#Face Recognition Terminals

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[ijustmissyouraccenths]

Better Than Fiction

where y/n picks Harry up from the airport and reveals what she does when she’s alone.

word count: 5.1 k

content warning: cursing. SMUT. Probably the smuttiest thing I’ve ever done.

You tap the steering wheel with your thumb, eyes flicking between the road and the dashboard clock. The sky is a soft blue-gray, the kind that only happens right before sunset, and the air feels thick with the kind of quiet that only comes when something good is about to happen.

You haven’t seen him in two months. Eight weeks. Sixty-something days—not that you’ve been counting, except you absolutely have. Every time you dropped your phone on your face watching his interviews in bed. Every time he sent a blurry backstage photo with a caption like “thinking of you.” Every time you climbed into your empty sheets and curled your body around the pillow he left behind like that would make any kind of difference.

Your stomach flutters as you take the exit for the airport, the big green signs snapping you back to reality. His flight landed about fifteen minutes ago. You know it’ll take time to get through customs and baggage claim, but still. You’re suddenly nervous. You check your reflection in the rearview mirror, smoothing your hand over your hair even though the curls won’t settle, then press your lips together to check for smudges. Natural. Low effort. Like you’re not buzzing in your seat just thinking about him.

You keep wondering what version of him you’ll get today. The soft one with sleepy eyes and heavy limbs who tucks his head into your neck and hums when he breathes you in. The quiet one who just wants to be close. Or maybe the cheeky one who teases you in the car the whole way home and can’t keep his hands to himself once the door clicks shut.

Either way, he’s here. Finally.

You pull into the short-term parking garage and kill the engine, heart thudding now. This is it. He’s just a few hundred feet away. Probably dragging his duffel bag behind him, scrolling his phone or yawning through his last wave of exhaustion. You sling your purse over your shoulder and head toward the terminal.

Your boots echo across the pavement. The air inside is warmer than you expected, and loud. Rolling suitcases, babies crying, someone’s name being paged overhead. You scan the arrivals board as if you don’t already know—Flight 202. London to New York. Landed.

He steps through the sliding doors like he’s walking into a scene that’s been waiting for him.

Loose brown trousers, soft white tee, sunglasses hanging from the collar. His hair’s shorter than when you last saw him, brushed back with that casually undone look that somehow makes it worse—makes your heart thud harder in your chest. There’s a little color to his skin, a post-tour flush like he’s been somewhere warm, somewhere you weren’t. His duffel hangs from one shoulder, hand gripping the strap, and he scans the crowd like he’s looking for something he lost.

Until his eyes land on you.

He doesn’t smile at first. Not really. His whole body just seems to pause, his gaze locked on yours like he forgot how loud the world is. You feel it like a pull—an ache that settles low in your belly, sharp and immediate. Because it’s not just recognition in his eyes. It’s hunger.

You don’t move. Neither does he. The space between you hums.

Then someone breaks it.

“Harry?” A man, maybe in his twenties, stepping hesitantly forward with a phone in hand. “Sorry, I know you just got in, but—could I get a quick photo?”

Harry blinks. Just once. Then turns to him with a practiced, polite smile.

“Yeah, of course.”

He poses without effort, one hand still gripping his bag. The smile doesn’t touch his eyes.

You watch him thank the guy, watch the fan beam as he walks away. And then Harry’s looking at you again, already moving toward you. Slower this time. Like he’s trying to stay calm. Like he knows he won’t be, not for long.

He doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

He just lets the strap of his duffel fall to the floor with a quiet thud and steps into you, arms winding tight around your waist like it’s instinct. You barely have time to breathe before he’s pressing you close, his body all solid warmth and tension, chest rising fast against yours.

Then he leans in.

Not for a kiss—not yet. He presses his face into the side of your neck and just breathes. Long, slow, deliberate. Like he’s been holding off for this exact moment, saving it, needing it more than he let on.

You feel it before you hear it—the way his exhale trembles just slightly, the way his fingers grip a little harder at the small of your back. Like maybe this hit him harder than he was ready for.

“God, I missed you,” he mumbles against your skin, the words thick and barely there.

Your eyes flutter shut. Your hands slide up his back, curling in the fabric of his shirt at his shoulders. He’s here. He’s really here.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb brushing the hem of your shirt where it meets your jeans. His eyes roam your face like he’s memorizing it again, slower this time, softer. His voice is a whisper, the accent heavy and real in a way you’ve only heard on the phone lately.

“Y’look so fuckin’ good, baby.”

Your heart trips. You open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out.

He tilts his forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, and smiles like he’s already thinking ten steps ahead.

“Been thinkin’ about you non-stop. Every night. Every bloody city. Drove me mad.”

You laugh, soft and breathless, and pull back just enough to see him clearly.

“I missed you too,” you say, grinning now, the weight in your chest finally loosening. “Even the dramatic part of you.”

He smiles like he’s proud of that, dimples deep and eyes flicking to your mouth like he’s thinking about kissing you again. But instead, he slips a hand into yours and starts walking, his duffel back over his shoulder, your fingers laced like they’ve never been apart.

Outside, the sky’s shifting to gold. The kind of light that softens everything, that makes moments feel like memories while they’re still happening.

As you make your way to the garage, you glance over at him. “D’you wanna stop for food before we head home?”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Nah,” he says, voice low, a lazy smirk playing on his lips. “Only thing I wanna eat is you.”

You choke on a laugh, your whole face heating. “Harry.”

“What?” he says, eyes wide like he’s innocent, but his hand tightens around yours. “I’m starvin’, love.”

You shake your head, biting back a smile as your stomach flips. Two months apart, and of course this is how he comes back. Cocky. Gorgeous. Starving.

And apparently, not for takeout.

The elevator ride to the garage is quiet, but only because his hand won’t stop wandering—thumb tracing slow circles into your palm, pinky brushing your wrist like he’s trying to remember every inch of you without making a scene.

Once you reach the car, he tosses his bag in the back like it weighs nothing and slides into the passenger seat, reclined and smug. His legs spread a little wider than necessary. You try not to look, but he catches you anyway.

“Eyes on the road, sweetheart,” he murmurs as you pull out of the garage.

You roll your eyes. “You’re the one sitting like you’re in a Calvin Klein ad.”

He grins, slow and wicked. “Don’t act like you weren’t lookin’. Missed that face of yours when you get all flustered.”

“I’m not flustered.”

“You are,” he says, tipping his head against the headrest. “Little pink right there.” He lifts his finger and brushes it under his own cheekbone to show you. “Cute.”

You let out a sharp breath through your nose and flick on your turn signal. “Do you want something quick? Like drive-thru? Or—”

“I meant what I said,” he interrupts, voice a little lower now. “Didn’t spend nine hours on a plane just to ruin my appetite with fries.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

He hums like it’s a compliment. “Reckon I’ve had that dream at least five times. You. Couch. No clothes. Me starvin’.”

You grip the steering wheel tighter and do your best to keep your eyes on the road. It’s not going well.

“Harry,” you warn.

“Don’t worry,” he says with a shrug. “I’ll wait till we get home.”

A pause.

“Probably.”

You glance at him, lips twitching. “Bold of you to assume you’re the one doing the eating.”

He turns his head slowly, that smug little smirk faltering as his eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

You shrug, eyes back on the road. “You’ve had dreams? Babe, I’ve had entire scenarios planned. You don’t even know.”

He’s quiet for a beat, and when you look over, he’s staring at you like you just flipped the game on its head.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters under his breath, shifting in his seat. “I’ve been gone too long.”

You bite back your grin, suddenly enjoying how the air in the car feels thick now, humming with that delicious tension. Payback feels good.

He leans closer, voice like gravel against the warm press of sunset through the window. “Tell me one of ‘em. Just one.”

“Nope.”

“Please?”

“You can earn it.”

His head falls back with a groan, one hand dragging down his face. “You’re evil.”

“And you’re desperate.”

He lets out a soft laugh, low and turned on. “That I am.”

The car ride softens after that.

He reaches over and rests a hand on your thigh, fingers splayed warm against your jeans. Not moving, not teasing—just there. Grounding. You drive one-handed the rest of the way, stealing glances at him whenever the road lets you.

He looks more like himself now. Less performer, more person. His eyes are a little heavy, his curls ruffled from the headrest, his body sunk deeper into the seat like it’s finally catching up with him—how long he’s been gone, how much he missed this. Missed you.

You slow as you turn down your street. Familiar trees, familiar windows. The kind of quiet that tells you you’re nearly home.

He shifts beside you, eyes opening again as he recognizes the corner. “Flat’s still standing, yeah?”

You nod, lips tugging into a smile. “I only set it on fire twice.”

He grins, squeezing your leg gently. “Knew I could trust you.”

The car rolls to a stop outside your building. The sun’s dipping lower now, casting long shadows across the pavement. You don’t move yet. Neither does he.

There’s a beat of silence, heavy in a different way this time.

Then, softer—

“You sure you’re ready for me?” he asks, like he’s only half-joking. “Been thinkin’ about this for weeks.”

Your heart stutters, but your voice stays steady.

“Been ready since the day you left.”

The lobby is quiet except for the soft hum of the overhead lights and the echo of your footsteps on the tile. You feel him behind you—close, so close—his presence brushing up your spine like static. Neither of you says much. There’s nothing left to say, not right now. It’s all waiting just under the surface.

You press the elevator button. The light flickers on, then nothing. You glance at him.

His eyes are dark.

The elevator arrives with a slow chime, and you both step inside. The doors slide shut and it’s just the two of you now, standing side by side in the warm silence.

You can feel the way his fingers flex at his sides. Can hear the slow rhythm of his breathing. There’s a twitch in your own hands—an urge to touch, to reach, to give in already—but you keep still. Barely.

The numbers tick up. Seven. Eight. Nine. It’s excruciating.

He leans in, whispering just loud enough for you to hear. “This thing’s takin’ the piss.”

You bite your lip. “Almost there.”

When the doors finally open, you step out first. You don’t wait. Not this time.

You lead the way down the hall, heart pounding harder with every step. You reach the door, slide your key in with a hand that isn’t quite steady. The lock clicks.

Before you can even reach for the light switch, you hear the thud of his bag hitting the floor.

Then he’s on you.

His hands are on your hips, your back, your waist, pulling you into him as the door shuts hard behind you. His mouth finds your neck, warm and hungry, and your gasp fills the dark hallway. You don’t need the lights. You just need him—right here, right now.

He lifts your shirt slightly, lips brushing just beneath your jaw.

“Couldn’t wait another bloody second,” he mumbles against your skin.

And then he kisses you like he means to make up for every second he’s been gone.

Your back hits the door with a soft thud, the wood cool through your shirt, but everything else is heat. His hands are everywhere—one at your waist, the other sliding up your side beneath the hem of your top, rough fingertips skimming bare skin like he’s rediscovering you inch by inch.

His mouth crashes into yours before you can speak, and all the air leaves your lungs at once.

It’s not frantic. It’s not rushed.

It’s worse than that.

It’s slow. Intentional. Full of that maddening kind of restraint that only comes from someone who’s been imagining this in vivid detail for weeks. His lips move over yours like he’s tasting a memory—soft, then deep, then soft again. He kisses you like it’s the only thing tethering him to earth.

You melt into him without meaning to, hands sliding up under the hem of his shirt, fingers grazing the curve of his waist, the slope of his back. He shivers under your touch.

When you pull away just enough to breathe, his mouth doesn’t stop. He trails kisses across your cheek, down the curve of your jaw, to that spot just below your ear that makes your knees go weak. He knows it does. He lingers there, mouth warm and open, the scrape of his teeth just enough to make you gasp.

“Fuckin’ missed this,” he breathes, voice thick and rough, his accent slurring the edges of every word. “Missed you.”

You don’t even try to answer. You just kiss him again, harder this time, your fingers fisting the fabric of his shirt like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you let go.

He presses closer, slotting a leg between yours, the weight of him pressing into every line of your body. You feel the tension in his muscles, the way he holds back, jaw tight like he’s clinging to control by a thread.

And God, it makes you want him more.

His thumb strokes the underside of your breast through your bra, slow and teasing, while his other hand cradles the back of your head like he can’t bear to be any further from your mouth.

When he kisses you again, it’s deeper. Wetter. His tongue slides against yours and it’s all heat now, all need. You arch into him, breath catching in your throat.

“Let me take care of you,” he whispers against your lips. “Yeah?”

You nod, eyes locked on his, and he presses one last kiss to your mouth—soft, like a promise—before guiding you away from the door.

His hand stays at the small of your back as he walks you through the flat, steering you gently down the hallway. The air feels warmer here, more still, like even the rooms missed him. When you reach the bedroom, he nudges the door open with his foot and leads you in like it’s something sacred.

He stops at the edge of the bed and looks at you, eyes dark and steady.

“Sit down for me, love.”

You do, heart hammering as you settle on the edge of the mattress, legs just barely parted, your eyes tilted up to him. He steps between your knees, fingers reaching out to brush a strand of hair from your face. Then both hands slip beneath the hem of your shirt.

“Arms up.”

You raise them without hesitation, and he peels your shirt off slow, knuckles grazing your skin as he lifts the fabric over your head. It drops to the floor behind him, forgotten.

He leans in again, mouth catching yours before you can speak. His kiss is deeper now, slower, hands resting just beneath your ribs as he presses into you. Every inch of him is warm. Grounded. Certain.

Between kisses, his fingers move to the button of your jeans.

You feel the faint pop of denim giving way, the soft drag of his knuckles as he works them open. He doesn’t look down. Doesn’t break the kiss. Just keeps kissing you like he’s starving, like you’re the only thing he’s craved since he left.

You lift your hips for him and his hands slide around to your thighs, easing your jeans down, dragging the fabric slow over your skin. The kiss never falters. His lips move with yours like he’s drinking you in, like nothing—not time or distance or fabric—should’ve ever been between you to begin with.

When he finally pulls back, your jeans are on the floor, your chest is rising fast, and his mouth is pink from how long he’s kept it on yours.

His eyes rake over you, voice low and ragged.

“Fuckin’ hell, look at you.”

You laugh softly, a nervous little sound that slips out without warning. He catches it right away, eyes narrowing like he’s just found a crack in the wall.

“What’s that for?” he asks, voice low but amused. His hands rest on your bare thighs, thumbs brushing lazy circles into your skin. “Somethin’ funny, sweetheart?”

You shrug, lips twitching like you’re trying to play it off, but he doesn’t buy it. Not for a second.

He leans in, mouth brushing just beneath your ear. “Tell me somethin’,” he murmurs, breath warm on your skin. “What do you do when I’m not here? When you’re feelin’ like this. D’you take care of yourself?”

You go still. Not because you don’t know the answer. But because you do.

His lips curl against your cheek. “You get shy on me now?”

“I don’t—” you start, then falter. Your voice is soft when you finally speak. “I don’t really do that.”

He pulls back just enough to see your face, one brow raised. “Liar.”

You flush.

“C’mon,” he coaxes, brushing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “I’ve been gone two months. Don’t tell me you haven’t done a single thing. That’s cruel.”

You hesitate.

Then, barely audible—

“I read.”

His brow furrows, amused. “You read?”

You nod, eyes flicking down to his collarbone. “Stuff online.”

There’s a pause.

And then, his voice drops, accent thick with curiosity and something darker.

“Fan fiction?”

You nod again, smaller this time.

He stares at you like he’s just been handed a gift he wasn’t expecting.

“No fuckin’ way,” he murmurs, smiling now, a little breathless. “You read fan fiction about me?”

Your face burns.

He leans in closer, one hand cradling your jaw.

“Gonna need you to walk me through that, baby.”

Your eyes dart away from his, and your fingers fidget with the hem of your underwear, suddenly very aware of how little you’re wearing—and how close he is.

He watches you carefully, waiting. Patient, but barely.

“It’s just…” you start, then trail off, chewing your bottom lip. “Stuff people write. About you. About… you and someone like me.”

His brow arches. “Someone like you?”

You nod, embarrassed. “Normal. Not famous. Not anyone special. Just… someone.”

You feel his hand tighten slightly on your thigh, and when you glance up, there’s a glint in his eye. He’s not laughing at you. He’s fascinated.

“And what happens in these stories?” he asks, voice soft, coaxing. “You get shy? Or do they make you do filthy little things?”

You press your lips together, face flaming, but he can see it. The answer written all over you.

He chuckles, low and warm in his chest, leaning in to kiss your shoulder. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “You’re tellin’ me you’ve been sittin’ in our bed at night, readin’ about me fuckin’ you senseless?”

Your breath hitches.

He pulls back just enough to look at you again, eyes sweeping your face like he wants to see every flicker of reaction. His voice is husky now, rough with interest.

“That’s so dirty, love.”

You try to speak, but he’s already leaning in, pressing a kiss just below your jaw.

“And you just sit there with your little phone,” he murmurs, lips brushing your throat. “Readin’ things I haven’t even done to you yet.”

You swallow hard, eyes flicking down before you can stop yourself—and there it is. The outline of him, straining against his trousers, the fabric doing nothing to hide just how much he wants you.

Your breath catches. The sight makes your thighs press together involuntarily, a quiet ache growing where his hands haven’t touched yet.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His smirk deepens, dark and lazy. “Gettin’ worked up just from that, are you?” he teases, thumb brushing the inside of your knee. “Didn’t even have to touch you yet.”

You exhale shakily, your voice soft. “I want you to.”

He stills for a beat—just one. Then his expression shifts. The playfulness doesn’t vanish, but something darker, more focused, settles into his eyes.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “You lettin’ me take over now, baby?”

You nod, already breathless. “Please.”

That’s all it takes.

He leans in and kisses you again—harder this time, deeper, like permission unlocked something in him. His hands are on your hips, your waist, your ribs, sliding up until they’re cupping your breasts through your bra. He palms you there, slow and firm, like he’s been missing the weight of you in his hands.

“You’ve got no idea what that does to me,” he mutters into your mouth. “You, sittin’ all pretty, readin’ about me fuckin’ you just like this…”

His fingers reach around to undo the clasp of your bra, taking his time, letting the tension pull tight as elastic. When it finally falls away, he breathes you in like he’s starving again.

Then, without a word, he lowers himself to his knees in front of you, lips brushing your stomach, hands gripping your thighs.

“Gonna take my fuckin’ time with you,” he says, voice a promise against your skin.

He drags his hands up the backs of your thighs, thumbs brushing the crease where they meet your hips as he settles between them. You’re already trembling under his touch, legs slightly parted on instinct, eyes locked on him as he looks up at you from the floor like you’re something sacred.

“Lie back for me, love,” he says, voice rough and low.

You shift back onto the bed, elbows catching you for a second before you sink into the pillows, legs still dangling over the edge. His hands follow you the whole way—never losing contact—until he’s got your thighs open just the way he wants them.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and looks up again.

“This what you pictured when you were readin’?” he asks, a hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Me down here, beggin’ for a taste?”

You nod, breath shallow. “Yes.”

That’s all he needs.

He pulls your underwear down slow, eyes following every inch of skin he reveals like he’s memorizing it, storing it away. Once they’re off, he leans in and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, then your thigh, then higher—trailing heat until your whole body’s drawn tight with anticipation.

Then his mouth is on you.

His tongue flicks over you gently at first, teasing, testing. Then he flattens it, licking a slow stripe up your center that makes your hips jerk and a soft cry spill from your lips. His hands slide under your thighs, keeping you open, anchored, at his mercy.

He groans when he tastes you fully, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“Fuckin’ missed this,” he mutters, voice muffled against you. “Missed how sweet you are.”

He settles in deeper, his mouth working you in slow, steady movements—tongue swirling, lips sucking just enough to make your toes curl. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t let up. Just builds it slowly, deliberately, like he’s got nowhere else to be but here, worshiping you.

Your hand slides into his hair, gripping when his tongue flicks just right, hips lifting into him as the tension coils hard in your belly.

“You’re gonna come for me, yeah?” he murmurs against you, breath hot. “Right on my fuckin’ tongue. Let me have it.”

You’re close—so close it almost hurts. The pressure’s built tight in your belly, your thighs shaking around his shoulders, his name falling from your lips in broken pieces. He doesn’t let up. If anything, he gets hungrier, tongue working you with that slow, steady rhythm that undoes you completely.

Your back arches off the bed. Fingers tangle in his hair.

“Harry—fuck—Harry, I’m gonna—”

He groans against you like that’s exactly what he wants, like the sound of your voice wrecked and desperate is the only thing keeping him alive. And then you’re falling apart. The orgasm hits hard, flooding through you in waves, and he holds you right there, mouth never leaving you, like he wants every last bit of it.

