffindor.

“Someone’s deep in thought,” Pansy comments dryly, placing a cup of amber liquid in your hands and giving you a small nod before tipping back her own drink.

“Just tired is all,” you reply lamely, swirling your glass for a moment before taking a sip yourself.

The familiar burn is barely noticeable as you already had a healthy buzz going. You didn’t even want to imagine what kind of condition the boys were in. They always went all in after a win, and a win against the lions was always a promise for a particularly rowdy night.

As if your thoughts had summoned them, Enzo, Theo and Matt push (read: stumble) their way through the crowd, joining you and Pansy in your secluded corner.

“Hey there sunshine, fancy seeing you here,” Lorenzo drawls, pulling you into a tight hug as soon as he spots you. You can smell the bitter scent of alcohol on him.

“Salazar, you’d think they were his soulmate the way Enz throws himself at them constantly,” Pansy mutters under her breath to Theo who just grunts back, a masterful plan beginning to form in his drunken mind.

Theo had been watching the two of you, you and Lorenzo that is, since that day in the hospital wing. The way you two were attached at the hip, yet constantly skirting around one another. But always in your own world together. Honestly he had no idea how Enz hadn’t figured it out yet. And really, he didn’t see why Enz even cared given the fact that he couldn’t seem to keep his hands off you.

Regardless, it was beginning to be unbearable. Combining your skittishness and guilty looks with Enzo’s near constant pining, Theo and the rest of the group were about to lose their damn minds. It needed to end tonight, and Theo was bound and determined to make it happen.

It didn’t take long for the conversation to turn to the topic of soulmates.

Drunk Mattheo had always been such an instigator. Even without Theo egging him on this time.

And he just so happened to remember that silly little bet you’d made all those weeks ago at the beginning of term.

“We all know Enz has come up empty handed, what about you, y/n? Anything you want to share with the class?” Mattheo asks, his usual troublesome grin plastered across his face.

“Shove it, Matt,” you snap, trying to hide behind your cup as you take another long sip.

“I’ll take that as a solid maybe,” Matt replies with a cheerful smile, raising his glass condescendingly.

“Fuck the whole soulmate bit, honestly. I’m sick of whatever game my soulmate is playing,” Lorenzo blurts out, shocking the group to near silence.

For as long as you’d all known him, he’d been a bit of a hopeless romantic. Maybe even to a fault. None of you had ever thought he’d be one to give up on his soulmate.

“Well,” Theo drawls after everyone has recovered, “There’s always one way to find out if they’re here at Hogwarts or not.”

Your eyes snap to the Italian, silently trying to figure out what the boy is playing at. Lorenzo leans towards his friend, swaying slightly as you try to steady him. Clearly having the group’s attention, with a quick flick of his wand, Theo is brandishing a simple black marker. Your eyes go wide, knowing exactly where this is going.

“C’mere Enz,” Theo says, beckoning your friend forward.

As if under the imperious curse, Lorenzo lurches forward despite your protest.

“Really Theo?” You ask, trying to at least buy a few seconds as Theo moves the marker to hover in front of Lorenzo’s face. “You’re honestly going to trust Theo of all people to draw on your face Enz?”

It’s too late as you watch, helplessly, as Theo makes a few quick scribbles across Enzo’s cheek before vanishing the writing tool. For a moment, everyone is too focused on the crude doodle on Enzo’s face to notice your hand rising to touch the matching ink.

“Really Theo? Immature prat, that’s phallic,” Pansy sighs rolling her eyes, not really seeming all that surprised by the boy’s antics.

It’s not until Enzo’s eyes lock with yours that the whole group fully grasps the reality of the situation. Pansy’s mouth forms a silent ‘o’, while Matt hardly seems surprised, more concerned with refilling his drink.

“What the fuck Theodore!” You shriek, lunging at the boy once you fully zero in on the black lines on Enzo’s face which were mirrored on your own.

Lorenzo stands, too drunk and too stunned as Pansy and Matt half-heartedly try to keep you from sending the killing curse Theo’s way.

“I think it’s time you and Enz have a chat, priorities and all,” Pansy says, prying you away from Theo as Matt leads the other boy off, their drunken laughter trailing away. "I'll make sure their dorm is empty for the night." The dark haired girl gives you a pointed look before she too disappears into the crowd, assumedly to find the other boys.

Taking a deep breath in, you turn to see Lorenzo looking at you like a kicked puppy, the stark outlines of the dick Theo had drawn on his face sticking out rather harshly.

"C'mon Enz, let's get cleaned up. I don't think either of us want to have this conversation with a penis drawn on our faces."

As soon as you step into the empty dormitory, a quick scourgify wipes the offending mark from Lorenzo's skin as you take a seat on his bed, but your friend just continues to stare at you from the door.

"You knew. You knew I was your soulmate and you didn't tell me," he says with a shakey breath. "You knew. And you said nothing." he says, his voice getting louder as his fists clench.

You try not to flinch away at Lorenzo's raised voice, but the look in your friend's eyes and the way he immediately collects himself tells you that you didn't do a very good job.

"I can explain. Enz, please, just let me explain," you beg, hating the hurt that was written all over the boy's face.

Lorenzo gestures for you to continue, but his feet remain planted firmly in place on the opposite side of the room. You supposed you deserved that though.

"Look, it- it all started back in the first week of school, when you passed me that note, in History of Magic," you start.

Lorenzo shifts where he's standing.

"That was before we even made that stupid bet. You knew before and you still let me make that stupid bet. Like an idiot." Lorenzo begins pacing around the room. "And did Theo know then too? Did everyone know but me?"

"No, it's not like that. You're not an idiot," you try to protest.

"Yeah? Then what is it like? Because to me, it seems like my best fucking friends have been lying to me for months. Bloody hell, all I've wanted for years was to find my soulmate. And you both knew that. So what was it? Was I not the one you wanted? Not good enough for you? Huh? Is that it?"

Before you can think twice, you find yourself across the room, reaching up to take a fist full of Lorenzo's hair and pulling his lips down to meet yours. The boy melts into you, hands finding their way to your waist as his fingers dig into your skin. His lips are warm as soft as they move against yours with agency, as if afraid you'll change your mind at any moment.

When you finally pull back, Lorenzo rests his forehead against yours, his breathes slowly steadying before he raises a finger between you two.

"No," he whispers, his voice raspy, "No, you don't get to just kiss me and make everything better, tell me why," he demands, pulling you down to sit with him on the floor.

"Well I was trying, but you kept interrupting me," you say, trying to lighten the mood a bit. "Um, when I first found out, I was just planning on teasing you a bit, having some fun with it you know?"

Lorenzo's eyes bore into yours as he traces circles on your leg, waiting for you to continue.

"But then, I suppose I got scared. You'd been looking for your soulmate for so long. And from all the times you'd talked about it, I knew you wanted some grand, special moment. It just never felt like the perfect time to tell you. Theo didn't find out until last week when he visited me in the hospital wing, by your request I might add, and told me I should tell you. Gave me a long inspirational speech about how I wouldn't disappoint you and everything. It was really strange actually. So then I was going to tell you today after your match-"

"And I blew it looking for someone else didn't I?" Lorenzo cuts in with a dry laugh.

"Just seemed like you were hoping it would be anyone but me."

Lorenzo takes your hands in his, slowly raising them to his lips before pressing a soft kiss to each knuckle.

"You, sunshine, are perfect. And I wouldn't want it to have been anyone else," he murmurs.

"Salazar, we're both a couple of idiots, aren't we?" you ask shaking your head, feeling the heat rise to your face.

"Course not, we're just soulmates," Lorenzo replies, standing up and offering you a hand. "Now, I seem to remember Pansy mentioning that she would make sure the others don't come back to the dormitory. She better be good for her word, because you sunshine, are mine for tonight. And forever."

Gahhhhh, it's fine, I only rewrote the entire thing once, but now I love it��

Hope this lived up to all your hopes and dreams anon, MWAH

[romandabirsayfa]

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[totallyxtaurus]

Depollute me, gentle angel

Summary: Sylus is away on a business trip while you sink deeper into your depressive episode. Pairing: Sylus x gn reader Genre: Angst (I guess, I'm not sure lol) Trigger Warnings: depression, mental health struggles, anxiety, self-neglect, and hints of suicide A/N: Soo I was going to make a fluffy/smutty story but my PMDD hit me hard af and then BOOM, this. This was super hard yet easy to write at the same time probably because it's a self insert lol like this is literally me. Sylus' "perfect" persona does intimidate me and I grappled with the thoughts of "what if Sylus was real, could he actually handle this?" I hope everyone enjoys and please please please remember to take care of yourselves! 💗

Next

When was the last time you crawled out of bed today? Your stomach twisting, hunger pangs turn into nausea. But the thought of forcing your limbs to carry you into the kitchen for food feels insufferable. So, you stay buried in the tangle of unmade, unwashed sheets. A hint of fabric softener desperately clinging to the fibers, the stale scent of sweat and skin already taking over. Earlier, you pressed your nose into your shoulder, checking. The sweet floral deodorant from days ago (you think) has spoiled into something sour.  

Each day and sleepless night blend together. They become hard to tell apart, except when the phone rings. Work is calling again—probably to ask when you’ll be back in or to terminate you. You know you should care—you do care! Well, you used to. You liked your job; you were good at it. But does it bring you joy? Right now, does anything?

Everything feels like a chore that you can’t be bothered to attempt. Showering? The thought alone is exhausting. But thinking about the steps that come before the shower is enough to make you sit in your own filth. You reach up absently. Your fingers get lost in the greasy roots and tangle in the mess below. Dandruff flakes dust your pillow. You picked at your scalp while scrolling for hours. Anything to pull you out of this pit you’ve fallen into, for a moment of relief. Your stomach churns each time your tongue touches the slimy coating that has built up on your teeth. Panic spikes at the thought of cavities—the decay, a reminder of neglect. Yet, there you lie, paralyzed by your own anxieties. God, you want to move. You really do. But then you tell yourself, I’ll brush them after I eat, for sure. You know it’s a lie. But it makes the guilt easier to swallow.  

These bouts come and go, pulled in by a force you can’t escape—because you are the force. Like the moon dragging in the tides, summoning waves too strong to withstand. When you’re up, you trick yourself into thinking that you have it all together, like you’ve cracked some secret code. You throw yourself into work, into people, an endless loop on performance mode. Blissfully numb. Until the crash. The tide swells too high, knocking you under and swallowing you whole. Then you’re here, again. Bedridden. Isolated. Time slips through your fingers. Days, weeks—who knows how long. Until someone notices your absence. Usually, him. Then you have to explain why you vanished and begin to collect the pieces of you that have washed back ashore.

“You should trust Sylus more," your therapist had said, voice gentle but firm. “Let him in during these episodes. He wants to help you.”  

You nodded, pretending to consider it, not missing the way they emphasized the "want to help you" part. But the idea was absurd, laughable. Let Sylus see you like this? No, it’s better this way. You can keep your dignity and him, a win-win situation.

This episode—as your therapist calls it—came at the perfect time. Sylus is away on a business trip, conveniently absent when you’ve sunk to your lowest. He gives you roughly three days of no contact before the constant calls start rolling in. This time, luck was on your side, a twisted kind of luck, but still one that was to your advantage. You can’t even begin to imagine the horror that he’d feel if he saw you like this.

Undeserving. That’s the only word that comes to mind when you think of Sylus, especially in moments like these.

Sylus, the man who has everything—and if he doesn’t, he simply acquires it. Always composed, always in control. He’s the kind of person who seems to glide through life, untouchable. You can’t imagine him unraveling, not like this. No, if he ever stumbled, he’d just power through it. There are no obstacles he can’t overcome.  

Until you.

You are the only thing he can’t fix. A threat to the pristine world he’s built. Thankfully, he hasn’t seen you like this, and he never will. He can’t.

Your therapist says your way of thinking is the problem. You don’t let him in. You don’t give him a chance to understand. Your therapist doesn’t know Sylus like you do. What if he does understand—but secretly believes you’re too much? And knowing Sylus, what if he doesn’t leave, but worse—stays out of obligation? Out of pity?

Your chest begins to tighten at the thought, your heartbeat picking up. You’d rather disappear completely than let him see you like this.

But before you can spiral any further, the doorbell rings.

[ssahotchnerr]

Have you thought of doing a fic where Aaron and Reader are play fighting and Aaron ends up on top of reader? (Doesn’t have to be smut, but if you wanted…)

-🗣️

pinned down

i have not but now i'm OBSESSED cw; fem!reader, established relationship, small hurt to comfort, playful banter, fluff and some suggestion 💓

"Hi honey."

"Hi," you responded, keeping your face hidden in your drawer as Aaron entered the bedroom. He had stayed at the office late, kept by heaps of paperwork and reports. "Did you manage to get everything done?"

One thing about being in a relationship with a profiler, rarely anything got past him, noticing the smallest of shifts in your behavior. A slight change in the way you blinked, brief hesitation in your voice, even the way you held yourself could be enough for him to sense something was off.

Aaron didn't answer, but rather he came to your side, his hand finding your waist. It rest comfortably, his thumb grazing the exposed skin above your waistline. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," you answered flatly, rearranging your socks as a way to keep yourself occupied.

"You sure?" His tone wavered in question, unconvinced.

"Mhm." With a shrug, you shut the drawer.

It just hadn't been your day, to simply put it. It had started off bumpy, waking up on the wrong side of the bed. You got Jack to school a little late, spent much more time at a store doing a return than you would have liked, and then got drenched by an unexpected downpour on your way to your car. To top it off, you came back to find a parking ticket waiting for you, all thanks to the meter running out.

Now, you turned and made your way back to the bed, where the laundry basket was waiting. You grabbed Aaron's clean pajamas, setting those out for his convenience.

However, just as your fingers brushed the fabric of the next shirt, Aaron swiftly intervened. He placed the basket on the floor, far out of reach.

You weren't mad at him; it was more that you were looking for any excuse to let your frustration spill onto something else. You met his eyes, a really? plastered across your face. "Aaron."

His choice of rebuttal - grabbing ahold of your waist and throwing you onto the bed, landing with you in a soft thud.

"Aaron!" His name left you in a whine, soon blending into your laughter.

You attempted to wiggle out of his grasp, but his position on top allowed him the leverage to pin you down tightly. That, and the simple fact that he was much stronger than you.

A mischievous glint filled in his eyes, his lips curved in an amused, sly smile. "Yes?"

"Lemme go!" You squeaked, fighting against his hold which he solidly maintained. All your worries seemed to vanish in an instant; the lingering, heavy weight in the middle of your chest lessening as each laugh left you.

"I don't know about that."

"I can't breathe." Tears rolled out from the corner of your eyes due to laughing so profusely. While partially true, you hoped he'd take the bait.

He let go, and you switched tactics. With all your weight, you shifted yourself, slipping out from under him and overpowering him next. You nudged into his side, causing him to fall.

That left you smirking above, straddling him as you held tightly onto his forearms.

"That's cute, sweetheart." He gazed up at you affectionately.

"Is it?" You taunted as your chest rose up and down, a breathless giggle leaving you.

"Y'know," his head tilted, feigning a light, offended pout. "You never gave me a kiss when I got home."

It was too easy to fall for his trap, the temptation to kiss him overtaking the desire to hold onto any remaining grudges you still held against this morning and your local Virginia-state parking attendant. All of which would've been easier to bear if he had been with you. You suddenly found yourself missing him, despite the fact he was right here.

The second you leaned in to grant his request, he bumped his hips up, causing you to lose your balance and topple off him - over to the side and onto the comforter.

Only a few seconds later, you were caged in again; Aaron was top of you, pinning your hands above your head. You relaxed, your posture succumbing to the mattress below; an open invitation for him to have his way with you.

"Do you want to tell me what's bothering you?" His face was a few centimeters away from yours, your skin warming from the heat of his breath. He adjusted his grasp, using one hand to hold both your wrists.

"No," you answered, gazing up at him with a spark of playful defiance.

