#and that's just....... not the read i ever got

[rosesaints]

mystery of love

pairing: clark kent (superman 2025) x reader summary: clark is light in ways the world doesn’t always notice. he makes breakfast for dinner, reads to you when you’re sick, peels oranges like his mom used to, and sunbathes on the fire escape like a houseplant that loves way too hard. he doesn’t say “i love you” until the light is just right and you’re wrapped up in him like a second skin, but he shows it every day in the way he stays. inspired by the orange poem by wendy cope. (or alternatively: 4 times he showed you he loves you + 1 time he says it) listen to the playlist here. word count: 11.1 k. oops. i swear this was only supposed to be 8k words but unfortunately, i'm insane. content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, established relationship, piv sex, character study, dom/sub undertones, switching (reader and clark take turns domming/subbing), marking kink, hair pulling, big soft men who are whipped for you, soft but kind of unhinged sex, size kink (clark picks up the reader/pins them down), nipple play, unprotected sex, oral (fem!receiving), outdoor sex (sex against a tree), face riding, public sex, use of pet names, tooth-rotting fluff, my love letter to midwest summers!

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes.

Well, that's the joke, anyway. 

You’ve said it so many times now it might as well be printed on a T-shirt. My Boyfriend Is Solar-Powered! in Comic Sans. Or maybe Papyrus. Whatever will annoy him the most. Haven't really decided yet.

It started out as a throwaway line, one of those things you kind of just say when you’re half-awake and fully-annoyed because he’s hogging the sunny spot in the kitchen again like a smug, six-foot-four housecat with insane shoulders and even more insane bedhead.

But the first time you said it—like, actually really said it—he was standing by the window, shirtless, holding his coffee in that chipped blue mug that says "My Son's a Smallville Elementary Grad!" and somehow survived a farm, a college dorm, three apartments, and a move cross-country. 

The light was doing that thing it loves to do in the morning, all golden and warm and syrupy, catching on his collarbones and the slope of his neck like he was painted by fucking Michelangelo. He had one hip braced against the counter, the other leg crooked, like someone told him to look as unintentionally hot as possible while waiting for the kettle filled with your guys' tea to boil.

You blinked at him, still clutching your own mug and not yet caffeinated enough to regulate your mouth, and said, “Do you ever feel like… like a plant?”

He raised an eyebrow. Blew on his coffee. You can see the way his breath fogs up slightly, that super breath of his doing just enough to cool down his coffee to the perfect temperature. “That a dig?”

“No. It’s just. You—" You waved vaguely in his direction. "Well, you just kinda look like you’re charging.”

That got a huff of a laugh. “What, like a phone?”

“No,” you said, and grinned into your mug. “Like I said, a plant. Like you're photosynthesizing.”

After that, it became a thing.

He always smiled when you said it. Looked down at himself, half-amused, half-embarrassed. “I mean,” he’d say, “you’re not wrong.” Or: “Someone’s gotta keep the plants company, y'know?"

But he never corrects you. Never laughs it off like it’s ridiculous.

Because it isn’t.

You’ve seen the truth of it, slow and subtle and layered in all the small things. The way he’s just a smidge lighter on his feet after a sunny day, how he runs warmer, more golden, like someone turned the saturation up to a hundred. The way his voice softens, deeper, when he’s been in the sun too long. The way the shadows under his eyes seem less sharp after just an afternoon spent lying on the roof, pretending he’s napping when you both know he’s just... breathing.

And the bruises. That’s the part he thinks you don’t see.

You do.

They heal so much faster when he’s been drenched in the sun. You’ve watched the inky blackish-purple fade to this sickly yellow in the span of a couple hours and tried really, really hard not to stare. 

You’ve said nothing when he limped into bed one night after a particularly difficult battle and rolled out of it the next morning like absolutely nothing had even happened. Sometimes he winces and pretends it’s nothing. Sometimes he… forgets to pretend.

And still, you never say that’s not normal out loud, even though it’s not. Because he isn’t. Not in the way that matters. Not in the ways that make you love him.

You love him like a long exhale. Like a secret that’s safe with you. Like the song you play on repeat in the car, the one you never get sick of, even though it makes your throat tighten every time.

Sometimes it’s peaceful, like when your ribs finally uncages and let someone else in for the first time in your life. But sometimes, sometimes it's just so fucking devastating. 

Because he’s Clark. And Superman. And most importantly, he's yours.

And it feels too big. Too fragile. Like trying to hold water in your hands. You want to keep him safe, but you also want to keep him. The real him. The him that leaves you sticky notes that say “eat something, please” and walks around humming old Mighty Crabjoys songs and insists you don’t have to fold my socks, seriously, who folds socks?

But you lie awake sometimes watching him breathe, thinking to yourself, How do I love someone that belongs to the world?

And the answer is: you just do. One day at a time. One morning at a time. One sunlit moment in the kitchen at a time.

That Monday morning, it’s the same as always.

You pad into the living room half-asleep, dragging your feet and wearing one of his T-shirts that hits you mid-thigh. He’s already up, standing barefoot by the window, coffee in hand, arms folded loosely across his chest like he’s holding himself together in case he gets pulled apart again later.

Pause in the doorway. Watch him for a second. The way the light pools around his ankles. The way his shoulders lift, just barely, when he hears your steps.

He doesn’t turn.

“Guess what,” you say.

He smiles, small and crooked. “Hmm?”

You cross the room. Slide your arms around his waist from behind and press your face between his shoulder blades, where the sun’s been warming him for at least half an hour.

“You’re glowing again,” you murmur. “Must be that high-potency sunlight. You hogging the sun again?”

He laughs, the sound low and warm. “You caught me.”

“You’re a danger to local crops,” you whisper. Feel the goosebumps rising underneath his skin. “The corn’s jealous.”

“Oh no. Not the corn.” He turns a little, just enough to look down at you. His eyes are so fucking blue at that moment. “Should I apologize to the corn?”

“Absolutely. It’s your fault they can’t compete. You're literally the reason why Iowa's GDP is going down.”

He leans in. Brushes a kiss to your temple. “I’ll draft a formal statement for them later.”

You stay like that for a minute. Him holding you. You pressing your nose into the slope of his back, breathing him in—sunshine and laundry and that faint green note that’s uniquely Clark. Like basil, or clean leaves. Like something still growing.

And you think: This is the part he doesn’t say out loud.

This is how he tells you.

Not with words. Not yet.

Your boyfriend photosynthesizes. And maybe it’s not the kind of love you can pin down, or explain, or protect. But it’s real. It’s alive.

And you love him.

And he, quietly, completely, loves you back.

(He hasn’t said it yet. But you don’t really need the words to know.)

.

Clark shows you he loves you in ways so small, they’d be easy to miss if you didn’t know how to look for them. 

But you do. You catch them in those quiet little corners of the day. 

The way he folds down the corner of your book before you can reach for a receipt or a pen. The way he touches your wrist, not yanking, just there, when you step into the street without looking. The way he makes a soft sound of protest—ahem, maybe more like politely exasperated—when you try to carry six grocery bags at once like you, too, are invincible.

And then there’s the orange.

You’re curled into the couch, one of his sweatshirts swallowed over your knees, watching—but not really, to be honest—some long-winded documentary about volcanoes or Icelandic horses or some other quietly majestic subject that definitely feels at odds with your mood. The narrator has this super calm, soothing British lilt and the lighting is very National Geographic: all muted blues and wide drone shots and crashing waves. You haven’t really spoken in close to at least half an hour.

Clark doesn’t push. Never does. 

He just lets you sit in it, whatever it is, as long as you need to. 

But eventually, he nudges your ankle with his socked foot, like a hello, and when you glance up, he’s setting something on the coffee table with a kind of shy precision.

An orange.

Already peeled.

Not just peeled. Sectioned. Arranged.

It’s kind of ridiculous, how careful it is. No torn rind, no mangled wedges. The peel’s just laid out like a ribbon, one continuous spiral that speaks of time and gentleness and someone who took this seriously. Each segment is placed on a napkin, still glistening with juice, like a little offering.

You blink at it.

Then at him.

He’s pretending to watch the TV, but his body betrays him. His shoulders just slightly angled toward you, eyes flicking sideways like he’s checking the weather.

“I didn’t know if you were hungry,” he says after a beat. Like he’s not sure he’s allowed to say more. “But it’s one of the sweet ones.”

Your throat does something stupid. You reach for a slice and hold it for a second, too long, then pop it into your mouth.

It’s still cold from the fridge. Bright, juicy, perfect. Like summer broke through the haze in your chest.

You make a noise you don’t mean to. Something between surprise and relief.

Clark shifts, trying to look casual, but you catch that familiar smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I was gonna ask if you wanted one,” he says, still mostly facing the TV, his face painted in blue. “But you looked kind of… I don’t know. Stuck. So I figured I’d just do it.”

“You peeled it for me?”

He finally looks over at you, eyebrows lifted. “Well, yeah.”

And somehow that—that—is what catches in your chest. Not the orange, not the care. The way he says it like it’s obvious. Like of course he did. Like there’s a whole world of things he would do just for you without even needing to be asked.

You swallow. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he says, shrugging a little. “But that's kind of the point.”

You don’t say anything for a minute. Just reach for another slice.

When you bite into it, something in you loosens. Maybe it’s the juice. Maybe it’s the tenderness.

Clark, watching out of the corner of his eye, shifts a little closer and says, voice low, “When I was a kid, my ma used to 'em for me.”

You glance over. He’s staring at the documentary again, but the way he says it, it’s not for the Icelandic horses on the screen.

“She knew I hated the sticky part,” he goes on. “Didn’t like having all that juice on my fingers. So she’d do it before school. Wrap ‘em up in plastic, tuck ‘em in the corner of my lunchbox next to whatever sandwich she made that day. Tuna on Fridays. Always with too much mayo.”

You smile, just a little. “You were a picky eater?”

“Not picky,” he says defensively. “Just—just particular. I didn’t like when my food touched.”

“Mhm.”

“I was seven!”

You laugh, and he finally looks at you, sheepish and warm.

“She used to write little notes sometimes too,” he adds. “On the napkin. Stuff like ‘remember your science quiz’ or ‘you’re stronger than you think.’” He scratches the back of his neck. “Sometimes just a heart. Sometimes that was enough.”

You watch him as he says it, and you think, Of course. Of course you grew up like that. With kindness taught into you like table manners. With love folded into your lunchboxes.

“And now,” you say, voice subtle, “you’re the one peeling oranges for someone else.”

He shrugs again. “Only for you.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean it,” he says. “Everyone else can deal with the sticky fingers. You get the napkin and everything.”

You press a slice into his hand before you can talk yourself out of it.

He pauses, then leans forward and bites it from your fingers, playful but gentle. A little juice escapes down the corner of his mouth. He licks it away without breaking eye contact.

It shouldn’t make your heart ache. But it does.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

“For the orange?”

“For the orange. And the napkin. And, you know. The general care and keeping of me.”

He smiles at that. Tilts his head toward you until your shoulders brush.“Well,” he says, “you’re pretty high-maintenance. Comes with the territory.”

You scoff, gently ebow him. “I am not.”

He raises his brows. “Okay. Yesterday, you made me reheat the tea because it was two degrees below your ideal sipping temperature.”

“That’s not high-maintenance. That’s just me having standards.”

“Sure,” he murmurs, bumping your knee with his. “And your standards include expertly peeled fruit on Tuesdays, apparently.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “I just mean…” You trail off, unsure how to say it without sounding too serious, too much. You chew your lip, watching the way the light hits his profile. “I hope,” you say softly, almost to yourself, “you never stop doing that.”

He leans his head against the back of the couch, close enough that his shoulder brushes yours. “What, feeding you citrus?”

You huff out a laugh. “You know what I mean.”

He doesn’t answer for a long moment. Then he says, simple and sure, like the truth it is:

“I won’t.”

.

You don’t even really remember texting him. You think you might’ve. Maybe. Who knows. 

In the middle of your 2 a.m. sick delirium, burning up and freezing at the same time, with every single cell in your body screaming and staging some sort of mutiny, you vaguely remember opening your phone with bleary eyes and typing something half-coherent. 

A string of emojis. A sad face, a skull, a wilted flower. Vomit emoji. You might’ve hit send. You might’ve just passed out mid-thought.

Either way, Clark’s there when you come to.

He’s on the floor beside your bed, cross-legged, slouched a little in that way he always is when he’s trying to make himself smaller than he actually is. He’s doing this thing he does similar to when he's reading out his first drafts—voice low and even, a little scratchy like he hasn’t used it much today, or maybe just because it’s the middle of the night and the Metropolis is quiet for once and so is he.

You blink, once, twice, groggily, and he doesn’t even look up as he says:

“…and then I told Jimmy that if he was going to hide in the cafeteria instead of facing Eve, he should at least clean up after his brooding, because no one wants to sit next to a scone that’s been glared at for thirty minutes."

That's when you make a sound—half a groan, half a breath—and he glances up.

“Oh,” he says, smiling. “Hey. You’re awake.”

God, you swear your head's a pressure cooker. Your throat feels like someone lined it with sandpaper and regret. You’re pretty sure you’re covered in sweat, and not in a sexy, cinematic way, but more in a swampy, bedraggled, my skin might never be clean again kind of way. 

And yet here he is, reading from what you now realize is his work notebook. 

Not even a novel. Just… Clark, narrating his week.

“God,” you croak. “I think I’m dying.”

Clark shifts immediately, one knee bent, his hand brushing against your arm like he’s checking for tremors. “You’re not dying,” he says gently. “You’re just sick. Classic human stuff. I Googled it to make sure.”

“You Googled my flu?”

“Yeah. Also called my dad.”

Your lips twitch. “Of course you did.”

“He said tea, soup, and don't try to touch your toes.”

You blink at him slowly. “I wasn’t gonna—”

“I didn’t think you would. But he insisted.”

He presses a glass of water into your hand. Holds it there, actually, like you might forget what to do with it. You sip slowly, mostly because he’s watching you with the intensity of someone monitoring the nuclear launch codes. His hand stays curved behind your back the whole time, steady and warm, his thumb sweeping once over your shoulderblade.

“Still tastes like shit,” you mutter, grimacing.

“That’s just your fever lying to you,” he says. “Give it time. I brought supplies.”

Which is how, ten minutes later, you’re propped up like a limp marionette with three pillows, wearing one of his hoodies, while Clark, bless him, is rumbling around in your kitchen making the world’s most dramatic instant ramen.

He hums while he works, something mellow and vaguely twangy—something that sounds like wide-open spaces and Sunday mornings and the kind of radio stations that only exist halfway between here and Kansas.

When he brings the bowl back, he sits on the edge of the bed and feeds you, spoon by spoon, blowing on each bite first like he thinks you might scald your tongue.

You watch him through a fever-glazed blur. “You’re really committing to the bit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “What bit?”

“The Florence Nightingale… Florence Kent thing.”

He grins, bashful. “It’s not a bit. I just… I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Your stomach flips. It has nothing to do with the soup.

“And also,” he adds, “I brought a book, thought you might like something to listen to in the background.”

You blink at him.

“I figured I’d read to you once the soup’s done. Unless you’d rather I make more toast. I could do toast. Or try. I mean, it’s technically one of the few things I can’t mess up.”

You take the spoon from his hand. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“Sit down before you vibrate out of your flannel.”