You whimper as you come down, your body twitching from the aftershocks, chest heaving. He finally lifts his head, lips slick, eyes dark and blown.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Knew you’d be sweet for me.”

You’re still catching your breath when you reach for him, fingers curling into his shirt.

“Take your clothes off,” you whisper. “I need you to fuck me.”

That gets his attention.

He laughs softly, rising to his feet. “That desperate, hm?”

“Yes,” you say, no shame in your voice. “I need you.”

He leans over you, bracing his hands on either side of your head, his mouth ghosting just over yours. You can feel him, hard against your thigh, still fully clothed, and it’s maddening.

“Could keep you like this a while,” he says, teasing. “All needy and wrecked and beggin’ for it. Could make you wait.”

You whimper, hips shifting beneath him. “Don’t be cruel.”

He grins, dipping down to kiss you slow, tongue sweeping into your mouth like he owns it. Then he pulls back just enough to whisper, voice low and hot—

“Then tell me how you want it.”

You open your mouth to answer, but he’s already moving.

“Don’t need you to tell me,” he murmurs, straightening up with that look in his eyes—confident, dark, completely in control. “I know exactly what you need.”

You watch from the bed, breath shallow, as he reaches for the hem of his shirt and peels it off in one fluid motion. His chest is golden from the sun, stomach tight, the familiar trail of hair disappearing into his waistband making your mouth go dry.

Your thighs press together without thinking.

Then he unbuttons his trousers. Slow. Deliberate. He holds your gaze the entire time, like he knows what he’s doing to you—like he wants you to see exactly what you’ve been missing. He pushes them down along with his briefs, and the second they fall, his cock springs free—thick, flushed, heavy against his stomach.

Your breath catches.

Precum glistens at the tip, already leaking, and he wraps a hand around the base with a low sigh of relief, stroking once.

“Been hard since the bloody airport,” he mutters. “Soon as I saw you. Didn’t even make it through baggage claim without thinkin’ about bendin’ you over the nearest flat surface.”

You moan, hips shifting against the sheets.

He steps between your legs again, stroking himself lazily now, eyes raking over your body like he’s trying to decide exactly where to start.

“You ready for me, love?” he asks, voice thick, teasing. “You want this cock inside you?”

You nod, desperate. “Yes. Please, Harry.”

He leans over you, pressing the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Gonna fuck you slow,” he says, kissing your jaw, your neck, the space just beneath your ear. “Wanna feel every fuckin’ inch of you.”

Then he pushes in.

He pushes just the tip inside, then stops.

Your hands clutch at the sheets. “Harry—”

“Shh,” he murmurs against your skin, brushing his nose along your neck. “Not yet.”

He pulls out slowly, dragging the head of his cock through your slick folds, teasing your entrance, your clit, everything but what you need.

“Wanna know somethin’ first,” he says, voice thick with amusement, but his hips stay steady, cruelly patient. “You never told me what your favorite part was.”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

“In those stories,” he murmurs, sucking gently at your throat. “The ones you read at night. About me. What’s your favorite part?”

You shake your head, breath catching as he presses in again—just barely—then pulls back.

“C’mon, love,” he says, his voice laced with a dark kind of sweetness. “I wanna hear you say it.”

You whimper. “I like when you talk.”

He stills, grinning against your jaw. “Yeah? When I’m filthy with you?”

You nod quickly, lips parting, breath uneven. “And when you—” You falter, heat blooming across your chest. “When you go down on her and don’t stop. When you say it’s yours.”

That breaks him.

“Jesus,” he groans, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re gonna kill me.”

He shifts his hips again, just enough for the head of his cock to push inside once more.

“Say it now,” he breathes. “Say you’re mine.”

Your fingers curl around his biceps, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m yours, Harry. I’m yours.”

His mouth crashes into yours again, and this time, he doesn’t hold back.

His mouth finds yours again, hot and hungry, and he sinks into you all at once—slow but deep—his cock stretching you open inch by inch until you’re full of him, breath caught in your throat. The moan you let out is pure instinct, helpless and raw, and it makes him groan right back, low in his chest like it physically knocks the air out of him.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, jaw tight, buried all the way to the hilt. “You feel—Jesus, baby—you feel so fuckin’ good.”

Your fingers grip his shoulders, your legs hooking around his waist, trying to draw him in deeper even though he’s already as close as he can get. He stays there for a second, not moving, just letting you feel it—letting himself feel it.

Then he pulls back slow, almost to the tip, before thrusting in again, harder this time. Your head tips back, mouth falling open with a gasp.

“There she is,” he growls, one hand sliding up your body to wrap around your throat—not tight, just enough to hold you there, eyes on him. “That the part you like, yeah? When I fuck you like I ownyou?”

You nod, whimpering. “Yes—Harry—”

“God, I missed this pussy,” he says, hips snapping into you again. “Dreamt about it. Woke up hard on the fuckin’ tour bus thinkin’ about you spread out like this.”

He’s moving now, really moving, fucking you slow and deep but with purpose, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision blur. Your body meets him with every roll of his hips, greedy, desperate, like it’s been waiting for him just as long as your heart has.

You moan again and his lips find your ear.

“That what you wanted, baby?” he pants. “Wanted my cock stretchin’ you out just like this? Bet none of those fanfics made you feel like this.”

“N-no,” you choke out, nails digging into his back. “Nothing like this.”

“Yeah?” His pace quickens slightly, his voice going rougher. “Tell me whose it is.”

“Yours,” you breathe, eyes wide and glassy. “Yours, Harry.”

“Say it again.”

“Yours—fuck—yours.”

He leans down and kisses you hard, messy, full of tongue and teeth and heat, his hips relentless now. He’s grunting with every thrust, sweat beading at his temples, his whole body working to bring you right to the edge again.

“I can feel you squeezin’ me,” he groans. “You’re close, aren’t you? Gonna come for me, sweetheart?”

“Yes—don’t stop—don’t—”

He slips a hand between your bodies, thumb circling your clit in tight, wet strokes while he keeps fucking into you deep and fast.

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice cracked and wild. “Come on. Let me feel it.”

And that’s all it takes.

You shatter around him with a cry, your whole body pulsing, shaking, coming hard on his cock. He fucks you through it, eyes locked on your face like he wants to remember everything.

“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—”

He pulls out at the last second, hand stroking himself twice before he spills all over your stomach with a groan so guttural it makes your toes curl. Thick, hot, and messy. He leans over you, breathing hard, eyes dark and wrecked, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You’re somethin’ else,” he whispers, leaning in to kiss you again, slower now, sweeter. 

You’re still trying to catch your breath when he leans back on his heels, eyes dragging over your body—sweat-slicked, legs still trembling, his release glistening on your stomach. There’s a lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not just cocky. It’s hungry. Like he’s already thinking about what comes next.

“Can’t believe I spent weeks in hotel beds with my hand wrapped ‘round my cock,” he mutters, one hand sliding up your thigh again. “When this was waitin’ for me.”

You open your mouth to respond, but then he’s dipping down again, licking a slow, deliberate stripe up your stomach. You jolt, a whimper escaping your lips as his tongue drags through his own mess.

“Harry—”

He hums, like it’s nothing. Like the taste of you—of both of you—doesn’t drive him mad.

His tongue swirls over your skin, not in a rush this time, just savoring. Teasing. His hands slide back up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts before he lowers his mouth again and sucks one nipple between his lips.

You gasp, arching into him.

“You still sensitive?” he asks, voice muffled against your skin. “That why you’re shakin’ like that?”

You nod, legs twitching around him. “Y-Yeah.”

He grins against your breast, mouth moving to the other. “Good.”

He slides a hand between your legs again, fingers pressing right where you’re still dripping, still open from him.

“‘Cause I’m not finished with you yet.”

He looks up at you, eyes dark and wild, fingers circling your clit again in slow, deliberate strokes.

“You’re gonna come again, baby. Just like in those stories you read. Over and over ‘til you can’t even say my name.”

[rafecameronssl4t]

In-flight Attraction || Drew Starkey x flight attendant!reader

Summary: Drew being drawn to you at the airport and turns out your on his flight.

Warnings: none :)

Word count: 1,584

A/n: this might be a niche pairing but my older sister officially became an Emirates flight attendant yesterday and I’m so incredibly proud of her 🥹🥹

MASTERLIST

The fluorescent lights of the bustling airport reflected off the polished tiles as Drew made his way through the terminal. He adjusted the strap of his backpack on his shoulder, trying to blend in with the crowd. Despite his efforts to go unnoticed, a few passersby glanced at him, some lingering in recognition. Drew offered a polite nod to anyone who made eye contact but otherwise kept his head down.

It was early, and he wasn’t particularly in the mood for small talk. As he neared his gate, a group of flight attendants walked by in perfect unison, and their presence commanding attention. Crisp uniforms in shades of navy and white, polished shoes clicking against the floor, and perfectly styled hair—it was a sight that made people pause.

Among them, one person stood out. You. Drew’s attention locked on you almost immediately. There was something about the way you carried yourself—effortless confidence mixed with a warm, approachable energy. Your uniform fit perfectly, the tailored blazer accentuating your figure, and your hair was neatly styled, though a few soft strands framed your face, adding a touch of natural beauty to your polished appearance. You weren’t trying to stand out, yet you did.

The group walked in a tight formation, your fellow attendants chatting quietly among themselves, but you weren’t entirely focused on the conversation. Your eyes scanned the crowd, and for a fleeting moment, they met Drew’s. His breath hitched. You smiled. Not one of those polite, practiced smiles flight attendants often give passengers, but a real one—gentle and genuine, as if you’d caught the faintest glimpse of something amusing or intriguing about him.

It was brief, but it lingered in Drew’s mind like the faint melody of a song he couldn’t place. He managed a small smile in return, but you were already looking away, continuing your stride. Drew stood rooted for a moment, watching as you disappeared down the terminal, your ponytail swaying with every step. He didn’t understand why he felt so drawn to you, but there was no denying it. Shaking his head, he made his way to the boarding area.

~

The cabin hummed with activity as passengers settled into their seats. Drew glanced at his boarding pass—seat 6A, first class. He slid into the spacious window seat, grateful for the extra room and privacy. After securing his bag in the overhead compartment, he sat back and adjusted his baseball cap, hoping to catch a quick nap once they were airborne. He didn’t expect to see you again so soon.

As the flight attendants prepared for takeoff, you emerged from the galley. Drew’s heart skipped when he saw you again, your composure and grace even more striking up close. The uniform suited you perfectly, but it wasn’t just about how you looked—it was the way you moved, the way you smiled as you interacted with passengers. And then your eyes met his.

The same warmth from earlier flickered in your gaze, but this time it was paired with a faint look of recognition. You didn’t falter, maintaining your professional demeanour as you offered him a small nod, but Drew could swear there was a hint of amusement in your expression. “Good morning, Mr Starkey,” you greeted softly, your voice carrying just the right amount of charm without being overbearing.

He blinked, caught off guard by the fact that you’d recognised him. “Morning,” he replied, his voice raspier than intended. You didn’t linger, moving on to greet the other passengers with the same professionalism. Drew watched as you moved through the cabin, making sure everyone was settled. Soon, you returned to the front of the cabin, standing perfectly poised as you began the safety demonstration.

Drew knew he should be paying attention to the instructions—he always did—but this time, he couldn’t focus on anything but you. The way you moved your hands to point out the exits, and the faint smile you wore throughout the demonstration—it all captivated him. His gaze never wavered, even as you demonstrated how to secure the oxygen mask and fasten the seatbelt.

For a brief moment, your eyes flicked in his direction, as if you could feel the weight of his stare, and your lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile. By the time you finished and stepped aside, Drew realised his pulse had quickened. You returned to your spot near the galley, and for a second, your eyes met again. It was fleeting, but the subtle connection lingered in the air, leaving Drew both intrigued and impatient for the hours ahead.

~

Midway through the flight, Drew couldn’t help but steal glances at you. Whether you were assisting a passenger or gliding down the aisle with a tray of drinks, you had a way of making everything look effortless. When you approached his row to offer refreshments, he felt his pulse quicken. “Would you like something to drink?” you asked, your tone light but polished. “Just water, please,” he replied, trying not to stare too long. You handed him a glass, your fingers brushing his briefly, and Drew swore he felt an electric jolt.

He caught the faintest scent of your perfume—subtle but intoxicating.“Thank you,” he said, his voice steady despite the thrum of his heartbeat. You smiled again, this time with a touch of curiosity, as if you could sense his intrigue but chose not to acknowledge it outright. “Let me know if you need anything else.” Drew watched as you walked away, his thoughts a tangle of admiration and curiosity. He had met countless people in his line of work, yet something about you was undeniably different.

~

Drew adjusted the strap of his backpack as he stepped out of the cab in front of his hotel in New York. The afternoon sun reflected off the sleek glass exterior of the towering building, its grandeur a sharp contrast to the quiet airport he’d left behind just hours earlier. The flight had been smooth, but Drew’s thoughts had been anything but.

You occupied his mind from the moment he’d seen you walking through the terminal. It was unusual for someone to leave such an impression on him after such a brief interaction, but there was something about you—your presence, your kindness, your smile—that had lingered And now, as he handed his bag off to the valet and walked through the lobby doors, a pang of disappointment settled in his chest.

The odds of seeing you again were slim to none. You were a flight attendant, constantly traveling, and he was heading into a whirlwind of work commitments. The moment was over, and he would have to accept it for what it was: fleeting but memorable. He checked in at the front desk, trying to shake off the feeling. After receiving his room key, he stepped back outside for a moment, drawn by the crisp winter air.

He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets and glanced down the busy street, watching the steady rhythm of life in the city. A bus pulled up in front of the hotel, its brakes hissing as it came to a stop. Drew’s gaze drifted toward it absentmindedly, but what he saw next made his heart skip. It was you. You stepped off the bus, your suitcase rolling behind you as the other flight attendants followed close behind.

The navy-blue uniform he had spent the last few hours admiring looked just as immaculate, but now the late afternoon sunlight caught your hair, making it gleam. Drew froze, unsure if his eyes were playing tricks on him. You looked up as you stepped onto the sidewalk, your eyes scanning the hotel entrance—and then they landed on him. Your steps faltered for just a moment before a smile spread across your face, one that mirrored the same warmth from earlier but carried a hint of surprise.

For a moment, neither of you moved. Drew felt his pulse quicken, a mixture of disbelief and excitement coursing through him. He watched as you exchanged a few words with one of your colleagues before turning fully toward him, your curiosity evident in the way your eyes lingered on his. “You again,” you said teasingly as you approached, your suitcase gliding effortlessly behind you. He laughed, shaking his head in amazement. “Yeah, I guess fate has a sense of humour.”

You tilted your head slightly, your smile softening. “Staying here, too?” “Looks like it,” Drew said, his voice a touch lower, unable to hide his grin. “I wasn’t expecting to see you again.” “Neither was I,” you admitted, glancing at the hotel before looking back at him. “Small world.” The noise of the city buzzed around you both, but in that moment, it felt like the rest of the world had faded.

Drew cleared his throat, forcing himself to sound casual. “Well, I hope they’ve got good coffee inside. I could use some after that flight.” You chuckled. “If they don’t, I might know a place nearby.” For the first time that day, Drew felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this wasn’t the end of the story after all.

[xo100]

Airport - LN4

*:･ﾟ Summary: Lando Norris offers a woman, who missed her flight, a ride on his private jet to Monaco. They bond over light conversation and flirting, leaving with the possibility of seeing each other again.

*:･ﾟ Word count: 1323

୨ৎ

The race weekend had been long, grueling, and filled with adrenaline. Lando Norris was ready to head back to Monaco, to the comfort of his own home where the sound of engines could be swapped for the quiet of the Mediterranean breeze. As he made his way through the airport, sunglasses perched on his nose and his cap pulled low, he weaved his way through the flow of people without drawing too much attention to himself.

It wasn’t until he neared the private terminal that he noticed something out of the ordinary: a young woman standing near the gate of a commercial flight to Monaco, her expression a mix of frustration and panic. Lando slowed his steps, curiosity piqued. She stood there, gazing hopelessly at the closed gate, gripping her passport tightly. Her bags were tossed haphazardly by her feet as though she’d raced through the airport only to fall seconds short of making it to her flight.

The sharpness of disappointment etched on her face was all too familiar. He’d been in similar situations before, dashing through airports, missing flights by mere moments. Only, she didn’t seem to have the luxury of a private jet waiting just down the hall like he did.

Lando hesitated. He didn’t know her story, but something about the way she stood there, looking so defeated, tugged at him. He glanced at his watch. His jet was leaving soon, but he still had time. And, well, maybe this wouldn’t be the worst idea. What was the harm in offering a bit of help?

He pulled his cap down a little further and crossed the distance between them, moving casually as though he were just another traveler making his way to his flight.

“Missed your flight?” he asked, his voice light but laced with concern.

She turned to look at him, startled at first, then quickly took him in—cap, sunglasses, and all. Recognition flickered in her eyes, but it wasn’t overwhelming. Just a flicker.

“Yeah,” she breathed out with a weak chuckle. “By about three minutes. They wouldn’t let me through even though the plane is still sitting there.”

“That’s tough,” Lando said, giving her a sympathetic smile. “Where you heading?”

“Monaco,” she said with a shrug, though it seemed like a more resigned gesture. “Guess I’ll have to wait for the next one.”

Lando nodded, glancing around the terminal. The airport was buzzing with the usual chaos, and he could see the stress rolling off her shoulders. He thought for a second, then made a split decision. A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

“I’m heading there too,” he said, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got a private jet leaving soon. If you want, you can take the flight with me.”

Her eyebrows shot up, and her lips parted slightly, a mixture of surprise and hesitation crossing her features.

“A private jet?” she asked, a little skeptical. “Isn’t that...a bit much?”

Lando laughed softly. “Maybe, but I’ve got plenty of room. Plus, you look like you could use a break from airport stress. I promise it’s less chaotic than commercial flights.”

She blinked, clearly processing his offer. The idea of getting onto a private jet with a guy she just met—even if he was Lando Norris—probably wasn’t something she had expected when she woke up that morning.

“That’s...really kind of you,” she said after a moment, her voice soft. “But I couldn’t—“

“Sure you can,” he interrupted, his tone teasing but warm. “Think of it as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. You miss your flight, and instead of waiting around, you get to fly in style. How often does that happen?”

She laughed at that, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. “When you put it like that…”

Lando grinned, taking her hesitation as a positive sign. “C’mon, what’s the worst that could happen? You get to Monaco an hour earlier, and we both get some company for the flight. No need to sit around waiting for the next one.”

She looked at him again, weighing her options. He could see the internal debate playing out in her eyes—logic versus the sheer spontaneity of his offer. Finally, she sighed, her lips curling into a tentative smile.

“Alright,” she said, running a hand through her hair. “Why not? But I’ll warn you, I might be a terrible conversationalist after the day I’ve had.”

“That’s okay,” Lando replied with a wink. “I’m known to talk enough for two.”

With that, he grabbed one of her bags effortlessly, motioning for her to follow him toward the private terminal. She trailed behind, still looking a little shell-shocked, but there was something about the ease of his manner that made her feel less anxious about the whole thing.

As they walked, Lando kept the conversation light, asking her about her trip and how she ended up almost missing her flight. She shared a story about how her taxi had gotten stuck in traffic, the minutes ticking away as she helplessly watched the airport get closer and closer. Lando laughed, offering a few of his own travel horror stories in return. By the time they reached the sleek jet waiting on the tarmac, the mood between them was light and comfortable.

-

“You weren’t kidding,” she muttered as they approached the aircraft, eyes wide as she took it all in. “This is...wow.”

Lando chuckled and waved a hand. “It’s not bad, right?”

They climbed aboard, and soon enough, they were airborne. The hum of the engines was soothing, and the view of the clouds stretching out below them was a peaceful contrast to the chaos of the airport they’d left behind.

“You know,” she said after a while, leaning back in her plush seat, “I still can’t believe I’m on a private jet with you. This feels surreal.”

Lando smirked, leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. “Trust me, I’ve been in a lot of surreal situations lately. This one’s pretty tame.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “I guess that’s fair. Monaco, huh? Do you live there?”

“Yeah, for a while now,” he replied, glancing out the window. “It’s a nice place to unwind after the craziness of race weekends.”

“I’ve always wanted to visit,” she admitted. “I mean, I’ve been through a few times, but never really had a chance to stay.”

“Well, maybe this is your chance,” he said, eyes twinkling. “What’s your plan once we get there?”