You also took a moment to enjoy the view above you. Aaron's dark eyes, the cowlicks hanging over his forehead, his broad chest (in which the buttons of his shirt were clinging to for dear life), his cologne filling your nose. You were surrounded by him entirely.

"Can you be persuaded?" His eyebrows rose teasingly, leaning in to press a few kisses along your jaw. He let his lips linger, before trailing to your neck and doing the same thing there. He craned back to meet your gaze, inquisitively.

"Maybe. Depends on how convincing you can be." You quipped back, with an almost impish smile that hinted at your mood. It was clear that whatever you'd been upset about, long gone now. You'd still share the reasoning, but in due time.

A delightful laugh escaped him, filled with warmth and fondness. "Is that a challenge, sweetheart?"

[carbt1]

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[little-wicked10]

Wanna Bet?🌹

Summary: After inviting her to be his date to some dinner, she finds out about the cruel and sleazy bet between Soldier Boy and his sidekick.

Warnings: SMUT 18+, cursing, dirty talk, body insecurities, self-doubt, Gunpowder and Black Noir being dicks, use of the word ‘fat’, body worship, mirror sex, overstimulation, creampie

Notes: I read this headcannon by @zepskies that really hit me in the feels. I deal with body insecurities, and I was inspired to write this for anyone that’s ever felt insecure or ashamed of their body🩷 Plus, Soldier Boy gives off the vibe that he’d like a thick girl😈 Prepare to cry and be horny (it’s a confusing feeling).

//

The reflection she saw in the mirror she didn’t like. It was too easy to pick apart every aspect of her body that she found undesirable: her stomach wasn’t flat, love handles, stretch marks on her thighs, arms kinda flabby, and her ass was too big. Don’t even get her started on her breasts. At least, that’s how she saw herself, a collection of undesirable, unattractive features. While some would refer to her as curvy, she knew that was a nice way of saying she wasn’t thin.

Fat to be exact.

Despite all the things she thought was wrong about her, Soldier Boy apparently didn’t. It was hard not to be intimidated by the supe when he approached her with that confident swagger, sitting on the edge of her desk. She blushed when he flashed a charming smile and began complimenting her.

“So listen, I need a date for this bullshit dinner in Payback’s honor,” his tone was playful, “I came around to ask if you’d be my arm candy for the night.”

Her eyes widened in shock, “Y-You want me to go? With you?”

“Wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to, sweetheart,” he chuckled, “What do ya say? Wanna spend a night with America’s Hero?”

Of course, she said yes. She’d have been an idiot not to. It wasn’t until she was by herself did she realize what she agreed to, and her stomach fluttered with anxiety and excitement. She was about to go on a date with Soldier Boy. THE Soldier Boy. The supe that has his pick of any woman asked her to be his date. She recognizes he probably asked out of convenience. She was the one female employee he hadn’t tried to or succeeded in sleeping with.

He wouldn’t want to sleep with her anyway. Why would he? Rumors around the tower were he had playmates and supermodels on speed dial, so why would he want to sleep with her? She was just a plain office employee that blended into the background.

A knock interrupted her reeling thoughts. Opening the door, a young man from Vought stood balancing a clothes bag and a couple of boxes in his arms. She let him in and watched as he set the items out on her kitchen counter. She thanked him as she handed him a decent tip. The poor kid probably wasn’t making enough to run errands for a bunch of supes.

Delicately, her fingers began to inspect the items before noticing a note attached to one of the boxes:

‘Pick you up at 7. Wear this for me, doll - SB’

Butterflies fluttered in her stomach seeing his handwriting. She quickly unzipped the bag to reveal a beautiful black silk dress, “Holy shit.” The boxes contained a pair of strappy black heels and glittering diamond jewelry. If she wasn’t in disbelief before, she definitely was now.

Looking up at the clock, she shifted gears and began to get ready. She was meticulous in her routine: shaving and moisturizing until she felt soft and smooth, redoing her makeup to perfection, taking extra care with every strand of hair curled. She hadn’t felt this giddy and nervous in a long time. God knew the last time she put this much effort into her self-care. While her insecurities still rested heavily in her thoughts, a little bubble of hope settled in her chest. Maybe he would find her attractive enough to sleep with.

It should have been more upsetting that she could potentially be another notch on his belt, but the way he looked at her made her feel so….beautiful, attractive, sexy even.

She didn’t stare at her reflection too long, simply glancing to make sure everything was together and perfect. She felt so beautiful and studying herself would only ruin that feeling. Suddenly, there was another knock at her door. Looking at the clock, nerves chewed on her stomach realizing he had arrived right on time.

She stepped towards the door and, with trembling hands, opened it. Leaning against the door frame, looking like the Marlboro man himself, was Soldier Boy. His eyes blatantly roamed over her head to toe, “Christ on a cross! Aren’t you delicious.”

She nearly melted into a puddle, “T-Thank you. You have great taste.”

He smirked before producing a rose from behind his back, “I know what looks good on a woman’s body. Usually, it’s me.”

He chuckled when her whole face broke out in a deep blush before taking the flower from him. “C’mon, sexy. Got a limo and champagne on ice waiting for us downstairs,” he smirked as he held out his arm to her that she quickly accepted.

//

All eyes fell on Soldier Boy and his date the second they entered the room. They all wanted to know who the supe had decided to bring. He encouraged her to feel up his muscles with a mischievous grin as they moved about the party. She was quiet as she walked with him, observing the charismatic way he interacted with everyone that approached. People were just captivated by him. It was too easy to get caught up in his charming smile and hearty laugh.

Her back stiffened when she noticed they were getting closer to Payback, one of the more nerve wracking tables to be a guest at. He must have felt her tense because he chuckled, “Don’t be so uptight, baby. You’re rollin’ with Soldier Boy. Have some fun.” She looked up at his forest green eyes, biting her lip and nodding with a smile. He suddenly stopped a waiter with a tray of champagne flutes, taking one for himself and urging her to do the same.

He gently clinked their glasses together before downing the liquor in one go. He groaned in satisfaction which sent her imagination running wild. God, was that man a walking sex dream. They finally stood around Payback’s table. The team members didn’t seem too friendly with one another. It was more like they tolerated each other, but that wasn’t new.

Soldier Boy released her arm to pull out a chair. She mumbled a shy thank you before sitting down. Glancing around the table, she noticed Gunpowder and Black Noir whispering to themselves before laughing. Doubt crept into her mind, body nearly closing in on itself, when a large hand rested against her lower back. Eyes darted over to see Soldier Boy smirking at her. Her stomach fluttered again, skin breaking out in goosebumps from the warmth of his palm. The look on his face gave away the fact he loved seeing her so flustered.

//

It was nearing the end of the night when he excused himself, “Don’t go anywhere, gorgeous. Gotta talk with the big wigs before we get outta here.” Her cheeks pinked, and she nodded, watching him disappear into the crowd of people. A content sigh leaves her lips, fingers admiring the rose he’d given her. She was having a great time, which she hadn’t expected. She assumed she’d be ignored the second they arrived, but Ben (which he insisted she call him) had been nothing but a charming date. Flirting and little touches that had her heart racing and heat pooling between her legs. It was like he knew the effect he had on her.

“Can’t believe I owe that son of a bitch a $100.”

“I told you it was a bad idea.”

Gunpowder and Black Noir’s voices caught her attention. She looked around and found them just a few steps away from the table near the bar. They either didn’t know or didn’t care how loud they were as they continued their conversation. Whatever they were talking about, Gunpowder was pissed off.

“You know better than to make bets with that asshole,” Noir chastised, “You lost $500 betting he couldn’t convince Farah Fawcett and Cindy Crawford to a threesome.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. Looks like he’s actually gonna go for it,” Gunpowder groaned, “I thought he’d be too shallow to sleep with her fat ass.”

There it was, her worst fear. She felt like cold water had been dumped on her, jolting her awake from whatever dream she’d been in. This whole thing had been a bet? Her throat constricted and tears began to burn in her eyes, stomach twisting till she felt nauseas. She felt so pathetic and stupid. How could she have been so blind? It was all just a fucked up game, and she played right into it.

She stood and quickly made her way to the nearest bathroom. Her vision blurred causing her to bump a few people on her way out. They scowled and complained, but she didn’t notice. Once hidden away, tears began to trickle down her cheeks. Of course this had been a cruel joke. Somebody like Ben wouldn’t have given her a second glance if it he wasn’t getting something out of it. She leaned against the sink, wiping her cheeks and refusing to look up in the mirror. She could scrutinize herself and all her flaws later. Right now, she just wanted to disappear.

She took a moment to collect herself before exiting the bathroom. Quietly sniffling as she walked down the hall, she held herself for comfort or else she’d fall apart.

“Hey! There ya are!”

Her heart stopped beating hearing his heavy boots approach her. This couldn’t be happening.

“Thought you ditched me. You weren’t tryin’ to run out on me, were ya, sweetheart?” he teased.

She tried to pick up her pace and keep her head down, praying he’d take the hint to leave her alone, but he easily stopped her by stepping in her path. His original words were stuck on his tongue when he noticed her distress, big tears welling in her eyes, “Hey, what’s goin’ on? What happened?”

She sniffled, a sour taste forming in her mouth, “I-I appreciate the…date, but I think it’s better if I go.”

He blocked her attempt to step around him, “Whoa, whoa, hold on. Why are ya cryin?”

Anger bubbled up in her chest at his false ignorance, “Tell Gunpowder you owe him $100.” The statement stunned him, mouth hanging ajar in shock trying to think of what to say. “Next time you make a bet like that, make sure your fucking sidekick isn’t in earshot of your ‘date’,” she clenched her teeth to keep her voice from trembling.

She once again went to step around him, but his hand wrapping around her upper arm and swung her around to face him, “Wait, c’mon. Lemme explain, doll.”

She tried to pry her arm from his hold, but he was obviously too strong, “Let me go.”

“Just listen, will ya?“ he could hear her breathing become more shaky, heart rate picking up.

“I’m not listening to anything you have to say!” she choked, struggling to escape his hold, “You tricked me into thinking you actually wanted to go out with me. That you might have thought I was…attractive.”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Ben asked astonished, “You’re sexy as hell!”

“Oh, spare me! Spare me the curvy comments or whatever bullshit you come up with! I’m just some fat ass you got paid to try and fuck, but it’s not happening!” the tears came full force now, insecurities exposed like an open would, “I’m so fucking stupid for thinking Soldier Boy would genuinely find me attractive at all.”

Suddenly, she was pushed up against the nearest wall, his growl rumbling down the empty corridor. Both his hands had her shoulders pinned, their chests only inches apart. “You gonna listen, or keep bitchin’?” the look in his eyes was dark. She was frozen in place at the show of strength and aggression. She didn’t wanna listen, but what choice did she have?

“Yeah, I made the bet. Made it so limp dick motherfuckers like Noir couldn’t get to your sexy ass before me,” he rasped.

“Don’t fuck with me,” she argued, “Nobody thinks I’m sexy.”

“Says who?” he quipped.

Her eyes cast down to the eagle on his chest, “Everyone.”

“Oh really? Everyone?” Ben suddenly took her hand and pushed it against the front of his pants. He chuckled and smirked at her wide eyes and small gasp, “Might wanna tell my dick that, honey. He clearly didn’t get the memo.”

He could hear her heart race soar, blood pumping faster to pink her cheeks and roar in her own ears. She looked at him in disbelief. “This sexy body of yours has been drivin’ me nuts!” he groaned, “You know how hard it was not to bend you over that table, lift that lil’ dress up, and fuck you raw? Fuck you like a woman should be fucked?”

Her breathing had turned to desperate pants the more he spoke.

“I’m a greedy motherfucker, baby. When I want something, I get it. Right now, I wanna touch every part of ya that you don’t like and tell ya why it’s my favorite,” his lips pressed against her ear, trailing down her neck, “I know what looks good on a woman’s body. Yours would look better naked and under mine.”

//

“B-Ben…please,” she gasped, clutching the sheets between her fingers.

His reply was the obscene sound of him slurping at her overstimulated pussy. The man had been making out with her weeping center for what felt like hours. The orgasms were beginning to melt together making her brain turn to mush. Ben planned to worship her body head to toe. He stood her in front of a mirror and told her to point out all the things she thought he wouldn’t like.

When she tried to look away from her reflection, he gently wrapped a hand around her jaw and made her look, “Nuh uh. Do as you’re told.”

He saw her eyes glance down, “M-My thighs. They h-have s-stretch marks. They’re t-too big.”

Ben was quick to spread her out on his giant Alaskan king bed to leave his mark on her plush thighs. He could have stayed down there for a few more hours if his cock wasn’t aching to be inside her. It was when he pulled away to let her catch her breath did she notice the ceiling was actually a mirror. A surprised gasp passed her kiss swollen lips seeing Ben’s back muscles flex between her spread legs. Her body felt too heavy to move, so she closed her eyes.

“No,” his voice was stern, “That mirror’s there for a reason, baby. Look at yourself, or I’ll stop.”

A pathetic whine came from her throat that was unrecognizable before she opened her eyes. She watched as he traveled up her body, his broader one obscuring the view of herself. She cried out when he harshly sucked and bit at her breasts. Her hands locked into his hair as she arched into his mouth. Ben made sure to kiss every stretch mark he found before leaving a deep bruise in the shape of his mouth and teeth. He pulled off of her with a pop before switching their position.

Before she knew it, she was laid on top of him, legs resting on either side of his to keep her spread out. She could see in the reflection his dick hard and leaking, twitching when he rutted his hips up to coat it in her slick. Ben wrapped an arm around her under her breasts to keep her in place as his free hand lined his tip up with her entrance. The way he was manhandling her had her lust skyrocketing. She never thought a man would be able to dominate her like that until now.

“Fuck! You’re beautiful,” he growled in her ear as his tip finally slipped inside.

She moaned and tried to move her hips down to sink more of him inside. The arm around her torso held her still, “Patient, sweetheart. Just keep watching.”

Their eyes met in the mirror, the green in his had turned black with desire. Ben nibbled her earlobe and neck as he sunk himself deeper inside until his tip kissed the back of her cervix. A mix between a strangled cry and whimper came out of her mouth as he stretched her out. She struggled not to let her eyes roll back into her head as he began to move. Unable to control himself, Ben started fucking her with purpose. Deep, hard thrusts nearly knocked the breath from her lungs. He watched as her eyes moved between his flexing arm around her and where his dick disappeared inside her.

“See? Look how pretty you are, baby? These pretty tits,” his hands suddenly cupping both of them in his hands, squeezing harshly, “This soft body. Those thick thighs. All of it. All of you gets me so fucking hard.”

She moaned, unable to look away from their reflection now. She was mesmerized by his words and the way his length brushed against that sensitive spot inside her. Every time he hit it, she saw stars. Ben attacked it like it was his mission. Desperate babbling rolled off her tongue as he fucked her with intense purpose. Her brain had officially shut off, too drunk on lust to give a damn about something like insecurities.

His groan vibrated against her back when her walls started clenching down on him, “Cum for me, beautiful. Ya gonna watch? I know I am.”

The band tightened, and tightened, and tightened, so close to the end but not quite there. She cried out in desperate frustration catching Ben’s attention. His right hand left her breast and trailed down her plush stomach until he reached her clit. He circled the little wet pearl with his middle finger in time with his thrusts. She screamed at the overstimulation and came, squirting all over their thighs and the mattress. Ben kept going, drawing out the electricity coursing through her until her hips started jerking away from his hand.

“One more,” he ordered.

“C-C…can’t!” she babbled.

“Oh you’re gonna, baby. I’m ruinin’ this pussy if it’s the last thing I do,” he growled.

He snapped his hips hard, slamming into that gummy spot and making her squirt again. She tried to scream but nothing came out. Her eyes finally looked away to roll into her head, tremors wracking her body as she fell apart. Ben shoved himself as deep as he could when he came. “Fuck!” he moaned as he kept rutting into her until he was completely spent.