He obeys instantly, because Clark is nothing if not obedient when you sound just a tiny bit bossy and ill. You laugh a little. Then cough a lot.

When you stop hacking, there’s a glass of water in your hand again, and he's looking at you like he’s trying to mentally calculate your temperature based soely off your pupil dilation. You wave him off until he settles down again, until his work stories blur into white noise and you feel yourself drifting.

Later, when the room is dark except for the glow of the bedside lamp, and your fever’s burning lower, no longer trying to boil you alive but still leaving your limbs really heavy and wrung-out—you stir, blink groggily, and find him exactly where he’s been all day: back on the floor, this time leaning against the bed frame like he’s trying to become one with the carpet.

There's a book in his hands.

You squint. “Is that… Star Wars?”

He doesn’t look up right away. Just flips a page, calm and unbothered, like this is a completely normal Wednesday night activity. “Yeah. From a Certain Point of View.  It’s like… like—little side stories. People on the edges of the main stuff. Background characters getting the spotlight. I thought you might like it.”

You blink slowly. “You’re reading me Star Wars fanfiction.”

Clark glances up, grinning. “Not fanfiction. It’s licensed content.”

“Clark.”

“It’s from Jimmy.”

“Clark.”

He holds his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, it’s kind of sanctioned fanfic. But it’s good. There's one from the point of view of Obi-Wan’s ghost and it made me emotional.”

You try to snort, but it comes out more like a croak. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Says the person who cried over an R2-D2 Lego set last Christmas.”

“That was a very moving gift and you know it.”

Clark reaches over to adjust your blanket, tucking it up under your chin with careful fingers. “I just thought it might be nice. Something familiar. It’s kind of like comfort food, but for your brain.”

You look at him—really look at him—glasses askew, hair flattened on one side from the couch pillow, sweatshirt stretched over his broad chest like it was never meant to fit a man built like a brick wall—and feel that weird, awful feeling twist in your chest again. 

The one that always comes when he’s like this. Sweet and earnest and just slightly off-center in a way that makes your whole life feel gentler.

“Thank you,” you rasp, voice hoarse but sincere.

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. “Don’t mention it.”

Then, after a beat:

“I was gonna read the one about the cantina bartender next. He has some very strong feelings about the music.”

“. . . Okay yeah, you're weird.”

“Exactly.”

He closes the book for a moment and reaches for your hand under the blanket. His fingers wrap around yours, warm and firm and callused at the knuckles. He squeezes gently.

“I know I’m not good at this,” he says, so quietly you almost miss it. “The taking-care-of-people thing. Not like my dad was. He used to bring orange Jell-O and put those cold cloths on my head when I got sick. He'd sit with me and hum old country songs like that could fix it. And sometimes, it kinda did.”

You squeeze his fingers back. He looks at your joined hands like they’re something fragile.

“I don’t really even know all the right things,” he continues. “But I’m gonna stay right here until you feel good again.”

You swallow. Your throat aches. Your heart does, too, but in a different way.

“Clark,” you whisper. “You’re doing perfect.”

He gives you this look—hazy and overwhelmed, like maybe he needed to hear that more than he thought. He leans in and presses a kiss to your forehead, cool and steady and grounding.

“I got you,” he murmurs. “Always.”

He reads until your breathing evens out again, then switches to humming—barely there, just a thread of melody tracing the shape of the room. He doesn’t move from his place beside your bed. 

You don’t think he even blinks when you stir, reaching a hand out for his. He’s just there. 

So you dream of a cantina bartender with strong feelings about the music. Of a man with dark hair and horrendous posture and the kindest eyes in the galaxy, carrying soup and picture books and the whole weight of your heart like it’s not heavy at all.

.

It was supposed to be a date.

Like, a real date. One with proper shoes and napkins that aren’t made of recycled drive-thru material. A night where neither of you had to sprint, lie, cover for the other, or show up late with leaves in your hair because someone, cough, got caught helping rescue a tour boat from sinking off the coast of Maine.

Just dinner. Just one Thursday evening. A normal, honest-to-god, pre-planned, mildly fancy dinner. 

You’d even made a reservation at that Italian place ou guys have been meaning to try.

Clark had combed his curls with what looked like actual intent and buttoned his shirt all the way to the top, then unbuttoned one (just one) like he’d read about the concept of casual in a book. You caught him practicing his posture in the hallway mirror before you left.

“Do I look like I own a belt?” he’d asked.

“You do own a belt.”

“Right, but do I look like I believe in it?”

You had rolled your eyes. He’d kissed your forehead. You’d both agreed, silently and aloud and silently again: This time, it’s gonna stick.

Just dinner.

Just you and him.

Just—

The sky, it turns out, had other ideas.

You’re only two blocks from the restaurant, your heels clicking rhythmically against the sidewalk. He’s saying something about dessert—about how he’s never actually had crème brûlée and how suspicious he is of any food that requires a blowtorch—and you’re about to tell him that he’s a coward and has terrible, horrible opinions when he—

Flinches.

Just slightly. A twitch, more than anything. Like someone tugged on the collar of his shirt from behind.

You stop. Narrow your eyes.

“Kent.”

He stills, then winces, and it’s over. The wind picks up just enough to ruffle his jacket and toss a strand of your hair across your lip.

“Baby,” you say, dragging out the vowels like you’re preparing to scold a dog who’s eyeing the Thanksgiving turkey.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I know. I know. I just—there’s something happening in Hob’s Bay. I think it’s Parasite again.”

“Parasite?” you repeat, like that somehow makes it better. “The guy who eats energy and punches holes through cement walls like graham crackers?”

Clark winces again, guilt washing across his face like rain.

“I can take you home first,” he says quickly. “I’ll be fast. Twenty minutes. Tops.”

“You said that last time,” you remind him.

“Yes, but this time I mean it with—” he pauses, trying to sell it, “—I mean it. I've got improved time management skills. I’ve been working on it, I swear. I downloaded a calendar app.”

“Oh my god, Clark.”

“I even color-coded it!”

You cross your arms. “Clark.”

“I swear on my mom’s ceramic cow collection.”

“…The one on the microwave?”

“She dusts them twice a week.”

You sigh, but you’re already unhooking your arm from his. He’s practically vibrating now, trying to stand still. There’s a flash of green in the far-off clouds.

“I liked this dress,” you say.

“I love that dress,” he says, almost reverent. “I��m gonna come back and ruin it for you in much better ways.”

A beat. He realizes how that sounded. “I mean, like—because of pasta sauce. And maybe dancing? gosh, I’m terrible at this—”

You laugh despite yourself. Even as the first drops of rain start to hit your shoulders. “Go, Kansas.”

He kisses your cheek. Then the other. His hands linger against your face a half-second too long, his thumbs warm even through the chill.

“I’ll make it up to you,” he says, quiet now. “Promise.”

Then he’s gone.

“I know,” you reply to no one in particular, because you do.

You spend the next hour curled on the couch in the dress you never got to wear properly, the hem slightly damp from the rain and your eyeliner gently betraying you. The news cycles through static, then footage of Clark shielding a crowd with a dented bus stop sign like it’s a riot shield, eyes glowing faintly, shoulders squared. Calm. Measured. Still gentle, even in a fight. You eat a sleeve of saltines out of spite.

He texts you twice:

CLARKY <3: STILL FIGHTING THE SLIME GUY. HE’S YELLING ABOUT “THE SYSTEM” SO I THINK THIS IS POLITICALLY MOTIVATED. CLARKY <3: ALMOST DONE. PLEASE DON’T FALL ASLEEP. I OWE YOU SO MUCH CREME BRUILALAE 🍨

You don’t reply. He needs to focus. But you do leave the kitchen light on.

It's past ten when he gets back. He lands with a whisper on your fire escape—so quiet it takes you a second to realize he’s there. You’re already in pajamas at this point.

He taps gently on the window.

When you slide it open, he’s dripping. Suit ripped at the collar. A graze on his temple that’s already healing. Mud on his boots. Eyes wide and sheepish and a little desperate.

“You’re late,” you say.

“The Italian place was closed,” he says, holding up a crumpled brown paper bag like an offering. "But I brought dumplings?"

Your stomach betrays you with a loud growl. Fucking saltines. He smiles, relieved.

“They’re from that place you like,” he adds quickly. “The one with the crab rangoon that makes you make weird noises.”

You cross your arms. “You think you can just bribe me with steamed buns and flattery?”

“Yes?” he tries.

“…You’re not wrong.”

You step back to let him in. He shrugs off the cape, moving slower than usual. His shoulders dip lower. His steps drag a little. The exhaustion sits in him like weight.

“Sit down,” you say.

“I can—”

“Clark. Couch. Now.”

He obeys without question, settling into the cushions like a man unraveling. You grab a towel and a hoodie from your room—one of his—and toss both at him. Then you disappear into the kitchen.

After a beat, he calls after you: “I missed you, by the way.”

You don’t answer right away. Just finish plating the takeout, dividing the dumplings and the sticky rice and the rangoon with practiced ease. Your apartment smells like warm ginger and garlic. Familiar. Safe.

When you bring the food over, you find him curled sideways on the couch, legs too long, towel around his shoulders like a cape. He grins when he sees the plates.

“You forgive me?” he asks, hopeful.

You hand him a rangoon. “Chew before you talk.”

He does. Then says, with a mouthful of crab: “I really did want it to be a normal night.”

You look at him. At the tired, good man who flew across the city to keep someone else’s world from breaking. At the one who brought you dumplings and rainwater and apologies on the roof of his tongue.

“I know,” you say.

He finishes chewing, then leans forward, chin on your shoulder, voice curling around the edges. “You look beautiful, by the way.”

You snort. “You say that now that I’m in fleece pants with soup stains.”

“I stand by it,” he murmurs. “Always.”

You let him curl around you then, dinner plates on the coffee table, reruns of I Love Lucy playing low in the background. He eats with one arm around your waist. You steal his dumplings when he’s not looking.

Later, when you’re both too full and too warm and too tired to move, he says it again.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

You nudge his leg with your foot. “You already are.”

He hums, pleased but tired, and lets his head fall back against the cushions. “Still wish I hadn’t missed dinner. Not the food. Just—being there. With you.”

There’s a smear of sauce near his mouth when you glance over him. He’s so unbelievably warm around the edges like this—like the fight’s finally bled out of him and he’s just Clark again. Your Clark.

“You always say that,” you murmur.

“Because I always mean it.”

You reach up, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth. He goes quiet. Doesn’t blink. Just watches you like he’s trying to memorize the moment.

There’s a beat where neither of you speak. The kind that hums with the weight of something unspoken, blooming slow between you. Then, without moving your hand, you ask, “You gonna let me kiss you now, or are you still trying to be polite?”

That gets a smile. A real one. A little crooked, a little shy.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says. “You always could.”

So you lean in.

The kiss starts off like a warning.

Your mouth brushes his—brief, firm, no room for questions, not really—and then again, slower this time. He makes a noise, deep in his chest, something caught between relief and surrender.

When your fingers slide into his hair, he tilts into it instinctively. His hands stay right where they are, just one at your waist, one braced uselessly on the couch cushion like he’s reminding himself not to move unless you ask him to.

He huffs something like a laugh when you pull back for a breath. “You’re terrifying, you know that?”

You smile. “Flatterer.”

His hand on your waist shifts slightly, pulling you in closer. Not rough. Not needy. Just—anchoring. Your knees bracket his hips and you kiss him again, open-mouthed this time, licking into his mouth like you’re starved and this is your first taste of real food.

And Clark lets you. 

He lets you kiss him with all the frustration of the ruined date and the tension of waiting and the affection that’s been building in your chest for weeks, maybe months. He meets you where you are—mouth pliant, eyes closed, his breathing slowly unraveling under your hands.

“You always come back like this,” you whisper, teeth grazing his jaw. “All apologies and those puppy dog blue eyes and your make-up take-out. Like I wouldn’t crawl across glass to have you.”

He exhales, sharp and shaky, like your words hit a nerve. His hands tense slightly at your thighs, just for a second, then relax again. He doesn’t try to flip you, doesn’t shift to take control. Just looks at you.

“I mean it,” you murmur, kissing just under his ear. “You come in, wrecked and kind and too damn good, and I’m supposed to what? Sit next to you like my skin isn’t trying to crawl off my bones just to get to yours?”

Clark swallows. “You—” His voice is rough, halting. “You can have me.”

He says it so quietly you almost miss it.

“You already do,” he adds. “You don’t have to prove anything. You—”

Your mouth is on his before he can finish. You kiss him like you’re trying to breathe him in, to memorize the way his ribs rise under your hands. His lips part on a gasp, and you take it as invitation. He lets you tilt his head back even further, lets you set the rhythm—his hands gripping the couch cushions like they’re the only things that can possibly ground him.

You pull back, just enough to see his face. His hair’s still damp, starting to curl at the edges, his cheeks flushed. His glasses are askew, so you reach up, slow, deliberate, and slide them off. Set them gently on the side table. His eyes don’t leave yours for a second.

"Stand up," you say, and he does, wordless, chest rising fast under the hoodie. He's got the towel instead of the cape draped around his shoulders, like he's still half in hero mode. You take that off.

Your fingers go to the hem of the hoodie next, lifting it slow. He raises his arms obediently, eyes half-lidded, focused. He’s still in the bottom half of the suit, and your breath catches—because even now, even like this, he wears it like a second skin.

But you want the man. Not the symbol.

“Off,” you say, fingers brushing the slick, faintly scorched fabric of the suit’s torso. “I want you, not him.”

He nods. It’s so damn slight, like he’s not so sure his voice will work. His hands go to the hidden seams and he peels the suit down, exposing inch after inch of bare skin beneath—toned and marked from the night, faint purple bruises already turning gold where his healing has started. You trail your fingers and follow him down, down, down his sternum, then lower, across his ribs.

The suit hits the floor in a gentle whisper. Boots, too. The cape’s already been discarded—somewhere between the fire escape and your front door—and now he’s just standing there in front of you, bare and breathless and completely yours.

“Come closer,” you say. "It's my turn."

He goes to help you, but you stop him. Eyebrows raised. "Eyes up here. I'll do it myself."

Clark watches you the whole time, not rushing, not leading. His expression open, undone. His bottom lip's caught between his teeth, eyes trained on every single one of your painstaking actions. Peeling your shirt off, your ratty fleece pants, your bra, all of it. He's enjoying this way more than he should, those eyes of his glinting in the light, but that's the intoxicating part of it. 

When you're done, he finally speaks up, voice reduced to a hush. Wills himself to look away from your body and just look into your eyes. "How do you want me?"

You hum, turning on your feet, pretending to think it over. Really, it's just an excuse to have him look at your bare body. Tempt him a little bit. It drives him insane. Still, he doesn't break eye contact. 

"I think," you purse your lips. "I want you underneath me tonight."

He nods. Serious. "Of course."

You lead him back to the bedroom slowly. Not because he needs help walking, but because there’s something in you that just wants to savor the walk. He lets you guide him backward, his legs bumping against the edge of the bed.

He sits.

Then waits.

Clark just looks so… perfect like this. 

Hard, aching, weeping, cheeks pink and pupils dilated. Hands, those goddamn hands, politely by his sides. Does nothing but lay down on the mattress, just waiting for whatever you feel like doing to him. The knowing—the seeing, does more to you than you'd like to admit.