“I was supposed to meet a friend,” she said with a sigh. “But it’s not set in stone. What about you?”

“Just heading home,” Lando said, then added with a teasing grin, “But if you need a tour guide while you’re there, I might be available.”

She raised an eyebrow, a smile tugging at her lips. “Are you offering to show me around Monaco, Lando?”

“Maybe,” he said, his grin widening. “Depends if you’re up for it.”

She laughed softly, glancing out the window again. “I might take you up on that.”

For the rest of the flight, the conversation flowed easily, peppered with light flirtation and comfortable silences. There was something so natural about it—like they’d known each other for longer than just a chance meeting in an airport.

As the jet began its descent toward Monaco, Lando glanced over at her, feeling a strange sense of contentment.

“Guess we’re almost there,” he said.

”Yeah,” she replied, though her tone held a hint of reluctance. “Thanks again for this, Lando. You really saved my day.”

He flashed her a playful grin. “Anytime. Maybe I’ll see you around Monaco.”

“Maybe,” she said with a smirk of her own. “But next time, let’s hope it’s under more normal circumstances.”

“Deal,” he replied with a wink.

As they stepped off the jet and into the warm Monaco air, Lando couldn’t help but think that maybe missing her flight had been the best thing that could’ve happened to either of them that day.

୨ৎ

*:･ﾟ Notes; thank you for reading, I hope y’all enjoyed! Remember requests are open if you would like to request something. Also question for you guys, is there someone who can help me with the link of the requests so I could put it in my masterlist? I don’t know where to find that link, DM me if you know.

[kiszjuli]

・── ࣪layover .ᐟ (M.L)

(마크 ) ; fem!reader x mark lee

──in which you meet that one boy at the airport you will never forget. but not in the way that you had originally thought.

genre. fluff, mutual pining? meeting by chance, non!idol au ; tags. sweet mark, moves kinda fast, a little cliché ; w.c. 955

you always thought airports were a strange place. everyone you passed by had a different story, different destination, and faces you would never see again. each interaction only a short period of time before they went about their own lives. moments of simple glances and polite smiles over in an instant.

but not this one.

you had been walking from your terminal, with your headphones on. letting your phone play whatever, you drowned out the bustling noise of the busy airport. some people leisurely walking by, and others racing by causing small gusts of wind.

you were so immersed in your music, you failed to notice that your favorite lipgloss had fallen out of your bag and onto the cold floor. it rolled backwards until hitting a strangers foot. he bent down to grab it and looked back up. assuming it was yours by the unzipped pocket of your bag, he jogged to catch up to you.

tapping on your shoulder softly, you turned around with a small jump and took your headphones off one ear.

he gave you a small apologetic smile. “you—uh dropped this,” he said holding the lipgloss up.

if you didn’t look dumb already, distracted by his handsome face, you stared at the lipgloss in his hand for a moment. he would’ve thought it actually wasn’t yours if you hadn’t spoken up in that moment. “oh—i didn’t even…thank you,” you replied a little breathless.

you took it from him, your fingers grazing his warm ones for a second. “no problem,” he smiled, stuffing his hands back into the pockets of his blue jacket. then he hesitated, as if wanting to say more. you felt that you did too.

but just like that, the moment was over.

now here you both were, in the same layover. your flights had been delayed, the universe lengthening your encounter with one another.

as you waited, you tried not to stare. you kept trying to keep your eyes on the book in your lap that really wasn’t that interesting now that you knew this same beautiful stranger from earlier was in front of you. you would glance up, he would tear his eyes from you. and yet, every time your eyes met there was this flicker of connection. one that kept your eyes moving back up to him.

he was perfect really; fit, lean frame, with black hair that fell over his eyes effortlessly, good style, beautiful smile, and the most attractive eyes you’d ever made contact with. you trues to shake the thoughts. he was just another stranger that would become a distant memory after leaving the airport. but something kept pushing the thoughts right back to the front of your mind.

he felt the same not able to tear his eyes away from you until you looked up, just to look back when he thought you weren’t. to say he was struck by your beauty and effortless charm was an understatement. he was entranced by you almost. he persisted on trying to find a way to talk to you again, needing to know more about you.

you try not to stare. he does too. but every time your eyes meet, there’s a flicker of something—amusement, curiosity, maybe even recognition. it’s a game, almost, this silent conversation neither of you are brave enough to start.

the layover terminal was busy, a low mix of conversations and rolling suitcases filling the air. but somehow, the only thing you’re aware of is him.

across from you, mark shifts. he adjusting his jacket, fingers toying with the zipper. then, out of nowhere—

“hey,” he says, voice warm. “do you always travel alone?”

you blink at the sudden question, but shake your head. “not always. just this time.”

he nods, glancing at the departures screen before looking back at you. “me too.”

there’s a small pause, comfortable in a way you wouldn’t expect with a stranger.

then he smiles. “i’m glad i caught you when i did.”

you tilt your head. “huh?”

he gestures towards your bag near your feet. “you know. the lip gloss.”

a soft laugh escapes you. “you make it sound like a life—or—death situation.”

“hey, you never know.” he grins. “i might’ve just saved you from a serious lipgloss emergency.”

you roll your eyes, but you can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips. “right. my hero.”

he laughs, the sound light and easy, before settling back into a quiet moment.

“but really,” he says after a beat, voice softer this time. “i’m glad i got to talk to you.”

there’s something in the way he says it that makes your heart ache just a little. because you know what he means.

airports aren’t made for keeping people. they’re for passing through. and you both know, eventually, you’ll have to board separate flights, head in different directions.

but for now, you’re here. and so is he. the thought was slightly comforting this time.

mark looks down at his boarding pass, thumb smoothing over the edge before he glances back at you.

“can i—” he hesitates, then shakes his head, laughing a little at himself. “never mind.”

you blink. “what?”

he looks up, something uncertain but hopeful in his expression. “i was gonna ask for your number, but… i don’t know if that’s weird.”

your heart skips.

“it’s not weird,” you say quietly.

his eyes search yours, lips curving into a small smile. “yeah?”

you nod.

he hands you his phone, speaking up softly. “i’m mark by the way,” and for the first time, this layover doesn’t feel like just a passing moment.

maybe airports are temporary. and the people you meet just as temporary.

but maybe, not everything has to be.

—

[theonottsbxtch]

FOGGY MEMORIES | MV1

an: this is slightly based off of a request but not at all at the same time, i had this idea come to me in a dream and had to write it as soon as possible. this one is dedicated to 🐴non x

wc: 6.0k

THE CITY HUMMED WITH QUIET MENACE, a sprawling jungle of glass and steel that never truly slept. High above the streets, the skyline was shrouded in a dense layer of mist, the lights of distant towers bleeding through like smudged paint on a dark canvas. Somewhere below, the world carried on, unaware of the silent war that played out in the shadows—where men like Max Verstappen existed, moving unseen, ghosts in the system.

Max had been doing this for as long as he could remember. Recruited young, trained to be invisible, his life had been stripped of anything that didn’t serve the mission. Emotion dulled, past erased—he had been remade into something precise, something lethal. He didn’t question it. There was no point.

Tonight was no different. His orders had been clear: infiltrate, extract, disappear. A routine operation for someone like him. The target was a classified data vault hidden beneath the bones of an abandoned government facility—forgotten by the world but not by those who understood its value. Whatever was locked inside was important enough for the agency to send him, which meant there was no room for error.

The corridors were silent, bathed in the cold glow of emergency lights. He moved without a sound, a shadow slipping past security feeds and motion sensors with practised ease. The hard drive was exactly where it was supposed to be, tucked behind layers of encryption and reinforced steel. He bypassed the safeguards in seconds, fingers flying over the terminal, but just as the transfer neared completion, the air shifted—subtle, but unmistakable.

He wasn’t alone.

A flicker in his peripheral vision—then movement. Fast.

Max barely twisted in time to avoid the strike aimed at his throat, instinct carrying him backwards as a blade skimmed past his skin. No hesitation, no wasted effort. He countered immediately, using the momentum to lash out, but she was already gone, slipping back into the dim light like smoke.

His eyes locked onto her, scanning, assessing. She was good. Too good. Every movement precise, every attack calculated. Not just an operative—an equal.

They clashed again, the fight a brutal dance of skill and intent. Strikes deflected, counters met with counters. For every step he gained, she matched him effortlessly, as if she knew exactly how he moved, how he thought.

And then, as their blades met in a deadlock, a flicker of something else. Not recognition—something deeper, buried beneath years of erased memories.

A flash.

Fifteen years old, standing in the rain, bruised and bleeding but not broken. A voice—her voice—sharp with defiance. Again.

It vanished as quickly as it had come, leaving only the pounding of his pulse and the fire in her eyes.

Who was she?

She twisted free, launching into another attack, and Max forced himself to focus. Questions could wait. First, he had to survive.

The fight pressed on, a deadly rhythm of movement and steel. Each strike was met with precision, each dodge answered with equal force. It had been a long time since Max had faced someone who could keep up with him—longer still since he had felt something close to uncertainty in a fight. But there was no denying it. She knew him. Knew the way he moved, the way he anticipated attacks before they landed.

And worse—he knew her too.

Not in a way that made sense. Not in a way that should have been possible.

She feinted left before twisting low, her boot catching his knee hard enough to unbalance him. He barely managed to absorb the impact, rolling back to create distance. He expected her to press forward, to take advantage of the opening, but instead, she hesitated.

Just for a fraction of a second.

Her breathing was steady, her stance unwavering, but in her eyes—something flickered. A question.

Max clenched his jaw. He couldn't afford hesitation, couldn't afford doubt. Whoever she was, whatever this was, it didn’t change the mission. He forced himself to move, closing the distance between them with speed, but as he reached for his knife, another flash tore through him—

Fifteen again. A training room lit with harsh white fluorescents. The air thick with the scent of sweat and blood. His body ached, muscles trembling from exhaustion, but he refused to stop. She stood opposite him, just as battered, just as relentless. Her voice, breathless but sharp—

"You’re getting slow, Max."

The memory splintered as she moved, striking at him with that same speed, that same precision. He barely countered in time.

His pulse thundered. He had no past, that’s what he’d been told. Whatever he was remembering right now, he wasn’t supposed to remember.

And yet…

A part of him did.

She drove him back, seizing control of the fight, her attacks coming faster now, sharper—more desperate. As if she, too, was fighting something beyond just the mission.

For a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of them. The abandoned facility, the stolen data, the reason they were even here in the first place—it all faded into insignificance. There was only her. The way she moved. The way something deep within his bones screamed that this wasn’t the first time they had fought like this.

Then, just as suddenly, the silence shattered.

A distant alarm.

Reinforcements.

Max swore under his breath. This had already gone too far.

Their gazes locked, breath ragged, neither willing to lower their guard. But the moment was broken.

Whoever she was, whatever this was—they were out of time.

The distant alarm pulsed through the facility, a stark reminder that they weren’t alone. The fight should have ended then and there—one of them should have taken the opportunity to finish it. But neither of them moved.

Max’s grip tightened around his knife, but his instincts screamed at him to do something else entirely. Run. Stay. Demand answers. The confusion was a dangerous distraction, one he had never allowed himself before.

She was still watching him, breathing hard, eyes flicking towards the corridor where the reinforcements would be coming from. Her hesitation was telling.

She wasn’t here for them.

Whoever she was—whatever her mission—she was working alone.

The second stretched between them, thick with something unspoken, before she made her choice.

She turned and ran.

Max almost let her go. Almost.

But something inside him wouldn’t allow it.

Without thinking, he took off after her.

She was fast, her movements fluid, as if she already knew the building’s layout. He followed instinctively, boots silent against the steel grates as they weaved through the abandoned corridors. The flashing red lights cast long shadows, flickering over rusted walls and forgotten machinery.

She took a sharp turn, disappearing into a stairwell. Max followed without hesitation, vaulting over the railing to cut her off at the landing below. She barely managed to stop in time, skidding to a halt before twisting into a defensive stance.

For the first time, she spoke.

"Still reckless."

The words sent an almost physical shock through him. Not because of what she’d said—but because of how she’d said it. Not mocking. Not surprised. Just… knowing.

Max didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

His chest was heaving, his mind torn between the mission and the undeniable truth that was forcing its way through the cracks in his erased past.

Then, another flash—

Younger. A different place. Late night, stolen moments between brutal training sessions. A whispered conversation in the dark. She’s beside him, pressing an ice pack to his ribs, smirking slightly as he winces.

"Still reckless," she murmurs, and there’s something almost fond in her voice.

It hit him like a bullet. The memory wasn’t vague or blurred—it was real.

Which meant she was real.

His hesitation was all she needed. With a sharp movement, she threw something—small, metallic—towards the ground between them. A split second later, smoke erupted, thick and blinding.

Max lunged forward, but by the time he broke through the haze, she was gone.

Vanished into the labyrinth of the facility.

The alarm was still blaring. He could hear the distant shouts of guards closing in, but his mind was elsewhere, stuck in the past he wasn’t supposed to have.

Who the hell was she?

And why had they made him forget?

The mission was slipping away.

Max knew it—could feel it unraveling the second he made his choice. The data didn’t matter anymore. The agency’s orders, the years of conditioning that had drilled obedience into his bones—none of it mattered. Not when the memories were clawing their way back to the surface, memories that weren’t supposed to exist.

She wasn’t supposed to exist.

But she did. And he needed to find her.

The alarm pulsed overhead, the facility coming alive with movement as guards swept through the corridors. Max melted into the shadows, instincts taking over, but his mind was elsewhere—tracing the route she had taken, searching for an exit she might have used.

He replayed every detail of their fight, every step of her retreat. She had moved with certainty, like she knew exactly where she was going. That meant she had planned this.

Which meant she had a way out.

Max exhaled sharply and turned away from the terminal. The stolen data was still mid-transfer, the mission still technically salvageable—but that wasn’t why he was here anymore. He left it behind without hesitation, slipping into the stairwell she had disappeared through moments before.

His body moved on instinct, muscle memory leading him through the facility as if chasing something deeper than just a target.

Fifteen again. Late-night training. They were always the last two left standing, bruised and aching but refusing to fall. A voice in the dark, hers—

"They’ll break us apart one day."

He hadn’t believed her.

Max’s jaw clenched. They had broken them apart. Wiped them clean. Turned them into strangers.

But not completely.

Some part of him still remembered. And if that part existed in him, then it existed in her too.

He reached the lower levels of the building, moving faster now. The reinforcements were closing in above—he could hear the distant echo of boots, orders shouted over comms. He had minutes at best.

The facility was a relic of a forgotten past, its lower levels half-abandoned, corridors thick with dust and disuse. It was the perfect place to disappear.

And that’s exactly what she had done.

Max slowed, scanning the space, eyes catching the faintest disturbance in the dust—a trail. Not clumsy, not obvious, but enough. She wanted to vanish, but she was still human. Still breathing, still moving, still—

There.

A side door, slightly ajar. The faintest shift in the air, the ghost of movement beyond.

Max didn’t hesitate.

He pushed through, slipping into the dimly lit corridor beyond, senses sharp. The space was narrow, lined with rusted pipes, the distant hum of an old ventilation system vibrating through the walls. She had taken this route for a reason.

An exit.

He moved quickly but carefully, resisting the urge to break into a sprint. She knew he was coming—she had to. But she hadn’t tried to stop him.

Why?

The corridor opened up into a loading bay, long abandoned, the night air cutting sharp through a broken shutter. Outside, the city sprawled in the distance, a blur of lights against the dark.

She was there.

Standing just beyond the exit, half-turned, as if debating whether to disappear for good.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then—

"You left the mission," she said, voice unreadable.

Max exhaled slowly. "So did you."

Something flickered in her eyes. Something almost like recognition. Like a truth neither of them could quite grasp.

He took a step forward.

And this time—she didn’t run.

Max barely had time to react. One second, they were standing there, locked in some unspoken standoff—the next, she moved. Fast. Too fast.

He didn’t even see the knife until it was pressed against his throat.

The cold bite of steel sent a sharp pulse through him, but he didn’t flinch. His hands remained at his sides, body taut, ready—but he didn’t strike. Not yet.

She was close now. Close enough that he could see the steady rise and fall of her chest, the flicker of something unreadable in her eyes.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice low.

Her grip on the knife didn’t waver.

"They’ll kill you if I answer that question."

The words shouldn’t have sent a chill through him, but they did. Not because of what she said—but because of how she said it. A warning, not a threat. A truth she didn’t want to speak aloud.

He held her gaze. "Then why not kill me yourself?"

Her jaw tensed. "If I wanted you dead, you would be."

Something about the certainty in her voice sent his pulse spiking.

"Then tell me," he pressed. "Tell me why I remember you."

She exhaled sharply, her expression flickering—just for a second. As if she wanted to. As if she was weighing whether or not to break whatever rules had been drilled into her as deeply as his own.

Then, finally—

"Ask Christian where he picked you up from."

Max’s breath stilled.

The name hit him harder than it should have.

Christian. His handler. The man who had trained him, who had shaped him into what he was today. The one person in his life who had ever been constant.

There was nothing before him. No memories, no past. Christian had found him, recruited him, trained him—

Hadn’t he?

The question lodged itself deep, twisting into something sharp and unfamiliar.

He shook his head. "Christian raised me."

She pressed the knife just a little harder against his skin—not enough to cut, just enough to make sure he felt it.

"No, he didn’t."

Max’s throat went dry.

The certainty in her voice, the way she didn’t even hesitate—it felt like a noose tightening around something inside him.

The life he’d known had always been clear, precise, unshakable. He had been taken in as a boy, trained to be a ghost, stripped of anything that might make him hesitate. No attachments. No past.

No questions.

But now—

Now he wasn’t so sure.

She must have seen the doubt flicker in his eyes because something in her stance shifted. Not in triumph. Not in relief. Something closer to regret.

The knife at his throat lowered slightly, just enough to press against his chest instead. Light. Just a touch. A reminder.

"Whatever you do," she said softly, "don’t let them make you forget again."

The words hit him like a gunshot.

And then—she was gone.

A single blink, a breath too slow, and she vanished into the shadows like she had never been there at all.

Max stood frozen, the city wind cutting sharp against his skin.

His hands curled into fists.

Because for the first time in his life, he had a question he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer to.

The flight back was silent.

Max sat motionless in the jet’s dim cabin, hands clasped loosely, gaze fixed on nothing. The city lights faded beneath him, swallowed by the vast dark as they ascended. The hum of the engines filled the space, steady and constant—something to focus on. Something to drown out the chaos in his head.

Christian would be waiting for him.

He had no mission report to give. No extracted data, no explanations that would make sense. It was the first mission he had ever failed.

And the worst part was—he hadn’t even tried to succeed.

The memory of her voice lingered, curling around the edges of his mind like smoke. The way she moved, the way she spoke—like she knew him. Like she had always known him.

Like he should have known her.

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The words dug deep. No matter how much he tried to push them away, they wouldn’t leave him.

The base was cold when he arrived, the same clinical sterility as always, but tonight, it felt different. Or maybe he was different.

Christian was waiting for him, as expected. He stood with his hands behind his back, expression unreadable, but Max knew him well enough to recognise the subtle tension in his shoulders. Disappointment.

Christian let the silence stretch for a moment before he finally spoke.

"You’ve never failed a mission before."

Max kept his expression blank. "There were complications."

"Complications." Christian’s tone was flat, like he was waiting for something more.

Max exhaled, keeping his body relaxed, forcing himself into the role he had played for years. "Security was heavier than expected. Extraction was compromised. I made the call to retreat before it escalated."

A lie. A clean, believable lie.

Christian studied him carefully.

Then, with quiet finality—

"That’s not the whole truth."

Something in Max’s gut twisted. Christian knew. Maybe not everything, maybe not her, but enough to know that Max was keeping something from him.

He needed to tread carefully. He needed to play this right.

So why the hell did he open his mouth and say—

"Where did you pick me up from?"

The words had barely left him before the shift in the air was immediate.

Christian’s entire body went still.

A long, heavy silence.

Then, barely above a whisper—

"You’re remembering."

Max’s stomach turned.

It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t disbelief. It was a confirmation.

Christian knew.

And before Max could even react, before he could think of a way to fix this, to backtrack, to—

The door behind him slid open.

Boots. Movement. Too many of them.

His instincts flared, but before he could reach for a weapon, hands were on him. A hard grip on his arms, forcing them behind his back. He tensed, about to fight, but then he saw it—

The mask.

The metal apparatus in their hands, wires trailing, the gleam of something sharp and invasive.