She felt like she was floating, barely able to string together a conscious thought. Her body buzzed in the aftershocks of the incredible orgasms he’s wracked her body with. He carefully shifted them to lay on their sides, spooning her and not daring to pull out. He smirked at her trembling body in his arms. “Just relax,” he kissed her temple before glancing up at the mirror, “Good girl. Told you I’d look good on you.”

[jungkoode]

ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 04

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 24, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: female rivalry/competition, eating disorders(eating cotton pads), ballet classes, self-demands, perfectionism, ribbon discarding (or not), convenience store reencounters and small discoveries.

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3,2k

➔ A/N: Okay. Okay. Everyone breathe. Especially me. (I’m the one hyperventilating into a protein bar wrapper at 3AM because I cannot believe this chapter EXISTS.) Welcome back to Altars in Shallow Waters, where we do not chase plot—we let it simmer on low heat while the characters emotionally spiral into the void like aesthetically pleasing depressive ballerinas and bleach-stained ghosts of men!!! ✨🩰🧼 So, this chapter. Let’s talk about her. The real action here is perceptual rupture. The moment you realize someone is watching you, but not in the “flirty eye contact in an indie café” way. No. In the “someone found your discarded legwarmer ribbon and folded it like scripture into their jacket pocket” way. Delicious. Horrifying. Both. Psychologically, this chapter is playing with reciprocal hyperfixation. How the act of being seen can unravel just as much as seeing. She doesn't name it, but she feels it—the way she catalogs his reactions, the way her interest grows when he avoids her eyes, like a cat with a wounded bird. She's measuring his discomfort like a dancer mapping mirror angles. Efficient. But curious. And curiosity? Is the gateway drug to ruin. Also let's talk about that ribbon. Because symbolically, she discards it—functionally useless, easy to forget. But he keeps it. Stores it like evidence of contact. That's how obsession works. You think it’s nothing. You think it’s gone. But it's in someone’s pocket. It's their proof that you touched the world they live in. On a more serious note: mental health themes remain central. He is not quirky. He is unwell. She is not "coolly aloof." She is also unwell. And the way those fractures collide? That’s what this fic is. Not fluff. Not romance. A slow collision of two very broken people who think they’re control freaks, but are actually being dragged by subconscious forces stronger than either of them.

And no, I will not give you relief. Not yet. We’re still descending.

➔ SERIES : PREVIOUS | NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Cotton dissolves like sin on your tongue.

You've perfected this ritual. The pad breaks down slowly against the roof of your mouth, becoming pulp, becoming nothing. The texture no longer bothers you. 

Nothing bothers you before 5 AM.

Your reflection watches with clinical interest. 

Dark circles beneath your eyes. Acceptable. Not ideal, but within parameters. You've calculated the exact amount of concealer needed to erase them—three dots, blended outward in concentric circles. 

Precision matters, even in camouflage.

The cotton expands slightly as you work it around your mouth. Your stomach will feel full for approximately forty-seven minutes. Long enough to get through morning barre without distraction. Long enough to maintain focus when others are already thinking about breakfast.

This is discipline. This is necessary.

Your tongue presses the dissolving fibers against your teeth. No calories. No guilt. 

Just the illusion of consumption that tricks your body into compliance.

The bathroom is eerily silent—except for the sound of your breathing. 

Four counts in, four counts out. The same rhythm you maintain during adagio. The same rhythm your heart should follow during rest periods.

You reach for your hairbrush. The bristles scrape against your scalp, just shy of painful. 

Good. 

Pain means progress. Pain means you're paying attention.

Camille took your hairpins. All of them. The evidence was clear: her side of the room littered with them this morning, carelessly scattered like she couldn't be bothered to hide her sabotage. 

How desperate. How transparent.

You pull your hair back until it hurts. The ponytail is tight enough to create tension at your temples. 

Not your preference—a bun offers cleaner lines, better balance—but you adapt. 

Adaptation is part of excellence.

The last of the cotton dissolves. You rinse your mouth, watching the water swirl down the drain. 

Clean. Empty. Ready.

Your leotard fits precisely as it should. Dark blue, high-necked, modest in cut but not in purpose. The fabric compresses your ribcage just enough to remind you of your boundaries. Your physical limits. The container you must perfect.

White tights. No runs, no snags. 

Navy leg warmers, positioned exactly three inches above the ankle bone. The little ribbons on the front—blue to match—catch your eye. Tacky. Childish. But the color coordinates perfectly with the leotard, and aesthetic cohesion supersedes your opinion on childishness. 

Function over feeling. Always.

The cropped sweater—also white—settles just below your sternum. The ensemble is well thought out. Coordinated. It communicates seriousness, dedication, attention to detail.

These are not clothes. They are statements of intent.

Your reflection assesses you with the same merciless scrutiny you apply to everything. 

Arms: acceptable. Neck: could be longer. Posture: correct. Weight: maintained within 0.4 kilograms of target.

You turn slightly. Check your profile. The curve of your spine, the placement of your shoulders. 

No room for error. No allowance for imperfection.

The cotton has left a slight residue in your mouth—texture that reminds you of your choice. 

Your control. Your discipline.

You think, briefly, of the convenience store. Of the cotton pads in their perfect packaging. Of the man who wouldn't look at you.

Kim.

The name surfaces without permission. An unexpected ripple in the still pond of your morning routine.

You dismiss it. Irrelevant. A random encounter that means nothing.

(But you remember the tremor in his gloved hands. The way he backed away. The way he watched when he thought you wouldn't notice.)

Your dance bag waits by the door, packed according to your usual system. Pointe shoes in their separate compartment. Towel folded precisely in thirds. Water bottle filled exactly to the line you've marked with clear nail polish. Kinesiology tape. Scissors. Antiseptic wipes. Bandages. Everything you need. Nothing you don't.

The dormitory is silent as you move through it. Your footsteps make no sound. You've learned to walk like a ghost. To exist without disturbing the air around you.

The kitchen light is on. Unexpected. Unwelcome.

Elodie stands at the counter, spreading something on toast. Butter, probably. Or worse—jam. Sugar and fat combined in a useless, indulgent paste. 

You grimace. Her lack of will is evident in every bite she takes. 

Every gram of unnecessary calories. 

Every moment wasted on pleasure rather than preparation.

She'll be replaced soon. They all will. The company has no room for weakness.

"Morning," she says, her voice still rough with sleep. "You're up early."

The observation is pointless. You're always up early. 

She knows this. Everyone knows this.

"Yes," you say, because a response is expected, not because the conversation has value.

Her eyes flick to your ponytail. Notice the deviation from your usual style. Her mouth opens slightly—about to comment, to ask, to pry.

You don't give her the chance. "Excuse me."

Two words. Polite but final. 

You move past her, not waiting for a response.

The dormitory door closes behind you as the hallway stretches ahead, empty and dim. 

Perfect. This is how mornings should be. Quiet. Solitary. Undistracted.

You begin the walk to the studio at your usual pace. 

The route never changes. Left from the dormitory. Right at the café that won't open for another two hours. Straight past the bakery where the smell of fresh bread will soon fill the air.

Your stomach tightens. The cotton is doing its job, but barely. 

You focus on your breathing instead. Four counts in. Four counts out.

The streets are empty except for delivery trucks and the occasional cleaner hosing down the sidewalk. 

Paris pretends to sleep, but it never truly does. It just shifts its rhythms, like a dancer moving from allegro to adagio.

Your mind drifts, just slightly, to the convenience store again. To the fluorescent lights that made everything look sickly and unreal. To the man with the gloves who wouldn't meet your eyes.

Kim.

What a curious specimen. 

Most men stare. They always have. 

They look with hunger or appreciation or professional assessment. 

They look because looking is taking, and you are something to be taken.

But he refused to look at all. Refused even to be seen himself.

It was... interesting.

The memory of his downturned face surfaces again. The curtain of washed-out hair. The blue latex gloves worn thin at the fingertips.

You wonder what his hands look like beneath those gloves. If they're as elegant as their shape suggests. If they're damaged somehow. 

Scarred. Diseased.

You wonder why he was afraid.

(You wonder if he's still afraid.)

The thought brings an unexpected sensation. 

A slight warmth in your chest.

A tightening that isn't hunger or discipline or determination.

Then, the studio appears ahead, windows still dark. 

You'll be the first to arrive, as always. The first to warm up. The first to claim your spot at the barre.

You reach for your key card, already positioned in the outer pocket of your bag for efficiency. 

The cotton in your stomach has begun to expand, creating the illusion of fullness. Of satisfaction.

This is discipline. This is necessary.

This is what separates you from Elodie with her toast and jam. 

From Camille with her petty sabotage. 

From all of them with their weaknesses and wants and human frailties.

You are not weak. You are not wanting. You are not frail.

You are becoming perfect.

The studio door beeps as your card registers. For a moment, you think you see movement in your peripheral vision—a shadow shifting, a presence retreating.

You turn your head, just slightly. Just enough to check.

Nothing. Just the empty street. The dim morning light. The faint drizzle that has begun to fall.

You step inside, leaving the outside world behind. 

Here, in the studio, everything makes sense. Everything has purpose. Everything can be controlled, measured, perfected.

The lights flicker on automatically. The empty room waits for you, patient and demanding all at once.

You set down your bag. Remove your sweater. Take your position at the barre.

As you begin your first plié, you notice one of the blue ribbons on your leg warmers has come loose. It dangles precariously, threatening to fall. 

Distracting. Imperfect.

You untie it completely. The ribbon comes away in your hand, a small strip of navy satin. You place it deliberately by the door, next to your things. You'll dispose of it properly later. 

For now, it's been removed. The imperfection excised.

Your gaze returns to the mirrors, reflection multiplying—four versions of yourself executing the same movement precisely. 

Arms: acceptable. Turnout: could be deeper. Neck: elongate further.

You move through your warm-up.

Pliés. Tendus. Dégagés. 

Each movement builds upon the last, preparing your body for what you'll demand of it today. Preparing your mind for the scrutiny that will come.

The door opens at 6:15 and Madame Villon enters first, as always. Her eyes sweep the studio, landing on you without surprise. 

She expects your presence. Your dedication is not remarkable to her. 

It is baseline.

"Good morning," she says, her voice crisp in the quiet room.

You incline your head slightly. "Madame."

She moves to the piano, arranging her notes for the day's class. Her movements are economical. You recognize the discipline in her posture, the control in her hands. 

She was exceptional once. Now she creates exceptionalism in others.

The other dancers begin to arrive. First Mathilde, then Sophie, then Clara. They move to their usual spots, begin their own warm-ups. Their reflections join yours in the mirrors, creating a forest of limbs and torsos and necks all striving toward the same impossible standard.

Camille arrives at 6:27. Three minutes before class officially begins. 

Her hair is already in a perfect bun—the style you couldn't achieve today. 

Her eyes meet yours in the mirror. She smiles. The expression doesn't reach her eyes.

"Morning," she says, her voice pitched to carry. To be heard by others. To create the illusion of friendship.

You nod once. Acknowledge the performance without participating in it.

Her gaze drops to your ponytail. Registers the deviation from routine. Her smile widens slightly—satisfaction poorly disguised as concern.

"No bun today?" she asks, knowing exactly why.

"No," you say, final.

She moves to the barre, taking her position behind Mathilde. 

Her spot in the hierarchy is clear—not quite at the back with the weakest dancers, not quite at the front with you and Elodie. 

Middle tier. Hungry for advancement.

Madame Villon claps once. "Places."

The pianist begins. Your body responds automatically. 

First position. Demi-plié. Rise. Second position. The sequence is as familiar as breathing. 

More familiar, perhaps, since you've never had to think about how to breathe.

Class progresses with its usual intensity. Madame moves among the dancers, making corrections. Her hand on Sophie's waist, adjusting alignment. Her voice sharp as she instructs Léa to extend further, reach higher.

She passes you without comment. Not approval. Not yet. 

Just the absence of correction, which is its own kind of evaluation.

Center work begins. The barre no longer there to support you, to steady you. Just your body in space, responsible for its own balance, its own lines.

You execute each combination flawlessly. 

Not perfect—perfect doesn't exist yet—but flawless in the sense that no one else in the room could identify your mistakes. Only you know the millisecond delay in your spotting during the final pirouette. Only you feel the slight tremor in your supporting leg during the adagio.

These are errors you will correct. 

Weaknesses you will eliminate. 

Imperfections you will excise, like the ribbon from your leg warmer.

Madame calls your name. "Demonstrate the grand allegro, please."

It's not a request. It's not even really a command. 

It's an expectation.

You take your place in the center. Feel the weight of every gaze in the room. The cotton in your stomach has long since dissolved.

The music begins. Your body launches into motion. Jump, turn, land, extend. The combination is complex—designed to test not just technique but musicality, stamina, presence.

You move through it flawlessly again. Each beat accounted for. Each position achieved exactly as choreographed. 

Your breathing remains controlled. 

Your face betrays no effort.

When you finish, landing in fifth position with arms curved perfectly in low fifth, there is a moment of silence. 

Then Madame nods once. Not praise. Acknowledgment.

"Again," she says to the class. "Four at a time."

By the time Madame signals the end of class, your leotard is damp with sweat. Your muscles vibrate with exertion. Your ponytail has loosened slightly—another imperfection to address.

"Thank you, ladies," Madame says. "Rehearsals begin at ten. Do not be late."

The dancers disperse, moving toward their bags, toward the changing rooms. 

Conversations bloom in their wake—discussions of the day's schedule, complaints about sore muscles, plans for the brief break before rehearsal.

You remain at the barre, extending your cool-down. 

There is no benefit to rushing. No advantage to socializing. 

Your body requires proper care if it's to serve your ambition.

Camille passes behind you, her reflection catching yours in the mirror. 

“Lunch later?" she asks, loud enough for others to hear. 

A performance that continues.

"Perhaps," you say, noncommittal. 

You both know you won't join her. 

You both know she doesn't want you to.

The studio empties gradually. Dancers leave in twos and threes, their voices fading as they move down the hallway. 

Soon it's just you and your reflection, multiplied across the mirrored walls.

You finish your cool-down. Move to collect your things. 

The sweater goes back on—your body temperature will drop quickly now that you're no longer working. The water bottle is half-empty. The towel damp with sweat.

You look for the navy ribbon, left by the door where you placed it.

It's gone.

You scan the floor. 

Perhaps it fell. Perhaps it was kicked aside accidentally. 

But there's nothing. The ribbon has vanished.

Your eyes narrow slightly. 

Camille. It must be Camille. 

First the hairpins, now this. 

But why would she take a discarded ribbon? What possible advantage could it give her?

Perhaps it's simply spite. Perhaps it's just another way to demonstrate that your space, your belongings, your boundaries are not truly your own. That nothing here belongs exclusively to you—not even your trash.

Or perhaps it's something else. Something you haven't calculated yet. Some new form of sabotage you'll need to anticipate and counter.

You straighten your ponytail. Adjust your sweater. Shoulder your bag.

The ribbon doesn't matter. It was defective. Discarded. Its loss is irrelevant.

But you remember exactly where you left it. 

Remember that it was there, and now it's not. 

Remember that someone took something of yours, even something you no longer wanted.

You don't know why you're here. 

This purgatory with its flickering lights and linoleum floors that never quite look clean no matter how recently they've been mopped. 

L'heure bleue. 

The convenience store that exists in that strange space between your world and... 

Perhaps it's curiosity. 

Perhaps it's boredom. 

Perhaps it's the man with the ashy blonde hair who seems to vibrate with anxiety whenever you enter his orbit.

Kim.

The protein bars are arranged in descending order of caloric content. You scan the nutritional information with practiced efficiency. This one: 15g protein, 160 calories, 2g sugar. 

Acceptable. Not ideal, but functional. 

Your body requires fuel. Not pleasure, not indulgence—just the bare minimum to maintain performance.

The store is empty except for you and him. The pink-haired girl is absent tonight. No buffer between you and his strange, trembling avoidance.

You approach the counter, place the protein bar down slowly, almost teasing. 