You crawl, slowly, over his body. Fingers skirting over the freckles of his body, the light dusting of hair across his torso, the goosebumps that rise there. Anything but pay attention to his cock that's begging for you, until you're close to straddling his face, hovering there.

A pause. Those baby blue eyes, the cause of so many of your little deaths. His lips, pink and wet as his tongue swipes over them. A hint of a smile. You brush a curl away from his forehead, fingers slow and thoughtful.

"Okay."

Once you give him the go-ahead, he's all instinct, steady hands pulling your thighs more snug over his shoulders with all of the skill and quiet confidence of a man who's been breaking you down and laying you out for a long time. 

It's so easy—so easy to lose yourself in it. So easy when you're on top of the world.

Clark knows. You've genuinely never met a guy who enjoys eating someone out more than him. He knows all the ways to make your legs shake and your head vibrate out of its skull, all the little skills and patterns and consistencies to get you to cum within minutes, but from the way he takes his time, mouth roaming everywhere—your thighs, your legs, the back of your knees—

He means to torture you. Make you eat your words. But you're gonna have the last say tonight.

You squeeze your legs around his face, bringing his attention to you, all blue-eyed innocence glancing up to you. Little shit. "Hey," you will your voice into something vaguely commanding. "How many times do you think you can make me cum tonight?"

All you get is a lopsided smile. "As many times 's you want."

"Ball park?"

He strums his fingers along your thigh. Pretends to think about it. Looking up at the corner of his eyes like he's doing mental math. "How about we start with five or six and go from there?"

"Perfect. Delightful, Kent. Alright, procee—"

His arms tighten around your thighs, and that's all the warning you get before he dives right in, parting your lips with his tongue and tasting all that you've got to offer, and god, if that doesn't make the slick accumulate even more in between your thighs, gushing, eyes falling closed. 

A trooper always, Clark's mouth is warm, forming into a smile. "Baby, you taste so good. Needed this."

There's desperation in it, the way he sucks on your clit, two fingers finding themselves rocking against your cunt so that you feel nothing but full, boundless pleasure. You're so wet that his digits are sliding effortlessly, even more so as he licks you through it.

All you can do is whimper and whine, hands coming to rest up against the headboard. "Clark, Clark, so good. Don't stop. Please."

The mattress shakes around you as he grinds up into the air, barely concealed want and need and everything he hasn't said before, teeth gently scraping at your cunt. You can hear it too, the way his mouth works against you, his moans rising above it all. And god, the tension—the fucking strength of this man—the fact that he's letting you ride his face like there's no tomorrow.

Then his tongue sweeps hot across your clit, his two fingers curling inside you at the exact moment you squeeze. And fuck, you pulse hard and come until you've got nothing left to give, just a mantra of his name—"Clark, Clark, baby—"

He licks and sucks you through the aftershocks, shuddering through it all, and then it's back down to earth.

You fall down on the bed next to him, legs unable to hold you up. The only way to describe how you feel now is just—pure, fucking, boneless glee. And then you look over, and god, if that's not the best view in the world—Clark. The bottom of his face glistening, smiling in that stupid, boyish way of his, curls in his eyes and a twinkle there like he just won the lottery. 

"What are you smiling about?"

Clark shakes his head, shrugging and looking up at the ceiling like it has the answers. "Oh, nothin'. Just happy."

This hunger, this love for him—you don't think it'll ever go away. You don't think you could ever get sick of it, you don't think you can ever get your fill of him.  You're going to want him this badly for the rest of your life. 

But before you could spiral down that terrifying staircase of thoughts, you're brought out your stupor with one large hand trailing up your thigh. Clark's shifted so that you're beneath him, world turned upside down. He's going back down for more.

"We've got at least four more to go, sweet girl. Made you a promise, remember?"

.

It’s honestly the quiet that gets you, at first. 

That slow, rolling kind that doesn’t sit heavy so much as drape itself across everything like an old quilt. The kind of quiet that has its own rhythm. Space between sounds. 

Not silence, never that, but it's more akin to a hush. A pause you didn’t know your life had been missing.

There are birds, sure. A lot of them, actually. There’s the wind, too, rattling through those wheat-colored fields, whistling past the house's warped slats like it’s trying to remember a song it used to know. But underneath it all is stillness. 

A kind of breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, now slowly, slowly letting out.

Smallville wasn’t supposed to feel like this.

You’d pictured something more… stylized. Romanticized. 

A little more soap opera meets Hallmark original—maybe some mysterious family feuds and charming small-town antics. Some lingering drama about a pie contest. You fully expected someone with an old-timey name to pour you coffee at the local diner you guys stopped at and mention she “hasn’t seen Clark Kent around these parts in a while.”

Instead, you got: rooster at 5:30. Floorboard in the kitchen that creaks like it’s about to file a complaint against you just for exisiting. A guest room that smells faintly like wood polish and wheat. You got Clark, elbow-deep in chicken feed at seven a.m., wearing a white t-shirt that’s hanging on by a thread but you're not complaining.

You’re house-sitting for the Kents while Jonathan and Martha are on a cruise—a cruise, of all things. Clark’s voice had been thick with disbelief when he told you. 

“Can you believe my dad packed four Hawaiian shirts?” Then later, when they called from the boat to say they’d already made friends with a retired couple from Branson and signed up for salsa dancing classes, Clark had stared at the phone like it had personally betrayed him.

“They deserve it,” he says eventually, a little quiet. “They’ve never done anything like this. I hope they stay gone the full two weeks.”

You’d kissed his shoulder and said, “Selfishly, me too.”

Because being here, just the two of you, it’s not glamorous. But it feels like something. Something good.

One morning, early on, you found yourself squinting into the haze of a Kansas dawn, clutching a cup of coffee that tasted like burnt hope, and whispering, half to yourself, “Do… do the cows have names?”

Clark, already in his work boots and wrist-deep in a feed bag, turns like you’d just offered to marry him.

“Of course they do!" he says, smug. “That’s Millie.” He points at a big black-and-white cow with the expression of someone who’d once gone on Twitter and got traumatized. “She’s real skittish when it rains but loves, absolutely loves cantaloupe rinds. That one’s Donnie—he’s dramatic. Moooos like he’s dying if you’re even five minutes late.”

You blink at him. “You’re serious.”

“Deadly,” he says, patting Millie with the same affection he uses on your lower back when you cook dinner barefoot. It makes you snort. “Also, we don’t call it breakfast here. It’s ‘morning feed.’”

You stare. “This is so not the rural romance novel I signed up for.”

He grins, boyish and crooked. “Let me guess. Thought it’d be Days of Our Lives  but make it cornfed?”

“Exactly. Where’s the murder mystery? The barn dance? The family rival who wears all linen and says ominous things like, ‘You’ll never take the south pasture from me, you bastard.’”

"You forget. It's the Midwest. We're not in the South," He scratches behind Donnie’s ear. “But there is a someone with drama kinda like that here. Name's Barb, I think,” he says. “She runs the Dairy Queen and once hit a deer with her truck and cried about it for a week.”

You pause. “…Okay. That’s actually kind of sad. But wholesome."

“See?”

The days fall into a rhythm, eventually. 

You weed the garden (poorly). He fixes the gate (obscenely well). You help collect eggs and try not to let on that the chickens genuinely unsettle you. Clark, that menace, just laughs every single time one flaps in your general direction and you flinch like it’s going to demand your wallet and keys and job.

One Friday afternoon, you find yourself washing strawberries at the sink while Clark scrubs paint off the porch railing—some old project Jonathan started and never finished. 

You glance up and he’s standing there in the sun, t-shirt stained, face flushed, humming some old country song under his breath, and your chest physically hurts from how much you love him.

“You wanna do something dumb?” you ask, voice louder than it needs to be, just to get his attention.

Clark looks up, squints against the light. “Always.”

It’s not fancy. 

Twenty minutes later, you’re both in the back pasture, far enough from the house that it’s just you and the cows and the sound of summer in every direction. 

There’s a plastic grocery bag between you full of things neither of you should technically call lunch. Two kinds of chips (barbecue for you, cheddar for him). A Diet Dr. Pepper, sweating in the heat. One sad gas station brownie. And a couple of oranges, wrapped carefully in plastic wrap.

You lift an eyebrow as you start to unpack. “You know we have actual food, right?”

He shrugs, pulling the chips open. “The grocery store’s like forty minutes away,” he says, like that explains everything. “Didn’t wanna leave you.”

Your mouth opens, ready to toss something casual back—something about sandwiches, or homemade pasta salad, or literally anything with protein—but then you see how gently he’d wrapped the oranges. How he packed napkins, remembered your favorite chips, brought two plastic forks for the brownie like it was a birthday cake.

So instead, you say, “...I like barbecue,” and your voice is quieter than you mean it to be.

He glances over, chin on his shoulder, smiling like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “I know.”

You eat like kids. Cross-legged on the blanket, crumbs everywhere, licking orange juice off your thumbs. You wipe your hands on your pants. He stretches out on his side, elbow propped, watching the clouds like they’re moving too slow. His knee brushes yours and doesn’t move away. 

You think you feel a mosquito bite. You don’t really care anymore.

“I forgot what this feels like,” you say at one point, picking salt from the corners of your lips. “Just… doing nothing. On purpose.”

He hums. “It’s good for you. Stillness.”

“You sound like your mom.”

“She’s smarter than I am.”

“You said that last night when I told you to take a nap.”

“See? Pattern holds.”

You lean back on your elbows and look at him, really look. The way the light gets caught in his lashes. He’s watching you, too, like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. Like the world could ask for him and he’d still choose to stay here, sweaty and dumb and mosquito-bitten and happy beside you.

He peels another orange with a practiced hand, splitting it down the middle and handing you the sweeter half.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Sometimes I miss this, y'know?” he says, around a bite of an orange.

You glance over.

“Not the chicken poop or the mosquito bites,” he adds, “but the...quiet. The not-having-to-be-everything-all-the-time. Out here, you’re just...you. You fix the fence. You make a mess. You listen to cicadas and complain about the humidity and your ma yells at you for tracking dirt inside.”

You tilt your head. “You ever think about staying? Settling down here?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just plucks a blade of grass and spins it between his fingers.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “But then I think—this is what shaped me. But it’s not all I am. The world’s loud, and it’s messy, and it needs things. But this…” He looks at you. “This is what I miss when I’m out there.”

You nod. Reduced to speechlessness, because it's so tender and perfect and so him that it hurts.

Clark finishes the orange. Wipes his fingers on a napkin, then on his jeans when that doesn’t do the trick. You lie back on the blanket with a quiet sigh, letting the sun press into your skin, the breeze lift the sweat at your temples.

It could’ve ended there. Could’ve been just a quiet kind of golden. But then you nudge his ankle with yours.

“Bet I could outrun you,” you say lazily, like you’re not poking a bear.

Clark huffs. Turns his head toward you, amused. “That so?”

“Mmhm,” you say, stretching. “You’ve been slacking. Porch paint and chicken duty’s got you soft.”

He squints at you. “You really wanna start this?”

“You said yourself, Kansas. Nothing to do out here but complain about the heat and cause a little trouble.”

He smiles slowly. The kind of smile that curls at the corners. Dangerous in the way only someone so gentle and kind can be.

“Alright then,” he says, sitting up. “You get a ten-second head start.”

Your eyes go wide. “Wait, really—”

“Nine,” he says, already grinning, already counting.

You scramble to your feet. “Oh my god, you are not serious—”

“Eight.”

You bolt.

The grass is taller in some spots and it catches at your ankles, slows you down. The air is thick with sun and the hum of everything living. You turn left, laughing, hair sticking to the back of your neck, and glance behind you just in time to see him loping after you, easy and unhurried, like he’s letting you win.

Which is worse. Infuriating. Fucking ass.

“KENT!” you shout over your shoulder. “I swear if you let me win I’m gonna trip myself just to spite you—”

“Then you better run faster!” he calls back, but he’s laughing too, bright and open and young in a way he doesn’t always let himself be in the city.

You make it halfway to the barn before he catches you, just a hand on your waist, barely a tug. You spin with the momentum and half-collapse against him, breathless, wheezing from the run and the heat and the sheer absurdity of it all.

“You cheated,” you gasp.

“I didn’t even use my powers.”

“That’s worse.”

He leans in, resting his forehead against yours, both of you flushed and sweating and smiling like idiots.

“You’re fast,” he murmurs, voice low. “But I know how you move.”

You roll your eyes, still catching your breath. “Don’t say stuff like that unless you wanna get kissed.”

“Maybe I do,” he says, quiet now.

Oh, if that doesn't make you wanna ruin him. When you lean in, he tastes like oranges and sweat and something warm you can’t name.

“You’re always holding back,” you murmur against his mouth. “Let me have you.”

Clark’s breathing stutters.

“You have me,” he says, like it’s a promise. Like it’s been true since the first day you met.

Your teeth graze his lip, just enough to make him gasp. “Then act like it.”

Now that—that—does something to him.

His hands slip quickly under your sundress, palms mapping the curve of your back, hungry and greedy all at once. Your head tips back when his mouth finds your neck again, hot and open and just a little bit wild. His teeth scrape the spot just beneath your ear and your fingers clench in his curls, hard.

The bark digs into your shoulder blades. You can faintly feel the ground disappearing from under you. Grass sticks to the backs of your calves. The sky overhead is lazy and blue, clouds like pulled cotton, and none of it, absolutely none of it, matters. 

Not the cows, not the heat, not the fact that you're pressed up against a pecan tree in the middle of a Kansas pasture—just this. Just him.

It doesn't take long for it to escalate. 

You're not normally a fan of this—quickies, anyway, you'd rather take your time, break him down methodically, piece by piece, but you think you'd actually combust if you don't have him right there, right at that second. And damn it, you will. 

You will. 

Your hands scramble to wrench his shirt off, a mad dash to get as close to his skin as possible. He helps you, your pretty boy, your sweetheart, your sunshine—chuckling when the fabric inevitably gets caught between his head and shoulders. 

"Clark—" you glare at him, not really annoyed with him but his stupid, stupid shirt. "Get it—please, get it off—"

"So impatient," He grins. He helps you anyway, giving you that final push to get the shirt off his head. And then ou're like a moth drawn to a flame, nipping at his skin, sucking little love bites that you know he adores into his chest. "Baby, sweetheart—"

"Sweetheart, baby—" You kiss his collarbone, hands going to undo his belt, the metal clinking from your actions. "Need you now."

Clark nods vigorously at that. "Yeah, yeah—okay."

He readjusts, free now from his belt, jeans dropping low, and he's scooping your thighs up so you're flush against the tree for leverage. The bark of the tree's rough and it'll leave some truly horrendous marks later, but he's pushing your dress up around your waist, cock situated and ready at your entrance. 

A breath. A look between you. And then he sinks you down, no prep, no foreplay, just him and the burn of taking all of him bare.

You make an embarrassing noise when he bottoms out, yelping and wrapping your arms around his neck. Clark slows down, pressing kisses on your forehead and muttering small little praises. "You're doing so good. You feel amazing, baby, you just let me know when, I'll wait—"

Fuck, that turns you on more than it should've. You clench around him, mouth parting in a quiet moan. "Now, I'm ready now. Move, Kent."

His hand hitches your leg up higher for a better angle, and—yeah, if that's not the hottest thing in the world. The tenderness mixed with the way you know he's about to utterly destroy you. He rolls his hips, once, twice, until he sets a punishing rhythm.