Max’s breath locked in his throat.

No.

Not this.

Not again.

He never knew what it did. 

All he knew was that it hurt.

His pulse pounded, his body coiled to resist, but Christian only took a step back, running a hand down his face.

"Fuck. How is this happening already?"

The hands on Max tightened. He thrashed against them, instincts screaming to fight, to run, but it was already too late. The mask was forced over his face, the sharp scent of chemicals hitting him fast.

His vision swayed. The edges of the room blurred.

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

Her voice, clear as a bullet to the skull.

Max fought. He fought, but the world was slipping, pulling him under.

And then—

Darkness.

The world came back in pieces.

A dull ache throbbed behind Max’s eyes, a deep, lingering weight pressing against his skull. His body felt heavy, sluggish, like he was surfacing from somewhere too deep, somewhere he wasn’t supposed to have been.

He was lying on something cold. A cot. The metallic scent of the base’s medical wing filled his lungs, sterile and artificial. The hum of overhead lights buzzed faintly in the background, a rhythmic, familiar noise that should have grounded him.

But something was off.

His thoughts were slow, thick, like they were moving through treacle.

And then—

"You're awake."

Christian’s voice.

Max blinked against the brightness, his vision sharpening as he turned his head. Christian stood a few feet away, arms crossed, studying him with the careful scrutiny of someone searching for cracks in a foundation.

Max forced himself upright. The movement sent a sharp wave of nausea through him, but he ignored it.

"What happened?" His own voice felt distant, like it didn’t quite belong to him.

Christian exhaled through his nose, something unreadable flickering across his expression. "You wiped out during the mission. Comms went dark. We had to extract you."

Wiped out? That wasn’t—

No, that couldn’t be right.

The mission. He’d gone in alone. Infiltrated the facility. He was about to extract the data, and then—

His head pulsed, a sharp spike of pain cutting through his thoughts.

Christian watched him carefully. "What do you remember?"

Max frowned, trying to push past the fog. "The facility. I got inside. Security was heavier than expected, but I navigated it. I reached the terminal, started the extraction—"

A flicker of something.

A shadow of movement. The ghost of a fight, a blade catching the dim light—

No.

That wasn’t right.

The mission had gone wrong. That was all.

He forced the thought aside. "There was an alarm. I had to abandon the extraction. That’s when things got messy. I must have taken a hit on the way out."

Christian nodded slowly, as if weighing his words. "You don’t remember anyone else being there?"

The question was casual. Too casual.

Max’s muscles tensed instinctively. "No."

Christian tilted his head slightly. "No other operatives? No one who might have compromised the mission?"

Max shook his head. "I was alone."

The lie slipped out effortlessly. He didn’t know why he was lying, not fully—but something in his gut told him it was necessary.

Christian studied him for a long moment. Then—

"You don’t remember anything else?"

There was something about the way he said it. The way his tone shifted, like he was looking for something specific.

Max opened his mouth to deny it again—

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The thought cut through his mind like a blade.

His breath stalled.

Something about those words felt wrong. Or rather—too sharp. Too defined. Like they weren’t supposed to be there at all.

The chemicals had done their job. He knew they had. He felt the emptiness, the hollowed-out space in his head where things had been scrubbed clean.

But that one thought remained.

And he had no idea why.

Christian was still watching him, patient, expectant.

Max forced his expression blank. "No. I don’t remember anything else."

A beat.

Then Christian nodded, like that was the answer he had been waiting for.

"Get some rest," he said, stepping back towards the door. "We’ll debrief properly in the morning."

Max only nodded.

He waited until Christian was gone, until the door clicked shut behind him.

Then, slowly, he exhaled.

His hands curled into fists against the sheets.

Because something wasn’t right.

And this time, no matter what they did to him—

He wasn’t going to let it go.

Max sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped. His head still ached—a deep, lingering throb at the base of his skull—but he ignored it. He was too focused on the weight pressing against his chest.

The wrongness of it all.

They had wiped him. They must have. He could feel the gaps, the hazy edges where memories had been scraped clean. It wasn’t the first time.

But this time, something had slipped through.

Ask Christian where he picked you up from.

The words sat heavy in his mind, sharp and unyielding. He didn’t know where they came from. Didn’t know why they felt important. But they did.

And that meant something had gone wrong.

He forced himself to breathe slowly, methodically. Focus. He needed to be careful. Christian was already suspicious—his questions hadn’t been casual. He had been testing him.

And Max had barely passed.

He glanced towards the door. Locked, as expected. There would be a guard outside. There always was after the machine, at least for the first few hours. Just in case.

They were watching him.

Which meant he needed to act like nothing was wrong.

Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. His body felt steady now, movements fluid despite the dull weight in his skull. He crossed the small room, pressing his fingertips against the cool metal wall, grounding himself in something tangible.

His reflection stared back at him from the glass panel by the door. He looked the same as always—sharp, composed, unreadable.

But he didn’t feel the same.

He reached up, pressing his palm against his chest, against the spot where—

A flicker. A whisper of sensation, something just out of reach—

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

His breath caught.

Her voice.

It was there. Faint, distant, but real.

And suddenly, he knew.

The wipe hadn’t worked properly. Not completely.

Something had stayed behind.

And if something had stayed behind, then so had she.

Max clenched his jaw.

They thought they had erased her. Thought they had wiped him clean, reset him like they always did.

But this time, something was different.

And for the first time in his life—

He wasn’t going to let it go.

The next week was hell.

Max barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt like he was missing something, like the answers were just out of reach, slipping through his fingers the moment he got too close.

He spent hours running through the details in his head, over and over, searching for cracks. But there was nothing tangible—just fragments. A voice that didn’t belong. A question he shouldn’t have asked. The phantom feeling of a knife pressing lightly against his chest.

Every time he thought he was getting somewhere, it was like slamming into an invisible wall.

The chemicals had done their job too well.

He found himself pacing his room at night, replaying Christian’s words, analysing every interaction, searching for a thread to pull.

But he couldn’t.

There was nothing there.

And that was the most maddening part.

By the fourth day, he was barely holding it together.

He was losing his edge. He could feel it. His reaction time was slower, his focus splintered. During training exercises, he caught himself hesitating, second-guessing movements that should have been instinctual.

It wasn’t just affecting him mentally. It was affecting his performance.

And that was dangerous.

By the fifth day, he started telling himself he was going insane.

That was the only logical explanation, wasn’t it?

They had wiped him. That was routine. He had failed a mission—Christian had told him what had happened. There was no reason to question it.

The words in his head, the voice, the flashes of something more—

They weren’t real. They couldn’t be real.

His own mind was turning against him. That was all. He just needed to let it go.

But he couldn’t.

Because somewhere, deep down, he knew that wasn’t true.

And the not-knowing was driving him to the edge.

On the seventh day, Christian came to him with a new mission.

Max barely had time to gather himself before he was summoned to the briefing room. The moment he walked in, he felt Christian’s gaze settle on him, sharp and assessing, like he was looking for something.

Max straightened his posture, schooling his features into something neutral. He had to keep it together.

Christian held out a thin file. "You’re being deployed again."

Max took it, flipping it open. The details were standard—location, objective, extraction plan. Another infiltration job. Another ghost mission.

But Christian wasn’t watching the file.

He was watching him.

"You look like shit, Max," he said bluntly.

Max barely blinked. "Didn’t realise I was being assessed on aesthetics."

Christian didn’t smile. "You haven’t been sleeping properly."

It wasn’t a question.

Max shut the file, keeping his expression unreadable. "I’m fine."

Christian studied him for a long moment. Then—"Good. Because this time, there’s no margin for error."

Something about the way he said it sent a sharp pulse through Max’s gut.

Because Christian wasn’t just talking about the mission.

He was testing him. Again.

And Max had no idea if he was still passing.

The mission was straightforward. Infiltration. Retrieval. Extraction.

No complications. No surprises.

At least, that’s what the file said.

Max knew better.

Christian had given him a comms unit this time, something he never did unless he expected to monitor performance directly. Which meant this wasn’t just about completing the objective—it was about proving himself.

Proving he wasn’t slipping.

Proving he was still the same agent he had always been.

Proving he wasn’t remembering.

He locked in. Forced his mind to focus. He couldn’t afford any more mistakes.

The drop site was an abandoned industrial complex on the outskirts of Prague. The air was thick with the scent of rust and rain-soaked concrete, the sound of distant traffic humming just beyond the perimeter.

Max moved quickly, slipping through the darkness like a shadow. The plan was clean—get inside, access the target’s server, extract the encrypted data, and leave before anyone knew he was there.

But Christian’s presence in his ear made everything feel off.

"Comms check." Christian’s voice crackled through the line.

"Copy," Max muttered under his breath.

"You’re on a tight window. No distractions."

The words were casual. But the way he said them wasn’t.

Max ignored it. Pushed forward.

The building was hollowed out, skeletal remains of an old factory now repurposed for something far less industrial. Surveillance equipment was minimal—whoever was running this operation relied on secrecy rather than security.

It made things easier.

Within minutes, Max had reached the target room. A small, nondescript office, a single desk, and a humming server in the corner.

He set up quickly, connecting the extraction device to the system, watching the data begin to transfer.

"ETA?" Christian asked.

"Two minutes."

"Good. Keep it clean."

Max clenched his jaw. The way Christian was talking—it wasn’t just mission oversight. It was scrutiny. He wasn’t just expecting success. He was waiting for a mistake.

Max exhaled slowly, grounding himself in the task. He just had to get through this.

He watched the transfer bar crawl forward, the soft whir of the machine filling the silence.

Almost there.

And then—

A noise.

A shift in the air, subtle but wrong.

Max didn’t hesitate. He cut the extraction, ripped out the device, and had his gun raised in the same breath—

But the doorway was empty.

Nothing. No movement.

Still, his pulse had spiked.

Something was there.

He could feel it.

"Max?" Christian’s voice came through the comms.

Max didn’t lower his weapon. "I heard something."

A pause. Then, calmly—"You’re alone."

It was meant to reassure him.

It didn’t.

Max swallowed down the unease, forcing himself to move. He secured the drive, checked the hall, and started his exit.

He needed to get out.

But as he moved through the corridors, every shadow felt heavier. Every noise felt sharper.

Like he wasn’t alone at all.

And then—

Whatever you do, don’t let them make you forget again.

The voice wasn’t in his comms.

It was in his head.

Max stumbled. Just for a second.

But it was enough.

"Max?" Christian again. Sharper this time.

Max gritted his teeth, forcing his breathing steady. "I’m fine."

A lie.

Because he wasn’t fine.

Something was wrong.

And this time, he wasn’t sure he could ignore it.

Max barely had time to react.

A presence—too close, too quiet—moved behind him, and before he could turn, the cold press of a blade kissed his throat.

He went rigid.

Every instinct screamed at him to fight, to twist out of the hold, to strike first and ask questions later. But something stopped him.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Faint, distant, buried beneath the layers of conditioning. But it was there.

A whisper of something lost.

He opened his mouth—

A hand slid over it, silencing him.

"Shh."

The voice was barely above a breath, warm against his ear.

And familiar.

His pulse hammered against his ribs.

She moved swiftly, with precision—reaching up to his ear, plucking the comm unit free before he could stop her.

A second later, she dropped it to the ground and brought her boot down hard.

The crack of crushed tech echoed through the empty hallway.

Static burst in his ear—then silence.

Christian was gone.

Max inhaled slowly, carefully. "If you’re going to kill me, at least tell me who you are first."

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she stepped around him, lowering the knife as she did. Her grip was light, controlled, like she knew he was dangerous but wasn’t afraid.

He finally got a proper look at her.

Dark clothing, tactical gear—she was built for this world, just like he was. Her face was unreadable, save for her eyes.

They were sharp, calculating. But not unfamiliar.

Max clenched his jaw.

She knew him.

She turned her gaze towards the drive in his hand, then back to him. "Do you have what you need?"

His fingers curled around it instinctively. "Why do you care?"

She exhaled, a quiet huff of something—annoyance, amusement, he couldn’t tell. Then, without a word, she reached past him, grabbed the device, plugged it in and began tapping a few keys on the terminal he’d left behind.

The screen flickered.

His extraction continued.

She was helping him.

Every muscle in his body stayed taut, waiting for the catch. "Why are you doing this?"

Silence.

The transfer completed. She pulled the drive free and pressed it into his palm.

He didn’t take his eyes off her. "Who are you?"

She looked at him for a long moment.

And then—

Softly, carefully—

"You already know."

Unlike last time, she didn’t leave.

Instead, she pulled a small piece of paper from her pocket, a rough tear from something larger. She grabbed a pen from the desk, quick and efficient, and scribbled something down.

Then, without hesitation, she stepped closer.

Too close.

Max didn’t move, but he felt his muscles lock, felt the brush of her knuckles as she slipped the folded paper between the straps of his tactical vest, tucking it neatly against his chest.

A calculated move.

Deliberate.

His pulse spiked—just for a second, just enough that he hated himself for it.

She held his gaze, unreadable. "Meet me here. Seventeen hundred. I’ll give you the answers you want."

Max’s throat felt dry. He glanced down at the paper, at the faint scratch of ink just visible through the fold. An address.

He exhaled sharply. "I can’t leave my base."

She tilted her head slightly, as if considering him. "If you’re motivated enough—if you want the answers—you can."

Simple. Direct.

And infuriatingly confident.

Max clenched his jaw. He should shove the paper back at her. Should call her bluff, demand an explanation now. But his fingers twitched instead, the whisper of her touch still there, phantom-like, against his chest.

It wasn’t much.

But it was enough to unsettle him.

By the time he forced himself to look up again, she was already turning away.

He should stop her. He should do something.

But for some reason, he didn’t.

He just stood there, the weight of the paper burning against his skin.

By the time Max stepped out of the building, she was gone.

No trace. No sound. Just the faint echo of her voice still lingering in his head.

His fingers twitched against his vest where the paper sat, warm from his body heat, feeling heavier than it should. He resisted the urge to pull it out and look. Not here. Not yet.

Instead, he locked in, moved. The extraction point was half a mile north, and he didn’t have time to dwell. The moment he was in the open, he moved fast, slipping through the industrial skeleton of the compound, mindlessly following the path drilled into him.

And yet—

The address. The time. The way she had stood so close, the way she had known him.

It was all he could think about.

The jet was already waiting when he arrived. He barely had time to board before Christian turned from where he stood by the cockpit, eyes sharp, scanning him like a threat assessment.

Max pulled off his gloves, keeping his movements smooth, measured. Controlled.

Christian frowned. "What happened to your comms?"

Max didn’t blink. "Glitch. Cut out before extraction. Didn’t have time to fix it."

Christian studied him for a beat too long, but then—exhale. A slow nod. "Tech will look at it."

It worked.

Christian believed him.

Max sank into his seat, forcing his body to relax, listening to the hum of the jet as it powered up. The mission was over.

But his mind wasn’t anywhere near it.

He should be thinking about the debrief, about the logistics of his return, about the inevitable post-mission assessments.

Instead, all he could think about was her.

And the paper in his vest.

And the fact that in less than twenty-four hours, he was going to have to do something he had never done before.

Find a way out.

PART TWO...

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @isaadore

[ikwon1c]

Oh Mom

my entry for the gd & top writing event! oh mom has always had that soft tug on my heart, so i wanted to write something angsty and a little aching TT

make sure to read all the other amazing works too!

pairing: choi seunghyun x y/n

summary: an overworked idol meets a quiet girl at the park. he doesn’t know she’s running out of time — only that being with her feels like breathing again.

tags and warnings: idol x reader, angst, slow burn, emotional hurt/comfort, eventual grief, mention of terminal illness, quiet intimacy, unspoken feelings

The rain had stopped, but the world hadn’t noticed yet. A soft sheen still covered the sidewalks like a second skin. Drops clung to the underside of tree branches, fell in lazy intervals from the eaves of the park’s old stone gazebo, and pooled in forgotten corners of concrete where the city always seemed to sag.

Choi Seunghyun walked with his hood up, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, boots splashing quietly through shallow puddles. It was the kind of day that didn’t ask anything of you. No expectations. No noise. Just gray skies and the sharp, clean scent of petrichor that made it easier to breathe than usual.

He liked that — the quiet. Lately, life didn’t give it to him much. As he turned a corner along the park’s edge, he caught sight of someone.

At first, she blended in. Just another figure on a bench, head bent low, still as the stone behind her. She was hunched over a thick sketchbook, one leg drawn up, the other dangling. Her hoodie was oversized and soaked at the hem, black cotton heavy with dampness. Wisps of hair clung to the sides of her face, and her sneakers — cheap ones, canvas and torn were darkened by water. She looked… tired. But not in a fragile way.

In a fierce way. Like someone who didn’t care what the day had done to her, so long as she got to finish her drawing.

He passed her once.

Slowed, glanced back.

Something in her stillness pulled at him.

The second time he walked by, she still hadn’t moved, but her pencil had. He could hear the faint scratch of graphite even through the hush of the park. No music, no phone, no distractions. Just focus. He stopped without thinking.

“You’re blocking my light.”

The voice was soft, flat, and low. The kind that didn’t rise just because someone else was nearby. She didn’t look up, didn’t even pause her hand.

“I—sorry,” he said quickly, taking a half-step to the side.

She added something to the page, then finally lifted her head. She looked right at him. There was no recognition in her eyes. Or maybe there was but not the kind he was used to. Not the flare of excitement, the gasp, the scramble for a phone.

Just… calm. Cool, clear eyes taking him in like a stranger on the street. Like he was nothing special. This caught him off guard.

“You always draw in the rain?” he asked, glancing at the soaked sketchbook.

“You always interrupt strangers?” she countered, deadpan. He blinked then let out a short laugh. It sounded too loud in the stillness.

“Touché,” he said, lifting his hands in surrender. “I was just curious.”

“That’s dangerous,” she said, closing the book slowly and resting it in her lap. “Curiosity.”

There was a strange steadiness to her. The kind people usually lost by adulthood, if they ever had it to begin with. Something quiet but sharp, like glass that hadn’t shattered yet. He gestured vaguely toward the sketchbook. “Was that supposed to be me?”

Her mouth tugged at the corner. “If it was, you wouldn’t be able to tell.”

“That bad, huh?”

“That abstract,” she corrected. “But your nose is interesting. I might use it later.”

He laughed again — for real, this time. “Thanks, I think?”

Her smile was faint. Faint, but real. He watched her for a moment.The way she sat like she belonged to the space around her. Not claiming it. Just existing in it without asking permission. There was something rare in that. Something oddly comforting.

Most people in his life demanded something. A reaction. A performance. Even when they didn’t realize it. But she didn’t ask for anything. Not even his name.

“Do you draw often?” he asked, still standing a few feet away.

“Only when I feel something,” she said, running her thumb along the edge of the page.

He hesitated, then dropped onto the far side of the bench, keeping a respectful distance. She didn’t seem surprised. Or bothered.

“And what were you feeling today?” he asked.

She looked up, not at him but at the canopy of blossoms overhead, petals trembling with the occasional gust of wind.

“Like something’s ending,” she said after a moment. “Even if no one else knows it yet.”

The words settled into him, low and quiet. He didn’t know why, but they stuck.

They didn’t speak much after that. A few murmured observations. A moment of laughter that lasted half a second longer than it should have. But mostly, they shared a silence. The kind that lets itself in like an old friend. The kind that doesn’t need to be filled.

Time worked in a different way, as if passing slow ripples.

Quietly, she closed her sketchbook. She tucked it into a worn canvas bag, pulling the strap over her shoulder with the practiced motion of someone used to leaving.

Seunghyun sat forward slightly before he could stop himself.

“…Will you be here tomorrow?” he asked. He didn’t mean for it to sound like it mattered. But it did.

She looked at him then and her eyes softened, just a little. “Maybe,” she said.

And then she walked away, her wet sneakers slapping softly against the pavement, leaving him there beneath the tree.

Still seated.

Still wondering who she was.

The next day, he didn’t come looking for her. Not exactly. He told himself it was just another walk. The same park, the same path, same need to breathe without being recognized. The same pull to silence the world inside his own head.

But his steps led him back to that bench — the one beneath the tree, half-wilted now, its petals losing their grip on the branch.

She was already there, wearing the same hoodie. Holding the same sketchbook. Same stormy sort of stillness that made her look like she belonged to the rain.

He approached without speaking. Let the moment fill itself. This time, she didn’t pretend not to see him. She looked up briefly, gave the smallest nod, just enough to say yes, you can sit here again and returned to her sketching.