The sound it makes against the surface is soft but there is no mistaking it. 

A statement of presence.

No response.

You wait. Ten seconds. Twenty. Your time is valuable. Each wasted moment is a micro-failure.

You tap one long manicured nail against the counter. Sharp. Demanding. A single finger communicating what your voice shouldn't have to.

Still nothing.

Finally, you clear your throat. 

There's a sudden scattering noise from the back room—something falling, something being knocked over in haste. Then footsteps, quick and uneven.

He emerges from somewhere behind rows of shelves, eyes are fixed on the floor, that curtain of hair hiding his features just as it did before. His shoulders curve inward, making his tall frame seem smaller, less substantial.

He doesn't look at you. 

Doesn't acknowledge your presence beyond the most basic recognition that someone is standing at his counter. His focus fixes on the protein bar as if it's the customer, not you.

"Is the pink-haired girl not working tonight?" Your voice is cool. A simple question requiring a simple answer.

He doesn't respond. His fingers—still encased in those blue latex gloves—hover over the protein bar without touching it. His breathing has quickened, just slightly. Just enough for you to notice.

"Do you work here every night?" Another question. Direct. Uncomplicated.

Nothing. Just that same frozen posture. That same careful avoidance.

How curious. 

How peculiar, this man who seems physically incapable of meeting your gaze. 

As if eye contact might burn him. As if your attention is a weight he cannot bear.

Is he afraid of you? 

The thought brings that same strange warmth to your chest. That same unquantifiable feeling you haven't yet categorized.

"You paid for my cotton pads last time," you say. Not a question this time. A statement of fact. "Why?"

His fingers finally move, picking up the protein bar with such care you might think it was made of glass. He scans it, the beep unnaturally loud in the silent store. 

When he speaks, his voice is so soft you almost miss it.

"Three euros forty."

Just that. Just the price. Nothing more.

You extend your hand with exact change, coins arranged in your palm for maximum efficiency of transfer. 

He doesn't take them from your hand. 

Instead, he places a small plastic tray on the counter, sliding it toward you without making contact.

For coins. So he doesn't have to touch you.

The realization makes something in your chest tighten, and it’s not offense. Not exactly. Something more... interesting.

You place the coins in the tray. He takes it, careful not to brush against your fingers. Counts the money methodically. Places your change in the same tray, slides it back to you.

All without once lifting his eyes to your face.

"Thank you," you say, though you're not sure why. 

The transaction doesn't require gratitude. It's a simple exchange of currency for goods. Nothing more.

He nods once, that same sharp downward jerk of his chin you noticed last time. His hands retreat to his sides, then behind his back, as if he doesn't trust them to behave appropriately in your presence.

You collect your change. Take the protein bar. Turn to leave.

That's when you see it.

A flash of navy blue, peeking from his pocket. Small. Satin. Unmistakable.

The ribbon from your leg warmer. The one you left by the studio door. The one that disappeared.

Not Camille. 

Him.

But how? How did he get it? How did it travel from the dance studio to this convenience store? To his pocket?

You pause, your back to him, processing this new information.

He must have been there. At the studio. 

Must have seen you. Must have taken what you discarded.

The realization should disturb you. 

Should trigger alarm, concern, perhaps even fear.

It doesn't.

Instead, that same strange warmth spreads through your chest—that same unnamed feeling that isn't hunger or discipline or determination.

goal: 250 notes

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Starlight Express Costume Ramblings

So I've been talking about various Starlight costumes, looking at details of specific characters, but there's some things that come up over and over and I thought it might be valuable to talk about some techniques they use, not specific to one character. I'm also totally going to miss really obvious things out on this post because... yeah...

Fabrics - most of the Starlight costumes are hand-painted, hand-printed, and custom dyed spandex fabrics. A lot of what I've seen is supershine heavy stretch satin spandex, the fabric that is known by some combination of those words! It's a good stretch, nylon blend - nylon takes dyes beautifully, polyester does not! The majority of body suits in the show are stretch fabrics, and a lot of the detailing is as well - maybe more for convenience that there's offcuts of the right colour to hand, than the details need to be made from stretch fabric.

Padding - "foam" gets mentioned a lot! But there's different types of foam for different uses.

So, Starlight is a sweaty show. Costumes need to be washed after every performance - which is a challenge with the three dimensional padded suits. The solution is filter foam - the pic here of blue fabric being stitched into rows, we can see the filter foam at the edge. This stuff is great because it's a very open structure compared to other foam, water passes right through it. It is literally meant for aquatic filters, it just happens to be very useful for costuming!

We can see the hanging samples here, of Poppa's overalls (the green speckled fabric) that it's been layered with the foam, then quilted - the costume will also have a lining of the sports mesh we can see in the other photo. This stuff is also great for quick drying, low friction so easy to pull on - important for a lining - and a strong liner. I think the white we see here is Dustin's underbody.

Underwear - the performers wear a full body unitard under the costume. Clearly this isn't hugely popular with the cast, but it's got a vital function - that layer catches all the damaging oils and skincare products, deodorant stains go on the unitard not the costume! We also see Dustin has a harness to take the weight of the big costume.

Straps and Snaps - a very common method of connecting pieces which is so simple when you know - straps that pass through D rings, and snap back onto themselves. Caboose has them particularly exposed connecting his jacket to his belt, but they're used in much more subtle places. Generally the straps will be sewn to the body suit with D rings attached to the panel when it's a matter of attaching solid to fabric, but it can go the other way it seems. The straps seem to be elastic - the stitching on them is always a stretch stitch.

Velcro and Other Fastenings - Buffy here has a big patch of soft velcro that holds her chest box central. The trouble with velcro, you can see here around the velcro patch - the rough velcro EATS spandex! Nylon/spandex fabric won't pill and go fuzzy without a lot of damage - but velcro is enough to do that damage. We can also see some damage around the patches on Ashley's knees, but in both cases, the costume piece being attached more than covers the damaged area, and sometimes velcro is just the exact connection you need and nothing else will do the job!

Kneepads - the kneepads start off with a foundation made of EVA foam. This is covered with the decorative fabrics, then a clear vacuum-formed top layer that is stitched on - that's the thread visible on the edges. Those bowls get scratched up quickly and need replacing quite frequently. The kneepads are held on with three straps - the central strap seems to be fixed, the top and bottom are adjustable to tighten properly to stay in place.

Moulded Decorations - there's a lot of wheels and buffers involved in these trains! They seem to be foam latex - although there is a relatively new mouldable eva foam product that they might well be using now, it seems to last as well as latex and no risk of allergies.

EVA Foam - I'm old, ok? I'm still reeling at the materials that used to be so hard to come by are now actively marketed at cosplayers! One of those things is EVA foam. Back in my day you had to search far and wide to get EVA foam, and cut your own bevels!

But here is the secret to the slinkies - the springs, the sharp profile ridged details. EVA foam in a triangular profile sewn into the fabric gives you the structural shapes, that are still washable. The EVA foam isn't quick drying like filter foam, but it's much stronger and holds its shape. If you were making a one-off cosplay and didn't want to make a mould for the buffers, the cones and spheres cut in half would do you well as a base...

EVA foam is also the base for most of the big costume pieces - either covered in vinyl and painted and decorated, or as the solid inside the vacuum-formed pieces.

I've not covered the skates, or wigs and helmets, what else have I missed? hopefully I've covered some useful details that might satisfy curiosity, or help with cosplay planning!

[uhohdad]

HIS

Another Stalker!Konig x Reader Fic

Summary: Konig has an unhealthy obsession with you. AO3

Word Count: 5k

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Masturbation, Abusive Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, No use of y/n

He had officially lost control over himself.

Konig knew he’d been a little off. Maybe even borderline perverted - but he’s always been good at keeping his darker desires buried with all the other horrific thoughts and traumatic memories that come with his career choices. He was good at that, repressing the difficult things and pushing forward. A soldier has to be.

But you.

You brought it out of him.

It was all your fault, really. You were coaxing the corruption from him, undoing years of rigorous training and discipline.

Not that you were aware. Konig made very sure of that. There were a lot of close calls, too. Decisions he had made out of pure impulse. It’s your fault. He can’t think straight when you’re around, he loses control over himself.

He knows he should quit you. Logically, rationally - he knows this isn’t good for him. It’s not good for you. It’s just not healthy. He should quit you, cold turkey. Forget every little detail he’s learned about you. Stop following you around. Let you free.

He’s tried.

Every time he sees you around base, his gaze is held captive by those beautiful eyes and that silky head of hair, you steal his breath. It’s like he’s lived his entire life in the cruel cold and you were a roaring fire of warmth he’s never known. Your warmth pooled in his chest and spread through his limbs and he could feel you burning beneath his skin. It ignites the complex and dark feelings and he’s convinced that it’s destiny that put you here. That the world was giving you to him on a silver platter.

That you’re his.

Who would be there to watch over you, to protect you? Who will make sure you get back to your quarters safe every night? Who will make sure that the fresh recruits won't get too handsy with you? Who will keep a watchful eye on you in the field - such a small delicate little thing doing such a dangerous job.

But most importantly - who will worship you, like you deserve to be worshiped?

He’s never interacted with you. You probably don't even know he exists. On the surface, he'd say it's because he's nervous. That it’s normal for a guy to avoid a pretty girl. But he knows that it's really because he has to protect you from himself. That he's just an oozing cesspool of unresolved emotional baggage with atrcosious desires. He can't let you too close, no. Doesn't want to hurt you, to dull your light in anyway. He doesn't trust himself with you. Can't control himself around you, throwing caution to wild. He’s afraid of what he's capable of doing to you. What he wants to do to you.

You were his. You just didn't know it yet.

——————————————————————

Friday night was difficult for Konig, as it usually was. It was easy to follow you around base, so convenient that you had both worked together. He was supposed to be there, shielded with plausible deniability and equipped with home field advantage.

A more casual environment was a challenge for him. He didn't exactly blend in among the locals. It's difficult for him - to juggle the harsher risk of getting caught following you around town as opposed to base, while also crippled by his large stature.

At least the team was getting inebriated tonight, it's easier to go unnoticed when everyone’s too drunk to be fully aware of their surroundings.

Watching you have a good time sparks conflicting feelings for Konig. He loves to see that radiant smile. Usually you're so modest, always a polite smile, never letting your face warp. The beer, though, turns your insecurities to ash and your cheeks a rosy blush - you don't seem to hold back as much. Your smile is toothy and face-wrinkling, so genuine, it makes Konig feel like he can't breathe, eyes locked on to you like he's frozen in time. He knows he's not worthy of that smile, but he wants it.

It should be him making you smile like that.

He can hear your laugh from his booth in the dimmest corner of the dingy bar if he tilts his head just right, and listens carefully. Drown out the over-the-top music and incessant pub chatter. He could get intoxicated off your laugh, unrestricted and fueled by the alcohol. It makes him feel so warm to hear your authentic laugh.

It should be him making you laugh like that.

He loves seeing you enjoy yourself, he does. He wants nothing more than to see you happy and he works hard to do so.

And yet you give your joy away to others, - not the polite smiles and fake laugh you dull down for others - the real ones. The ones that come from deep within and give breath to any room you're in. Giving them away freely, and to who? Your co-workers? Your acquaintances?

Over what? A cheap joke?

He bets that it wasn't even funny. Not that you didn't have a good sense of humor, no, he loved your sense of humor.

It’s just... did you really have to rub it in?

You didn't see it, but you really did have the power to make a room so much more livelier. Konig hates not being in the same room as you. And he hates that in most rooms you're in, those hard-headed jocks from 141 followed. You'd been indoctrinated quickly. He can't blame you, you're naive, trusting, still new. You're quick, though, you’ll learn soon enough. You didn't see them for what they really were yet.

Not worthy of you.

Not worthy of your perfect laugh and radiant smile and quick wit and sharp field skills.

He despised that they get a front row seat and he has the wait in the shadows for scraps, working incredibly hard to lap up the leftovers of what you give out to them for free.

Konig gave a long exhale under his breath, closing his eyes and tilting his head back slightly as he tried to will away the vitriol boiling under his skin. He felt himself slipping away to that depraved place and he had to ground himself.

You had that effect on him, making him lose control.

When Soap throws his arm around you, and you don't even seem to notice or care, lost in the story you're telling, your hands waving along with your excited tone, Konig thinks he's about to lose his mind. It feels like you've stabbed him, liebe, why are you letting this happen? Why aren't you shaking his stupid hand off your shoulder and giving him a scowl so powerful he’d never dare to do it twice?

Why are you still laughing and smiling and carrying on when Soap is touching something that belong to him?

When you finish telling a story that Konig is sure was brilliant and wonderful and perfect, Soap leans in inches from your face to whisper something to you. Konig can't read his lips, can't understand what he's whispering in your ear as he half-way embraces you.

Your eyebrows pull as you focus on his hushed voice over the commotion of the bar. Recognition floods you and a cheeky smile creeps across your face.

Konig’s nails are digging into his palms. His mind is racing and that bitter taste in his mouth turns his lips into a scowl.

He watches as you both stand and Soap finally removes his arm from you, finally. It was draped over your delicate shoulders much too long for his liking.

Where are you two headed, though? Off to the bathroom so he can seduce you while you're inibriated? Going to sneak you out of the pub while the rest of the team is distracted, just to push you up against some dingy alleywall, not able to resist another moment without knowing what it's like to kiss your lips?

Or, God help him, what if it wasn't the first time? What if you had already kissed him?

How long has this been going on, right under his nose?!

Konig’s slipping again, his thoughts running from him. Upon realizing he hasn't taken a breath this whole time he forces a few deep inhales, nostrils flared in uncontrollable rage.

This is your fault, you know.

A wave of relief floods him when you two stop at the bar, squeezing between the stools of the counter as you attempt to flag a bartender.

When the bartender notices you both, Soap’s hand finds your shoulder again, holding on for just a little too long as he relays your drink order to the bartender.

That should be him getting you a drink.

That should be him with his hand on your shoulder.

You and Soap are smiling as you chat, he can't hear what about, but Konig is hoping it’s just alcohol that’s to blame for your flushed cheeks.

The bartender returns with your drinks and yet you two linger by the counter, continuing your one-on-one conversation. What’s so great about him, huh? Why aren’t you two returning to the group?

He watched as you press the plastic cup to your lips and take a sip of your drink, eyes trained on Soap as he obnoxiously holds you in conversation. He hates that about the 141 boys. It’s easier for Konig when you’re all in a group, but it always seems like those boys all want their private moment with you.

He knows he can’t blame them, of course they want to talk to you. They can see your light just like Konig can. Liebe, you just don’t understand, they don’t have good intentions with you. They want to control you, dim you, ruin you.

It should be him ruining you.

Breathe. He has to breathe. Through gritted teeth, a snarled lip, and flared nostrils he has to breathe.

He’s suffocating on his own anger and the air in the bar is stuffy. He needs a break, a break from you but he needs to stay and make sure Soap doesn’t try to take advantage of you. Could he even blame him at this point? When you’re looking at him with those doe eyes and giggling like a naive schoolgirl at whatever shtick he’s peddling at you.

You’ve reached the level of intoxication where the alcohol is going down easy, Konig noticed. Not even a grimace as you sip your drink.

You’re shaking your head at Soap, and you give him a point paired with a cheeky expression. You both are finally heading back to the group, and Konig feels safe enough to leave his watch to slip out for some fresh air.

He needs to regroup, find his center.

This is all your fault.

You were acting so irresponsibly tonight. Letting these boys so close to you while you’re inebriated. So vulnerable. Chugging your drinks like you’re trying to make yourself stumble. Being your true, authentic self in their presence. Out in public, for anyone to see. It’s like flashing your expensive jewelry in the shady parts of town. So careless with your light, liebe.

This is why he has to watch you. To protect you. You’re too careless to do it yourself.

He’s got his eyes closed as he rests his back on the brick of the pub, having to remind himself to breathe.

You just make him so angry sometimes.