He moves, hard and deep inside of you, always a stretch widthwise. Always feels like a rearrangement. Every single vein, every twitch, every agonizing inch as he gets to work fucking you like your life depends on it.

And the tree shakes—it fucking shakes, leaves falling all around you—when his pace gets punishing and relentless. All you can do is take it, legs shivering and hands scrambling to hold on to something, anything.

The strap of your dress has fallen down your shoulder at this point, and Clark takes the opportunity to wrap his hot mouth around your exposed nipple, eyes falling closed. "Tastes like heaven."

"Clark—" You shudder, his ruts turning more and more shallow. "Need more, I need—need help, please—"

He nods against your skin, letting go of your nipple with one wet pop. A hand skirts down between you, wordless, and rubs hard circles against your clit, never twisting, just a constant, almost vibrating pressure that wrenches more desperate gasps out of you.

You love him.

It hits you the hardest at that moment, when he grins and you can feel those tell-tale signs of your orgasm shuddering closer, so impossibly close that it makes your knees weak. Like your body can’t hold the thought anymore. 

Months of this, this agonizing need to tell him, to show him. And suddenly it’s all you can feel—this pressure behind your teeth, this wild, unspooling thing clawing to get out. You didn’t plan on it. You don't meant to. But it’s already there, clawing its way up your throat with a kind of ferocity that feels unstoppable.

You pull back a breath. Just enough to get the words free. Try to get lucid fast.

“I—”

But then his hand’s on your cheek.

Soft. Certain.

“Wait,” he says, and it’s gentle, but firm enough to stop you.

You freeze, stunned. Like someone hit pause on your entire brain.

“W–W–What?” you whisper, barely breathing. His pace doesn't break. Still pounding into you like he doesn't see right through you. His eyes flicker between yours—quiet, careful, like he sees exactly where you were going. Like he caught the words mid-flight.

“Not yet,” he murmurs. “Not like this, baby. Not while I'm—not against a tree.”

“I don't—I don't mind,” you whine. 

He laughs under his breath. "No.”

You must've pouted, must've frowned, or… or something, because Clark's expression goes soft. He tugs you closer, hips going deeper this time until your head falls back, like an apology. 

You're so close, so goddamn close, and fuck, if he's not determined to make it up to you. Focus redirected to the sole goal of making you finish harder than you ever have before. Another broken moan slips out of you.

And you're still overtaken by this need to say something, something to encapsulate this feeling inside of you. So instead, you say the next best thing, “You’re mine,” you say, fierce and true and sure.

Clark nods. “Yours,” he echoes, like it’s gospel.

You come around him like that, muscles wound up tight, him working himself into you faster—faster, until he pulses inside you. It's all warmth, his shoulders shaking like a leaf, you holding onto him like the old tire swing on a tree. Chests heaving. Sweat pooling underneath your knees. But he doesn't let go.

He pulls back just a tad, just enough to rest his head against the crook of your neck. His curls tickle your skin, just slightly. "Hold me tighter?"

You're still quivering, traitorous legs twitching, but you do. You wrap your arms around him and squeeze until he sighs, relaxed and spent and all the things that you let go unsaid. 

The cows, thankfully, have the decency not to interrupt.

.

He’s on the fire escape again.

You don’t see him at first—just the corner of his shirt sleeve through the window screen, fluttering gently in the breeze like a flag someone planted in a place they want to stay.

You step closer.

And there he is.

Sitting on the metal grate, knees drawn up, socked feet tucked against the warm steel, one arm draped loosely over the railing like he forgot the rest of the world exists. His head's tilted back against the sun, eyes closed, face subdued in that way it only gets when no one’s watching. 

Or maybe just when you are.

His shirt—some washed-out old thing from Central Kansas A&M—is rumpled and crooked on his frame like he pulled it out of the laundry basket and shrugged it on without thinking. One sleeve's shoved all the way to his elbow, exposing the freckles on his forearm.

You’re barefoot, cradling a sweating glass of lemonade in your palm, still in sleep shorts and one of his too-big sweaters again. You hadn’t meant to come looking for him. You just woke up and felt the space beside you was empty, not in a sad way, just… hollow. Cool. 

You followed the pull of it until it led you here.

He doesn’t move when you open the window. Doesn’t speak. But his eyes blink open, lashes catching the light. He looks at you, and that alone does something to your insides.

It’s the kind of look that hits low and blooms slow.

Not a spark, but a sunrise.

His smile when he sees you is small. A little crooked, like maybe he’s not so sure it’s okay to be this happy about something so simple. 

Like you just standing there, sleepy and squinting and probably still with pillow creases and hints of drool on your cheek, is his favorite part of this whole Saturday.

He lifts a hand and stretches it toward you.

Palm up.

Fingertips flexing.

“C’mere,” he says, voice warm from disuse. “It’s nice.”

You don’t hesitate. 

You climb carefully, your lemonade forgotten on the windowsill, and ease down between his legs. The fire escape creaks beneath you but holds. Of course it does. He shifts to make room for you like he already knew exactly how this would fit—your back against his chest, his knees bracketing yours, arms folding around you like second nature.

And you just sit like that, folded into him.

His chin hooks over your shoulder. His breath brushes your neck. One of his hands rests against your stomach, just above the hem of your sweater, warm through the fabric. The other finds your thigh, fingers drumming lazily against the denim there.

And you breathe. In and out. Slowly. Like maybe you forgot how before this.

“You been out here long?” you murmur.

He shrugs behind you. “I dunno. Long enough, maybe.”

You lean back into him, let your head fall onto his shoulder. “Get what you needed?”

There’s a long pause. Not like he’s unsure, just like he’s letting the quiet fill in some blanks first.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “I think I did.”

You let the silence stretch after that. It’s not awkward. It’s just… Clark. 

Which is to say: it’s safe.

The sunlight spills golden across the alley, catching in the curls at his temple. Today, he smells like clean cotton and cedar and whatever fancy soap he borrowed from your shower. His skin's warm. 

You rest your hand over his where it sits on your stomach. His thumb traces a lazy circle just under your ribs, like he’s mapping out the shape of you in his mind.

“I used to sit like this back home,” he says after a while, voice soft. “Not on a fire escape, obviously. We had a roof. And a swing. My dad always left it out a little too long, so in the summer it was warm to the touch by the time I got to it.”

You hum, eyes slipping closed.

“He used to say it was good for me. Sunlight. Said I always looked like a weed after a storm when I stayed inside too long. Pale and strung out and grumpy.”

“Grumpy?” you smile, turning your face a little to glance at him. “You?”

“Oh yeah,” he grins. “Pouty little farm boy, hair sticking up, refusing to eat my vegetables unless they were corn.”

“Let me guess,” you say. “Martha snuck green beans into casseroles when you weren’t looking.”

He makes a pleased noise. “Bingo. Said it was her secret weapon for keeping me out of trouble.”

“That and the swing?”

“That and the swing.”

You settle again, your cheek to his shoulder, the metal warm beneath your thighs. You wonder if this is what he felt like, back then—sitting outside in the golden quiet, the weight of the sky pressing gentle on his shoulders, like a blanket he didn’t know he needed.

“Isn’t it a beautiful day?” he says suddenly, like it just occurred to him.

And it is.

But it would’ve been, anyway.

You twist slightly, enough to catch the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose. He’s not glowing. Not exactly. But something in him is bright. 

And you—you love him so goddamn fiercely in that moment it feels like your ribs might crack from the inside. Like your heart is blooming against them, stubborn and wild and wholly his.

You lace your fingers with his where they’re still resting against your chest. His grip tightens. Not possessive. Just… sure.

He’s quiet a long time.

Then, like he’s been trying to time it right: “I love you.”

Just that.

Just the words, tucked into your collarbone. No fanfare. No build. Just truth. It roots into you like sunlight in soil. You don’t speak for a long moment, trying to get your lungs to work again. Your body. Everything else. Because it’s a simple sentence, but it feels like something tectonic and holy.

Eventually, you turn, slow and sure.

“I love you too.”

His head drops forward until his forehead presses to yours. You feel him exhale, shaky but smiling.

“I kept trying to find the right time,” he says. “I didn’t want it to feel like… I don’t know. A checkpoint. Like I had to say it because it was next on the list.”

You smile, thumb still brushing his skin. “So you went with the middle of the fire escape, during golden hour, while I’m in your hoodie and haven’t showered since last night?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Felt right.”

You sit like that for a while, sun on your skin, his breath on your neck. The world feels quieter with him this close. Still.

Eventually, when the light starts to dip low, painting the fire escape in rust and gold, you shift to get up.

He doesn’t let go. Not immediately. His hands stay at your waist, his fingers patient where they rest at your sides. Anchoring you.

“You look good in this light,” you murmur. “Like—too good. It’s kind of rude, honestly.”

He huffs a laugh. “Yeah?”

You nod. “Like you belong in it.”

He looks at you for a long moment, something intimate and private in his eyes.

Then, “You’re not wrong.”

You tilt your head. “What, that you photosynthesize?”

But he just shakes his head, slow.

“No. Just… I think it���s you,” he says, almost like he’s surprising himself. “You make everything brighter.”

And it’s stupid, and it’s a little embarrassing, and you kiss him anyway. Because he’s warm and real and saying the kind of thing that would make anyone else roll their eyes—but with him, it just lands.

Tastes like the last light of the day and something sweet and earthy beneath it. Like coming home.

[withlovemark]

THE ORGASM DONORS: YOU HAVE BOOKED MARK LEE!

pairing: donor! mark lee x client! reader | genre: smut | words: 9k+

warnings: STRICTLY 18+

an: just 9k of pure, filthy smut…i’m never making it to the gates of heaven. this idea came to me in a dream (a horny, wet dream) all because i fell asleep to a tiktok of jaemin spinning around in his little orgasm donor hoodie. insane what the mind can do. everyone give it up for the first donor! the birthday boy! my number one boy! mark lee! and my last gift to all of you. have fun reading! — with love, c.

you never thought it would get to this point. not because you were ashamed. but there was something about your twenty something’s, this far into adulthood, and still never having an orgasm that made you feel like your body was broken in a way you couldn’t explain.

you’d done everything — read every self help blog, followed the advice on reddit threads, bought a vibrator, a dildo, the rose toy that everyone said was guaranteed to give you a mind bending orgasm, you’d whispered your needs to your previous partners, even screamed at one or two, but no one ever got it right. no one ever got you there. not even yourself.

it started to feel like a cruel joke. something other people could have, just not you. until your best friend leaned in over lunch one lazy sunday, sipping her coffee and said, “have you ever heard of the neo orgasm clinic?”

“oh god,” you laughed, “like a place that teaches you how to come?”

she grinned, “not teaches. they do it for you. and it’s guaranteed.”

you blinked, “what? so i pay for someone to have sex with me?”

“you pay someone to make you orgasm,” she shrugged like it was no big deal, “wouldn’t be the craziest thing in the world,” she says, sipping her coffee with a sly smirk.

and just like that, a seed of curiosity, or maybe desperation, rooted itself in your chest.

✚ BOOK NOW ✚

signing up was easier than expected. discreet, elegant, clinical but not cold. you filled up the introductory form — name, age, contact information, payment details, then moved onto the deeper intake.

step 1: medical verification. a form requesting a recent full panel STI test within the last month.

step 2: sexual preferences & boundaries. the screen lit up with a list and instructions

check all acts you’re open to exploring with your donor. this does not guarantee they will occur. your donor will review and operate within your boundaries at all times.

you skimmed the list, heart racing just a little and checked the following:

☑️ bondage

☑️ choking

☑️ clitoral stimulation

☑️ domination

☑️ dirty talk

☑️ edging

☑️ fingering

☑️ kissing

☑️ impact play

☑️ nipple play

☑️ oral

☑️ orgasm control

☑️ praise

☑️ rough sex

☑️ spanking

☑️ spitting

☑️ vaginal penetration

you hovered over a few others. degradation? group sex? objectification? you skipped them. not this time. you weren’t here to be humiliated — you were here to figure out why the hell your body kept locking up the second anyone touched you like they meant it.

step 3: why are you booking this appointment?

you had to type. no multiple choice. just a blank box waiting to be filled. your fingers hesitate above the keyboard. then you answered:

i’ve never had an orgasm. not from another person. not from myself. i don’t know what’s wrong with me but i’m tired of pretending. i’m tired of faking it. i want to know what it actually feels like. i want to stop being in my head. just for once. i want to let go.

you hit submit before you could overthink it.

step 4: choose your donor.

you clicked through the digital profile list, fingers hovering each name. each donor were vetted, trained, screened and certified in pleasure — not jut sex. these weren’t porn stars. these were licensed professionals. this was science, chemistry and understanding the human body and psyche. or whatever the website said to make you feel better about booking an appointment.

you hovered each name. a few looked promising. one had nice eyes. one had “mean” listed as a keyword. another had glowing reviews for how “slow and gentle” he was.

but then you saw him — mark lee. top donor. most requested. five-star average across every review. the testimonials read like something between a religious experience and the aftermath of a natural disaster.

“didn’t even know my body could do all of that, my god.”

“sweet, respectful, and somehow still completely ruined me.”

“made me orgasm like i’ve never orgasmed before”

and the most repeated one of all:

“i always book mark when he’s available, he knows exactly what to do. a guaranteed orgasm. every time.”

you didn’t even hesitate. you clicked BOOK NOW.

Neo Orgasm Clinic Consultation: CONFIRMED

Donor: Mark Lee

Date of Consultation: July 29, 2025

you stared at your bedroom ceiling in the dark, heart pounding a little too fast. you didn’t know what to expect. you didn’t know what you’d feel. but for the first time in years, you felt hope. and maybe, if the reviews weren’t exaggerating, you were finally about to find out what it meant to feel like your body belonged to you.

✚ THE CONSULTATION ✚

you almost canceled. twice. was this morally questionable? maybe. was it completely insane? absolutely.

but you still showed up. your nerves were coiled so tight they felt like they’d snap with one wrong move. you’d picked out a simple outfit, nothing too suggestive, nothing too uptight. but still, as you sat in the pristine waiting lounge of the neo orgasm clinic, ankles crossed and fingers clenched around your bag strap, you felt entirely exposed.

everything about the clinic was calm, curated. the lighting was soft and golden, the walls a warm cream, subtle scent of lavender and eucalyptus filled the space. the kind of place that looked more like a boutique spa than a place where orgasms were clinically achieved.

even the receptionist was beautiful. sharp suit, glossy hair, delicate bone structure. his name tag read taeyong. he smiled when you walked in like he already knew everything about you. probably because he did.

“first consultation?,” he asked, tilting his head with a practiced sort of empathy.

you nodded, “is it that obvious?”

he chuckled, “only a little,” he teased, “but don’t worry, everyone’s nervous at first.”

taeyong pulled up your file on his screen, “you’ll be with mark today. he’s just finishing up. shouldn’t be more than a few minutes.”

your heart stuttered at the sound of his name. somehow, it felt heavier now. every second you spend in this clinic feeling more real than ever. this wasn’t a fantasy. this wasn’t a dream bordering into a nightmare. this was real. you were going to meet him…anytime now.

taeyong slid a sleek tablet across the desk, “while you wait, kindly review your file, click agree if no changes need to be made. consent is required for everything.”

you nodded, accepting the tablet and settling back in your seat. you skimmed your file one last time then submitted the form. the screen thanked you and welcomed you officially to the program.

exactly five minutes later, the door on the left of the receptionist table, labeled private suites opened with a soft click. and there he was. the man in the website. the top donor. real human being — mark lee.

you blinked. it was like seeing someone you’d only ever imagined walk into reality — all soft black hair, warm eyes, and a smile that was…surprisingly shy for someone with reviews like his. he was dressed in a simple black slacks and a fitted charcoal blazer, sleeves pushed up to reveal veined forearms and a silver watch. professional, polished, but somehow still boyish. he was speaking with someone. a girl that looked around your age. who’d look like she had just had the best time of her life. then she headed to taeyong and mark turned his focus towards you.