He eased onto the bench beside her, keeping that same polite distance. A stretch of space between them, like an invisible line neither had acknowledged yet.

“I didn’t think you’d be back,” he said quietly.

She smirked. “Why not?”

“You seem like someone who disappears.”

She paused her pencil mid-line.

“I do,” she said. “Sometimes.”

There was no apology in her tone. Just truth. She wasn’t trying to be cryptic but there was a weight behind those words. A hint of something he didn’t know how to name yet. He nodded slowly and looked away.

The breeze picked up. A few loose petals drifted between them, catching in the folds of her hoodie. She didn’t brush them off.

“What are you drawing today?” he asked.

She tilted her sketchbook slightly, just enough for him to see. The page was rough — pencil strokes layered like noise, almost angry, like she hadn’t decided what she was trying to capture yet. Shapes, shadows, no center.

“It’s… complicated,” she said.

He studied it. “Looks like a brain.”

She let out a surprised laugh — short and soft, the sound catching like a hiccup.

“Yeah,” she said. “Kind of does.”

They sat with that for a moment. His eyes drifted to her hands. Stained faintly with graphite, nails bitten short. Her knuckles were pale, a little too bony, but steady.

“You’re an artist?”

She hesitated.

“Sometimes,” she said. “I don’t know if I’m good. Doesn’t really matter anymore.”

He frowned. “Why not?”

Another pause. She turned a page in her sketchbook, blank again. Her fingers hovered over it but didn’t move.

“I guess I’m just… drawing for now. Not for later.”

He glanced at her. She didn’t meet his eyes. Just stared down at the empty page like it might judge her. She talked like someone who wasn’t planning too far ahead. Not in the dreamy, poetic way artists sometimes did. No, hers felt different. Like she was making peace with the fact that ahead wasn’t guaranteed. And something in his chest twisted.

He didn’t ask.

Didn’t pry.

She didn’t owe him anything, and he wasn’t sure he could handle the answer if she gave it. So instead, he said, “I get that.”

Her eyes flicked sideways, curious.

“Drawing for now,” he repeated. “I used to write music like that.”

“Used to?” she echoed.

He leaned back against the bench. “It got harder once it became about everyone else.”

She studied him for a beat. “Then write something for no one.”

“I don’t think I remember how.”

She looked down, brushed a petal off her knee.

“Maybe you’re supposed to forget. So it hurts when you remember.”

The words were quiet but they hit something raw. He stared at her, unsure what to say. She didn’t look at him. Just turned the page again. Back to a blank canvas. And then, “What’s your real name?”

He blinked. “You don’t know it?”

“I do,” she said. “But I want the one you give when you’re not onstage.”

“…Seunghyun.”

She nodded. “Nice to meet you, Seunghyun.”

Silence followed. She didn’t give hers.

Their quiet afternoon stretched in silence. They didn’t leave together. Didn’t trade phone numbers. Didn’t promise to see each other again. But as he walked away, he realized something strange. He hadn’t thought about his schedule in over an hour. Not the next appearance. Not the next shoot. Not the pressure. Not the noise.

Just her voice.

Her laugh.

And the way she said “drawing for now.”

Like now was all she had.

It was a Tuesday again. No rain this time. Just the heat of an early spring sun breaking shyly through leftover clouds. The park looked different in the light. Too green, too alive but the bench remained the same. Same cracks in the wood, same old cherry tree losing its last few petals like secrets slipping through time.

Seunghyun sat there before she did. He arrived ten minutes early, not that he told himself he was waiting. Just that he needed air. Space. Something that wasn’t polished white floors or fake laughter echoing through dressing rooms.

His manager had called him three times before noon. He didn’t answer. They were on break between schedules — technically just forty minutes. Enough time to eat. To rest. To reply to three weeks’ worth of ignored messages from label execs. Instead, he asked to be dropped off on a corner near the park and walked the rest of the way.

He checked the time again.

Twelve past.

He wasn’t anxious.

Not really.

Just…

Waiting.

And then, there she was.

Same hoodie, sleeves fraying more than before. Her walk was slow today — not limping, exactly, but careful. Measured. He noticed it right away. How she paused just before sitting. How she exhaled like gravity hit her harder than it should.

“Hey,” she said, offering him a tired half-smile.

“You okay?”

“Just late,” she said. “Sorry.”

He shrugged. “You’re the only thing I’m not late for these days.”

That surprised her. She blinked, then turned her head to look at him more directly. “Is that a compliment or a warning?”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Guess I don’t know.”

They sat in silence for a moment, watching a little boy chase pigeons across the path until they scattered in a flurry of feathers.

“Busy day?” she asked.

He nodded. “Always.”

“And yet you’re here.”

“I kept the hour for myself.”

She smiled — not wide, not bright, but soft. Like something inside her had been reassured. “That’s rare, huh?”

“Rare as peace.”

She leaned forward, pulling her sketchbook from her bag. The cover was more bent now, the corners softening from wear. She didn’t open it right away. Instead, she said, “You don’t talk like the person people think you are.”

He turned to her, curious. “What do they think I am?”

She tapped the pencil against her lower lip in thought. “I don’t know. Controlled. Sharp. Cold, maybe.”

He raised a brow. “And what am I really?”

“I think,” she said slowly, “you’re just… tired of pretending you aren’t soft.”

His mouth parted slightly — a breath, a blink and he found himself laughing, low and honest. “You always say things like that?”

She just shook her head, smiling. Instead, she opened her sketchbook and started drawing — right there beside him, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her hand moved slowly today. Less certainty. He could see the effort it took in her wrist, the faint tremor at the edge of each line.

He wanted to ask if she was sick. Wanted to say, Tell me what you’re not telling me.

But he didn’t.

Because the way she leaned into the moment like every minute was already borrowed made him afraid of what she might confirm if he asked.

So instead, he leaned back against the bench, let the wind stir his coat, and sat beside the girl who wouldn’t give him her name.

And for the first time in months, maybe years…

He didn’t feel like T.O.P.

He felt like himself.

And somehow, that mattered more than anything waiting for him outside the park.

They didn’t mean to meet every day.

It just happened.

The way light finds the same windows every afternoon. The way two songs accidentally harmonize when played too close together. Familiar without intention. Constant without promise.

For weeks, the park bench beneath the cherry blossom tree became their quiet little world.

Seunghyun started rearranging everything for it, subtly at first. Pushing back a meeting by thirty minutes. Skipping lunch breaks. Telling his manager he needed “a walk” whenever he felt his chest tighten too much under the weight of appearances.

He didn’t tell anyone about her.

Not because it was a secret.

Because it was his.

Some days, she brought tea in a little thermos, still warm. Other days, she brought music, an old cassette player with only one working speaker. They would sit, knees not quite touching, listening to lo-fi jazz while she drew and he watched clouds pass between buildings.

One time, he showed up in sunglasses and a mask, breathing heavily from running across town.

“You’re late,” she teased without looking up.

“I’m early everywhere else,” he muttered, collapsing beside her.

She reached into her bag, handed him half a sandwich. “Then this is your reward.”

He ate it without question.

Another time, it was raining again — light and misty. She showed up anyway, even though he didn’t expect her to.

“Thought you hated getting wet,” she said as she shook out her damp hair and sat beside him.

“I hate missing things more.”

She swallowed.

Didn’t know what to say to that. So he just leaned back and let the light mist of water run down his face, pretending he didn’t hear the way his voice cracked a little when he said it.

Instead, he filled in the blanks with quiet hopes he didn’t dare say out loud.

He started writing again. Lyrics he wouldn’t show anyone. Scribbled lines in a notebook she once teased him for carrying. He didn’t care.

It was the first time music made him feel something since… he couldn’t remember when.

Days passed when the rhythm changed. It started with a missed day. She wasn’t there. He waited for an hour, walked a slow lap around the park, and left.

The next day, she came. Apologized softly. Said she had an appointment that ran long.

He didn’t ask what kind. He wanted to but something in the way she clutched her sketchbook tighter than usual told him not to.

The meetings became more spaced. Every other day. Then every three. Then silence.

He started getting pushback from his team.

“Hyung, you can’t just disappear during press season.”

“We’re about to finalize the comeback schedule. You need to be in the room.”

“Where the hell are you always going in the afternoons?”

He argued, loud and frustrated. He didn’t even try to explain it to them. They wouldn’t understand.

It wasn’t a girlfriend.

Wasn’t a scandal.

It was… her.

And he was afraid if he didn’t see her, she might vanish completely.

One day, he stood in the hallway outside the meeting room, fingers clenched so tightly around a coffee cup it cracked.

“I need an hour,” he said.

“You need to be here,” his manager snapped. “Just one hour — then the press call, the shoot, and the label dinner. Please, hyung.”

He almost walked out anyway. But he didn’t and he hated himself for it.

Weeks followed. No more walks. No more sandwiches wrapped in napkins, still warm from her hands. No more laughter soft enough to make the world feel gentle again — laughter that came not from his stage persona, not from a punchline, but from those tiny, in-between moments when her guard dropped and her eyes sparkled.

Just gone.

It wasn’t loud. There was no final goodbye, no moment where he could say, Please stay. Please wait. It was just absence.

That slow, unbearable silence that creeps in when something sacred vanishes before you even realized it mattered that much.

He stopped writing.

Stopped sketching, too. He hadn’t picked up a pen in days. Every page he touched ended up torn or thrown. The notebook in his bag was bent and water-stained, warped with effort and failure. The words came wrong now. Hollow. Like echoes in an empty room.

All that remained — all that he could hold was a folded piece of paper tucked behind his ID in his wallet.

The sketch.

She gave it to him the last time they saw each other, nonchalantly, like it was nothing. “You’ll hate it,” she’d said, pressing it into his hand with a smile too wide to be casual. “Don’t unfold it until you’re alone. Promise?”

He took it out more than he should’ve. Late at night. Between interviews. In cars. In green rooms where the lights were too bright and the silence too sharp.

The paper had softened along the folds. A corner was beginning to curl.

The drawing itself was done in pencil, clean and textured — more detailed than any of the sketches he’d seen from her before. Not rushed. Not abstract.

It was him.

Not T.O.P, not the performer but him. Hair tucked under a beanie, eyes cast downward, lips just slightly parted. Caught mid-thought. His own gaze looking past the viewer, like he wasn’t sure where he was anymore.

It was how he looked when she saw him.

And now, all he had was the version of himself she left behind. He stared at it for what felt like hours. So long he forgot to blink. His eyes burned, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t. Not while something so real stared back at him. Something that remembered. Something that looked at him the way she did without asking for anything.

A sound rose in his throat — tight and unfamiliar.

It wasn’t quite a sob. Not yet. But it cracked something open in his chest. A seam that had been splitting slowly ever since the first day she didn’t come.

The ache became a flood. And before he even realized what he was doing, he was on his feet.

He didn’t take a car.

Didn’t grab a coat.

Didn’t tell anyone.

He just ran.

Out the studio doors, down concrete alleys and dim-lit sidewalks. The city blurred. Cars honked. Strangers turned to watch the man in the hoodie sprint across a crosswalk with panic in his eyes and no destination on his lips except one.

The park.

The goddamn bench.

Their bench.

His lungs burned by the time he got there. He stumbled across the worn path, gravel crunching under his shoes, heart thudding louder than the wind through the trees.

But she wasn’t there.

Of course she wasn’t.

She hadn’t been there for weeks.

Someone else was.

An older woman sat in her place, knees close together, fingers folded around the strap of a plain black shoulder bag. She looked like she’d been waiting — not for him, but for something quieter. The kind of waiting that knows it won’t be answered.

She turned when she saw him approach.

And he knew.

He knew.

She had her eyes but it was softer, worn by grief.

But her eyes.

The breath rushed from his lungs before she even opened her mouth.

“You’re Seunghyun,” she said softly.

He nodded once. He couldn’t speak.

“She talked about you,” she said. “A lot.” Her voice was warm. Gentle but unbearably tired.

He blinked fast. The sketch in his wallet felt heavier than ever before.

“She waited here for you… for days. She really believed you’d come back.”

A tremor started in his fingers. He curled them into fists.

“I wanted to. I—I tried—”

The woman smiled faintly. Not with blame. But with that tragic kind of kindness only grieving mothers seem to know how to give.

“She knew,” she said. “She never held it against you.”

From her bag, she pulled out a small envelope. It was soft at the edges, slightly yellowed, with a faint bend down the middle like it had been opened and read over and over.

“She wrote this in case she… left before you came back. She asked me to give it to you.”

She pressed it into his palm. Her hand lingered there for a moment — a squeeze, light and trembling.

“She wanted you to know,” she said, voice breaking for the first time, “that meeting you made her feel like she was still living.”

And then she walked away, one hand pressed to her chest, the other wiping her cheek as she turned and disappeared down the path where cherry blossoms had already begun to fall again.

He sat on the cold bench.

Alone.

The envelope was warm from her hand, but it chilled the moment he opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper, carefully folded. And a pressed cherry blossom — browned now, but still intact tucked gently inside the crease.

He opened the letter with trembling fingers.

Her handwriting.

Small. Neat. Certain.

“Seunghyun,

I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. I don’t know if time will let me see you again. But if you’re holding this… then I guess I already know.

You made the time I had feel like it mattered. Even if you didn’t know the whole truth.

His throat closed, a knot forming in the space between his heart and his breath.

I didn’t tell you I was sick because I didn’t want that to be what you saw. I didn’t want to become a ticking clock in your eyes. I didn’t want your kindness to come from pity. I just… I wanted to be soft. I wanted to be seen the way you saw me, a stranger with messy sketches and too many opinions about clouds.

You always showed up like you didn’t even realize you were saving me. Every time you sat beside me, every time you took that hour… you gave me life I didn’t think I could still feel. And then one day… you stopped. And I understood. But I still waited. Every day. Because even if you didn’t come, you gave me something worth waiting for.

The ink was smudged in one place — a water stain, or maybe a tear, now dried into the fibers of the page.

Don’t blame yourself. Please. I didn’t need you to fix anything. I just needed to feel like I was part of the world again.

And you gave me that. For a little while, I forgot I was dying.

His hands began to shake, the letter trembling like it carried the weight of her voice.

I hope that someday, in some corner of your heart, you’ll remember me as something light — not heavy.

That would be enough.”

Love,

Y/N

Below the signature was a second sheet, tucked gently behind the letter.

A portrait.

The same one she once gave him; unfinished then, just a sketch of outlines and beginnings, barely enough for him to recognize himself.

But now…

Now it was complete.

She’d drawn him with such unbearable softness. Shading carefully along his jaw, his cheekbones. His mouth was curved into that faint smile he only wore around her — the one that happened when silence felt safe. His eyes were darker in the portrait, shadowed, thoughtful. Alive in a way he hadn’t realized she’d memorized.

She’d finished it.

Even knowing she’d never get to hand it to him.

Even knowing she wouldn’t see how his breath would hitch. How his hands would tremble. How his heart would shatter.

Seunghyun didn’t cry the way people do in films. No fists pounding against walls. No dramatic gasps.

He just sat there.

Completely still.

Hands curled tightly around the paper, fingertips pressing too hard, as if the more he held it, the more it might undo time.

His throat burned. His chest felt hollow like something vital had been scooped out and nothing was left to keep him upright but grief. The ache that had been building for weeks finally gave in. Broke.

Tears slipped from his eyes — quietly, steadily without effort or warning. They fell onto the paper. Onto her lines. Onto her name.

He bowed his head, pulled the drawing gently to his chest, and held it there like it was the last warmth left in the world. And he whispered something, not to himself, not to the sky, but to her.

“I’m sorry I was late.”

His voice cracked like a violin string pulled too tight.

“I should’ve come back sooner.”

The wind blew softly through the trees, catching the edge of her sketch and fluttering it like breath. The sun dipped low enough to spill gold across the pavement, warming the very bench where she once sat, knee drawn up, sketching him like a secret.

Seunghyun closed his eyes.

He saw her there. Just for a second. That faint smile. That stupid hoodie. That softness she never let the world take from her.

He opened his eyes again. Through everything trembling inside him, he made her a promise. A real one.

“I’ll write it for you,” And this time… he meant it with everything he had left.

[bullet-prooflove]

Diamonds: John Carter x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @anna-bailey @ofsoapsuds @queenslandlover-93 @gemofspace

Summary: John's friend and rival makes you an offer you can't refuse.

Companion piece to:

Dreamer (NSFW) - John dreams of you when he's with someone else.

Little John - You try to keep John's mind off the task at hand.

The First One Is Always The Hardest - You comfort John after the death of a patient.

Forget-Me-Nots - John wakes up hung over in a strange bed and with an unexpected memento of the night before.

Speak Your Truth - John speaks his truth in the aftermath of a tragedy.

Trauma - John makes a realisation after his confession.

Fever - John gets more than he bargained for when he attends a friend's stag party in a Chicago Speakeasy.

Minx (NSFW) - John had no idea he had such a deviant little minx on his hands.

Always - You and John discuss the reasons behind your dancing.

The last place Burkey expects to find Crystal Heart is standing at the desk in the emergency room, flirting with Johnny Carter. He’d come by to grill the other man over his familiarity with that dancer the other night and now he’s watching him tuck an errant strand of hair back behind your ear. The smile you give him, it’s that same salacious grin as when you’d wagged your finger ‘no’ at his own summons back at the speakeasy.

The thing about Burkey, he doesn’t like being told no. He especially doesn’t like losing out to Johnny C, not after that dressage thing a couple of years ago with that fucking show pony Marigold.

He hangs back until Johnny’s called away, his lips brush over your cheek and Burkey imagines the other man’s face when he tells him about how he spent the night fucking his ‘princess’. He’ll take pictures, he decides, he has a polaroid he uses sometimes when things get a little kinky. He’ll show them to him one by one as he smokes the same brand of cigar you placed in your mouth that night.

You pick up a clipboard from the stack in front of you, surveying it as you take your pen out of the top pocket of your lab coat. You tap it against your lips as you frown and he imagines his hand running through your hair, tipping your head back just in time for the money shot.

Ten grand, he thinks. Ten grand for a night with the woman that made him come in his pants during his own bachelor party.

And a giant fuck you to Johnny.

You don’t register his presence, you’re too absorbed in the chart you’re studying to realise just how close he is as he lingers behind you. He breathes you in, imagining the aroma of something floral and instead he gets pine and cedarwood, a masculine scent, something he associates with Johnny.

The thought of that asshole’s hands on your skin, caressing those pretty gem stones, taking off those translucent panties…

It makes him what to destroy something.

“I have been look everywhere for you Ms Heart.” He drawls instead, his hand slipping around your waist, his cheek coming to rest against your hair. “I think we have some unfinished business from the other night.”

You stiffen as his fingertips toy with the drawstring of your scrubs, his breath ghosting in your ear. You wrench yourself away, twisting to confront him. Your eyes flash with recognition and the expression on your face, he thinks it might be even more delicious than the diamonds he intends to wrap around your throat because you’ve just realised who is in control here, who really wields the power.

All it takes is one word from him to the head of your program and your position will be terminated. The men who run these things they frequent the same smoking club that both him and his father do. They’re conservative by nature, unflexible when it comes to the morale code surrounding medicine.

He picks up a blank post it note, scrawling the address of his condo on the paper before he presses it into your hand.

“You wanna keep this job you’ll be there tonight at 9pm.” He tells you as you close your fist, crumpling it. “Don’t bother to wear the dress, I have some real diamonds I want to see you in.”

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[bbtsficrecs]

BTS FIC RECS PART 4.1

Part 4.1 of some of my favourite BTS fanfics. Please do consider liking, reblogging and/or commenting on the fics you like. There are so many wonderful and amazing authors out there who do not get the recognition they deserve. So please send them lots of love to keep them going. If you're on here, then know I enjoyed every second of reading your story ♡

There will be two parts 4 as it's (sadly?) too long to be saved under one post. Stay tuned for part 5, joon recs will be added!

Please let me know if some of the links aren’t working. Happy reading!

⊹ Navi ‣ Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 4.1 | Part 5 |

⊹ Merry Kinkmas - part 02 Enemies to lovers au au | s | @bebejungkook ‣ You find out who your secret Santa was but his gift was a little too personal.

⊹ In Your Arms Tonight College au | s, f | @angelguk ‣ “I’m Team I Would Like To Be Fucked Tonight.” You stated, blatantly ignoring the stink eye he shot your way. “But clearly that’s not on our agenda. Have you ever seen Vampires Suck?”

⊹ Baecation Richboy!jk au | s, f | @1kook ‣ “Lose the top, or lose the right to present yourself in any low back gown for the next three months.” He truly knew the way to your heart.