And then he hears your laugh. That genuine laugh he craved so much to hear. Craved to elicit from you. That beautiful laugh that fills his chest with warmth and makes his stomach flutter.

But it’s too close, way way too close.

He opens his eyes in a panicked jolt and he sees you, pushing open the pub door with your attention turned to the boy following you out.

Konig quickly shuffles backwards, not turning his back away from the action. He slips into the alleyway, body pressed up against the brick to shield himself.

He was always careful to keep his distance from you. He’s so recognizable, easy to pick out in a crowd. A stature you’d remember twice. It’s crucial that he stays on the opposite sides of the room of you, as far as possible.

Thankfully you two aren’t paying very good attention to your surroundings.

Oh, liebe. Always in your own little world. Unaware of the dangers that could be lurking in the shadows. Another reason why he has to watch over you. You’re not watching where you’re stepping, either, liebe. Stumbling as you step to the sidewalk.

What were you doing out here? Coerced from the safety of the herd again by one of them.

Not just any of them - Ghost.

Soap was annoying, sure, but his frat-boy shtick was an easier pill to swallow than Ghost. He was the one he hated more than any of them.

Konig knows you like him.

Simon fucking Riley.

With his perfect accent and tough exterior and mystique that attracted the women like honey attracts flies.

What did Ghost have that he didn’t?

You’re drunkingly humming the song that was playing in the bar. It doesn’t sound so over-the-top when it’s coming from you.

“Rowdy tonight, are we?” Ghost says, never straying from his usual gravely and unimpressed tone.

Konig has to force himself not to mock Ghost. Instead he hopes you can’t hear the sound of him grinding his teeth in rage.

He’s so fucking pretentious, so fucking arrogant. How dare he tease you? And for what, being lovable? What you do best?

Konig can hear you give a long drawn out hum as you think it over, “You have to be, every once in awhile. Good to let it out sometimes.” Konig hears gravel scraping under one of your shoes. “Would you prefer I be extra rowdy once a week? Or a little rowdy everyday?”

You’re so charming. Konig loves the way your mind works, always with your silly little prompts and thought experiments. You were always such a daydreamer, he could tell by the way you get lost in thought. If you totally zone out, and he watches careful enough, he can catch you making slight facial expressions at your own thoughts. He wishes he could pick your brain. Learn you from the inside out, always knowing what you’re thinking.

Ghost lets out a huff and Konig hears the unmistakable sound of a lighter being struck, and his brows pinch. He can’t help but peek around the corner and get a visual on you two.

Ghosts’ lighting himself a cigarette, the flame illuminating his face. Once it’s burning, he holds it between his first two fingers as he exhales the smoke. He passes the lighter to you - since when do you smoke, liebe?

You’re just doing it to impress him, aren’t you?

“Those are my only two options?” Ghosts asks you on an exhale. Even though you’re about to light your own, he still makes an effort to not blow smoke in your beautiful face.

“Well, what else do you suggest I do with my rowdiness? Bottle it up like you?” You say with a cheeky tone. Konig can tell your words are influenced by alcohol. You normally wouldn’t speak to your Lieutenant like this.

You knew you’d get away with it, too. With your devilish smile and teasing eyes.

Konig watches as you put the cigarette to your lips and he feels his cock twitch in his pants.

When the orange flame casts a light on your features it’s like someone took his breath from him. He’s never seen you lit like this before, liebe. The highlights and shadows cast upwards on your features was fit for a painting.

It’s gone in an instant, but you still look so beautiful in the moonlight. You pass Ghost’s lighter back to him. Konig can’t hold back his scowl at the way you brush up against his fingers. He’s hoping it’s just because you’re drunk, uncoordinated.

Ghost holds this cigarette with his mouth as he slides the lighter back into his pocket. He exhales while keeping his gaze forward, “I think the word you’re looking for is discipline, soldier.” His tone is still unchanged, but he gives you a sly glance from the corner of your eyes.

Ghost doesn’t let it show much, but Konig can see from here that even he has a soft spot for you. That’s the light you have, liebe. Able to crack the toughest of exteriors.

“Discipline? Oh, yeah. I remember that one. In the dictionary, it’s the one right next to boring, yeah?” Your whole body is turned toward him, and you’ve still got that cheeky smile on your face, your tone playful.

Could you make it anymore obvious that you want to fuck him, liebe? It’s like you’re slashing Konig with each word, it hurts so much to see you acting so irresponsibly. So intoxicated that you’re flirting with your superior.

Ghost huffs again, and Konig can tell he’s amused with you, even if it came off as annoyed. He takes another draw from his cigarette and flicks away some ash.

“Thesaurus.” He corrects.

“Gesundheit.” You say proudly.

Oh, liebe. You’re practically begging him to fuck you. Pushing your chest out and kicking your feet sweetly and flirting with him like the whore you are.

Breathe. He can’t lose his cool here. He’s trying to soothe his temper, but how can you expect him to do that when you’re acting like this? So fragrantly?

Konig’s teeth are about to crumble under the pressure and his nails are breaking the skin in his palms as he clenches his fists.

This is your fault.

You both take a hit from your cigarette, and Konig can’t believe you’ve allowed him to corrupt you like this so soon. Smoking? What a terrible habit. He’ll have to interfere if you keep it up.

You both still for awhile, basking silently in the nicotine buzz and taking in the evening. The moon was bright tonight, and the street was quiet compared to the overwhelming pub.

Konig watched you close your eyes just a little too long, and he’s wondering how far gone you are. What terrible things will happen if he were to let you out of his sight. Konig’s tired, but he hardly gets rest anymore. It’s difficult managing his career, protecting you, and stay well rested. He can’t forgo the first two, so his sleep suffers.

You’re worth it liebe. You’re all he thinks about from the moment he wakes up to the moment he falls asleep.

But did you really have to keep him out so late?

Don’t you think you’ve put his heart through the chipper enough today?

You extinguish your cigarette on the red brick behind you. You don’t litter, no. How considerate of you to take it in with you to toss. Ghosts is less thoughtful, flicking his butt to the ground and stepping it out with his boot.

You slip back into the pub, and Konig briefly considers pulling Ghost into the alley and ending your fling right now.

He resists his urges, something that’s becomes more difficult the longer he observes you, seething from his alleyway as he watches Ghost follow you in.

He didn’t even get the door for you, liebe. Konig would treat you so much better.

Konig has to let all these feelings out somewhere, and he was far from the battlefield. He opts for the metal bin in the alleyway filled to the brim with empty beer bottles and pub garbage. A firm kick paired with an aggressive grunt imprints the metal with his boot as it knocks over, it’s contents spilling out into the puddles of the alleyway with clinks and rattles.

He takes a few more deep breaths.

He was never like this before. Anxious thoughts were one thing, but this constant feeling of rage and jealousy and obsession boiling underneath his skin has only swelled the more he observes you. He’s never felt like he doesn’t have control over himself, over his actions.

This is your fault.

Konig tries to soothe himself by shutting his eyes and picturing you flirting with him instead of Ghost. That it was Konig who had snuck you away for a drunken cigarette. That it was him you were pushing your chest out for, him you were desperately flirting with.

It does ease the depravity a bit, and he casually slips back into the pub. He was still angry, don’t get him wrong, but his nerves about leaving you alone with them overcame his rage.

So he sits back down in his dingy little corner, keeping an eye on you listening to the story being told and finishing your drink.

He thinks you must be close to calling it quits judging by the way your eyes keep fluttering shut. You’re getting sleepy, holding back a yawn as you stretch your back against the booth.

A few minutes pass, and you say something to the group, probably a goodbye, as you stand and gather your items. You head for he bar and pay your tab, and who other than Simon Riley walks up to the counter as you wait for the bartender to return with change.

He leans against the bar, facing the opposite direction as he turns his head to look at you. Konig’s trying to make out what he’s saying but can’t hear over the noisy pub. You wave your hand at him dismissively.

Good, liebe, shut him down.

Ghost continues, his hands draped casually on the bar behind him. You roll your eyes a bit at him, giving a half-smile.

No. Whatever he’s offering you is bad news. Don’t let him pressure you, liebe.

You thank the bartender oh so sweetly, and turn towards the door as you stuff your change sloppily into your wallet. Ghost slinks from his propped up position and follows you.

Konig’s eyes narrow, watching as Ghost follows you closely behind.

Going to trick you back to his place and then take advantage of you?

What else could it be? Ghost must of saw his opportunity and took it. This is all because you couldn’t act responsibly, liebe.

After a moment passed, Konig follows you two out of the pub and traces your steps. He’s careful, keeping a block and a half between you. Had you not been so inebriated, he might have followed further behind and been a bit more discreet. But you don’t have an eye for detail at the moment and Ghost is too busy guiding you along and keeping an eye on your unsteady strides on the sidewalk to notice.

Konig has to force himself not to jog to catch up in an attempt to decipher the echos of your words as they reverb off the quiet streets.

When you’re back on base, Konig is able to close some distance thanks to the cover of foliage.

The base is mostly empty, the workers and soldiers either home or sleeping in their quarters. Konig’s able to crouch behind some bushes a safe distance from you, able to see flashes of your lower halves through the branches. He's careful to be still as he quiets his breathing.

He’s close enough to hear you both now.

“Thanks for walkin’ me back.” You say, words slurring a bit.

“It’s my job to look out for the team. Especially when they don't know how to hold their liquor.”

Konigs heart pinches in his chest.

It’s his job to look out for you.

“Liquor? I barely even know her!” You say with a proud smile as you fumble your key in your lock.

Ghost gives an unamused sigh.

You finally get your door open, “Night Lt.”

“Goodnight.” He stays stiffly, waiting for you to be safely inside before turning away from your door and heading off. Konig stays in his spot amongst the bushes until he's gone.

He’s glad Ghost left, didn't try to take advantage of you. The interaction still leaves a knot in his stomach. How dare Ghost take care of you, make sure you were safe. That’s what Konig was for.

Once Konig is sure the coast is clear, he sneaks around the side of the building, heading for the small window you had. He’s delightfully surprised when he can see the light pouring from inside your modest quarters.

Usually you had the blinds closed at this hour. Guess you were too drunk to care.

You were too drunk to care about a lot of things, Konig noticed, as he nested into a spot obscured by your window, just the top of his head and eyes showing from your view. You had skipped your shower and forgo most of your normal night routine, your cares dulled by the booze.

This was his favorite part of the day. When he could have you all to himself - he despises having to share you. He enjoys observing you when you think no one’s watching. When you feel safe enough to shed the facet of your persona in charge of social life, and just let yourself be. The real you, liebe.

Of course there was the intoxication - so you weren’t quite yourself - but he still enjoys watching you in your natural environment. You turn off the lights, it takes a moment for Konig’s eyes to readjust, and he watches as you stumble over to your bed, shedding your clothes down to your underwear before collapsing onto your bed.

Konig can’t help the ache that fills the give in his pants as he maps your uncovered features.

It’s like you were sending him a message. A thank you for keeping you out of trouble all day, even though you acting were so difficult.

You’re forgiven.

How can he stay mad at such an engel? When your gorgeous body is on display, just for him. His gaze is tracing the curve of your delicate hips and your perfect ass in those cute little panties. Not for anyone else, not any of those boys on the 141. No, this show was just for him. You even left the blankets off you and the blinds open for him so he could get a perfect view. You’re so considerate, liebe.

Your hands are propped under your head as you drift off and he cant help but imagine himself straddling you, cock grinding against your ass as he kisses along the dip of your back, holding those pretty little wrists down. He’s been able to restrain himself, but the last few weeks the urge is unshakable. He doesn’t know how much longer he can go without sneaking into your room, liebe. He just wanted to know what it was like to be in your space. Where you sleep and decompress and get ready for the day. He wonders how many times you’ve pleasured yourself on that modest little mattress.

His cock is at full attention now, and he can’t help but palm himself through his pants.

He needs to get close you. Close enough to take in all the precious details of your features. Close enough to hear you breathe. Close enough to feel the warmth that radiates from your skin. Close enough to figure out what your shampoo smells like.

You probably wouldn’t even mind.

His gaze flicks over briefly to the lock to your quarters. He wonders if you’re in a deep enough sleep not to stir if he were to pick it.

You’re practically inviting him in. You can’t possibly expect to tease him like this and expect him to control himself? You’re giving yourself to him.

Desperate hands pop the button of his pants, shoving his hand into his waistband in order to find some relief. He can’t stop staring at your beautiful body, liebe. He wants to wake you up with your cunt in his face, already dripping from his tongue making gentle circles around your clit. Too turned on to deny him. He wants you to helplessly come on his face, his grip digging into your plush thighs as he forces you spread and holds you steady though the convulsing of intense orgasm.

He takes a look around, making sure no one was around before pulling his cock out, his grip firm on the base as he pumps himself. He just can’t help it. Not when you’re sprawled on the bed and showing off your body for him.

He’s thinking about how your hands would cling to him, nails clawing to get him off your pulsing clit, but he would hold firm, taking advantage of your sensitively. He wants to you powerless to the pleasure, the only resistance you’d be capable of is desperate and broken pleading as he hungrily commits your taste to memory. It’s the least you could do for him, after everything he‘s done for you.

His other hand presses up against the cool wall, holding him steady as he jerks himself off.

Precum is leaking from him as he pictures you, mumbling sweet nothings and reduced to a trembling mess. You wouldn’t even have it in you fight him as he lines his cock up with your dripping cunt, pushing his tip in and savoring how tight you are as you stretch around him.

He wants to ruin you, liebe. Reduce you to a whining and quivering mess as he pounds into you.

The visual you gifted him had him so excited, he didn’t last long. He spilled come all over the concrete wall beneath your window sill, some dripping to the dirt beneath his feet. His whole body shakes at the intensity of the orgasm, involuntarily hunching forward and choking off any noises begging to escape him. He’s imaging he’s filling you up with his come, staking his claim deep inside you. Claiming his ownership.

He’s still for a moment, taking hitched breaths as he recovers from his orgasm.

Once his thoughts return, the flush on his features transitioned from the warmth of pleasure to the heat of shame, looking to you lying on your bed sleeping, then to his mess scattered outside your window as he crouches outside.

He’s out of control, he can’t help himself, liebe. He wasn’t usually like this. It was just for you - you brought it out of him. It was all your fault, you’ve reduced him to a perverted peeping tom by teasing him like this. Purposefully making him jealous, messing with his emotions, and then luring him back with your beauty. He knew what game you were playing, he was smart enough to understand the power you held over him. He still could not resist you.

You will be punished for how you’ve been treating him, liebe. The tortuous weeks you’ve put him through. He will ruin you. Dig his nails in, train you until you are right where he wants you, never able to hurt him again.

You were his, liebe. You just didn’t know it yet.

Part Two

Original Works Masterlist

[mggssocks]

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: Fem!Kook!Reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: explicit sexual content, MC being kind of a bitch lol.

a/n: here's an extra long chapter to hold you over until I have the chance to start writing chapter five! also look at the scene matching with this gif and the end of the chapter (super proud of myself lol)

Rafe is sprawled across your bed. Comfortable. Too comfortable. He’s in his boxers- which are still damp, but not enough for him to care. Not that the two of you did anything. He just strolled in, stripped down, and claimed your bed like it was his birthright. He even tossed his clothes into your hamper without asking, like he lives here.

You’re lucky you’ve been doing your own laundry. If Chelsea -your parents’ maid- had been the one to collect it this week, she’d have a full-blown heart attack finding Rafe Cameron’s drenched designer jeans and clinging white shirt buried among your sleep shorts and socks. She’d tell your mother. And your mother would start planning your elopement or your funeral.

You kneel in front of the hamper now, fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, trying to ball it up in yours. You shove it down deep, beneath your soft tees and cotton tanks, hoping it blends in when you load the washer later.

Your eyes flick up instinctively -just a glance- but you pause when you see him.

He’s lying on his side now, one arm propped under his head, completely focused on the TV. Fran Fine is mid-rant, exaggerated and nasal and ridiculous as always, and Rafe- Rafe Cameron of all people- actually chuckles.