“hey,” he said, walking towards you and offering his hand, “you must be, ms. y/n.” you nod, placing your hand in his. his grip was firm, professional, “i’m mark. come follow me,” he said, guiding you toward the doors on the other side of the receptionist table labeled, consultation rooms, “no pressure,” he adds, shooting you a smile, “just talking today.”

the room felt like a cozy therapist’s office. a plush sofa, a low coffee table, a few plants. no examination table. no cold metal instruments. just comfort. mark sat across from you, legs crossed casually, an open tablet in his lap. he offered you water, asked if you were comfortable, then smiled before getting started.

“alright, let’s talk about you,” he said, voice low and calm, “why you’re here. what you’re hoping to get out of this experience.”

you hesitated. you’re sure he already knows. already looked at your file. but still, saying it out loud felt impossible. the words were caught somewhere between your throat and your pride.

“you can open up to me,” he urges softly, patiently, calmly, “we’re both here for you.”

you nodded, finally finding your voice, “ive…never had an orgasm.” you exhaled, eyes lowering, “i’ve tried…a lot…it just….doesn’t happen.”

mark didn’t blink. didn’t smirk. didn’t do anything to make you feel small. instead, he nodded slowly, like he’d heard this before. like it was okay. like you weren’t a complete helpless case. like you weren’t broken.

“thank you for telling me that,” he said softly, “i know it’s not easy to admit out loud but i want you know something — there’s nothing wrong with you.”

you looked up at him, sighing, “feels like there is.”

“i know,” he nodded, “but trust me, there are a million reasons why achieving an orgasm can be difficult — physical, mental, emotional, trauma-related, hormonal, sometimes just bad luck with partners. but it’s not permanent. and it’s not your fault.”

that made you smile, barely, but it was there. he smiled back, warm and nonchalant, “so, you’re not broken. you’re just…unsolved. that’s where i come in.” you swallowed hard. the warmth behind this words caught you off guard.

he tapped a few notes on his tablet before setting it aside, “here’s how this works,” he said, “you set the pace. we take our time. always. you can stop me and say no anytime. nothing happens without your permission. and we don’t even have to do the session unless you’re completely ready.”

you nodded slowly, processing his words, “okay.”

mark studied you for a beat, “do you want to tell me anything else you might have forgotten on your file?”

you hesitated, thinking, “i think i just…want to stop thinking so much. i get in my head. i start worrying about how i look, how i sound, if i’m being too much or not enough. it’s hard to stay in the moment.”

he leaned back, thoughtful, “so your mind is the roadblock.” he smiled a little, “that’s more common than you think.”

“do you really have a 100% success rate?” you asked quietly.

that made him laugh – not loud, not cocky, just amused in a warm way.

“our stats don’t lie,” he smiles, “but it’s because i take my time, i listen, i pay attention,” his voice dipped, “pleasure isn’t a race to the finish line. it’s a process. one i’d be honored to help you through.”

you felt your cheeks flush. he noticed and softened his voice even more, “you don’t have to decide today but if you’re comfortable, i’d be happy to schedule your first session.”

your pulse quickened, “...yes,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, "i want to.”

his smile returned, warm and sincere, “good,” he said, tapping his screen, “i’ll have taeyong reach out to confirm your appointment date.” he stood up, offering his hand again, “thank you for choosing me.”

you took it and this time your grip was steady, “see you soon, mark.”

Neo Orgasm Clinic Appointment: CONFIRMED

Client: Y/N L/N

Donor: Mark Lee

Date of Session: August 2, 2025

✚ THE APPOINTMENT ✚

you were early. too early. you sat in the same softly lit waiting room, knees bouncing, pulse in your throat. taeyong gave you a knowing smile as he gestured you towards the private suites door and the down the hallway.

“suite 8, he’s ready for you.”

the words made something twist low in your stomach as you walked towards the room. you entered slowly — suite 8 was nothing like you imagined. it wasn't clinical or sterile. it felt more like a luxury hotel room, quiet and warm, wrapped in soft ambient lighting. a large couch sat near the window. there was a bed. there were blankets, clean white sheets and a speaker humming low instrumental music. every detail was designed to ease tension, to invite softness.

you notice him adjusting something on the bedside table, a glass of water, a box of tissues, a towel. and then — mark turned.

“hey,” he said softly, “i’ve been waiting for you.”

he was dressed in black slacks, a black tie and black long sleeve button up, with the sleeves folded up his arms. hot but casual. the entire room, his casual demeanor, made it feel like you’re not at a clinic and just booked a dick appointment like it was a bumble date.

your lips curved, nerves still tangled in your chest, “i-i’m here.”

mark chuckled, not mockingly, but with that same warm, honeyed tone you remember, “you’re cute,” he said simply, “i like that you’re not pretending to be cool.”

you exhaled slowly, “i don’t think i could even if i tried.”

he stepped closer, slow and measured, giving you space with every move, “do you remember what i said during our last meet up?” he asked.

you note how he doesn’t use the word consultation, how he’s trying to make this all seem like it’s a normal hook-up and not a service.

“y-yeah. i’m in control. i can stop you. ask questions. say no.”

“good.” he murmured, his gaze searching yours for a moment longer, “but i’m going to be honest with you.”

his hand lifted, brushing his fingers down your jaw, slow and warm, “tonight, i am going to take control. you came here because your body hasn’t been shown how it deserves to be touched. and i don’t do halfway, sweetheart.”

you swallowed hard.

“so tell me,” he said, tipping your chin up with two fingers, gaze locked on yours, “can i touch you?”

you barely breathed, “yes.”

one of his hands travelled down your arm to your lower back, leaving behind trails of goosebumps in his wake.

“can i kiss you?” he said, eyes locked on yours. your breath caught. you nod.

he didn’t hesitate. mark grabbed your jaw and kissed you — hot, full, unrelenting. he kissed like he owned your mouth. his lips slanted over yours, opening you up, coaxing you open, tongue swept in with purpose — wet, confident, greedy.

you moaned into him, the sound swallowed as his tongue tangled with yours in filthy, practiced patterns. he tilted his head, deepened the angle, sucked softly at your bottom lip only to follow it up with another tongue-heavy kiss that made your spine arch. your hands clutched at his shirt on instinct, dizzy from the pace, the heat, the want.

you feel him smirk through the kiss as he kept going. his hands began to roam, starting at your waist, dragging up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts through your shirt, just enough to make you gasp, then down again, gliding over your hips before settling on cupping your ass. his hands gripping tight and hot.

you squirmed, trying to shift closer but he held you steady. dominant. measured. not rushing but not enough to give you relief either. he guided you towards the couch, lips never leaving yours.

“sit.” he ordered, voice like velvet wrapped around steel. you obeyed without thinking. he kneeled between your legs, grabbing your thighs to pull you to the edge. the kiss resumed, but filthier this time, more desperate. he kissed you like he couldn’t get enough, like he wanted to fuck your mouth with his tongue until you forgot what you’re here for.

“you taste so fucking sweet,” he growled, pausing to bite your bottom lip. slowly. sensually. “bet i’ll find out you taste even sweeter somewhere else.” you gasped, trembling. his fingers were already under your shirt, dragging it up inch by inch, “arms up, baby.”

you lifted your arms, dazed, his use of pet names making it feel way more romantic than it should. he carefully peeled your shirt over your head and tossed it aside, hands immediately finding your bare skin, palms dragging up your ribs, thumbs brushing the peaks of your breasts through your bra. you leaned toward him instinctively and he chuckled.

“sensitive,” he muttered, “good. i want every part of you begging.” he kissed you again, harder this time, wet and open, lips slick with spit, you could hardly keep up. every kiss felt like it left you raw. ruined. but craving more.

his fingers toyed with the clasp of your bra, then popped it open easily. he dragged the straps down your arms, slow and teasing, “you’ve been neglected long enough, haven’t you, pretty girl?” he said against your lips.

he trailed his mouth down your neck, sucking at the pulse point until you whined, then he licked lower, over your collarbones, between your breasts, circling your nipples with maddening slowness. his hands stayed firm on your thighs, squeezing, keeping you spread and trembling.

“i want you to stop waiting for an orgasm,” he murmured as he kissed lower, lips just above your waistband, “feel everything. the pressure. the tease. the ache.”

your hands fisted in his hair, pulling him closer, grinding his face on your nipple, “please—mark, i need—”

“i know what you need.” his voice was low, but firm. his mouth still latched one of your nipples, sucking harshly.

“you think you’re the first person to sit here and say they don’t know how to come?,” he laughed softly, switching to the other peak.

“you’re not broken, baby. you’re untouched. and i’m about to change that.”

he hooked his fingers under the waistband of your pants and underwear at once, and then he stopped, eyes locked on yours.

“you trust me to take care of you?”

“yes,” you whispered, breath hitching.

“say it louder.”

“yes—yes, i trust you.”

“good girl.”

he smirked, dragging everything down in one slow, smooth pull, baring you to the cool air. to his heated stare. his eyes darkened as he took you in, and he let out a soft groan, hand gripping your knees to push them open wider.

mark leaned back just though to take in the sight of you — completely undressed, legs parted, breath shaky, lips kiss-swollen, flushed and desperate, beneath the soft golden lighting of suite 8, vulnerable and exposed.

“fuck,” he breathed out, jaw tense, “you’re so pretty like this. spread out for me. waiting.”

you whimpered as his hands slid up your inner thighs, thumbs brushing too close to where you ached, then retreating again. and again. and again. his touch was everywhere except where you needed him most. the ache between your legs pulsed — soaked and neglected, your body betraying how ready it was.

but still, your mind wouldn’t shut up. wouldn’t let you stay there in it. what if i can’t? what if i freeze up? what if he thinks there’s something wrong with me?

and mark knew. he could see. hear it in your gasps, feel it in your tension. that’s why he smirked like that, cruel and knowing. like he was enjoying watching you unravel in slow motion, one nerve at a time.

“tell me how this feels,” he murmured, leaning forward to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses across your collarbone again.

“let me hear you.”

“i—” you gasped, jerking as his teeth grazed a nipple, then soothed it with a slick, wet lick, “it’s—it’s not enough—mark, please—” he hummed against your skin, lips warm as he kissed back up to your throat.

“good. that’s exactly where i want you. i don’t want you comfortable yet. i want you needy. desperate. begging me to touch this pretty pussy.”

and you were starting to be. you could feel the slickness between your thighs, a heartbeat thrumming at your core. still, mark didn’t touch you there. his hands continued their teasing path, caressing your hips, your stomach, your thighs. never slipping between.

his tongue pushed into your mouth again, curling with yours, fucking it slow. one hand tangled in your hair to tilt your head back, deepening the kiss. his other hand slid down—finally, finally—settling just above your mound. the heel of his palm pressed just enough to tease the ache, and you whimpered, hips jerking upward like your body was pleading.

“already soaking, aren’t you?” he murmured against your lips, “and i haven’t even touched you properly.”

“please, please, i need—”

“no.” he cut in, voice sharp, dangerous. “i decide when you get that. you gave me your trust, baby. so let me show you what your body’s capable of when it’s not trying to hurry up and finish just to feel something.”

you whimpered quietly, looking at him with pleading eyes and only then did he let his fingers finally slip lower, gliding through the slick pooling between your legs. you gasped at the contact, but he didn’t go inside. just circled, rubbed, spread. over and over. maddening and slow.

“you’ve been chasing orgasms,” he muttered, placing a hot, wet kiss below your ear, “without knowing where they live.”

you moaned when he dragged his thumb over your clit, gentle at first, then firmer, enough to make you buck your hips. his mouth found yours again, kissing you harder now, every wet slide of his tongue mirrored the rhythm of his hand, slow, controlled, rubbing soft circles around your clit.

and you tried to stay in it, you really did. but before you could focus on the pleasure, your mind tensed again. breath caught. brain whirring. what if it’s not enough? what if i sound weird? what if i can’t let go?

your thighs started to close.

“no.” mark growled, his voice darker now. he shoved your legs apart again, pinning them open, “don’t hide. let me give you what you’ve never had.”

“i’m trying,” you choked, voice high and splintered, “but i-i dont know if i—what if i can’t–”

“it’s building up,” he grunted against your lips, “but you’re in your head. i can feel it”

and then, with no warning, he pushed one finger inside you. your back arched as your walls clamped around him, a quiet sigh slipping from your lips.

“fuck—so tight,” he hissed, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he pushed deeper, curling slightly.

“you’ve been keeping this all to yourself, huh?” he pumped slow, shallow, his finger curling just enough to make your toes curl with it. then he added another. watching your face like a predator.

the moment your moan cracked through the air, high and broken, your eyes shot wide open, your hand clamping your own mouth, instinctive, terrified of the sound you made.

mark’s entire body tensed. he grabbed your wrist and yanked it down.

“don’t fucking do that.” his voice was rough. eyes wild. not with lust but with something more dangerous. hungry.

“up.” he ordered lowly, voice already thick with arousal. “on the couch. lay back.”

you blinked, dazed, “what—”

“now.”

the command in his tone made your stomach clench. you moved instinctively, letting him guide you, your bare back sticking slightly to the leather as you laid down. he helped spread your thighs wide over the edge. you were open now, fully exposed to him. he hovered above you.

then — he pulled his tie off in one swift motion. yanked it free from around his neck with a harsh flick. and before you could ask what he was doing he pinned your arms behind you and wrapped it tightly around your wrists, the silk biting softly into your skin.

he leaned over you, hot breath against your ear, “do you know what i do when pretty girls like you can’t let go?”

you shook your head, lips parted, eyes blown wide with lust.

“i don’t slow down,” he whispered, “i break them.”

then he looked down at you like a man starving. like a man about to feast.

“look at this,” he muttered, dragging two fingers through your folds again, lightly slapping your pussy, as he positioned himself between your cunt.

“so wet and ready,” he grunted against your aching core.

the first stroke of his tongue was slow. deliberate. — a warm, wet slide right up the length of your slit, ending with a soft suck to your clit that made your hips jump. you gasped, back arching.

mark groaned against you, “god, you taste unreal,” he growled, “i could stay here all night.”

and he meant it. he licked again, then again, tongue flattening against your core, teasing, tasting. his mouth was hot, his tongue devastating, alternating between slow strokes and precise flicks, sucking at your clit just enough to make your thighs tremble. his hands gripped your hips tight, holding you open as he buried his face deeper.

he was good. too good.

but still, that coil of pressure in your belly wasn’t catching. your breath hitched with every swirl of his tongue, but it didn’t crest. it didn’t tip. you kept chasing the edge but never quite reaching it. you couldn’t stop your mind from spiraling. what if this is it and i still don’t come? what if i’m the one person he gives up on? what if i disappoint him?

mark noticed it all. and he was tired of watching you get in your own way.