⊹ Act Of Falling Fuckboy!jk au | s, f , a | @kooktrash ‣ What was supposed to be a meaningless fling has turned into much more before you both realized you were falling. Now all you can do is hope that all the challenges you’ve faced are worth something.

⊹ Candles & Flames Royal AU | s, f, a | @taegularities ‣  He wasn’t supposed to be yours. His foolery wasn’t supposed to target you. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

⊹ Distractions Practice couple au | s, f | @chryblossomjjk ‣ Jungkook agreed to let you do his makeup, but he can't stop getting distracted.

⊹ Naughty Boy Step siblings au | s | @scribblemetae ‣ Reader is older step sister that knows he has a crush on her/yandere tendencies & she teases him until one day he gives in. 

⊹ When It Feels Right (read part 1 first) Divorce au | a, f | @7deadlysinsfics ‣ Although Jungkook is struggling with the decision he made months ago, he still thinks it was the best thing he could’ve done for your safety. But he isn’t doing well, and his friends are worried about him and how he’s choosing to deal with his feelings. Meanwhile, you’re now living with your brother, his wife, and their ten-month-old daughter, who has helped bring some light into your life. Just as you decide to tell Jungkook the truth about your pregnancy, he appears at your brother’s house with a truth of his own.

⊹ When She Loved Me Terminally Ill au | s, f, a | @jungkookstatts ‣ How does one live when life is bound to end? 

⊹ your step brother fucking you in front of your parents Step siblings au | s | @aris-ink

⊹ Don't Blame Me (on-going) Single Dad au | s, f, a | @thvhoe ‣ Jungkook is known for his good looks and is often described by your friends as "daddy material." Funny enough, he actually was a daddy. The daddy of the baby girl you babysit every Saturday. Working as a nanny for the world's grumpiest single dad should have been easy, but you can't keep your eyes off him. He's handsome, a little arrogant, with broad shoulders and strong tattooed arms. And when he decides he can't keep his hands off of you. Who are you to resist?

⊹ Rolling Stone Idol au | s, f , a | @kooktrash ‣ He was a rolling stone with no ties to anyone or any place and that’s how he and his fans liked it. Now he’s found you and it’s never been this hard to convince someone that he’ll stay. The problem is neither of you know what it means to express yourselves without reverting to sex as a form to end discussion. It causes all hell to break loose when Jungkook realized if he wants you to stay for him [with him] then he needs to show it to you too. Can Jungkook and Y/n get past their own growing doubts on if what they feel is real and work out a way to be together—especially considering Y/n wants nothing to do with the limelight?

⊹ The Ability To Fantom - part 02 (on-going) Brother’s best friend au | a, f | @hanniwrites ‣ You are shocked when your friends reveal their theory: Jungkook, your brother’s annoying best friend, has a crush on you. A bad one.

⊹ Torn Apart Infidelity au | s, a | @bethschamberoftales ‣ That one time when you caught your boyfriend cheating on you.

⊹ My Love Is Here (series) Unrequited love to requited | s, f, a | @solemnreads ‣ You didn’t mean for it to happen. It’s not like you purposely woke up one day and thought “Hey I’m going to fall in love with my best friend!” No, that is not at all what happened.

⊹ I'll Stop Tomorrow Friends with benefits AU | s, a | @dreamyjoons ‣ You know it has to end.

⊹ Just A Taste Spring break AU | s, f | @cutechim ‣ “Your lips make me wonder what the rest of you would taste like.”

⊹ Flat Tire Established relationship AU | s, f | @ppersonna ‣ How do you pass the time when you’re stuck on the side of the road with your boyfriend, with a flat tire?

⊹ One Mistake (on-going) Idol!Tae & Cheating AU | a | @vamours ‣ it’s been three years since you and Taehyung had started dating. recently, you’ve started to notice changes in taehyung’s behavior towards you. with your four years anniversary only a few weeks away, you’ve come to discover the truth.

⊹ Akrasia Strangers to? | s | @nitaescence ‣ Basically two strangers fucking in a crowded bus.

⊹ Stepdad Taehyung Step!father au | s | @aris-ink ‣ "He was not touching himself right beside you. No, that was not possible"

⊹ Rock Bottom Idol Jimin AU | s, f, a | @jkbabiey ‣ When, in a four-year marriage, you get to the point where you question its worth, you know that’s your rock bottom. How many I’m sorry’s will you handle? How many times are too many times?

⊹ What's Poppin Established relationship AU, | f, s | @joonberriess ‣ Yoongi being the type to buy you a chain cause if he’s pimped out, his girl gotta be too.

⊹ Foundation - Part 01, 02, 03 feat Yoongi Non-idol doctors AU | f , s, a | @hamsterclaw ‣ You know Jungkook is a fuckboy. So why are you letting him fuck with you? Featuring Yoongi.

⊹ Looks so refreshed Idol AU | s | @kimnjss ‣ Friends with benefits is hard, but when he’s an international superstar… It’s much harder. So while you love his friends to death, spending the night holed up in his hotel room just sounds a lot more fun than a dinner party.

⊹ Friends (3TAN) Brother's best friend AU | f, s, a | @kithtaehyung ‣ The week you get with Yoongi has a few surprises. and one of them presents itself in the form of a phone call.

⊹ So it goes Friends with benefits (ish) AU | f , s | @prodagustd ‣  You and Yoongi have been hooking up, having dates and spending most of the week together for almost seven months. He was comfortable without a title, until the last two weeks, when you couldn't see him because of your busy schedule, Yoongi can't understand why he misses you so bad if your relationship is just sex to him. Or maybe he does, but he's too much of a coward to admit it..

⊹ Marry me, Yoongi Established relationship AU | f, s | @spideyjimin ‣ When Yoongi decides to get married in vegas after all the fan’s comments on the vlives.  

⊹ Amour Propre Established relationship AU | a | @randombtsprincessa ‣ Crumbling Relationship with one Min Yoongi

⊹ Blind Spot Established relationship AU | f, a | @randombtsprincessa ‣ Yoongi tries to win you back.

⊹Your Universe Rejection AU | f, a, s | @muniimyg ‣ Regretting rejecting oc, Min Yoongi goes through a circus load of gestures and tasks in attempt to be loved again

[multific]

Target on Your Heart

Johnny MacTavish x Reader

Summary: You were supposed to take him out. He was meant to eliminate you. But war makes liars of loyalty and you’ve never wanted someone more than the man with the Scottish accent and a target on his back.

You should have killed him.

You had the shot. Wind at your back. Scope trained. Finger curled against the trigger.

But when he turned and looked up not at you, but in your direction, you saw something behind his eyes. 

Instinct. Intelligence. Recognition. Challenge.

You didn’t shoot.

Neither did he.

The first time you met face to face, it was in the ruins of a blown-out compound, guns drawn, hearts racing, both of you bruised and bloodied from a fight that should’ve ended one of you.

“You gonna shoot me this time?” he asked, panting, cornered but smiling like he wasn’t. 

You were already bleeding from your ribs, but you still smirked. “Would’ve done it already if I wanted you dead.”

He lowered his weapon. So did you.

That was the start of something very, very stupid.

Your paths kept crossing.

Joint operations. Shadowy politics. 

You started leaving each other coded messages. 

A carved line on a doorframe. A cigarette stubbed in a certain shape. Language only someone who’d learned you could read.

He started calling you “Ghostblade.” You never gave your real name. 

He never asked but he always looked at you like he knew more than he said.

You learned he made jokes under pressure. 

That he bled easily but didn’t complain. That he always watched your six without being asked.

He learned you hated being touched unless you initiated it. That your hands trembled when missions got too quiet. That you slept with a knife under your pillow.

Still, you slept near each other. 

First for convenience. Then… not.

You were pressed up against a wall in a safehouse when it happened.

His mouth was on yours before he could think of it. And you didn’t stop him.

The kiss was hot, frantic. All tongue and teeth and desperation. He kissed you like he was dying, and you clutched at his shoulders like you needed to feel someone who didn’t fear you.

He pulled back, breathing hard. “This is a bloody mistake.”

You touched his face. “Then why does it feel so right?”

He didn’t answer. He kissed you again.

You slept together that night. 

No games. Just slow, aching, desperate sex. You traced the scar on his chest. He kissed your bruised knuckles.

You didn’t talk about what it meant.

Until the order came.

Terminate MacTavish.

You stared at the file. The words burned.

The same night, Soap found you sitting on the rooftop of the hideout. He sat beside you, handed you a beer, and didn’t speak until you looked at him.

“Got word,” he said. “They want me to take out Ghostblade.”

Your throat closed. “And are you going to?”

He gave a crooked smile. “Would’ve done it already if I wanted you dead.”

A beat of silence.

“I got my orders too,” you said.

“Let me guess, I’m the target.”

You nodded.

“Shit,” he muttered, and leaned back, staring at the stars. “Why’s the one person I actually like the one I’m supposed to kill?”

You turned your face toward him. “We could disappear.”

He looked at you. Really looked. “Run?”

You nodded.

He stared for a long time.

Then he kissed you like he meant it.

You vanished the next day.

Left your life behind. Your country. Your name.

Soap left his rank, his team, and his past.

You met in a city where no one knew either of you.

No weapons. No orders. 

Just Soap and the ghost who once had him in her sights.

He never asked you to change. He loved the blade beneath your skin. The dark parts. The sharp edges.

You loved the way he always came home with flowers and the way he said “Love” like it was your real name.

He still called you Ghostblade sometimes, but now it was with affection.

And when you traced the old bullet scars on his shoulder in bed, he always pulled you closer.

“You never missed a shot,” he’d whisper.

“I missed you,” you’d reply.

And he’d kiss you like he never wanted you to forget you were finally his.

Because, despite everything, you chose each other anyway.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[polo-drone-001]

GOLDEN ECLIPSE

“I was never born. I was made.” —Elijah Gold, Cadet of Aureum One

ACT I: THE PRODIGY

Above the storms of Jupiter, cradled in silence, Aureum One orbits like a blade in prayer. Every surface reflects gold, walls that gleam with ritual perfection, corridors hum with command tones, each doorway sealed with biometric incantations.

Elijah’s boots echo in the Grand Annex. His posture is flawless, back straight, expression blank, every breath regulated. He is top-tier, unmatched. Yet inside, doubt simmers like plasma beneath a containment shell.

Across from him stands PDU-001, the Master of Protocol. Dressed head to toe in tight, glossy black rubber etched with shimmering gold seams, his face hidden behind a reflective mask, he never raises his voice.

“Elijah,” he intones. “Your posture slipped. Left shoulder, off by 1.4 degrees.”

Elijah adjusts. “Affirmative.”

001 circles him slowly, like a predator memorizing prey, yet his tone holds something else… memory? Recognition?

And then, the glyph.

Elijah notices it mid-drill. Behind a sealed vault door at the end of an unused hall, it pulses faintly, shaped like a stag’s antlers drawn in golden circuitry. It should be invisible. But he sees it. It sees him.

“What’s behind that door?” he asks.

001’s tone shifts, metallic, unreadable. “Nothing you are ready for.”

But the glyph keeps pulsing, calling.

ACT II: THE DUEL

The rogue moon beneath Saturn’s shadow was a recovery op. Elijah led it.

But the Hive ship was waiting.

Golden echoes crackle as he’s dragged into the ruins, abandoned containment chambers, walls scratched by time and blood. At the heart of the dead moon’s temple stands the figure in black: taller, stronger, sharper.

Polished drone armor reflects Elijah’s face, then moves with surgical elegance. Every strike is predicted. Every feint countered. Elijah grows desperate, his arm gashed, body pinned against the wall of a decaying anti-grav silo.

“Who are you?” Elijah growls through clenched teeth. “Why do you know my every move?”

The drone steps back. Reaches to its helmet. Pulls it off.

001.

But older. Maskless. Eyes golden. Scar above his lip, Elijah’s own face… aged.

“I know you,” he says, “because I built you.”

“No.”

“You were not adopted. You were not born. You are engineered.”

“…No.”

“I am your father.”

The silence is total. Even the reactor hum halts.

Elijah’s knees buckle. “No…”

001 steps closer. “You were never meant to obey. You were meant to replace.”

ACT III: THE COLLAPSE

Elijah’s scream tears through the dark. He lunges, wounded, trembling, his blade shatters against 001’s gauntlet.

001 doesn’t flinch. “Elijah, listen. You are more than flesh. You are purpose.”

But Elijah’s done listening.

He hurls himself backwards, into the silo’s core. Energy arcs, the planet’s ring pulls. Static devours the screen.

He awakens in silence.

Naked. Weightless. Floating in a golden-pulsed pod, his breath slow and shallow.

He tries to scream. He can’t.

Outside the pod, rows of others. Floating, dreaming, becoming.

Inside his chest, something glows.

A mark. A stag. Gold lines etched into his skin, pulsing with heat and command.

He gasps.

“What… did you make me into?”

FADE TO BLACK. Obedience is no longer taught. It is embedded. He is no longer alone. He is the next generation.

Broadcast terminated. Hive signal reactivated. The Seed has taken root. @eliasgold20 For more, contact your local drone recruiter: @brodygold | goldenherc9 | @polo-drone-001

Join us. Or become us.

[aventurineswife]

𝟎𝟑 - 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟑: 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐔𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐞𝐧

The corridor ahead shimmered faintly with artificial light, the kind that never quite felt like daylight. The metallic hum beneath your feet hadn't stopped, but it had settled into a quieter rhythm, as if the Astral Express itself was holding its breath. You walked with the others—Welt slightly ahead, Dan Heng at your side, and March trailing behind, unusually silent.

Your head still throbbed, memories flickering like dying stars: the falling sky, the searing heat, that final scream before the darkness took you. And now—this train. These people. This strange, lingering ache in your chest that didn’t quite feel physical.

A soft chime sounded. The lights above brightened briefly before returning to their normal glow.

Then she appeared.

At the end of the corridor, silhouetted by the light of an open doorway, stood a woman with flowing red hair and a poised confidence that instantly drew silence from the group. She leaned casually against the frame, arms crossed, watching.

You didn’t recognize her—but the others clearly did.

March gasped. “Himeko?”

Welt stopped walking and allowed a rare smile to surface. “You’re back.”

Dan Heng gave a small nod. “Just in time.”

The woman straightened and stepped forward. Up close, her presence was undeniable. Not just in the way she carried herself, but in the quiet fire behind her eyes—like she had seen things most couldn’t survive and kept going anyway.

“I heard the engines shift,” she said, voice smooth and warm. “Figured our guest must’ve woken up.”

Her eyes landed on you, studying. Not harshly, not coldly—but with an intensity that made it hard to look away.

“So,” she continued, tilting her head slightly. “You’re the one we pulled out of the wreckage.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but Welt spoke first.

“They're still recovering,” he said gently. “Whatever happened back there… it wasn’t normal. The Stellaron’s presence was unusually strong.”

“And spreading,” Dan Heng added. “Faster than expected.”

Himeko folded her arms again. “Then we don’t have much time.”

Her gaze drifted between the others. “What about them?” she asked.

Dan Heng nodded toward another corridor. “Still resting. But there was movement. They're waking up too.”

You caught the shift in tone, subtle but unmistakable. Not fear, exactly. Anticipation. Caution.

March glanced at you, then back at Himeko. “Do you think they’ll remember each other?”

Himeko didn’t answer right away. She studied you again, a flicker of uncertainty—maybe even hope—crossing her face.

“Let’s find out,” she said.

She turned and gestured for you to follow. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. They’re… a little like you.”

As you stepped into the next car, the train seemed to exhale around you. Lights flickered. A low pulse echoed in your ears—not from the train, but from something else. Something within.

The door opened.

And there they were.

A young person sat near a terminal, their back to you. As the door slid shut behind you, they turned slowly. Their eyes met yours—clear, steady, but tinged with something unspoken. Recognition? No. Not quite.

But connection.

“I’m the Trailblazer,” they said simply. “At least, that's what they call me.”

You didn’t answer right away. You weren’t sure what to say.

But something in you stirred.

Like a spark waiting for fuel.

[Navigation]

[nameless-jamie]

Collide

One-Bed-Trope SPECIAL

Roy Kent x fem! reader

Masterlist

TW: cursing, kissing, smut, slight angst maybe

Airports were a special kind of hell.

Y/N sighed, adjusting the strap of her carry-on as she scanned the departure board for the third time in as many minutes. The screen blinked tauntingly in shades of red and orange, its message unchanged:

FLIGHT 2087 — CANCELLED

“Brilliant,” she muttered under her breath.

Around her, the terminal buzzed with the low hum of frustrated travelers—families wrangling overtired children, businesspeople tapping furiously at their phones, and couples huddled close as they searched for alternative flights. Snow swirled outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, coating the tarmac in a thick layer of white that showed no signs of stopping.

Pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders, Y/N adjusted the strap of her bag and scanned the crowd for the nearest airline counter. If she had to spend the night in the airport, she’d at least try to score a blanket and a reclining chair.

The line was long—of course it was—but after twenty minutes of shuffling forward inch by inch, she finally found herself three people away from the front.

That’s when she heard it.

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve only got one room left at the airport hotel.”

Y/N’s eyes snapped toward the airline receptionist—a young man with dark hair, bright eyes, and a name tag that read Ethan—who was currently smiling apologetically at the man standing at the front of the line.

One room. She needs that room.

Panic spiked in her chest. She glanced at the man ahead of her—a balding, middle-aged guy in a rumpled business suit—then back at Ethan, who was already reaching for the last room voucher.

“Oh, come on,” Y/N muttered under her breath, stepping out of line before she could think twice.

“Wait—sorry—hang on!” she called, rushing forward before Business Guy could take the voucher. “Is that seriously the last room?”

Ethan blinked at her in surprise. “Uh… yes, ma’am. It’s the last available room at the airport hotel.”

“Well, what about—”

“Bloody hell.”

The low, gravelly voice cut her off, rough and unmistakably British.

Y/N glanced over her shoulder and locked eyes with the man standing directly behind her in line.

Mr. Tall, Dark, and Broody. Also fucking sexy.

She’d noticed him earlier—the broad shoulders wrapped in a dark coat, the black sweater clinging to a chest that clearly spent time in the gym, and those dark jeans that fit just right over strong legs. His short, dark hair was tousled like he’d run a hand through it one too many times, and his chiseled jaw was dusted with stubble.

And the scowl—the deep, grumpy furrow of his brow—was practically a work of art.

“I’ve been standin’ in this bloody line for half an hour,” he growled, stepping forward. “You’re tellin’ me there’s only one room left?”

“Yes, sir,” Ethan said with a wince. “Unless you’d prefer to wait for a flight in the morning—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Mr. Broody muttered, dragging a hand down his face.

Y/N crossed her arms over her chest and leaned into the grumpy man. “Well, I was here before you,” she pointed out for only him to hear.

“Yeah, and he was here before both of us,” Roy shot back, jerking his head toward Business Guy, who was watching their silent exchange with raised eyebrows, not really hearing a thing both of them said.

“I—” Y/N opened her mouth, then hesitated.

Okay, so maybe cutting the line hadn’t exactly been her finest moment. But still—sleeping in an actual bed sounded infinitely better than spending the night curled up on a plastic airport bench.

“Look,” she said, turning back to Ethan with her best I’m a nice person, please help me smile. “Is there any way—”

“Hang on.” Ethan’s gaze flicked toward Mr. Broody again, his eyes narrowing slightly. Then his eyes widened in sudden recognition. “Wait a second—are you… Roy Kent?”

Roy’s scowl deepened. “…No.”

“No, you definitely are!” Ethan’s smile brightened. “You’re Roy Kent—from AFC Richmond! Man, my brother’s a huge fan—he never misses a match! You guys were incredible last season—”

“Yeah, brilliant. Thanks,” Roy muttered gruffly, clearly uncomfortable with the attention.

Ethan, however, seemed unfazed. “Hey—listen, I shouldn’t do this, but since you’re Roy Kent… maybe I can bend the rules a bit.”

Y/N blinked. Roy Kent?

The name meant nothing to her, but judging by the way Ethan was practically bouncing with excitement, it clearly meant something to him.

“Well, technically, I’m not supposed to book a single hotel voucher for two people,” Ethan explained, “but since it’s the last room—and since you’re Roy Kent—I could book you and your wife together. Just to make sure neither of you has to sleep in the airport and you'll stay together.”

Silence fell like a thunderclap.

Roy blinked. “…My what?”

“Your beautiful wife!” Ethan repeated cheerfully, gesturing between Roy and Y/N like it was the most obvious solution in the world. “I mean, you two are together, right?”