Real. Quiet. Almost soft.

You mentally curse yourself because, God help you, you smile at the sound.

“You’re watching The Nanny now?” you ask, trying to shake off the warmth threatening to melt the iciness you’ve worked so hard to maintain around him.

He shrugs, eyes still on the screen. “She’s hot. And mean. I like her.”

“Figures.” You stand, brushing your hands on your thighs and leaning against your dresser. 

“So, are you gonna tell me why you’re really here, or are you just planning on hiding from a hurricane in my bed all night?”

He glances at you, the humor flickering off his face just for a second. It’s quick. Almost invisible. But you catch it.

“Tannyhill lost power,” he says. It’s nonchalant. Too easy.

You narrow your eyes. “You have a generator.”

“It broke.”

“Convenient.”

His mouth tugs slightly to the side. Not a smirk. Something else. You don’t push- yet. But you don’t sit down either. You keep your distance, because even when he’s lying half-naked in your bed, Rafe has a way of making you feel like you’re the one exposed.

“You always deflect like this?” you ask. Your tone is light, but your eyes are sharp.

He stretches a little, but not lazily. Like he’s restless. Like there’s something crawling under his skin that he doesn’t want to name.

“You always interrogate your houseguests?” he volleys back, gaze fixed on the ceiling now.

“Only the ones who sneak in soaking wet, throw their clothes in my hamper, and then pretend they don’t have an agenda.”

Silence hangs for a beat. The laugh track from the TV fills the background. His fingers drum lightly on the blanket, a steady rhythm that’s meant to distract from the way his jaw tightens.

You don’t know what it is -can’t name it- but something is off. Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just… off.

His chest rises on a slow inhale. “Can’t I just be here because I wanted to see you?”

You blink. Once. Twice.

“You ghosted me.”

His eyes finally meet yours again. This time, there’s no smirk.

“Yeah.” It’s all he says. But his voice sounds… hollow.

You shift, your arms folding across your chest like a shield. “You didn’t want to see me when you were with Sofia.”

The name hits the air like static.

Rafe looks away. Scrubs a hand down his face. He’s unraveling in micro-movements now. The twitch of a brow. The way his foot taps once, like he’s trying to ground himself.

You watch all of it.

And you realize he’s not just here for you.

He’s hiding from something.

And maybe you’re not sure what.

But the storm inside him feels a lot louder than the one howling outside your windows. You make your way toward the bed and let yourself fall backward, the mattress dipping beneath you with a soft thump. The fabric of your dress shifts as you land, the neckline gaping just enough to expose the slope of your cleavage.

You feel his eyes almost instantly. Of course he’s looking.

Rafe’s gaze settles in that small reveal like it’s a goddamn magnet, his head tilting just slightly to try and catch more than he should.

You groan- frustration painted over faint satisfaction that he’s even here.

You hate how much of you wants him to look.

“I can make you make that sound for real, if you want,” he says, voice thick with teasing, one hand creeping slowly across the mattress, reaching for your frame.

You roll to your side, deliberately facing away from him. “Don’t touch me.”

He huffs a low, amused breath. “You’re relentless.”

His head tips back and he presses the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing like he’s trying to clear his thoughts- or erase them.

“You’re basically naked in my bed during a hurricane and still not telling me why you’re here.”

“Does there need to be a reason?”

“Yes.”

You flip back over, propping yourself on your elbows. Your legs kick lightly behind you, your nightgown slipping ever so slightly up your thighs. It’s innocent enough- except nothing about you looks innocent to him in this moment.

Your hair’s a little messy, your lips a little pouty, your tone annoyed but your presence undeniably inviting.

And Rafe can barely sit still.

“I can say anything,” he shrugs, eyes gliding over your legs, “but honestly? I just wanna put you through the mattress.”

It’s a dodge. A cover. But he’s not exactly lying either. Your legs stop swinging.

The warmth that pulses from the center of your body startles even you, and the way your thighs press just slightly together isn’t lost on him.

You study him for a beat. Trying to decide if that’s really it. If he just came here in the middle of a storm with soaking wet clothes -and those eyes that don’t miss a thing- just to get off.

You don’t buy it. So you shift. Slowly. Crawling over the bed until you’re straddling his hips.

He leans back on his elbows, a smug expression already blooming on his lips. He thinks you’re giving in.

You are- but not in the way he expects.

You slide one finger down his chest, stopping right above the waistband of his boxers.

“Tell me why you’re really here,” you whisper, lips hovering just above his, “and I’ll let you do exactly that.”

It’s a power move. But it’s not just a game. You need to know.

Because if he says the wrong thing, you’re pushing him off this bed so fast his wet clothes won’t even be put in your washer yet by the time he hits the front porch.

Rafe’s lips part. His hands grip your waist. You feel the shift in him almost instantly. His cocky mask falters, just slightly, and when he looks up at you now- he isn’t teasing.

He lets out a long, slow breath and gently lifts you off him, settling you beside him instead. You blink, caught off guard. His hand stays at your hip, grounding you.

“I saw your dad,” he says quietly.

You stiffen.

“In his car. With some woman.”

He swallows. His voice is different now- low, but not cruel. Careful, even.

“She was… younger. Blonde. Not like your mom. It wasn’t professional.”

Your throat tightens. But you don’t cry. You don’t say anything for a long moment- just stare at the ceiling, your chest rising and falling in careful, quiet breaths.

He moves closer, resting a hand across your stomach, thumb brushing soft circles into your side. You still don’t speak. But you don’t pull away either. So he stays. Holding you like it’s the only way he knows how to tell the truth.

You think.

Everything floods in at once-memories crashing into you like the rain against your windows. Every single day you’ve ever lived with your father as the backdrop… flashes in an instant. You remember being little, standing on his dress shoes while he spun you around the kitchen.

You remember the way he spoiled you-waking up to a brand-new car on your sixteenth birthday, thousands spent on impromptu girls’ nights just because you’d had a rough week. His voice echoing in your head, giving advice that always started wise but ended in rants. Rants that bled into pressure. 

Pressure to be someone. To be perfect. To follow a path he traced for you before you ever chose it yourself.

All those speeches about honor. Discipline. Control. And yet he gets to blow it all up?

He gets to cheat on your mother. To destroy your family from the inside out. And somehow you’re the one who’s supposed to keep it together? Screw that. If he gets to live however he wants-why can’t you?

Fuck it. Fuck him. Fuck this.

Before you even realize it, your body moves faster than your thoughts. You swing a leg over Rafe’s lap, straddling him again- and this time, your lips find his without hesitation.

It’s fast. Needy. Dizzy with heat and frustration.

Your hands slide up his chest, wet hair sticking slightly to your fingers as you kiss him like he’s the only solid thing in your storm.

But he stops you. Pulls back just slightly, breath heavy against your cheek.

“Woah, woah, woah-” his hands frame your waist, voice suddenly more serious. “You sure?”

His brows knit together. He’s not cocky now. Just searching your face like he’s trying to read the cracks in you.

Your hands slide into his damp hair, tugging slightly. Your eyes meet his, glassy but firm.

“I’m sure.”

You kiss him again- deeper this time. And this time… he doesn’t pull away. Everything is happening too fast for you to think straight, let alone wisely.

You’re about to have sex with a guy who’s been toying with your feelings- who’s made you question yourself more times than you can count.

And for what? Because your dad is cheating? Because everything feels like it’s falling apart and you need something -someone- to anchor you?

The rationale is gone. Slipped through your fingers and twisted up somewhere with the wind and the rain and the chaos of the hurricane outside.

All that’s left is impulse. Heat. The ache for control in a moment where everything else is spinning.

Your lips refuse to part from his, greedy and feverish, like letting go might shatter the spell. You shift, pressing into your knees, lifting yourself just enough to tug your nightdress up and over your hips. The fabric pools around your waist as your skin meets the humid air.

Rafe follows your lead, his hands moving with an eager kind of restraint as he pushes his boxers down, the wet fabric sliding over his thighs.

Your hand slips between your bodies, slow and intentional, fingers wrapping around him with a teasing touch that makes him inhale sharply through his nose. You trace him softly, deliberately, watching his face shift.

But then- he breaks the kiss. Breathless. Serious.

“My wallet’s in the car. I don’t have a condom,” he admits, his voice low.

You pause, logic flickering in your mind. You’re not on birth control. You should stop this- back out, or at least settle for something safer. Mutual pleasure. Hands. Mouths. No risk. But… yolo… right?

You hold his gaze, deadpan. “Your pull-out game better be A1.”

He studies your face, just for a second, then nods with that cocky, reassuring smirk. “It is.”

You lift yourself off the bed, positioning yourself perfectly over Rafe's rigid length, which still glistens from your wetness. You pretend the wetness between your thighs only started now- not when he first walked through the door, rain-soaked and smug, his shirt clinging to every inch of his body.

Sinking down onto him, your eyes flutter shut in pure bliss as your walls envelop his thick cock. Rafe's breath catches and his muscles relax into the mattress beneath him. You start slow, your hips rolling in a deliberate, sensual rhythm. But it doesn’t stay gentle for long-soon, the pace quickens, urgency building as you rock and grind against him, your movements growing more desperate, more unrestrained.

Your palms press firmly against his chest, grounding yourself against the steady rise and fall of his breath as you move harder over him. His skin is warm under your touch, muscles taut beneath your fingers, and you use his strength like an anchor, chasing that high.

The bed creaks in protest, shifting under the rhythm of your body, but you barely register it-too wrapped up in the overwhelming pleasure building low in your stomach.

Typically, riding isn’t your first choice in bed. Not even your second. Honestly? It’s probably your last. But tonight, with the way Rafe’s hands grip your thighs, the way his eyes are locked onto you like you’re the only thing that exists-it feels different. 

The rhythm between you builds, your body rising and falling against his as the storm outside rages on, a chaotic symphony to match the one unfolding in your bedroom. The faint hum of The Nanny still plays in the background, Fran Fine’s voice comically misaligned with the tension in the room. But there’s only so much the TV can cover-only so many moans and stifled gasps it can excuse.

Your bed creaks beneath you, the headboard tapping softly against the wall with each movement. It’s not violent-just insistent. Focused.

Then you feel it bubbling up, the pleasure threatening to crest. You let out a moan- his name, breathy and high-and suddenly his hand is over your mouth, smirking underneath you like the smug bastard he is.

“Careful,” he murmurs, cocky and low, his eyes half-lidded. “You sound like you want your parents to know you’re getting ruined right now.”

“Shut up, smart ass,” you moan out, breath catching in your throat as you use what’s left of your strength to flip the both of you over. He lets you -chuckling into your neck- but the moment your back hits the mattress, he takes control again, slipping his hands under your thighs and shifting his weight so he’s hovering over you.

The smirk is still there, cocky as ever, but softened now by something else-something heavier. 

He leans in, brushing his lips over yours just once before speaking, voice barely above a whisper.

“You like it better when I’m on top, don’t you?”

You don’t answer, but the way your legs tighten around his waist is more than enough. He grins, lowering his hips to meet yours again, slower this time- deeper. Your head falls back into the pillow with a breathy gasp.

“I knew it,” he mutters, lips trailing along your jaw. “You act like you hate me, but your body-” he pauses, pushing into you harder, “-she’s honest.”

You bite your lip, trying not to give him the satisfaction of another moan, but it slips out anyway. The storm outside rages louder, the windows rattling in their frames-but here, in this moment, the only thing that exists is him. And the way he’s ruining you.

“Rafe-I’m so close,” you breathe out, voice breaking on the moan that follows.

Before the sound can fully leave your lips, his hand covers your mouth again-smooth, familiar, like he’s done it a thousand times. The move is effortless, casual. His other hand stays braced beside your head while his mouth travels down your neck, teeth grazing your collarbone. You gasp beneath his palm, nails clawing into his back without mercy, dragging red lines down his skin like you’re trying to anchor yourself to the moment.

There’s no explaining this if your parents come knocking. No “it was the TV” excuse that could cover the sound of the bed hitting the wall like this. Your muffled moans. The low growl of Rafe’s voice against your skin.

“You feel so good,” he murmurs, lifting his head to look at you-his hand still on your mouth, his eyes locked on yours. “So damn tight- taking me so well. Just like I knew you would.”

Your eyes roll back and he grins through his own panting, watching you unravel beneath him. His pace falters just slightly, his own release not far behind. You can feel it in the way his hips stutter, the way his breath hitches when your legs clamp tighter around his waist.

You’re dangerously close now- your body burning, your thoughts a haze of pleasure and disbelief that this is happening. That he’s here. That this is him.

And when you cum, it hits like a wave- your whole body shaking under him as you cry out into his hand, back arching, toes curling. Rafe swears low, pulling you in tighter, chasing his own high until he pulls out and releases -finally- collapsing on top of you, breathing hard, both of you soaked in sweat and silence except for the distant thunder outside.

His hand finally drops from your mouth. He presses a kiss to your shoulder- surprisingly soft. And for a moment, the only thing either of you can do… is breathe.

“So it’s official… your pullout game is strong,” you tease, your voice still breathless, a lazy smirk curling at your lips.

Rafe lets out a low chuckle, following your gaze as your eyes peek down between your bodies to where the evidence of him glistens on your stomach.

He grins, cocky and proud. “Told you it was A1.”

You swat at his shoulder, still catching your breath. “Don’t get cocky.”

He raises a brow. “Bit late for that.”

You roll your eyes and shift slightly beneath him, the hem of your nightdress bunched around your hips. You reach for the tissue box on your nightstand, but Rafe beats you to it. He leans over, grabs a few, and starts gently wiping the mess from your skin like it’s the most natural thing in the world-like this is just… something you two do. It’s surprisingly tender for a guy who was just rearranging your insides.

“You’re smug,” you say, your voice softening as you lie back against the pillows.

“And you’re beautiful,” he replies without missing a beat. It’s so smooth it should annoy you, but the way he’s looking at you now- his tone more sincere than before- makes your stomach flip.

You study his face. He’s not smiling like before. His eyes have that unreadable expression again, the one that says he’s thinking too hard about something.

“What?” you ask cautiously.

He exhales, his fingers slowing on your skin. “About earlier…”

Your brows pull together.

“About your dad.” His voice is lower now, quieter. “I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t have told you like that.”

You pause, a beat of silence stretching between you.

“It’s fine,” you say, even though it’s not. “I mean… it’s not like you cheated on my mom. He did.”

Rafe watches you closely, like he’s trying to figure out whether you’re really okay or just pretending to be. You don’t give him much. You’re good at hiding it. You shrug. “Besides, I didn’t exactly seem heartbroken a few minutes ago.”

He frowns a little, like he doesn’t like that joke- but you’re already rolling onto your side, smoothing your nightdress back down like any trace of what just happened isn’t still lingering in the room.

“That’s how we’re coping now, huh?” he says, half-joking but half-serious.

You turn back to him. “Rafe, I have to live in this house with him. I can’t let myself spiral. So yeah, maybe sex and sarcasm are what I’ve got for now.”

He nods slowly, as if accepting your answer even if he doesn’t like it.

And then, after a pause, he says softly, “If you need anything…”

“I won’t call you,” you say with a smirk.

He laughs under his breath, then watches you for a long moment. “You’re kind of a menace, you know that?”

You slip back under the covers beside him, the silky fabric of your nightdress brushing against his skin. “You’re the one who came to my balcony during a hurricane and I’m the menace?”

That earns a crooked smile from him, one of the rare ones that almost looks sweet. Almost.

-

It’s 8 in the morning.

You and Rafe had fallen asleep not long after your… activities. You missed dinner entirely. Your parents probably wondered why you never came down to eat, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Rafe Cameron had been in your bed- half-cuddling you, though still somehow managing to keep a sliver of distance. Typical.

Now, you’re in the laundry room, shoving damp clothes into the dryer, subtly trying to bury Rafe’s jeans and shirt in the mix.

“You missed dinner.” Your mother’s voice slices through the quiet, and you jump so violently that you smack your head on the cabinet above the washer.