“i said i’d take my time with you.” he muttered, voice rough as knelt between your legs, towering over your exposed body, chest heaving slightly.

“but don’t mistake that for mercy.”

the kindness in his voice had cooled into something sharper, darker. still controlled. still careful. but this wasn’t the same soft-spoken man who asked if he could touch you. could kiss you. this was the version of him who knew exactly what you needed before you did. the one who didn’t need your trust. the one who commanded it.

you blinked up at him, dazed, lips parted as you struggled to catch your breath. mark was already working on his shirt, buttons flicked open with practiced, irritated speed. like you being like this —trembling and touched and still not broken open, had finally pushed him past whatever professional restraint he’d been clinging to.

“you want to feel something real?” he asked, low and dark as he tugged his shirt off and tossed it aside. his torso was lean, toned, strong, defined muscle under fair skin. veins prominent in his forearms, a shadow of control beneath the surface. you couldn’t stop staring, but he didn’t give you long.

“eyes on me.” he snapped. you flinched and obeyed instantly.

“good girl.” he muttered, already undoing his belt.

“you’re done overthinking tonight. you’re not here to analyze. you’re here to surrender.” he kicked his slacks off in one motion, dark briefs still clinging to his hips, already showing the outline of his cock pressing tight against the fabric. he moved between your legs again, now completely shirtless, he let you feel him. skin on skin. then, his hand came up to grip your jaw, not hard, just firm enough to make you feel it. to keep you grounded in his hold.

“i’m going to rewire that pretty little brain of yours,” he grunted.

“because clearly, your body’s ready but your head hasn’t shut the fuck up once since you got here.”

you whimpered, nodding under his grip.

“and when you come, it’s going to be because i made it happen.” he continued, dragging the pad of his thumb over your bottom lip, “you’re not going to perform. you’re not going to fake. you’re going to fucking lose it. because i’m going to take it from you.”

then he was sinking to his knees again, this time bringing your legs up to your chest, holding you open like a meal he was ready to devour. the position was cruel. your hands tied behind your back was starting to hurt. but he didn’t care.

“no more playing nice.” he muttered. “you’ve had enough of that.”

and then—he ate.

there was nothing soft about it this time. his mouth latched onto your pussy like it was the only thing that could save him. tongue flat and wide, licking deep and messy, then curling to flick at your clit with precision that made your hips jerk off the couch. you cried out but he only held you down harder.

“stay still.” he growled into your cunt, tongue never pausing, “i didn’t say you could run.”

you couldn’t push him away, the tie tight around your wrist. his grip on your thighs tightened. every stroke of his tongue was filthy, practiced, deliberate. he sucked your clit, then dragged his tongue lower, licking you open, tasting you with obscene, wet sounds that only made the pressure worse. hotter. deeper.

and still — you couldn’t let go. still, that voice in your head whispered too much. what if he’s doing all of this and i don’t come? i bet i look really weird right now. what if i’m really broken?

mark slammed his hand flat over your lower stomach, fingers splayed wide, his mouth unrelenting. and then he pulled back, just for a breath. just long enough to growl, “get out of your fucking head, baby. right now.”

his voice dropped.

“focus on what i’m doing to you.”

then he spit directly on your clit, letting it fall slowly, hot, messy, then immediately sucked you into his mouth like a punishment. it was so hot. a high pitched moan escaped your lips before you could even think about it. he hummed low like he knew it’d short-circuit your brain, the vibration sending shocks up your spine. his fingers slid back inside, fucking you now. harder, faster, rougher, thrusting with a rhythm of your unraveling.

“i don’t care how long it takes.” he snarled, breath hot against you.

“i’ll break you open and fuck the hesitation out of you.”

it was working. the fear was melting into heat. shame into friction. every thought replaced by the overwhelming sensation. you were teetering on the edge of something unfamiliar and terrifying. the pressure was unbearable, intense and unrelenting, like your body was being dragged past the edge whether it was ready or not.

mark didn’t stop. he pulled your clit between his lips again and again, flicking his tongue until you were gasping. curling his fingers over and over again.

“say it.” mark growled. “say you want to come.”

“i—fuck—i want to—mark—”

“louder.”

“i want to come! please—don’t stop—please—”

“come.” his voice demanded, vibrating against your skin. “let. me. have it.”

and then—you broke.

“oh my god—” the words tore out of you, breathless and wrecked, “f-fuck, don’t stop—don’t fucking stop—”

and he didn’t. your hips bucked against his mouth. the rest of the words dissolved into a sob from your throat so raw, so guttural, you hardly recognized the sound as your own. your back arched clean off the leather couch, hands gripping so tight hoping you could tether yourself to the moment as your body seized with sensation.

your orgasm didn’t rise like a tide — it detonated. it wrecked you open. no warning. just impact. a white-hot snap that split through you like a faultline finally giving way under years of pressure. it was too much. too big. too real. like something that had been lodged deep inside your chest your whole life had just ripped free — wild and screaming and glorious. years of silence and shame, of second-guessing and not-quite-getting-there, all flooding out at once.

your thighs clamped around his head, but mark didn’t flinch. he held you there, mouth relentless, fingers tight on your hip to anchor you through every tremor, every aftershock, as you writhed and whimpered and let the orgasm tear through your body. his tongue is merciless, unrelenting. mouth locked on you like he was dragging every last drop of that orgasm out of you until there was nothing left. until you were finally begging him to stop.

when he pulled back, his lips were slick. his face wrecked. his eyes triumphant.

mark licked his lips, “that,” he panted, “was one.”

you blinked at him, tears shining in your lashes, “i didn’t think i could…”

“you can,” he said firmly, brushing your hair back. “you did.”

then he untied your wrists slowly, carefully. but his voice stayed rough, “get on the bed.” he ordered.

“we’re not done.”

he gripped your thighs lifting you easily like you weighed nothing at all, your legs wrapping around his waist on instinct. a silent yelp slipped from your lips as he tossed you onto the bed with a bounce that knocked the breath from your lungs. the sheets were cool against your overheated skin, your body slack and spread open, chest rising and falling like you’d just survived something. or maybe like you were bracing for what was next.

mark’s lips found yours again, hot and claiming. his kiss wasn’t soft anymore — it was deep and consuming, all tongue and teeth and groaned hunger. he tasted like you. he traced a hand up your side, slow and steady, fingertips brushing every rib, every tremble. he was watching you like he didn’t want to miss a single twitch.

“you still with me?” he asked, voice rough around the edges now. lower. thicker. like he was barely holding himself back.

you nodded, dazed. “yeah. just…. holy shit.”

he smirked, “good holy shit or bad holy shit?”

you huffed a breathy laugh. “like… i didn’t even know i could come like that.”

mark’s thumb brushed the corner of your lips, dragging gently across your cheek. his eyes softened, but only for a second.

“that was just the beginning.”

then his expression darkened — not cruel, but hungry. that same deep hunger you’d caught glimpses of earlier, now unleashed. like something inside him had snapped loose the second you shattered and now he was free to do what he really wanted.

he sat back, eyes locked to yours and reached over to the nightstand. you watched as he tore open a foil packet with his teeth. condom. protection. professional. safe. but the way he rolled it on, slow, deliberate, cocky — made your mouth go dry.

your eyes dropped. you finally saw him. all of him. he was long. thick. the flushed tip already glistening with precum. your breath hitched.

“you’re still so wet,” he murmured, dragging his fingers between your folds again, making you jump, “you want more?”

your answer was instant, “yes. please.”

“you want to be fucked until you forget your own name?”

“yes, please—mark,” your hips bucked into his touch, already craving the stretch.

mark leaned down, mouth brushing your ear, his breath was hot.

“i’m going to fuck you now.”

the words made you clench. one hand guiding his cock to your entrance, the other gripped your hip with enough force to bruise.

“breathe,” he reminded, voice steady.

“and keep your legs open for me.”

you obeyed, trembling, aroused, needy. and then — he pushed in. just the tip at first. then inch by inch, he filled you. stretching you open, dragging slowly through your soaked heat, the pressure exquisite and unbearable. your eyes rolled back. your nails clawed into the sheets. when he bottomed out, his hips flush against yours, you couldn’t breathe.

“fuck,” you gasped, “oh my god—mark—” your hands came up to grip his hair.

you were so full. it felt like too much. he stilled there, letting you feel it, the stretch, the weight, the sheer intimacy of being filled by him.

“fuck, you’re tight,” he groaned, jaw clenched.

“you’re gonna hold on, baby? think you’re strong enough to fight me off again?”

and then he pulled out just enough to slam back in, you cried out. back arched. stars bursting behind your eyes.

he started thrusting — deep, sharp, claiming. again. again. setting a brutal rhythm, relentless and unforgiving, pounding into you with full, punishing strokes that rocked the entire bed. his grips on your hips was bruising. his pace was perfect, desperate, controlled, yielding. your moans were raw, punched out of you with every thrust. loud. real. unrestrained.

mark never looked away. watching every twitch of your body, every tremble, every cry of his name that tore from your lips like a prayer.

“you feel that?” he rasped. “your body is already giving in.”

you could barely speak. your second orgasm was building fast, sharp and electric, clawing up your spine as he adjusted his angle just enough to hit that spot, again and again, until you were falling apart beneath him.

“mark—fuck—i’m gonna—”

“come again.” he ordered, voice dark and breathless.

“come on my cock this time. prove to me you can do it.”

your mind shut off completely. no thoughts. no fear. just him. just the way his cock dragged inside you, hitting just right. his hand moved up your body, rough and reverent until his fingers brushed over your chest, teasing. and then his thumb rolled over your nipple. palm cupping your breast, kneading.

his other hand slipped under your back, lifting and forcing you to arch into him. he sucked one nipple into his mouth with a low groan that made your walls clamp around him hard.

you screamed. it was too good. his cock, his mouth, his hands — everywhere. his tongue bit your nipple and you sobbed, overwhelmed, drenched, utterly destroyed.

“you’re doing so good, you don’t have to think. i’ll do it for you.”

he dragged his teeth across your nipple again as his hips continued slamming into you, cock swelling inside you. then he brought his thumb in between your bodies, toying with your clit, rubbing harsh circles until your body couldn’t take it.

your second orgasm ripped through you. just eruption. you clutched his shoulders, mouth open, body convulsing against him as the climax burst out of you with a scream.

“good fucking girl,” he growled, hips not slowing.

“just like that. let it all go for me.”

you did. you had to. your thighs were trembling violently. your pussy clenched so tight around him you heard a curse tear from his throat. he didn’t stop. he rode it. let you sob and shake around him, fucking you through it.

his cock was pulsing and relentless, dragging wet and hot inside you as your cunt fluttered around him, overstimulated and soaked. you were beyond thought. your mind—completely gone. your body—his to command. he held your wrists down. you were a mess of tears and cries and raw nerve endings, and you loved it. you were addicted to the high. wanting every second to last longer.

“mark—please—don’t stop—”

“i’m not” he growled. “’i’m not stopping till your body forgets how to do anything but come.”

he pulled out for a quick second. hands gripping your waist hard before he suddenly flipped you onto your stomach. before you could even blink, he was dragging you up onto your knees, forcing your ass in the air, cheek pressed to the mattress.

“face down.” he growled, voice low, breathless, “ass up.”

you obeyed instantly, mind fogged and floating, body pliant and aching. you didn’t care anymore. you weren’t you anymore. you were his. bent to his will. so cock-drunk. your mind a blank page. he was rewriting your system with every thrust, every word, every sound he dragged out of you.

he shoved your knees apart with his thighs, rough hands spreading your cheeks, and then spat down, watching it drip between your folds. his cock nudged your entrance again, already slick from how soaked you were. you whimpered when he teased the head along your slit, grinding it against your oversensitive clit just to watch you shudder.

he leaned in close, voice a hot whisper against your ear, “gonna make up for all those years no one ever made you come,” he rasped, “every single time they fumbled and failed. this pussy’s never gonna remember that.”

and then—he slammed back into you. you screamed into the sheets. the new angle had him deeper, thicker somehow, hitting that spot so brutally your entire body jolted forward.

“mark—fuck—fuck—fuck!,” you moaned, biting down on the sheets, practically drooling.

he didn’t slow. didn’t pause. just gripped your hips and fucked you, hard and fast, his pelvis slapping against your ass with every thrust. the sound of skin on skin filled the room, wet, filthy, relentless.

“listen to that,” he rasped, voice wild now. “listen to what this pussy does for me.”

you couldn’t respond. couldn’t think. could only feel. the stretch felt sharper like this, more urgent. every stroke had you gasping, choking, keening into the mattress. and then—

slap!

you cried out when his palm landed hard on your ass. not cruel, just enough to make you jolt, to send that spike of heat ricocheting up your spine and straight down again, pulsing into your core.

“yeah,” mark breathed, voice cracked open with need, “you like that?”

you nodded, incoherent words slipping from your lips.

another slap! a little harder.

you sobbed, hips bucking back against him, desperate to meet every thrust.

“that’s it,” he growled, pounding into you harder now, the bed frame rocking under the force, “take it. take everything.”

and then his hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to expose your throat, his hands wrapped around it. not tight enough to scare you. just tight enough to own you. your choked out moans filling the air. toes curling so hard you swore you’re about to get a cramp.

your third orgasm slammed into you out of nowhere. your body locked up and shattered around him, your cunt clenching so hard you saw white. he let you go as you screamed into the mattress, every nerve on fire, legs shaking violently as pleasure tore through you, raw and final and unrelenting.

— and still, he didn’t stop. mark held you steady as your body writhed, collapsing from the sheer force of your release, but he was relentless, “you don’t stop until i say you do.”

you whimpered something, his name, maybe, or just a breathless plea, but it didn’t matter. he fucked through your orgasm like a man possessed, chasing the aftershocks, turning them into something new. something sharper. overwhelming. your body trembled beneath him, hips twitching, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling on the sheets. your pussy clenched around him again and again, involuntary, helpless. every drag of his cock sent sparks skittering across your skin.

“you’re shaking.” he groaned, chest pressed to your back now, sweat-slick skin sticking to yours, “gonna make you fucking squirt, baby. i can feel it. you’re right there.”

“no—mark—too much, i can’t do that—,” you try to push him off. try to crawl away. but he was stronger. and he kept his cock pounding inside you.

“yes. you can.” his hand slid down, fingers seeking your clit, rubbing fast and brutal circles that had your legs kicking out, your voice catching in a strangled sob.

“i said face down. ass up.” he reminded you, voice dark and firm as he shoved your head back into the mattress, palm flat between your shoulder blades, keeping you there.

“be good. take it. this is what you came here for.”

the pressure was unbearable, his cock punishing inside you, fingers never letting up on your swollen clit. your mind blanked, eyes rolling back for the umpteenth time and then you reached a high you didn’t even think was humanly possible. something you only saw happen in porn.

a ragged, high-pitched cry tore out of you as your body convulsed, back arching violently before you collapsed into your fourth orgasm. the gush came, hot, wet, explosive. your cunt fluttered and sprayed around him, your thighs trembling uncontrollably as you squirted all over his cock, the sheets, the floor. you could barely process it. your brain had gone static. a glitching signal of pleasure.

“fucking amazing,” mark snarled, hips stuttering.