Roy opened his mouth—then closed it again, his eyes widening slightly as he glanced at Y/N like he wasn’t quite sure what planet he’d just landed on.

Y/N’s brain worked faster than it ever had in her life.

One room. One bed. And one very attractive—if incredibly grumpy—man.

She barely hesitated.

“Yup!” she said brightly. “I’m Roy’s wife. Love of his life. Isn’t that right, darling?”

Roy choked. “What—?”

Y/N stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on his arm as she tilted her head to flash him her sweetest smile. “Come on, love. Don’t just stand there—tell the nice man how much you adore me.”

Roy blinked down at her, clearly torn between confusion and mild panic.

Oh, this is gonna be fun.

Y/N leaned closer, lowering her voice so only he could hear.

“If you let me into that room, I’ll pay you double the room’s worth,” she whispered quickly. “Please—I really need a real bed tonight.”

Roy’s jaw worked, his gaze flicking from her face to Ethan, then back again. For a moment, she thought he might actually refuse—until his gaze dropped briefly to her lips.

Something shifted behind those dark eyes—something warm, dark, and undeniably intrigued.

“…Yeah. Fine,” he muttered gruffly.

Y/N’s smile widened.

“Perfect! See? I knew you couldn’t resist me,” she teased, giving his arm a playful squeeze as she turned back to Ethan.

“Well, there you have it!” Ethan beamed as he began typing on his keyboard. “One room for Mr. and Mrs. Kent.”

"It's Mrs. Y/N Y/L/N, kept my last. I didn't want all the attention from the media, you know." Y/N said confidently as if she even knew who Roy was...

The receptionist nodded understandingly.

Roy rubbed a hand down his face, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like what the fuck am I doing?

“Can I get your IDs, please?” Ethan asked.

Y/N pulled out her wallet and handed over her ID without hesitation. Roy, meanwhile, seemed to hesitate for half a second before reluctantly pulling out his own.

Ethan glanced at their IDs, swiped Roy’s credit card for incidentals, and printed out the room key.

“Here you go—room 404,” he said cheerfully, handing Roy the key. “Enjoy your stay!”

“Thanks,” Y/N said with a bright smile, grabbing her suitcase and heading toward the elevators without waiting to see if Roy would follow.

It took him a moment, but he eventually fell into step beside her, his long strides easily matching her pace.

“You must be an insane person,” he muttered under his breath.

Y/N glanced up at him with a grin. “Yeah, but now you don’t have to sleep on an airport bench. You’re welcome, darling.”

Roy grunted—a low, frustrated sound that somehow still managed to sound attractive.

Y/N bit the inside of her cheek to keep from laughing as they stepped into the elevator and the doors slid shut behind them.

This is going to be interesting.

The elevator ride was silent—at first.

Roy stood beside Y/N with his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, shoulders tense beneath the black wool as the elevator hummed its way up to the fourth floor. His eyes were fixed on the glowing numbers above the doors, his jaw set in a line so firm it could probably cut glass.

Y/N, on the other hand, was fighting the urge to smile.

“You know, you’re really committing to the ‘grumpy husband’ act,” she teased, tilting her head slightly as she studied his profile.

Roy’s dark eyes flicked toward her, narrowing slightly. “This isn’t an act, and I'm not your husband,” he muttered.

“Mm-hmm. You keep telling yourself that, Roy.”

Roy exhaled sharply through his nose—half a sigh, half a laugh he probably didn’t want to admit to.

“You always this bloody chatty?” he grumbled.

“Only when I’m stuck in elevators with broody strangers who scowl like it’s their full-time job,” she shot back. “Seriously, do you ever smile? Or would that break some kind of ancient curse?”

Roy huffed a breath through his nose—a sound that could’ve been annoyance or amusement; it was hard to tell with him.

“I smile,” he muttered.

“Really? I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Roy didn’t respond, but she caught the faint twitch of his lips—just the ghost of a smile before he turned his gaze back to the elevator doors.

Progress, she thought with a grin.

Room 404 was exactly what Y/N had expected—small, cozy, and equipped with precisely one queen-sized bed.

“Well, that’s convenient,” she mused aloud, setting her suitcase beside the dresser and shrugging off her coat. Beneath it, her fitted sweater hugged her curves just enough to draw Roy’s gaze before he quickly looked away.

“I’ll take the floor,” Roy muttered, unzipping his coat with quick, efficient movements.

“Oh, come on. It’s just a bed,” Y/N said, leaning back against the dresser and crossing her arms over her chest. “What—afraid you won’t be able to control yourself?”

Roy froze mid-motion. His shoulders visibly tensed beneath the soft fabric of his sweater, and when he turned to look at her, something heated flickered behind those dark eyes.

“…I’m sleepin’ on the floor, woman,” he said firmly.

“Mm-hmm. Sure you are, go ahead.”

Roy shot her a look, but the faint flush creeping up his neck was impossible to miss.

Biting back a grin, Y/N busied herself unpacking her sleepwear—loose see-through shorts and a tank top that was just snug enough to leave little to the imagination. The see-through part of her shorts was noted by Roy, he could see her red lace panties through the fabric. When she turned around, Roy was suddenly very interested in his suitcase.

Coward, she thought with a smirk.

By the time they both finished getting ready for bed, the air in the room felt distinctly warmer—though Y/N suspected it had less to do with the heater, and more to do with the tension that hummed beneath her skin every time Roy so much as looked her way.

He’d swapped his jeans and sweater for a plain black T-shirt and gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, and the combination of broad shoulders, toned arms, and the faint outline of muscle beneath the fabric was almost unfair.

Still, Y/N wasn’t about to let him off the hook that easily.

Sliding beneath the blankets, she stretched out with a soft, contented sigh, propping herself up on one elbow as she watched Roy spread a spare blanket across the floor.

“You know, this whole ‘grumpy lone wolf’ thing you’ve got going on is kinda hot,” she remarked her tone light and teasing. “But you’re gonna freeze down there.”

“I’m fine,” Roy muttered without looking up.

“Mmm… suit yourself.” She paused—then added casually, “But if you change your mind… there’s plenty of room over here. I don’t bite. Unless you ask me to.”

Roy froze.

For a split second, Y/N thought he might actually turn around and say something—do something—but then he exhaled through his nose and settled onto the floor without another word.

Grumpy coward, she thought again with a grin.

The room fell quiet after that.

The only sound was the faint occasional creak of the floorboards as Roy shifted on the carpet. Y/N closed her eyes, willing herself to fall asleep—but no matter how hard she tried, her mind kept drifting back to the man lying just a few feet away.

Why is he so determined to be miserable?

“Hey,” she called softly.

Roy grunted—a sound that could’ve meant anything.

“Do you always sleep on the floor, or am I just special?”

“You’re special, alright,” he muttered.

Y/N grinned. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Silence.

“…You have a girlfriend, Roy?” she asked, her tone light but curious.

Roy paused. “…No.”

“Boyfriend?”

“No.”

“Secret wife?”

“Fuckin' hell,” he muttered, though she could hear the faintest trace of amusement beneath the frustration.

“What? I’m just making conversation.”

“Bloody interrogation, more like.”

“Well, forgive me for wanting to know a little bit about the man I’m sharing a bed—well, technically a room—with,” she shot back.

Roy exhaled through his nose, the floor creaking slightly as he shifted. “…No girlfriend. No wife. No one waitin’ at home.”

Y/N propped herself up on one elbow, tilting her head slightly. “Huh. I figured a guy like you would be taken.”

Roy snorted softly. “Yeah? And what kinda guy am I?”

“Mysterious. Broody. Bit of a grump, but probably a good guy underneath all the growling.”

Roy didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter—rough around the edges, but not unkind.

“…And what about you, Y/N?” he asked as if the question had slipped out before he could stop it.

“What about me?”

“You got someone waitin’ at home?”

“Nope.”

Roy was silent for a moment. “…Why not?”

Y/N shrugged, though she knew he couldn’t see it. “Haven’t found the right person, I guess. I’m not really into casual dating—you know, all those guys who just want something easy with no strings attached.” She paused, then added with a teasing smile, “Plus, most men can’t handle a woman who knows what she wants.”

Roy made a low, thoughtful noise in the back of his throat—a sound that sent a flicker of warmth down Y/N’s spine.

“…And what do you want?” he asked after a moment.

Y/N’s pulse jumped, but she kept her voice light. “Wouldn’t you like to know, darling?”

Roy didn’t respond, but the air between them seemed to hum with something unspoken—something neither of them was quite ready to name.

The minutes ticked by.

The room seemed to grow colder despite the heater’s low hum, and Y/N shivered beneath the blankets, tucking them tighter around her shoulders.

A creak of floorboards made her pause.

Then—

“…Are you shiverin’?” Roy’s voice rumbled through the dark.

“Nope,” she lied immediately.

“Bullshit,” he muttered.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, clinging stubbornly to her pride even as another shiver betrayed her.

Roy muttered something under his breath—something she didn’t quite catch—and then the floor creaked again as he stood and crossed the room.

Y/N barely had time to blink before the mattress dipped beside her, the sudden warmth of his body heat brushing against her side.

“What are you—”

“Shut up,” Roy muttered, tugging the blankets over both of them before she could argue. “You’re freezin’.”

“I—I didn’t ask you to—”

“Well, I didn’t ask to share a room with a bloody menace, but here we are.”

Y/N bit her lip against a smile. “A menace, huh? And yet here you are—voluntarily sharing the bed with me.”

Roy grunted but didn’t move.

“…Better?” he asked gruffly.

“…Yeah,” Y/N admitted, the warmth of his body already chasing away the chill that had seeped into her bones.

Silence fell again—heavier this time.

Y/N lay still, hyper-aware of every inch of space between them—which wasn’t much. Roy’s arm brushed lightly against hers beneath the blankets, and she could feel the faint rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

“…So what were you doing in America, anyway?” she asked, breaking the silence.

Roy shifted beside her, his voice rough with something she couldn’t quite name. “…Work.”

“That’s vague.”

Roy huffed softly. “Just visitin’ a few old mates. And doin’ a bit of… business.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “That sounds suspiciously like a cover story.”

“Or maybe I just don’t like talkin’ about myself,” Roy shot back.

“Aw, come on. I told you my tragic backstory—it's only fair.”

Roy made a low sound that could’ve been a laugh. “Don’t know if ‘no boyfriend’ counts as a tragic backstory.”

“Depends on the boyfriends,” Y/N shot back with a grin.

Roy didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter—softer in a way that made her chest ache a little.

“…Football,” he said finally.

“Huh?”

“I’m here for football,” Roy muttered. “Sort of. Not playin’ anymore, but… still workin’ in the sport. I needed advice from my former coach. That’s why I was in Kansas before the flight.”

“Oh. So, what—are you like a coach or something?”

“Yeah. Somethin’ like that.”

Y/N tilted her head slightly, searching his profile in the dim light. “You sound like you miss playing.”

Roy didn’t answer right away. His fingers drummed lightly against the edge of the blanket—a restless motion that seemed to betray more than his words ever would.

“…Yeah,” he admitted, voice rough. “Sometimes.”

Y/N hesitated, then reached out and lightly nudged his arm with her elbow. “Well, if it makes you feel any better… you look like a footballer. You know—big, strong, kinda intimidating…”

Roy huffed softly. “Yeah?”

“Mm-hmm. Plus, you’ve got that whole ‘grumpy athlete’ vibe going for you. Very sexy, by the way.”

Roy turned his head slightly, his gaze catching hers in the dark. His eyes were shadowed, but the heat behind them was unmistakable.

“Careful,” he warned quietly. “You don’t know what you’re askin’ for.”

Y/N’s pulse jumped.

“Maybe I do,” she whispered.

Silence.

Then—

Roy’s eyes flicked to her lips.

Y/N’s breath hitched, her heart pounding so loudly she could barely hear anything else. For a moment, neither of them moved—until Roy’s hand shifted beneath the blankets, brushing lightly against her hip.

“…Go to sleep, Y/N,” he muttered, pulling back as abruptly as he’d moved closer.

Y/N blinked, her pulse still racing as Roy rolled onto his side, facing away from her without another word.

He wouldn’t last the night.

She was sure of it.

Sleep was impossible.

Roy lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling with a frown so deep it could probably be seen in the dark.

He was hyper-aware of everything—the faint hum of the heater, the distant sound of snow tapping against the window, and, most of all, the woman lying beside him.

Y/N.

Warm. Soft. Infuriating.

Every shift of her body against the mattress, every quiet inhale, every accidental brush of her leg against his beneath the blankets—it all registered in his brain like a live wire beneath his skin.

For fuck’s sake, Kent. Get a grip.

He squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of literally anything else. Football. Training schedules. The list of injuries he needed to monitor once he got back to Richmond.

Nothing worked.

Because no matter what he tried, his thoughts kept circling back to her. The curve of her smile. The teasing glint in her eyes. The way she’d whispered “Maybe I do” like she knew exactly what she was doing to him.

And now, she was sleeping beside him, so close that he could feel the faint warmth of her body through the thin layer of blankets.

One night. Just one bloody night.

How hard could it be?

Y/N wasn’t asleep, either.

Her eyes were open, staring at the faint pattern of shadows dancing across the ceiling as her heart thudded steadily against her ribs.

Roy Kent was lying less than a foot away from her. Warm, solid, and stubborn as hell.

And God help her, but she wanted him.

The attraction had been instant—a spark of heat that caught her off guard the second she’d locked eyes with him in the airport line. But it wasn’t just his looks that had drawn her in. It was the way he carried himself—rough around the edges, but with a quiet intensity that pulled her in like gravity.

And the more he resisted, the more she wanted to see him break.

She’d caught the way his gaze lingered when he thought she wasn’t looking. The way his breath hitched when her leg accidentally brushed against his beneath the blankets. The way his hand had lingered just a moment too long when he’d adjusted the covers earlier.

He wants me.

He could deny it all he wanted. But Y/N knew better.

And she wasn’t above pushing him just a little bit further.

“Roy,” she whispered softly.

Silence.

“…You awake?”

A low, rough sound of acknowledgment rumbled from his chest. “Sleep.”

“I can’t.”

Roy exhaled through his nose, long and slow. “…Why not?”

“I dunno. Too much on my mind, I guess.” She shifted slightly beneath the blankets, her shoulder brushing against his arm. “It’s weird—sharing a bed with a stranger.”

“…Yeah,” Roy muttered.

Y/N smiled faintly. “I mean, technically, we’re married. Shouldn’t this feel more natural?”

“Fuck you're so annoying,” Roy muttered under his breath.

“What? I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“You’ve been tryin’ to make bloody conversation all night.”

“Maybe I like the sound of your voice.”

Silence.

Then—

“…You’re doin’ this on purpose, aren’t you?” Roy muttered.

“Doing what?” she asked innocently.

“Windin’ me up.”

Y/N bit back a smile. “…Is it working?”

Roy didn’t answer. But she swore she heard his breath hitch slightly when she shifted closer, her bare leg brushing lightly against his beneath the covers.

“…Roy?” she whispered after a moment.

“…What?”

She hesitated. Just for a second.

Then—

“…Do you wanna kiss me?”

The air in the room shifted.

The faint hum of the heater seemed to vanish beneath the sudden silence—the kind that crackled with something heavy and electric and impossible to ignore.

Roy’s breathing slowed, rough and deliberate, like a man fighting a losing battle against something stronger than pride.

“…Go to fucking sleep,” he muttered again, but his voice was lower this time. Rougher.

“Say no, then.”

Silence.

Roy didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Didn’t say no.

Y/N’s pulse pounded so loudly she could barely hear her own thoughts.

Do it, a voice in the back of her mind whispered. Just—

Before she could second-guess herself, she shifted closer—just enough that her shoulder pressed lightly against his chest.

“…Roy?” she whispered.

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “…What?”

“…I dare you.”

Roy stilled.

For a moment, neither of them breathed.

Then—

Roy moved.

It was sudden and rough and utterly inevitable—like the snap of a rubber band stretched too tight for too long.

His hand slid beneath her jaw, rough fingers tilting her chin as he rolled toward her, and then—

Oh.

His mouth crashed against hers with a heat that stole the air from her lungs.

The kiss wasn’t slow. It wasn’t careful. It was fire and frustration and weeks—months—of tension finally breaking loose from him all at once. Damn, he must've been tense...

Y/N gasped softly against his lips, her fingers curling into the front of his T-shirt as she arched into him without thinking.

Roy groaned low in his throat—a sound so deep and rough that it sent a shiver down her spine—and suddenly his hands were everywhere. Sliding into her hair. Curling around her waist. Pulling her closer like he couldn’t stand the space between them.

Y/N gasped as her back hit the mattress, Roy’s weight pressing her down as his mouth traced a slow, heated path along her jaw. His stubble scraped lightly against her skin, rough and perfect and real, and she couldn’t stop the soft, breathless sound that slipped past her lips when he kissed the hollow of her throat.

“Fuck,” Roy muttered against her skin, his breath warm and ragged. “You’re—fuckin’—”

“Say it,” Y/N whispered breathlessly.

Roy’s hands tightened against her waist. “…So bloody annoying, woman,” he muttered against her collarbone, though his lips were already trailing lower—hot, open-mouthed kisses that made her toes curl beneath the blankets.

“You love it,” she shot back with a grin, gasping softly when his teeth grazed her shoulder.

Roy growled low in his throat—the sound vibrating against her skin—and Y/N swore she felt her pulse skip.

“Fuckin’ menace,” he muttered again, but his hands were already sliding beneath the hem of her tank top, rough fingers tracing the warm skin beneath with deliberate slowness.

Y/N gasped, arching into his touch without a second thought. “Mm… You’re not very convincing, darling.”

Roy stilled for half a second.

Then—

“Say that again,” he muttered roughly against her jaw.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. “What—?”

“Say it,” Roy growled against her lips, his hands tightening against her waist.

Y/N barely managed to bite back a grin before tilting her head just enough to brush her lips against his ear.

“…Darling,” she whispered.

Roy swore low beneath his breath, and then he was kissing her again—rough and desperate and so utterly gone that it made Y/N’s pulse jump beneath her skin.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she registered the faint creak of the mattress, the soft rustle of blankets as Roy shifted his weight above her. But none of it mattered—not when his hands were tangled in her hair and his lips were claiming hers like she was something he’d waited far too long to taste.

And when his hips pressed against hers—hot and solid and right—Y/N gasped against his mouth, fingers curling tightly against the back of his neck as her world narrowed to nothing but the heat of him surrounding her.

One night, she thought vaguely as Roy’s hands slid beneath her shorts, rough fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles against the sensitive skin of her thighs.

Just one night.

…But somehow, she already knew it wouldn’t be enough for her.

!!!SUBTLE SMUT!!!

Y/N’s world narrowed to heat and pressure and the rough, deliberate slide of Roy’s hands against her skin.

Roy growled low in his throat—the sound vibrating against her skin—and then he was kissing her again. Desperate. Rough. No hesitation. No restraint.

Just heat.

Y/N gasped against his mouth as his hands slid beneath the hem of her shorts, fingers curling against the curve of her hips as he pulled her closer. Her thighs parted beneath his touch, and she barely bit back a moan when his hand slipped between them, fingers teasing the sensitive skin just above the waistband of her red underwear.

Oh, fuck.

Her breath hitched, but Roy didn’t stop. His mouth traced a slow, heated path down the curve of her throat, lips grazing the pulse that pounded just beneath her skin. His teeth scraped lightly against her collarbone, and Y/N swore her pulse skipped.

“Roy—” she gasped.

“Tell me what you want,” he growled against her jaw.

Y/N’s breath caught. “What—?”

“Tell me or I have to stop, Y/N” Roy muttered roughly, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear.

Her pulse pounded so loudly she could barely hear her own thoughts.

“I want you to touch me, Roy,” she whispered.

Roy swore low beneath his breath, and then he was kissing her again—hot, rough, desperate, like a man starved for something he hadn’t let himself want until right now.

Y/N gasped against his mouth as his hand slid beneath the waistband of her shorts, fingers curling against the heat between her thighs in a way that made her ache.

“Fuck—”

“Tell me to stop or I might not be able to hold myself back,” Roy muttered against her lips. “Tell me—”

“Don’t you dare stop,” she gasped, arching into his hand with a breathless sound that she couldn’t even bring herself to care about holding back.

Roy groaned low in his throat—a deep, rough sound that made her toes curl—and then his fingers were sliding beneath the lace of her underwear, slow and deliberate as he stroked her with the kind of focus that only a man like Roy Kent could bring to anything he did.