“Shit- ow!” you hiss, hand flying up to cradle the spot as you squeeze your eyes shut in pain.

“Watch your mouth,” she scolds, the spoon in her tea stopping mid-stir.

“Well, sorry, you-” you catch her death glare just in time and rework your words. “You startled me.”

Your heart is pounding, the sting in your scalp barely registering. Between your dad’s affair and Rafe hiding upstairs, you’re already fraying at the edges.

She lifts her chin. “Maybe if you weren’t sneaking around all morning, you wouldn’t be so jumpy. Why were you walking around at three A.M.?”

Your stomach drops. Fast and hard. Shit.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you say quickly, turning your back to her as you keep transferring clothes into the dryer like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “The wind kept waking me up.”

That was a lie. The truth? Rafe had nudged you awake around three in the morning, grumbling that he was starving. You’d tiptoed downstairs like some sort of criminal to raid the pantry and bring him snacks.

“And you didn’t show up for dinner,” she presses.

You resist the urge to groan and instead take a deep breath, plastering on your most convincing fake smile. You turn to face her with a soft sigh. “Actually… I was thinking about what you said a few weeks ago. About my future. And I finally decided to start that diet you’ve been trying to get me on.”

She tilts her head, curious now.

“I mean, if I’m going to be taken seriously in the fashion world, especially designing for small figures, I should be able to fit into the clothes myself, right?”

There it was. The lie of the century, all to protect the fact that a boy -Rafe Cameron- was naked in your bed upstairs. And worse, you didn’t even want to be part of her designer world.

“Really?” she breathes, her voice suddenly bright, hopeful. “You’re doing the Valentina & Co. internship?”

She’s so excited, she loses that usual clipped, country-club composure. For a second, you almost feel guilty. Almost.

“I can’t believe this! Oh my god- this is huge. I have to go make some calls!” she says, already spinning on her heel with her tea sloshing in her cup.

You turn back to the dryer, letting your expression drop, eyes rolling hard. God, you love her- but she’s so easy to fool. So trusting. No wonder your dad thinks he can get away with screwing around behind her back.

You close the dryer door shut and hit the start button, pretending the churning inside wasn’t a metaphor for your entire life.

You slam your bedroom door shut and lock it, exhaling hard as your back hits the wood. You push your hair out of your face, fingers raking through it with more frustration than finesse. The sound startles Rafe, who’s standing by your keepsake cabinet, peering into your curated little shrine of growing up. His head whips toward you, but his attention is quickly drawn back to a photo-one of you, around eight years old, mid-sass in a pale pink leotard and tutu, hands on your hips, grinning at the camera like you owned the world.

“I didn’t know you did ballet,” he says, voice soft with genuine curiosity. His finger hovers over the frame, but he doesn’t touch it.

“For like ten years,” you reply, moving toward your dresser and yanking out a towel with more force than necessary. “My mom’s obsession with posture and poise. She thought ballet would mold me into the perfect daughter.”

Rafe finally looks away from the cabinet and toward you- toward the way your shoulders are tense, your movements rushed. His eyes flick down to your empty hands.

“I thought you’d bring me breakfast,” he pouts like a petulant child.

You shoot him a flat look. “Breakfast is the last thing on my mind right now.”

He flops dramatically onto your bed, arms splayed out. “It’s not the last thing on my mind. My stomach’s been crying since sunrise.”

You don’t smile, not yet. You gather your clothes and your towel, piling them into your arms, then pause at the edge of the bed.

“I told my mom I started a diet,” you say flatly, staring past him. “Said I was getting serious about the fashion industry… that I wanted to start fitting into the clothes I’m supposedly going to design.”

Rafe sits up slightly, brows furrowed. “Wait- what?”

“I lied,” you admit, the words falling from your mouth in a tired breath. “To cover for you. I panicked and said I was starting the Valentina & Co. internship she’s been begging me to apply for. And now she’s calling people. Setting things up. She’s… excited.”

He studies you for a second, eyes softer now. “But you don’t want that?”

“No.” You laugh without humor. “Not even a little.”

There’s a silence between you, heavy but not uncomfortable. Then Rafe stands and walks toward you, slower this time, careful. He lifts a hand to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers brushing your cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “About everything. Your dad. Your mom. That you feel like you’re trapped in a life you don’t even want.”

You nod, swallowing hard. “It’s not your fault.”

“I know. But I still hate seeing you like this.”

His hand lingers a second too long, and his eyes flick toward the bathroom door behind you. He smirks.

“You know,” he says, voice dipping just slightly, “showers are known to be therapeutic. Cleansing. Healing.”

You arch a brow.

“And you think joining me would help me heal?”

“Absolutely. Two bodies, one purpose,” he says with faux solemnity. “Let the steam melt our problems away.”

You roll your eyes but a reluctant smile threatens to break through.

“Fine,” you sigh. “But if you leave wet footprints on my rug again, I’m kicking you out.”

“I’ll be a ghost,” he promises, already starting to pull his shirt over his head with a grin. “Silent. Steamy. Respectfully naked.”

You shake your head and walk toward the bathroom, not bothering to hide the little smile tugging at your lips. Maybe the storm outside wasn’t the only thing slowly clearing up.

-

You stand quietly in your bedroom, a towel wrapped snugly around your torso, still damp from the shower. Across from you, Rafe is drying himself off, one hand gripping a towel at his waist, the other lazily running along his chest and shoulders. His skin is warm and flushed from the steam, water droplets still clinging to his collarbones.

You should look away- but your eyes trail over him anyway, from the slope of his shoulders to the curve of his back to the way his arm flexes as he dries himself. He’s casual about it. Comfortable. Like he belongs here.

And for a fleeting moment, it almost feels like he does.

But then your gaze shifts toward the French doors. Outside, the rain is softening-no longer slamming against the glass, just quietly pattering now, more of a whisper than a storm. The gray in the sky is still heavy, but light is starting to peek through.

Your heart sinks. He’s leaving soon.

Rafe seems to notice too. His head turns, following your gaze to the doors. A faint crease appears between his brows.

“Looks like it’s clearing up,” he says, voice low, almost reluctant. Then his eyes slide back to yours. “Are my clothes almost done?”

You open your mouth, but no sound comes out at first. Your throat feels tight. You know you should say something casual-keep it light, cool, distant. You don’t want to look like you’re wishing he’d stay. Like you care more than you should.

“Uh… I’ll check,” you finally manage, your voice soft and a little too quick.

You turn away from him, unwrapping the towel from your hair and shaking out the damp strands. 

You move with more urgency than necessary, as if getting dressed will give you something to focus on other than the dull ache blooming in your chest.

You shimmy into a pair of underwear, tug on a white ribbed tank top, and step into your favorite overalls-worn in all the right places, soft with age. You don’t bother to style your hair, just twist it up in a loose clip as you glance over your shoulder.

Rafe is still standing there, towel low on his hips, watching you-not in a lustful way this time, but quiet. Like he knows what you’re not saying.

Neither of you speak for a beat. The sound of the rain fills the silence between you. Then you clear your throat, holding up your end of the lie. “I’ll go see if the dryer’s finished.”

You don’t wait for his reply. You just step toward the door, hoping he can’t read the thoughts spinning behind your eyes-he ones whispering that you don’t want him to go.

-

You’re curled up on Becca’s bed, sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand but unmoving. The lines you’ve started are light and hesitant, like your focus is somewhere else. Because it is. You haven’t added to the drawing in fifteen minutes.

Becca’s at her desk, flipping through a stack of magazines, pretending not to watch you, but she’s been sneaking glances every few seconds. Finally, she sets them down and swivels her chair toward you.

“Okay,” she says, folding her arms. “What’s eating at you?”

You blink down at the page, realizing you’ve been shading the same corner of a skirt hem over and over. You exhale, drop the pencil onto the page, and lean your head back against her headboard.

“Nothing,” you mutter.

Becca raises a brow.

You chew the inside of your cheek, then sigh- more to yourself than to her. “I caved.”

“Caved?” Becca repeats, tilting her head. “Caved what?”

You press the eraser of your pencil against your temple, tapping it in a steady, nervous rhythm. 

“Rafe showed up on my balcony last night,” you say slowly. “In the middle of the storm. Like some absolute psychopath.”

Becca’s eyebrows rise. “Wait-what? Why?”

“He wouldn’t leave,” you mutter. “Said he couldn’t stop thinking about me. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked. So I let him in and hid him in my room all night like some fugitive.”

She stares at you, eyes wide. “What the hell did he even want?”

You pause, your voice quieting. “He told me my dad is having an affair.”

Her expression shifts instantly. “Oh, Y/N…” she murmurs, rising from her desk and sitting beside you on the bed. Her arm wraps around your shoulders without hesitation. “I’m so sorry.”

You shake your head, eyes fixed on the worn edges of your sketchbook. “That’s not even the worst part.”

Her grip on you tightens slightly. “There’s more?”

You laugh bitterly. “Yeah. We had sex.”

Becca’s quiet, not surprised, just… waiting.

“I stayed in my room all night after that,” you continue. “Didn’t even come down for dinner. My mom started questioning me this morning-asking if I’d been avoiding food again. I panicked. Rafe was still in my room, hiding in my bathroom, so I just blurted out that I’d started that dumb diet again and-and that I wanted to do the Valentina & Co. internship.”

Her jaw drops. “You said yes to the internship? The one you’ve spent the last two years refusing?”

You nod, still not looking at her. “All because I didn’t want her to come upstairs and find out I had Rafe Cameron half-naked in my bedroom.”

Becca’s silent for a moment, then lets out a breath. “Wow.”

“I feel so stupid,” you whisper. “Like… what am I even doing? It’s been two and a half weeks. We’re not even anything. He shows up in the rain and suddenly I’m throwing away all my convictions-everything I said I wouldn’t do-for a guy who might not even give a shit.”

“You’re not stupid,” Becca says firmly. “You’re human.”

You finally look at her.

She shrugs. “Look, yeah-maybe it wasn’t the most rational series of choices. But you were caught off guard. The storm. Your dad’s affair. Rafe showing up out of nowhere. You’re allowed to want comfort. You’re allowed to feel something for someone, even if it hasn’t been that long. It doesn’t make your feelings any less valid.”

You look down again, your voice barely above a whisper. “But what if it was just nothing to him?”

Becca shakes her head. “Then that’s on him. Not you. You didn’t imagine the connection. He keeps coming back for a reason. And even if he never says what you want him to-what you deserve to hear-that doesn’t make you weak for hoping.”

You lean your head on her shoulder.

She rests hers against yours. “Also,” she adds, “I’m very impressed you managed to sneak Rafe Cameron past your mom. That’s like elite spy-level behavior.”

You smile, just a little.

“There she is,” Becca says softly.

-

Dinner feels like a performance you never agreed to audition for. The table is set perfectly, the lighting soft and warm, but none of it feels right. The silence is sharp, broken only by the occasional clink of silverware and the low buzz of your father’s phone, lighting up every few minutes with new messages he doesn’t bother to hide.

You sit across from him, jaw tight, appetite gone. Your mother, blissfully unaware of the minefield between you and him, offers a smile as she slices into her food.

“So,” she says lightly, “how are your designs coming along? Have you started anything yet for Valentina & Co.?”

You glance at her. You know she means well, but the question lands like a weight on your chest.

“I’ve only just decided to do this, Mom,” you say, forcing calm into your tone. “I need time.”

She nods, clearly trying to be encouraging. “Of course, of course. I just thought maybe you’d feel inspired with the rain and everything.”

Your dad chuckles under his breath. He’s still looking at his phone. “Time,” he mutters, shaking his head. “You’ve had plenty of time, if I remember correctly. Years of it, actually. Maybe if you’d taken things seriously from the beginning-”

You drop your fork with a quiet clatter. “I didn’t realize this was a performance review.”

That makes him look up. His brows lift, just slightly. “It’s not. But if you’re going to finally commit to something, I’d hope you actually follow through this time.”

You blink at him, your voice low and even. “Unlike some people and their commitments?”

The tension spikes instantly, your words landing harder than you intended. Your mom glances between you, brows tightening.

“Okay,” she says gently, “let’s not turn this into something it doesn’t need to be-”

“Funny,” you cut in, eyes still locked on your dad. “Because that’s exactly what he’s been doing.”

Your father stares at you for a second too long, like he’s trying to read something in your expression, but he clearly has no idea what you know. He leans back, arms folding slowly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You want to say it. You almost do. You want to slam the truth onto the table like a card he didn’t expect you to hold. You want to ask who he keeps texting and if she knows he wears his wedding ring while he’s doing it.

But not like this.

You push your chair back, scraping against the floor. “Forget it.”

“Y/N,” your dad starts again, but you’re already walking toward the stairs.

Your voice is clipped, your hands fists at your sides. “I’m not doing this right now.”

You don’t stop until you’re in your room, door closed, heart hammering. You’re not going to blow this in front of your mom. You’re not going to let him spin it or lie his way out of it. You’ll talk to him.

Alone.

And when you do, he’ll know you’re not a kid anymore.

-

Marie and Becca were never really friends- at least not in the way that counted. They didn’t dislike each other, but their relationship existed solely because of you. A mutual civility born from proximity. Their moms had a long-standing, mostly unspoken rivalry—something petty and suburban and wrapped in polite smiles-so growing up, they were rarely in the same room unless you were there to bridge the gap. Which is why, instead of hanging out at one of their houses, the three of you end up here- perched inside the wood-paneled sauna at the country club. A neutral zone. No one’s turf.

The steam curls thick around you as you lean your head back against the warm cedar wall, eyes closed, trying to let the heat melt away the hum of your thoughts. Sweat clings to your skin, your breathing slow and deliberate, but nothing inside you feels relaxed.

Not when Sofia is just a few doors down.

You’d seen her the moment you walked in. She was behind the bar, expertly mixing a drink without looking up. She hadn’t noticed you -or maybe she had and just didn’t care- but either way, her indifference hit harder than it should have.

You felt stupid. Like a stalker.

Becca had said it outright earlier this week, and she wasn’t wrong. “You’re obsessing over a girl who doesn’t even know she’s in the ring with you,” she’d told you. “It’s not a love triangle- it’s just sad.”

At the time, you’d laughed it off. Now, it just stung. Because the truth was, you had become obsessed- tracking Rafe’s behavior like it was a math problem you could solve if you just paid close enough attention. Whether or not she was there. Whether or not she meant anything.

It was pathetic. You feel the weight of it all pressing down on your chest, heavier than the steam.

“Hello?” Becca’s voice breaks through your haze, a little sharper now. “Are you alive in there?”

Your eyes blink open, heat-stung and dry, to find her and Marie both looking at you.

“You okay?” Marie asks, a little softer.

You nod quickly, sitting up straighter, swiping the back of your hand across your damp forehead. “Yeah. Sorry. Zoned out.”

Becca gives you a look like she doesn’t buy it, but she lets it go. She stretches her long legs out in front of her and says, “Wanna go to the bar?”

You hesitate for a moment, instinctively glancing toward the door like Sofia might be standing right outside it. Then you force yourself to nod.

“Sure,” you say. “What the hell.”

Because maybe pretending you’re over it is the first step to actually getting over it.

The three of you are dressed again, stepping out into the cool night air. The sky is navy and soft, the heat from earlier having surrendered to a light breeze. String lights drape overhead, casting a golden haze across the patio- warm, intimate, almost romantic. The low murmur of voices and clinking glasses filters through the air, but you hardly register it.

The three of you walk toward the outdoor bar like you own the place. Not on purpose. It just happens- shoulders back, heads high, an unspoken confidence in your pace. You’re at the front, leading them without meaning to.

Your dress is something your mom would never approve of- baby pink and shorter than she’d like, hugging your hips just right. Your hair is down, wild in its natural texture. You didn’t style it. Didn’t try. And that’s exactly what makes it perfect.

You look like everything Sofia’s not. Everything she probably thinks you are. Kook perfection in a package that screams effortless, untouchable.