“that’s it. let it all go.” he pulled out just enough to watch you gush again before slamming back in. your whole body jerked like a live wire. you were sobbing now, overstimulated, wrecked, your hands had give up on clawing at the sheets for something to hold onto. there was nothing. nothing but him.

mark cursed, nearly losing his rhythm, “fucking hell—”

he didn’t stop. he kept pounding into your overstimulated cunt, watching your body convulse under him.

“gonna—fuck—i’m gonna come—” his pace stuttering for the first time, hips faltering mid-thrust. you could hear the unraveling in his breath, raw and uneven. his thrusts turned sloppy, deeper, harder. and then, with a strangled moan, he came. his hips slammed into you one last time, cock buried deep as he spilled into the condom with a guttural groan, body jerking with each pulse. he stayed there, breathing ragged, pressed tight against your back, his body shaking with the force of it.

for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the thunder of both your heartbeats. you were barely on your knees, cheek pressed to the sheets, body twitching faintly from aftershocks, cunt still fluttering around the softening length inside you.

mark let out a long breath, low, shaky. he leaned forward, his chest slick with sweat and your juices, smearing against the curve of your spine as he slowly eased down.

“you okay?” he murmured finally, voice hoarse, frayed around the edges.

you nodded, too blissed-out to form real words, “yeah. just… holy shit again.”

he chuckled weakly, wrapping his arms around your middle and gently easing you down onto the bed. his cock slipped out slowly, and you whimpered at the loss, already missing the fullness. a laugh slipped from your lips anyway, a disbelieving, breathy sound.

you couldn’t move. not in a bad way. more like your body had melted into the mattress, boneless and warm, every muscle humming with aftershocks. your mind was soft, quiet, the storm of thoughts you usually lived in was gone. for the first time in your life, there was peace, full-bodied, deep, radiating out from the very core of you. like something inside had finally clicked into place.

you’d come. you’d actually come. not faked it. not chased it just to please someone else. not brushed against it only to have it slip away. this time, it hit you full force. not once but four times.

the kind of orgasms that emptied you, pulled sobs from your throat and tears from your eyes and for once you hadn’t cared. you hadn’t flinched. you hadn’t shut down or shrunk into yourself, hadn’t tried to perform or hid or apologize. you’d felt it all.

and somewhere in the middle of all that, you’d actually squirted. your thighs had trembled, you’d felt yourself gush around him, soaking the sheets, your mind and body surrendering with no shame. no fear. no filter. you hadn’t know it could feel like that. like being cracked open and remade. like something holy. your cunt still fluttered with phantom pulses, like your body couldn’t quite believe it either. like it wasn’t ready to let go.

mark lay beside you, propped up on one elbow, his other hand already reaching for the warm towel he’d placed nearby. he flipped you over gently, his touch deliberate and slow. like he wasn’t in a rush to be anywhere but right here. he cleaned you up in silence. careful. focused. he dabbed between your legs with gentle, precise strokes, flinching every time you flinched. “sorry,” he muttered each time, almost apologetic.

“you sure you’re okay?” he asked softly.

you nodded, a small smile on your lips, “better than okay…i feel like i just got reborn.”

that earned a real laugh from him this time, “that’s a new one,” he said with a shake of his head.

you stretched, wincing slightly, sore in all the right ways. everything throbbed but in a way that made you feel alive. present. you turned your head to look at him.

“that was… insane,” you murmured, “i mean, you literally had to destroy me to get me out of my own head.”

mark smiled, brushing hair from your damp forehead, “it wasn’t destruction. it was release. you just needed to shut this little guy off ,” he says, lightly tapping your temple, “and stop being scared to let your body feel.”

your throat tightened, not from embarrassment, but from the truth of it. because that’s exactly what it was. you’d let go. fully. completely.

mark grabbed the water bottle from the nightstand, twisted the cap and held it to your lips like it was instinct. “drink. you lost a lot of liquids back there.”

you giggled, then took a few sips, letting him wipe the corners of your mouth with his thumb afterward. it should’ve been awkward. but it wasn’t. it was safe.

eventually, mark rose from the bed and helped you sit up slowly, handing you your clothes one piece at a time. you slowly got dressed. you were glowing, cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright. alive. awake. soft.

once you were both dressed, mark walked you back to the lounge of the clinic. the lighting had brightened slightly step by step—intentional, maybe, to ease clients back into the world gently.

“thanks,” you said as you walked side by side, your voice a little hoarse, but steady, “for the... comprehensive service.”

his mouth twitched, almost a smile, “neo orgasm clinic prides itself on thorough results.”

“oh, i noticed,” you deadpanned. “i think i saw god.”

mark let out a soft laugh, “i take it your file won’t need another ‘no prior orgasm’ flag.”

you rolled your eyes. “no, i think we can check that one off. multiple times, actually. all thanks to you.”

he cocked his head, the edge of a smirk playing on his lips, “you did the work.”

you snorted, “right. i was just lying there, crying and begging while you—never mind. forget it. you know what you did.”

“professionally, of course,” he said smoothly, “all part of the protocol.”

you looked him up and down, “if that was protocol, i’d hate to see what your personal life looks like.”

his smirk sharpened, almost imperceptibly, “you wouldn’t survive it.”

you raised a brow, “is that a challenge?”

his eyes glinted, “only if you book another appointment.”

you laughed then leaned in slightly, just enough for him to hear, “but seriously, you didn’t just make me orgasm. you made me feel like…like my body finally belongs to me.”

something flickered in his expression, not warmth, not empathy. just... acknowledgment. like a box being ticked. another line in the report. mark’s gaze held yours. there was no smugness, no pride. just warmth. steadiness — a donor who’d done exactly what he promised and only what you needed.

“thank you for trusting the process,” he said simply.

then, with a crooked grin, you added, “i should probably leave a tip. or at least a five-star review.”

he raised an eyebrow in amusement, “tips aren’t required. but reviews help with the rankings.”

“oh, i’ll be specific,” you said, walking toward the door leading to the lounge, “something like: ‘ruined me in under an hour. swore i saw heaven. would recommend.’”

mark tilted his head, quietly chuckling beside you. the door opened. you stepped inside and turned back toward him. “seriously though five star session.”

he nodded once, “glad we could meet your goals.”

you smirked, “gonna be hard to top this one.”

the corner of his mouth curled, sharp and knowing.

“book me again.” he said lowly, voice like velvet, “i’ll try.”

then, offering his hand once more, firm and polite, “it was a pleasure to be your donor, ms. y/n.”

you shook it, firm, “i’ll be your client any day.”

and with one last glance, one last smile, he turned back toward the double doors. and just like that it was over.

✚ END OF SESSION ✚

the door whispered shut behind him, soft and final. you stood in the lounge for a second longer than necessary, trying to get back into reality.

you were still warm. still sore. still…not quite in the world. your legs wobbled slightly, the plush carpet beneath your feet suddenly feeling too soft. too quiet. the silence here was different. this one was polished. the kind that came with good lighting and air purifiers and an undercurrent of expensive professionalism.

you approached the front desk slowly, finding taeyong already tapping away at his tablet, his perfect posture and gel-slicked hair still completely intact, like nothing behind those doors could ruffle him. he glanced up with the kind of smile that had been trained into perfection. not fake. just smooth. comforting. scripted.

“that’ll be charged to the card on file,” he said gently, voice soft enough not to jar you.

you nodded. your voice wasn’t ready yet.

“also, this is for you.” he reached beneath the desk and pulled out a matte black paper bag with subtle silver foil lettering that gleamed when it caught the light:

thank you for trusting neo orgasm clinic with your satisfaction.

you blinked. “what’s this?”

“a small thank-you from our donors,” he said, still smiling, still unbothered — as though this entire exchange was no more intimate than a routine dentist visit. like you weren’t just being fucked to your next life behind those doors.

you took the bag with both hands, still feeling like you were floating slightly outside yourself.

“have a good rest of your evening! we hope to see you again,” taeyong smiled from behind his computer.

you gave him a tired little smile, a soft wave and murmured a polite “thanks,” and turned toward the exit.

you made your way to your car, dropped into the driver’s seat, and opened the bag, curious to see what it holds — inside was a neatly folded hoodie, ultra-soft, white, with bold letters:

ORGASM DONOR

you stared. then snorted. a full bodied laugh punched out of your chest. it was dumb. it was ridiculous. it was perfect. tucked beside it, almost like an afterthought, was a juice box. your laugh came sharper this time.

you popped the straw in, took a long sip and leaned your head back against the seat. let the juice cool your tongue. let the moment wash over you and muttered to yourself, “best. fucking. clinic.”

you pulled your phone out. opened the clinic’s feedback portal. your fingers hovered for a second. then you typed:

released me from the shackles of my mind. came four times. even squirted. lost track of the tears. saw god. 10/10. highly recommend. would let mark destroy me again. professionally, of course.

somewhere behind those pristine white doors, donor mark was already reviewing his next file. another client. another list of goals. another carefully measured beginning.

✚ APPOINTMENT STATUS: COMPLETE ✚

—

18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content

BONUS: #1. #2. #3. #4. #5.

—

an: and the first donor is done! i hope this lived up to the expectation. if you hate it please don’t tell me lmao. this whole entire concept is supposed to be silly! i hope you had fun reading it! please don’t take it too seriously :)

🩺 likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated

client tags: @alwayswonbinning @haechyuckan @neotannies @jaeminiwrld @taeeflwrr @kittydollzz @amazinggraxia @markleewatermelon @snwydoie @lvlyynim @neosteric @s4turdaydr1p @booskies @bananinhazz @hyucksaint @feet4liferss @mangoescrazy @jaejaezprincess @mokalattee @combinatoright-blog @stormy1408 @neonaby @zhangyixingxing1 @ni-ki-starnetwork @markiesfatbooty @luvjoongz @bbykaixx @lubunnii @ryuvrsie @hyuckluvr-com @37point5rated @snoopyana @britishvamps @sssaturn @serhser @flowerrpwrr @rex-ie @yutasputa69 @serpeverde005 @imsaltnt @imnotrosiee @leleszn @shiningnono @ant-onie @kakutoz @kiwichenji @ihatefrvits @haechanahceah67 @huffnpufffckk @nctdreamchaser @markiepoo4eva @neocockthotology @poutybzby @mackleroni @grimlinshere @mey-archive @su11yoon @n9vacane @hoonhyeonhae @crooked-haven @liaviva

[midniqhtt]

ᯓ★ clark kent - superman

𝜗𝜚 masterlist • dc • 08/01/25

˚‧⁺ ･ ˖ · ୨ৎ recs four I one I two I three II gif credit - @/olympain

here are some clark kent stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡

ᝰ.ᐟ key: A- angst I F- fluff I S- smut I C- comfort I HC- hurt/comfort I ~S- implied smut

ꨄ︎ deadlines & (super) secrets I @spideystevie I F

clark’s repeatedly absent at work and you’re too inquisitive for your own good or three times you were suspicious of clark kent and the one time you got it right

ꨄ︎ one minute left to live I @bodhiscurls I A

the world is ending and superman has done all he can, but there's one thing left for clark kent to do and that's to stay by your side as the earth burns itself whole.

ꨄ︎ you didn’t kiss me goodbye I @/bodhiscurls I A + F

after an arguement with your boyfriend, clark kent does the unthinkable. he doesn't come home, doesn't kiss you goodbye and doesn't return until its midnight and you've fallen asleep on your sofa. good job, clark still has the goodnight kiss to redeem himself.

ꨄ︎ now that we don’t talk I @/bodhiscurls I A

clark kent has to prove himself that he's loyal, that despite his consistent wandering absences and emergency leave, he can be trusted to be chief editor at the daily planet. and that means having to ask the one person in the world who hates him more than anything to play pretend as his date (his wife) at the next gala. to show the world clark kent is loyal, the picture of stability and did not ruin his only serious relationship he's ever had.

ꨄ︎ eight legs too many I @iamgonnagetyouback I F

you panic over a bug and knock on your neighbor’s door for help. good thing your neighbor is clark kent. and he's stupidly hot.

ꨄ︎ foolish hearts I @tw1sters I HC

Loving Clark Kent is easy, but he seems to find letting you go even easier. At least, until Clark is forced to fully reckon with what it means to really lose you.

ꨄ︎ teacher!clark - single!mom hc I @plumisa I F

ꨄ︎ the version of you i’ll never know I @zziggerang I HC

You knew Clark had a past. Everyone does. But sometimes, in the quiet of your shared bed, the ghost of a woman you’ve never met lingers in your thoughts, Lois. You’re not jealous of her now. You’re jealous of the version of Clark she got to love before you. The one unscarred by loss. As your quiet insecurities rise to the surface, Clark holds you through your fears… while quietly wrestling with his own.

ꨄ︎ hanging up without saying ‘i love you’ prank I @/zziggerang I F

You decide to prank Clark by hanging up on him without saying “I love you.” It’s just a harmless TikTok trend, right?

ꨄ︎ reporter gets interviewed I @08luvmailz I F

ꨄ︎ drabble I @marvelimaginesyesplease I F + ~S

ꨄ︎ must be a secret admirer I @francixoxoxo I F

Clark is even worse at hiding your workplace relationship than he was at hiding his massive crush on you. A recounting of three times where Clark nearly gives the two of you away, just because his loverboy self can’t help it.

ꨄ︎ don’t be late I @katsu28 I F + A

if one thing is true about clark kent, it’s that he likes his coffee. he also likes the barista who makes it for him, but you don’t know that. all you know is that you like the really cute guy who comes in at the same time every morning and orders the same thing.

ꨄ︎ just a scratch I @octraiin I F

Your boyfriend shows up at your window late at night injured.

ꨄ︎ outfield I @familyvideostevie I F

You and Clark go to a baseball game.

ꨄ︎ megaphone to my chest pt2 I @alwritey-aphrodite I C

ꨄ︎ melt with you I @moonlight-prose I F + S

clark kent was a man of many talents. being the chef - the man who could whip up enough food to keep you sated and full for till the sun crested over the horizon and peeked through his windows - was one of them. but you were...a mess in the kitchen. so he decides to help.

ꨄ︎ dripping like honey I @/moonlight-prose I S

clark kent absolutely gets drunk eat pussy.

ꨄ︎ ice cream I @sunflowersteves I F + S

It was a particuarly hot day in Metropolis, why not treat yourself to some ice cream?

ꨄ︎ beach day confessions and first kisses I @fleurbly I F

ꨄ︎ clark kent thinks you’re avoiding him…you are I @raven-dor I A + F

ꨄ︎ state of grace I @auroralwriting I F

when another metahuman decides to relocate to metropolis, how is it that clark always gets swept up in situations like these? aka, how does clark kent end up falling head over heels for the invisible woman?

ꨄ︎ mastermind I @/auroralwriting I F

as one of the daily planet's most popular gossip column writers, clark is surprised to learn you're a genius when it comes to superman. he's also surprised to learn you aren't all heels and makeup

ꨄ︎ terminally ill!reader I @vaamppiraa I A

ꨄ︎ you light up the skies above me ao3 I @cremedelabrulee I F

You felt like a floosy, making heart eyes at Clark when he wasn't paying attention and sighing over Superman in your private moments. In an effort to feel not as awful, you would say to yourself that Supernova was the one who liked Superman. But you? You liked Clark.