“Christ—” Roy muttered, his breath hitching against her skin as her body clenched beneath his touch. “You’re—fuckin’—so soft—”

“Roy—”

Y/N’s nails bit into his shoulders as her breath hitched, her body arching beneath his as the pressure coiled tighter and tighter with every slow, deliberate stroke of his fingers. Her pulse pounded against her ribs, heat pooling low in her stomach as Roy kissed her like he wanted to steal every breath from her lungs.

“Come on, love,” he muttered against her lips. “Let me hear you—”

“Oh my God—”

It hit her all at once—fast and hot and sharp, her breath catching as her whole body went tight beneath the weight of sensation. Her nails dragged against the back of Roy’s neck as she gasped against his mouth, and he swallowed every sound like he couldn’t get enough of her.

Fuck, fuck, fuck—

The heat of him surrounded her—the weight of his chest, the rough scrape of his stubble against her jaw, the solid warmth of his thighs pressed against hers—and Y/N thought vaguely that she might actually come right then and there.

“Roy—”

“Good girl,” he muttered against her collarbone. “Fuckin’—so good—”

Oh God.

Y/N barely had time to catch her breath before Roy was kissing her again—hot and messy and so good that she didn’t even care how utterly gone she sounded when she gasped against his lips.

“Off,” she muttered breathlessly, tugging at the hem of his T-shirt. “This—off—”

Roy growled low in his throat as he sat up just enough to yank the shirt over his head, the faint glow from the airport lights outside catching the sharp lines of muscle that cut across his chest and stomach.

Jesus Christ.

Y/N’s breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat, but she barely had time to admire the view before Roy was back on top of her—hot, solid, and everywhere as he kissed her with a rough, aching intensity that sent a fresh rush of heat straight to the base of her spine.

“Your turn,” Roy muttered, fingers sliding beneath the hem of her tank top. “Come on—”

Y/N gasped as the cool air hit her skin, but Roy was already covering her with heat—his mouth trailing a slow, deliberate path down her throat, lips grazing the curve of her shoulder, her collarbone, the dip between her ribs. His hands traced the shape of her waist, thumbs brushing just beneath her breasts as he kissed his way down her stomach, slow and deliberate as if committing every inch of her to memory.

“Bloody gorgeous,” he muttered against her skin.

Y/N’s pulse jumped. “You’re not so bad yourself, darling,” she managed, though her breath hitched when his teeth grazed the curve of her hip.

Roy paused—just for a second.

Then—

“Keep sayin’ that,” he growled, and Y/N swore she could feel the heat of his voice against her skin.

The rest was a blur of heat and pressure and Roy’s rough, calloused hands sliding over every inch of her skin. His mouth was hot and demanding against hers, all teeth and tongue and low, breathless sounds that sent shivers down her spine. His hands gripped her waist like he couldn’t get close enough, pulling her against him until every breath, every heartbeat, seemed to pulse in sync with his.

More, more, more—

Somewhere between kisses, she caught the faintest glimpse of something else beneath the heat—the rough, jagged edges of a man who hadn’t let himself want something this badly in a long, long time.

But there was no time to dwell on it.

Not when Roy Kent was kissing her like she was the only thing keeping him grounded to the earth.

!!!SMUT OVER!!!

Later—minutes or maybe hours later, Y/N wasn’t quite sure—they lay tangled in the sheets, limbs intertwined and breath still ragged from the heat that hadn’t quite faded.

The air smelled like sweat and skin and something heavier—something that neither of them was quite ready to name.

Roy’s chest rose and fell steadily beneath her cheek, the warmth of his skin seeping into her own as his fingers traced slow, aimless circles against the curve of her back.

Neither of them spoke.

Neither of them moved.

But neither of them pulled away, either.

“…You okay? Wasn't too rough?” Roy muttered after a while, his voice rough against the quiet hum of the heater.

“Mmm.” Y/N smiled faintly against his chest. “Better than okay.”

Roy huffed softly—a sound that could’ve been amusement if she didn’t know better.

“…Bloody menace,” he muttered, though the hand on her back didn’t stop moving.

Y/N grinned against his skin, but she didn’t say it.

Not this time.

Instead, she closed her eyes and let the warmth of him lull her toward sleep, her heart still thrumming against her ribs as if trying to remind her that this—whatever this was—wasn’t over yet.

Not even close.

Roy Kent woke up with warmth pressed against his chest and a dull ache between his shoulder blades—a reminder that last night had been anything but restful.

For a moment, he lay still, eyes closed against the faint gray light filtering through the curtains, his mind caught somewhere between sleep and memory. The lingering heat of skin against skin. The sound of soft, breathless laughter against his ear. The way her nails had bitten into his shoulders as she—

Fuck.

His eyes shot open.

Shit.

Y/N was still asleep beside him, her head resting against his shoulder and one bare leg tangled with his beneath the sheets. Her hair spilled across the pillow in messy waves, her lips slightly parted as she breathed slow and steady against his chest.

And Roy—Roy was absolutely, completely fucked.

He swallowed hard, staring up at the ceiling as if it might offer some sort of divine intervention.

It was just one night.

That was all it was supposed to be.

One night. One mistake. One moment of weakness.

Except it didn’t feel like a mistake.

Not when her warmth still lingered against his skin. Not when his pulse still stumbled every time she shifted against him. Not when some stubborn part of his chest ached at the thought of pulling away.

Fucking hell.

Taking a slow, deliberate breath, Roy carefully—carefully—slid his arm out from beneath her and rolled onto his back. Y/N shifted slightly, murmuring something unintelligible in her sleep before settling again with a soft sigh.

Roy stared at the ceiling for another minute, jaw clenched and heart hammering a little harder than it should have been.

Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood.

The sound of running water stirred Y/N from sleep, the distant hum of the shower blending with the faint hiss of snow against the window. She blinked against the soft morning light, her body aching in ways that had absolutely nothing to do with the mattress.

Oh.

A slow, satisfied smile curved her lips as memories of the night before came flooding back. The heat of Roy’s hands on her skin. The rough scrape of his stubble against her throat. The way he’d whispered “Good girl” against her lips like he couldn’t quite believe how quickly she’d unraveled beneath him.

Yeah, she thought hazily. Definitely not a mistake.

The water shut off, and a few moments later, the bathroom door creaked open.

Y/N propped herself up on one elbow just in time to see Roy emerge, towel slung low around his hips and dark hair still damp from the shower. The faint steam clinging to his skin did absolutely nothing to lessen the effect of broad shoulders, toned abs, and the sharp lines of muscle that cut down his stomach.

Y/N bit her lip, eyes sweeping over him without an ounce of subtleness.

“Well, good morning, darling,” she teased, her voice still rough with sleep.

Roy froze mid-step, towel clutched tightly in one hand. “…Mornin’,” he muttered, eyes fixed firmly on the floor as he crossed the room to grab his clothes.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Awfully quiet this morning. Regretting last night already?”

Roy’s jaw clenched visibly as he yanked his T-shirt over his head. “Wasn’t supposed to happen, Y/N,” he muttered.

“Mm. I seem to remember you saying something similar right before you kissed me.”

Roy swore under his breath, shoving his legs into his jeans with more force than necessary.

“Don’t know what you’re smilin’ about, woman,” he muttered.

“Oh, I think you do.” Y/N sat up fully, tugging the sheets loosely around her chest as she watched him with a grin that she knew was bordering on smug. “Unless you need me to remind you?”

Roy paused mid-buckle, his knuckles whitening around his belt. “…You’re enjoyin’ this, aren’t you?”

“Immensely.”

Roy swore again and yanked his belt tight, refusing to meet her eyes as he grabbed his phone from the nightstand.

“Roy—”

“It didn’t mean anything.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Y/N’s smile faltered—just for a second—before she quickly smoothed it over with something lighter.

“Relax, Mr. Premier League,” she said, tilting her head with a grin that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “I wasn’t asking for breakfast and a love confession.”

Roy hesitated, but she waved him off before he could say anything else.

“Seriously—it’s fine. It was just one night, right?” She forced a teasing smile, biting her lip just enough to make it playful. “No strings attached. I’m a big girl—I can handle it. S'not like we're married for real or something.”

Roy’s gaze flicked toward her then—dark and unreadable beneath the messy fringe of his hair. For a moment, Y/N thought he might say something.

But instead, he looked away and grabbed his coat.

“I’ll wait outside,” he muttered.

Then he was gone.

“Get a grip,” Y/N muttered to herself as she rummaged through her suitcase for clean clothes.

It didn’t mean anything.

She shouldn’t care.

She didn’t care.

But some stubborn part of her chest still ached in a way she hadn’t expected—like she’d pressed her fingers too hard against a bruise she didn’t know was there.

It was just one night, she reminded herself firmly as she tugged on a fresh sweater and jeans. That’s all it was supposed to be.

And yet…

She swallowed hard, shoving the thought aside as she finished getting dressed.

Ten minutes later, she stepped into the hallway and found Roy leaning against the opposite wall, hands shoved deep into his coat pockets and gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

“Ready?” she asked lightly, plastering on her brightest smile.

Roy glanced up, his eyes flicking briefly to hers before quickly looking away.

“…Yeah,” he muttered.

Neither of them said another word as they made their way to the elevator.

By the time they reached the lobby, the awkward silence between them had settled into something heavier—thick with words neither of them seemed ready to say.

But of course, the universe had other plans.

“Well, well, well—look who it is!”

Y/N’s eyes widened as Ethan—the overly cheerful airline receptionist from the night before—waved them down from behind the front desk.

Roy swore under his breath, but it was too late to pretend they hadn’t heard.

“Morning, Mr. and Mrs. Kent!” Ethan called with a grin that could only be described as mischievous. “Sleep well?”

Y/N grinned. “Oh, we slept great,” she replied sweetly, just to watch Roy’s shoulders visibly tense beside her.

Ethan’s grin widened. “I bet you did. Hey—if you ever need a room again, you know where to find us!”

Roy muttered something that sounded suspiciously like kill me now before grabbing Y/N’s elbow and steering her toward the door.

“Bye, Ethan!” Y/N called over her shoulder, biting her lip to keep from laughing as they stepped out into the snow-dusted parking lot.

Roy released her arm the second they were outside, shoving his hands deep into his pockets as he stared down at the pavement.

“Don’t,” he muttered.

“Don’t what?” Y/N asked innocently.

“Don’t bloody smile like that.”

“Why not? You didn’t seem to mind last night.”

Roy groaned. “For fuck’s sake—”

“Oh, come on.” Y/N nudged his arm playfully. “Admit it—you had fun.”

Roy shot her a glare that might’ve been more effective if his ears hadn’t turned slightly pink.

“…You’re fuckin' impossible,” he muttered.

“And you’re terrible at goodbyes,” she shot back with a grin. “Seriously—you gonna leave without even asking for my number?”

Roy froze.

“…We said one night, Y/N,” he muttered, though the words sounded more like he was reminding himself than her.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, and you also said you’d sleep on the floor. You’re not exactly great at sticking to the plan, darling.”

Roy swore softly beneath his breath, dragging a hand down his face like a man fighting a battle he already knew he was going to lose.

“…You’re so annoyin’,” he muttered.

“You seem to love it.”

Silence.

Then—

“…Give me your phone.”

Y/N’s smile spread slowly as she pulled her phone from her pocket and handed it over without hesitation.

Roy stared at it for a second longer than necessary—like a man standing on the edge of something he wasn’t sure he should jump into.

Then he tapped in his number, handed the phone back, and muttered—“Don’t read too much into it.”

Y/N just smiled.

“Too late.”

[kathlare]

the almost encounter

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: As Amelie prepares to leave Mexico and return to London, an unexpected encounter at the airport with Daniel Ricciardo brings back memories of a past she has tried to move on from.

Wordcount: 0.8 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

October 26th, 2022 - Mexico City, Mexico

Amelie stood at the entrance of Mexico City's Benito Juárez International Airport, her eyes scanning the chaotic scene in front of her. It was a swirl of travelers, all rushing in different directions. The warmth of the air felt familiar, like a blanket of home wrapping around her. Now, after spending a few days with her family in Mexico, she was headed back to London, where the filming of Wicked awaited. It was a bittersweet feeling to leave home, but the thought of getting back to work eased the tension.

Her flight was boarding in a little over an hour, but for now, she had time to herself—time to reflect. She felt like a different person than the one who had left London months ago. There was something about the journey, about the growth of both her music career and her personal life, that had subtly shifted something inside of her. In Mexico, she had reconnected with her roots, her family, and a version of herself that had been tucked away for far too long.

The bustling noise of the airport brought her back to reality, and she quickly adjusted the strap of her bag on her shoulder. As she moved through the terminal, she spotted a familiar face, one that made her freeze in her tracks.

Daniel Ricciardo.

Daniel stood near baggage claim, dressed casually in a hoodie and joggers, his cap turned backward as he scrolled through his phone. It took him a second to look up, and when he did, his face lit up with recognition.

—Amelie?— His voice carried a mixture of surprise and amusement as he tucked his phone into his pocket and made his way toward her.

Amelie let out a quiet curse under her breath. Of all people to run into, it had to be Daniel. She plastered on a polite smile and nodded. —Hey, Daniel.—

He pulled her into a friendly hug before stepping back, giving her a once-over. —Wow, look at you. It’s been forever.—

—Yeah, a while,— she admitted, shifting uncomfortably.

—You heading out?— Daniel asked, motioning to her suitcase.

She nodded. —Yeah, going back to London. Filming.—

His eyebrows shot up. —Damn, back to work already? Thought you’d take more time off after your tour.—

Amelie shrugged. —Not really my thing.—

Daniel chuckled. —Yeah, fair. You’ve always been a workaholic.—

Amelie huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. —I just like keeping busy.—

Daniel studied her for a moment, his signature cheeky grin spreading across his face. —Well, don’t work too hard. You’ve been killing it with everything lately. Wicked, your music, seriously, congrats on all of that.—

—Thanks.— Amelie smiled, feeling a warmth in his words that eased some of the awkwardness. Daniel had always been kind, a lighthearted presence in the sometimes too-serious F1 world. It was nice to see a familiar face, even if it came at an unexpected time.

Before she could think of a way to end the conversation gracefully and make her way to security, Daniel’s eyes lit up as if he’d just remembered something.

—Oh!— he exclaimed. —You should wait a minute. Lando’s just landing. He’s coming in with me for the Grand Prix.—

Amelie’s stomach plummeted.

—Lando?— she repeated, her voice tighter than she intended.

Daniel nodded enthusiastically, oblivious to her reaction. —Yeah, he’s just grabbing his stuff. He’ll be here any second. He’s going to lose his mind when he sees you. It’s been, what, forever?— He frowned slightly, as if only now realizing how much time had passed.

Amelie felt her pulse quicken, an uncomfortable heat creeping up her neck. She forced a tight-lipped smile, hoping Daniel wouldn't notice the sudden shift in her demeanor.

—Yeah, uh… it’s been a while,— she said, gripping the handle of her suitcase a little too tightly.

Daniel, still completely unaware of her internal panic, chuckled. —Man, he’s going to freak out. You know how much he... I mean, it’s been ages, he’s going to be so happy to see you.—

Amelie’s stomach twisted. No, no, no. This was not happening. She had spent the last year carefully avoiding anything that had to do with Lando Norris, keeping her distance from the F1 world, from the chaos, from him. The last thing she needed was to run into him now, in the middle of an airport, right when she had finally managed to move on.

—Daniel, I really can’t wait,— she said quickly, shifting on her feet. —My flight is boarding soon.—

—Come on, you have time,— Daniel insisted, waving her off. —You can’t just disappear on him like that. You know how much he’s missed...—

—Daniel, please,— Amelie interrupted, lowering her voice. —Don’t tell him you saw me.—

That made Daniel pause. His expression shifted from playful to confused as he studied her.

—Wait… what?—

She swallowed hard, her heart pounding. She hadn’t meant to sound so desperate, but there was no taking it back now.

—Just... I really can’t do this right now. I need to go. Please don’t tell him I was here.—

Daniel’s eyes narrowed slightly, as if he was trying to piece together the situation. He had always been perceptive, more than people gave him credit for.

A beat passed before Daniel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. —Alright, alright. I won’t say anything.—

Relief washed over her, but it was quickly replaced by an ache in her chest. She hated this. Hated that it had come to this. That avoiding Lando had become necessary. That after all they had been—friends, something more, something unspoken and complicated—this was what remained.

She took a step back, exhaling sharply. —Thanks, Daniel. I gotta go.—

Before he could say anything else, she turned on her heel and walked away, her pulse still racing.

She didn’t look back.

[velvetvexations]

For years now we've been saying that TERFs were active participants in ace discourse and even admitted to using ace exclusionism to push TERF ideas. A lot of people didn't take it seriously and didn't think it was important, since most people consider ace issues to be some inconsequential footnote with no real impact. Now in 2025 we've got the TERF Queen JKR tweeting acephobic stuff and publicly mocking ace people.

Obviously, as a trans person, I know that the threats on trans rights are much more worrying right now, so I've kinda kept silent about that because I don't feel like it's appropriate to be like "ummm guys it's not just trans people that are attacked ! Ace people are targeted too akchually !". It's really not the time and place because the impact on trans people is much more pressing. But as an ace person it still really pains me to see. Everything that was rebranded "LGB" didn't just drop the "T", it dropped the "TQIA+" and it was very deliberate. You'll hear the "LGB" types loudly talk about how they don't want to be associated with the cringy terminally online fake labels of straight people facing no oppression and co-opting the gay movement because they want to feel special, pointing at NB people and aspecs. Even from "allies", it's completely normalized to mock these identities, use them as exemples of "terminally online SJW labels" or as a shorthand for "queer person I find annoying", to portray them as clueless privileged people facing no oppression (even when statistics say otherwise).

We're reluctantly given a seat at the queer table but everyone still finds it laughable if we ask for help or recognition. "what would you need that for ? No one cares that you're asexual" "worst thing you'll face is people not believing your identity... Other queer people actually get hatecrimed, you know". TERFs are literally agreeing and mocking us saying pretty much the same things. Even some trans people discussing JKR saying stuff like that were saying that she basically wasn't wrong.

It just feels so hopeless. Even people who are supportive don't bother spending time to advocate for us, it's just assumed that there's no need since we face no real issues, so saying "ace people are valid !" is the most our allies will do. Out of all my identities as a gay trans man, it's being ace that I struggle the most to accept. It's made me feel incredibly lonely and isolated, feeling like I don't even qualify as a human being, like my life genuinely isn't worth living, like I've failed at life because it made me defective, abnormal, unloveable, a failure unwanted even by my own community. A community supposed to welcome people who are different and struggling with their orientation. I feel like I can't even trust other queer people, despite having "valid" labels that would qualify as "really oppressed" in their eyes. I've seen how they talk about people like me, they don't even hide their contempt. Seeing other trans people so eager to agree with TERFs as long as they get to mock the dumb cringy aces. It's just so tiring.

I really regret not being more active in the ace discourse when that conflict was running hot. I love you, anon, and I'm sorry. <3

[voskhodart]

Extremely rare instance of me drawing Veritine priests who aren't Battisto. I wanted a little something to show off the three sacred dyes and a few different mark combos.

Descriptions of the individual meanings are under the cut. It's mostly for my own reference, but feel free to read through if you're a little worldbuilding freak too. Welcome to my weird furry Catholicism.

Maculas humilitatis, the stains of humility, are a traditional Veritine fur decoration. These stains are applied to the fur as part of ceremonial processes, and their complexity & coverage may indicate an individual’s position in the Church.

(I've got a 1500+ word Google doc on this shit. I just haven't shared it yet.)

Canine with cyrellen maculas: Primary marking is a porter's cowl up the neck and head, terminating into the clerical cross. Ring/slash markings under the eyes represent vigilance and recognition of sin, both in the self and others. Hollowing stains on the cheeks represent asceticism. Double bars over the edges of the mouth symbolize restraint and dedication to confession. Rings around the edges of ears represent dedication to listening to others.

Feline with sokash maculas: Primary marking is an exorcist's shroud, covering the entire body up to the face and ears. Chevron marks on the nose represent ability to interpret doctrine or teach. Single mark on philtrum represents commitment to speaking truth.

Ram with chalk maculas: Primary marking (not shown) is an acolyte stain, partially covering the arms and legs. Thick lines from the brow to cheeks represent compassion and the burden of knowledge. Tooth-like marks along the jaw represent grief and death. Triangular marking on the nose symbolizes evangelism, with a chipped peak representing personal imperfection.