When you approach the bar, you feel her eyes before you see them. Sofia doesn’t acknowledge you. Not directly. But you catch the subtle shift when she notices the three of you sit down. A glance. A blink. And then nothing. Like she never saw you at all.

Becca takes the seat beside you, her long black curls falling over one shoulder as she adjusts the tight yellow midi dress clinging to her frame. She pushes her hair out of her face with a confidence that doesn’t need validation.

Marie sits on your other side, the soft glow of the patio lights highlighting her cheekbones. Her curls frame her face like a halo, and the powder blue shirt-and-skirt set she’s wearing makes her look like she stepped out of an editorial.

Together, the three of you look like a trio out of a glossy TV show- Powerpuff Girls: Coastal Edition. Or maybe Mean Girls, if they wore less pink and carried more edge.

You don’t mean any harm. You didn’t ask to come here. Becca suggested the sauna, and Marie tagged along, and then someone brought up drinks and here you are. Still, guilt coils in your stomach.

You -a kook- perched pretty at the bar, while she -a pogue- works behind it.

You don’t even know her. Not really. And yet your presence here feels like a silent challenge. A move you didn’t mean to make but made all the same. Becca, for her part, doesn’t seem to recognize Sofia. Maybe she was too drunk at the Tannyhill party. Or maybe she just doesn’t care enough to connect the dots. You do.

“Sofia,” the male bartender calls, drawing your attention. You glance up reflexively.

“Going on break,” he tells her, tossing a towel onto the bar before disappearing into the back.

Sofia nods, casual, and you immediately look away. Down at your phone. Pretending you suddenly care about the weather app. Your thumb scrolls without direction. Just something to keep your hands busy. The bar isn’t packed tonight. It’s laid-back, easy. The kind of slow night where one bartender is more than enough. Sofia stays behind the bar, alone.

You wonder if she volunteered. Or if it’s just what she does- handle things. You don’t know. You don’t know what she’s good at. What she likes. You don’t know anything. And that bothers you more than it should.

“What can I get you ladies?”

You look up. Sofia is standing across from you, hands resting loosely on the edge of the bar, eyes scanning the three of you. Her voice is calm. Detached. Professional in a way that feels a little too practiced.

You feel her eyes skim over you, but her expression doesn’t change. No hint of emotion. No flicker of recognition. It shouldn’t sting. But it does.

“Three shots of tequila,” Becca says before you or Marie can say anything.

Sofia’s eyes flick across the three of you, her expression unreadable. “Can I see some ID, please?”

You don’t say anything. Just reach into your Dior bag, digging through the soft leather for your matching wallet. You take your time- not intentionally, but the process feels exaggerated under Sofia’s gaze. You know she’s watching.

You pull out your ID, the one with the photo that somehow looks better than real life, and slide it across the bar. The edges are pristine. She doesn’t say anything, just takes it, looks it over, then holds out her hand for the others.

Marie’s already ahead of you, digging out her license with an easy smile. Becca moves slower, cool and unaffected as always, her yellow midi dress catching the light as she shifts.

Sofia gives the three IDs a cursory glance before setting them back down. “Three shots of tequila coming up.”

She taps the bar twice, not unkind, but sharp -more habit than hospitality- and turns her back to you, grabbing glasses from the shelf behind her. Her movements are efficient, distant. There’s no flair, no small talk.

You lean back slightly, trying to look unbothered. But there’s a weird pressure in your chest, like the air’s too thick. It doesn’t help that you saw her when you walked in- hair tied up, sleeves rolled, her shirt clinging to her back from the heat behind the bar. She hadn’t looked up. You don’t even know if she noticed you at all. Maybe it’s better that way. The clink of glass snaps you back as she places the three shots in front of you.

“Lime and salt?” she asks, voice flat.

“Obviously,” Becca replies with a raised brow, not realizing -or not caring- who she’s talking to.

Sofia nods and turns away again, reaching for a small dish of lime wedges and a tin of salt. She sets them down with a little more force than necessary. Not enough to be rude. Just enough for you to notice. She doesn’t look at you again. You don’t say thank you.

You can feel the imbalance hanging there- Sofia behind the bar, working a double, and you on the other side in a baby pink dress your mom would absolutely hate, sipping liquor you didn’t pay for. It’s not a crime, but it feels like one. She didn’t acknowledge you. But she saw the bag. The wallet. The card. The kind of life you come from.

You wonder if she hates you just a little for it. You hate yourself for caring. The three of you clink glasses together- Becca shouting something obnoxious and triumphant, Marie laughing so hard she nearly drops hers. You force a smile, play along, licking the salt from the rim of your glass before tossing back the tequila. It burns, sharp and unapologetic, clawing its way down your throat. You suck on the lime, your face twisting with the sour bite before laughter bubbles up. You let it out. You look carefree. Effortless.

But you feel her eyes on you.

You don’t look at Sofia directly, just glance past her- enough to catch her in your peripheral. She’s watching you, briefly, her gaze steady. You meet it, just for a second. Just long enough. Then she looks away fast, printing a receipt and sliding it to a couple at the far end of the bar like nothing happened. It makes something twist in your chest. Then the air shifts.

You glance around -more instinct than curiosity- and your pulse spikes. Rafe.

He strolls in like he always does, like the world belongs to him and it’s only right he showed up late to collect his prize. He looks annoyingly good, hair damp from the ocean or maybe the humidity, that familiar smirk already blooming across his face.

Your heart jumps to your throat as he walks straight to the bar. Straight to Sofia.

You look down at your lap, hands tightening around your phone. You don’t want him to see you here. Not like this. Not dressed like this. Not with your friends. Not at her bar.

You don’t want him to think you followed him. Or worse- that you followed her.

“Uh- bartender? Can we get another round?” Becca calls across the bar, loud and impatient, the way she always is when she’s been drinking. She isn’t trying to be rude. But she also isn’t trying not to be. You don’t look up. Not yet.

You can feel Sofia and Rafe still standing close, talking quietly, like you don’t exist. Maybe you don’t.

Still, something drags your eyes upward. And there it is. Rafe is looking at you. Not staring. Not smiling. Just… watching.

His eyes sweep over you- curious, almost confused. Like he doesn’t recognize you at first. 

Which wouldn’t be surprising. You don’t look like the girl who yanked open a storm-drenched window and let him into her bedroom. Not tonight. Not in this dress. Not in this world.

Sofia notices his gaze shift and starts moving back down the bar toward you, her expression unreadable.

“You want me to start a tab?” she asks as she reaches for more glasses, her tone flatter this time, clipped. She doesn’t bother looking at any of you.

There’s something different in her voice now. Not hostile. Just… done. Like she’s tired of pretending this interaction is normal.

“Yeah, that’d be great actually,” Marie says quickly, her tone softening the moment, trying to fill the space Becca left jagged. Sofia doesn’t respond. Just nods and reaches for the bottle again. You look down at the shot forming in front of you, and for a second, you wish you hadn’t come at all.

“Nice dress,” you hear from your left. You look over.

Of course it’s Rafe- leaning against the bar like he owns it, like he owns the air between you. His eyes drift over your body, shamelessly. You feel the weight of his stare on your legs, on the stretch of skin your dress doesn’t bother hiding.

Marie is sandwiched awkwardly between you, clearly aware of the tension but trying not to make it worse. She leans back slightly, torso angled away, giving you both a clearer line of sight while pretending she’s still part of the conversation. You glance toward Sofia.

She’s noticed, obviously. Her movements shift- more deliberate, more performative. She starts wiping down an already-clean section of the bar with aggressive focus, as if the shine of the wood matters more than whatever’s happening three feet away.

“Thanks,” you reply, your voice clipped but polite, offering Rafe a brief smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

His stare lingers. Drops again to your thighs- the same ones his hands had gripped the other night. You wonder if he’s remembering it. You wish you weren’t.

He draws in a slow breath and straightens, his fist tapping the bar idly like he’s weighing something in his head. “Can I get you ladies a drink?”

Before Becca can chime in with another round of tequila, Marie answers for all three of you. 

“Three dirty martinis.”

Rafe raises an eyebrow, amused, but doesn’t argue. He glances at Marie, then back at you, like she’s some minor interruption between points A and B. He gives a single nod and turns to the other side of the bar.

“Sofia,” he calls.

You hate the way he says her name. Too casual. Too familiar. Like he’s done it a hundred times. Like it means nothing. Or maybe like it means something.

Sofia doesn’t respond right away. For a second, you think she might pretend not to hear him. But then she turns, cool and composed, her expression unreadable.

“Yeah?” she asks, voice flat as she walks toward him.

“Three martinis. Dirty,” he says, jerking his chin toward the three of you. “Think you can handle that?”

Sofia doesn’t look at him. She doesn’t even nod. She just starts gathering the ingredients like she’s making drinks for strangers.

You wonder how often she’s done this for him. Mixed drinks. Mixed signals. He turns back to you while she works, his elbow resting lazily on the bar, his body still angled slightly toward yours despite Marie between you.

“You always dress like that when you’re not talking to me?” he asks, smirking.

You don’t dignify that with a real answer. Just sip your water and raise an eyebrow.

“You always follow girls into bars they didn’t invite you to?” you shoot back, your voice low and dry.

He laughs under his breath. “Touché.”

The tension crackles between you, thick and layered. And through it all, Sofia mixes the drinks quietly, like she’s not listening. Like she doesn’t care.But you know she does. Sofia slides your drinks across the bar, one by one.

Yours nearly tips as it skids too fast across the polished surface. You catch it just in time, fingers wrapping around the delicate stem before the liquid can slosh over the rim. It still teeters, dangerously full, but it doesn’t spill.

Rafe watches Sofia the whole time- his eyes trailing her as she turns away and resumes her fake cleaning routine, wiping at an already-clean glass with a rag that’s definitely just for show. She doesn’t look back at him, but she doesn’t need to. Her silence is loud enough.

“Thanks, Cameron!” Becca calls, lifting her glass with a playful grin. Marie joins her, offering a small cheers in his direction.

Rafe turns back to the three of you, nodding slightly. That classic rich-boy gesture that says you’re welcome without actually using the words.

Then his attention slides to you. Fully. Like he’s choosing you out of a crowd.

“No thank you?” he says, raising an eyebrow, that familiar smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

You exhale through your nose. “Thank you, Rafe,” you reply, more pointed than polite.

That catches Sofia’s attention. You can feel her eyes on you, sharp and cutting. You pretend not to notice as you take a sip of your martini. It’s cold, briny, and a little too strong- but you welcome the distraction. Part of you wonders if she spit in it. If she spit in his. Becca and Marie are giggling behind you, caught up in some private joke. Their voices buzz around your ears, distant, meaningless.

Then Rafe gives a small jerk of his chin. A gesture meant just for you. Like he’s summoning you.

Who the hell does he think he is? Some silent command like he owns you? Like you’re already his, just waiting to be called?

You hate yourself a little as you slide off the barstool anyway, murmuring a quick “be right back” to the girls as you make your way to him.

His gaze is shameless, dragging down your body now that you’re standing. The dress fits you like second skin. His eyes take their time, slow and appreciative, like he’s mentally peeling it off you already.

“What?” you ask, leaning an elbow on the bar, standing too close and not far enough all at once. You’re fighting the urge to smile, to flirt back, to fall into that effortless gravity he carries.

“I really like that dress,” he says, lips twitching as he brings his drink to his mouth.

“You called me over to tell me that?” Your eyes flick down to your martini. You bite your lip, hiding the way you kind of like that he did.

“Not necessarily.” He lets the words hang, and when you look back up, his blue eyes are waiting- steady and sure. “Come over to Tannyhill tonight.”

He says it like it’s a given. Like the answer’s already yes. Like you’ll drop everything just because he wants you to.

And the worst part? He’s right. But you don’t give in without a fight. You tilt your head, schooling your features into something vaguely unimpressed. “Why should I?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch Sofia. Her eyes are still on you both, jaw tight. But she recovers quickly, switching back into customer-service mode as a new guy takes a seat at the far end of the bar. Her smile is fake. Her posture stiff. You can tell she’s listening.

And something about that -about her watching- feeds the part of you you’re not proud of. The part that spent too many nights scrolling through her Instagram, comparing yourself to someone who never even saw you. Now, you’re the one being seen. You hate it. You like it. You hate that you like it.

“I enjoyed the other night,” Rafe says simply.

“And what makes you think I did?” you blink up at him, feigning innocence.

“The scratches on my back,” he says- too loudly, too proudly.

You gasp and shove him, palm flat against his chest, but he laughs like it’s the best thing he’s heard all night. He stumbles back a step, dramatically, even though your push barely moved him.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. One you try to hide by taking a sip of your drink.

He leans in again, voice low and laced with amusement. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you felt around me.”

Your breath catches. His eyes drop to your lips for a beat too long, and your body betrays you- stomach tightening, heat pooling low, cheeks flushing with the kind of embarrassment that has nothing to do with shame.

You shift your weight, glancing around like someone might’ve overheard. It’s not busy, but still- this is not a conversation you should be having out in the open. Especially not here. Especially not with her behind the bar.

“You’re such an asshole,” you murmur, shaking your head, playing it off even though your heart is racing.

He smirks. “You like that though.”

You roll your eyes, biting back a smile. “Please. I’ve had better.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Name one.”

You open your mouth -ready with some clever retort- but then a voice cuts through the tension.

“Rafe,” Sofia calls, tone brisk but casual. She doesn’t look at him, just slides a receipt across the bar where he’d left a drink tab open. “Your tab’s still open. You want to close or keep it running?”

The question sounds neutral, but the air shifts. Just enough for you to notice. Just enough for it to twist in your stomach.

Rafe leans against the bar again, all lazy charm. “Keep it open.”

Sofia nods once, doesn’t smile.

Then her eyes flick to you. “You want to keep yours open too?” Her voice is polite- on the surface. But there’s an edge. Not rude. Not overt. Just enough to remind you of where you are. Of who she is.

You glance at your drink, then at her. “Sure,” you say, matching her tone.

She gives a tight nod, jotting something down, then walks away without another word.

Rafe watches her for a second, then turns back to you, his grin returning like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just stir up some invisible tension with nothing but proximity and a few whispered words.

“You were saying?” he asks, cocking his head.

You arch a brow. “I was saying that if you’re trying to get me back in your bed, you might need a new strategy.”

“Oh?” he leans closer again, lips curved. “Seems like this one’s working just fine.”

“I’m going back to my friends now” you start to turn away but his hand lands on your hip. Butterflies erupt.

“So you coming over?” He asks, his voice not subtle again. Sofia definitely heard that. Your cheeks continue to burn as your hands come over his, not reluctantly pulling it off.

“We’ll see” you turn away, walking away this time.

“I’ll see you tonight” he shouts after you.

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You just slide back onto your stool, taking a long sip of your martini like your heartbeat isn’t still hammering in your chest.

Becca leans in first, eyebrows raised and lips twisted in amusement. “What was that about?”

“Is he obsessed with you now?” Marie adds, grinning into her drink. “Or are you playing hard to get?”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off. “I’m not playing anything.”

Becca snorts. “Sure. That dress says otherwise.”

You start to reply -something witty, something dismissive- but you’re interrupted by the unmistakable sound of someone clearing their throat. Sofia.

She stands behind the bar, polite smile in place, but there’s something colder behind it now. She 

doesn’t look at you directly.

“You girls want to close out your tab?” she asks, tone neutral but tight. Too tight. Like she’s holding something back.

Marie blinks, caught off guard. “Oh, uh… we were thinking about getting one more round actually- unless you’re closing soon?”

“We’ve got time,” Sofia says, still not looking at you. “Just figured I’d ask. In case you needed to be somewhere else.”

The comment lands heavier than it should. Maybe you imagined it. Maybe not.

Becca shrugs. “We’re good for another round.”

Sofia nods once and turns away, already moving toward the liquor shelf.

You watch her, the knot in your stomach tightening, and suddenly the victory of making her jealous doesn’t feel as satisfying as it did a few minutes ago.