ꨄ︎ cause i’m a punk rocker I @bippiti I F + A + S

you moved to smallville because you had to save your family's farm. it was a place you never wanted to stay at but also couldn't escape. then you met him: quiet, steady, and the one person who saw through your walls. slowly, without warning he became the part of you you didn't even know you were missing

ꨄ︎ the necklace I @404superman I S

You get Clark a silly little gift, a necklace with his ‘superman’ logo on it. He loves it when you bite it while he’s fucking you.

ꨄ︎ same old love I @supermanthisho I A + C

Clark’s meeting your parents for the first time and yet you’re the one on the verge of panic. Aka, reader has a strained relationship with her family and doesn’t want Clark to see how she fits into the dynamic.

ꨄ︎ shattered vows pt2 I @k-a-n65 I A

When Lex Luthor traps Superman in a kryptonite-laced prison, he exploits a hidden connection—an ordinary woman who once helped him to his feet. She becomes the perfect bait. But when she falls, everything Clark Kent thought he could endure shatters.

ꨄ︎ fangirl!reader I @dollfacefantasy I F

ꨄ︎ they call it puppy love pt2 I @vitoriadior I F

you used to have a dog with Lex. Now Lex uses "joint custody" of the dog as an excuse to stay in your life. When you start dating Clark, Lex holds the dog hostage. Luckily for you, Superman is always there for you.

ꨄ︎ out of harms way I @maikorian I A + F

there's no such thing as a 'normal' day in metropolis. monster attacks happen at least once a week and barely anyone is phased anymore. everyone's golden rule is that if something bad has already happened earlier in the day, then you would be safe for the rest of the day. unfortunately, this rule fails you when you decide to bring your daughter to the park and get caught up in a monster attack. its a good thing your husband just so happens to be superman and has a sharp ear.

ꨄ︎ superdaddy I @goldsainz I F

your five year old daughter does not understand why clark owns a superman suit in his closet.

ꨄ︎ kissing booth I @mcumorningstar I F

In an attempt to get closer to his crush, Clark offers to help with the school carnival… until he is assigned the kissing booth.

ꨄ︎ what happens in vegas, doesn’t stay in vegas…? I @14thgalerie I F + A

ꨄ︎ blind boxes and xray visions I @/14thgalerie I F

ꨄ︎ lovestruck and looking out the window pt2 I @tangledinlove I A + F

you see your friend clark without his glasses for the first time. he looks… oddly familiar

ꨄ︎ smallville nights I @springtyme I C

After the explosion, Clark brings you and your daughter back to his parent's farm to catch your breath. The house is quiet now, but inside, fear and guilt still echo louder than any blast.

ꨄ︎ the truth in blue I @happy74827 I F

Through a temporary life-threatening situation, you realize the quiet, awkward man you've honestly fallen for has been catching you in more ways than one

ꨄ︎ understandably so I @eulogiez I A + F

clark kent is overwhelmed by his affection for you, and your relentless lack of will to see it. a gift mishap in the planet office gives you the false pretense that clark’s just not that into you, leading to a dramatic turn of events between you two.

ꨄ︎ bimbo!reader I @missmookie I F + ~S

ꨄ︎ heartbeat I @athenalvss I A + F

Your greatest wish with Clark was to start a family, but life wasn't on your side. 

ꨄ︎ save the cat, get the girl I @oldesigns I F

when your cat went missing, there was a man willing to search for your fur baby to the ends of the earth to make you happy.

ꨄ︎ little white lie I @munsster I F

You think of the perfect excuse to get the attention of Metropolis’ finest firefighter.

ꨄ︎ camgirl!reader I @nympheagain I S

In which Clark Kent has a dirty secret. And it just so happens to be you.

ꨄ︎ different kind of kiss I @luveline I S

You realise nobody’s ever gone down on Clark before and aim to change that.

ꨄ︎ two places at once I @cherrysinner I F

clark has to figure out a way to be at two places at once when half of metropolis is having an emergency on the night he's going to tell you his biggest secret. and also that he's superman.

ꨄ︎ just a taste I @certifiedskywalker I F

Clark has developed a habit of bringing you one of your favorite drinks when you’re working late at night at The Daily Planet. It’s a sweet gesture, but, considering that you’re falling in love with him, it’s also a torturous. Luckily, fate intervenes through the whims of a horny barista.

ꨄ︎ what he comes home to I @mattsmadness I F

When Clark Kent invites his coworkers over for supper, all he wants is for them to love his sweet, small-town wife; he just hopes they overlook the Superman decor she forgot to take down.

ꨄ︎ love, all night long I @barnesonfilm I S

clark makes pulling an all-nighter at the office worth it

ꨄ︎ the love list I @stevebabey I A + F

You’ve been in love before, okay? And it’s… alright, you guess. You’re sensitive. And you miss jokes, and you’re stuck wondering if it’s you who’s just not getting it. Love. Enter Clark Kent — mutual friend recently turned boyfriend, sweetheart, and small-town farm boy. Also the man who’s making you question everything you know about love. Which isn’t a lot. Better make a list.

[urmum-lovesme]

Bunny (P16)

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!Reader

summary: Struggling to keep her and JJ’s home afloat, Y/N turns to the only option that guarantees fast cash- stripping at a club on the Cut. But when Rafe Cameron catches her in the act, he sees the perfect opportunity to tighten his grip around her life.

a/n: Well well well- guess whose back. Thought I'd do a little surprise drop just for the plot BAHAHAH. Lets see, more drama obviously cause our girl cant catch a break, more domestic bunny and rafe and a little special feature for our girl Naomi cause I've missed her. I love Sarah Cameron. As the end of the series draws nearer I lowkey feel kinda emotional, I feel like nothings ever gonna beat rafe and bunny for me. 1 more chapter after this to go my loves x

warnings: allusions to sex, angst, violence (yelling/arguing) (jj pmo), mentions of past abuse (bruises ect), soft!rafe and Soft!bunny (they're so domestic)

(P1) (P2) (P3) (P4) (P5) (P6) (P7) (P8) (P9) (P10) (P11) (P12) (P13) (P14) (P15) (P16)

The soft hum of tires against the road was the only sound cutting through the silence inside the twinkie. Sarah sat up front, leaning her elbow against the open window as her fingers tapped against her thigh. Her eyes flicked between the side mirror and John B’s profile. The brunette boy’s hands were tight on the steering wheel very much mirroring the tense mood in the backseat. Pope sat beside JJ, who was slumped against the wall of the van, head resting back, his phone clutched in his hand like it was the only thing keeping him anchored. JJ’s eyes were trained on the screen, scrolling through the messages he’d sent Y/N-  all left on read.

“I’m sorry I should’ve said something”

“I should’ve stopped him”

“I was just in shock”

“Come home”

“You're still my sister no matter what”

“I love you”

He blinked hard, jaw tightening as he shoved the heel of his palm against his eye, like he could push down the sting building behind it. “C’mon, man,” Pope said quietly, nudging him with his shoulder. 

“You’ve been moping for two days straight.”

“I’m not moping,” JJ muttered.

“You’re definitely moping” 

Sarah piped up from the front seat, not turning around. “You haven’t said a word since we left the Chateau.” “I just…” JJ sighed finally shifting upright, placing his hands into the floor of the van and pushing himself up slightly,

“I don’t get how she could cut us off like this.”

“She’s not thinking like that,” Pope said gently. “She just needs time. After everything with your dad and Rafe-”

“-don’t say his name” 

JJ snapped, a little too quickly. His voice cracked with it and he clenched his jaw and turned his face back toward the window. Pope leaned forward a bit, trying to bridge the gap. 

“Look, we’re gonna grab Sarah’s stuff, then we’ll look for her. Maybe she just… needed space? That doesn’t mean she’s gone forever dude.”

JJ didn’t respond, just glanced back down at his phone, the screen dark now.

No new notifications

No answer from her

The Twinkie came to a slow stop outside the metal gates, the loud rattle of the van’s engine stark against the immaculate house before them. Inside the van, Kiara leaned forward, her eyes fixed on the grand front entrance.

“You still got the key?” 

She asked, glancing at Sarah. The blonde girl pulled her tote bag into her lap and rummaged through it, the jingle of metal briefly filling the space before she held up a single key. 

“Yeah I do.”

“What if he’s changed the locks?”

Cleo raised a brow from the back, arms crossed. Sarah let out an unimpressed scoff, already opening her door. 

“I’d like to think he’s not that petty.”

From the driver’s seat, John B snorted. “Yeah right, you’ve clearly never met him”

Sarah shot him a dry stare as she swung her legs out the door and hopped out. The rest of the group followed- door creaking, feet hitting the pavement, the usual shuffling of trainers on the floor. Once she was facing the tall front gate Sarah paused, then turned, arms folded tight across her chest, scanning the group all lined up behind her.

“You’re all coming?!”

The rest of them exchanged a look, a quick unspoken conversation bouncing between the Pogues like a game of mental ping-pong. Then John B stepped forward with a shrug.

“Uh… yeah?”

Kiara raised a brow, “What, you thought we were gonna just sit in the van like unpaid Uber drivers... ?”

Sarah stood at the tall black gate, her fingers punching in the familiar code on the silver keypad. A faint beep… then a soft click. The gate creaked open slowly, and she gave it a push, slipping through the gap as the others quietly followed behind her one by one. JJ paused just before crossing the threshold, glancing up at the looming house beyond the hedges. He swallowed hard, thumb still brushing the corner of his phone screen inside his pocket.

The six of them walked in a tight, quiet cluster up the long cobblestone driveway. The sound of gravel crunching under their shoes was the only thing breaking the silence. Sarah looked over her shoulder, voice low but firm.

“Okay, just- keep quiet. I don’t know if he’s home.”

Pope turned back slightly toward JJ, who was trailing behind the group, his gaze flicking up toward the house’s tall windows. “You good?” Pope murmured but JJ didn’t answer at first.

It was his fault that all of this had happened. 

His fault Y/N had gone radio silent and disappeared without a word. 

His fault she was even in this mess to begin with.

JJ could feel it- this sharp, burning fury crawling up the back of his throat and settling heavy in his chest just at the thought of him. He swallowed it down, his jaw tight and his fingers twitching with the urge to hit something. 

Anything. 

Him.

His hand clenched briefly, then he gave Pope a stiff nod before looking back to Sarah who was already climbing the few steps to the grand double doors, her fingers gripping the key. She turned back to them one more time.

“Last chance to turn around.”

Cleo gave her a look, “We already broke in- might as well finish the job.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The morning light crept slowly across the living room, golden rays spilling in through the sheer curtains. It stretched across the floorboards and kissed the edge of the couch before it climbed its way up and reached them tangled together in their sleep. Y/N was still curled on Rafe’s chest, her cheek pressed to his bare skin- the slow rise and fall of his breathing lulling her deeper into rest. The blanket they’d pulled over themselves sometime in the night had slipped down to their waists leaving their upper bodies exposed to the warmth of the sun. His hand, large and steady, remained protectively across her back, holding her to him even in sleep.

However their soft morning stillness was soon broken.

Rafe stirred first his brow furrowing as a sound reached him through the haze of sleep; the faint, unmistakable rattle of a door handle being twisted repeatedly, followed by the subtle click of a lock. His eyes snapped open fully now and he sat up slowly, his hand still staying firm against Y/N’s back to support her where she lay curled against him. For a second, he held his breath and listened.

Another click.

Then the quiet creak of the front door swinging open.

Y/N shifted against him at the sudden movement, her lashes fluttering before her voice mumbled groggy with sleep, 

“What’s going on…?”

“I don’t know, I-” Rafe’s voice was still thick with sleep but before he could finish muffled voices echoed from the front of the house, indistinct at first but quickly growing clearer.

“Just shut up guys, c’mon”

“Ow! John B- that’s my foot!” 

“Why are you literally standing on my ass then Kie?”

Y/N went rigid on his chest as she sat up and turned her wide, panicked eyes toward Rafe. All the colour drained from her face. Her voice came out in a frantic whisper, 

“What are they doing here?!”

Rafe was already sitting up, scanning the room with quick eyes the sleepy fog gone in an instant.

“C’mon” 

He hissed under his breath. Y/N sat up fast, clutching the blanket to her chest as her heart thundered in her ribcage. They scrambled, hands, fabric and limbs moving in frantic coordination. She chucked his sweatpants at him as he stood, pulling them on in one rough motion, still shirtless. She whisper-yelled, glancing around in panic.

“Where the fuck did you throw my clothes?!” 

“I don’t know- Jesus, I wasn’t exactly thinking about where I tossed them at the time!” 

Rafe whispered back, eyes sweeping the room. She let out a sharp breath, the blanket still wrapped tight around her like a towel, standing barefoot in the middle of the sudden chaos that their peaceful morning had escalated to. Her bra was nowhere in sight. Her jeans- gone.

And her panties?

She spotted them thrown over the lampshade by the couch. 

Of course

Rafe was halfway across the room, crouched behind the coffee table when the sound of footsteps grew louder before coming to a sudden stop and when Y/N whipped around to look in the direction of the sound,

Sarah was standing there having stopped dead in her tracks.

Her eyes landed on Y/N, wrapped in nothing but a blanket and then flicked to Rafe, shirtless and breathless. Her mouth dropped open.

“Oh my god.”

The room fell so silent you could hear a pin drop. Y/N’s eyes went wide as Sarah blinked unmoving, once then twice like her brain was rebooting. They were all just standing there- frozen in a silence so thick it was becoming suffocating. Y/N’s fingers clenched tighter around the blanket at her chest and Rafe’s shoulders were tense, his jaw locked. Sarah looked like she’d just walked into an alternate universe, eyes flicking between the two of them, lips parted like she didn’t know what to say first. Rafe’s sharp voice broke the silence, 

“What the fuck are you doing here?”

“I- I was just-”

Sarah’s lips moved but no more sound came out. She blinked again as she took a breath to speak but then a voice cut through the tension, whisper echoing in from the hallway with a clueless lilt.

“Hey Sarah, where’d you go…?”

Y/N froze.

No

No no no—

Her heart stopped cold.

She didn’t even have time to react before JJ rounded the corner. His steps slowed the second he saw them, his sister and Rafe; half-dressed, clothes scattered on the floor, the blanket wrapped around her, Rafe shirtless, her bra- right fucking there- thrown over the back of the couch. JJ’s entire body stiffened as his eyes locked on her, then Rafe, then down to the floor and back up again and then his face twisted.

“What the fuck.”

“Jay—” Y/N stepped forward instinctively, her voice breathless as she reached a hand out. 

“It’s not what it looks like-”

“-not what it looks like?” he scoffed.

“Are you serious right now?”

His voice cracked around the edges, a mix of rage and betrayal bleeding through every syllable that left his mouth. His chest rose and fell in quick, angry breaths as he stared at his sister- the one who’d ghosted him for two days, ignored his texts and had his heart breaking- and now had Rafe fucking Cameron standing next to her. “You disappeared,” he spat. 

“You don’t answer me and this is why?”

“JJ-” Rafe warned, stepping forward slightly but JJ’s glare whipped to him like fire catching gasoline.

“Don’t fucking talk to me.”

“Stop it, okay?” 

Y/N suddenly snapped, stepping into the wide space between them before JJ could say anything more. Her voice trembled slightly but there was still sternness in her tone,

“You have no idea what’s going on.”

JJ let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head like she was actually insane. He spoke out, arms outstretched mockingly to gesture between Y/N and the boy standing next to her, his voice dripping in sarcasm. 

“Oh I’m pretty sure I know exactly what’s going on” 

“Excuse me?”

Y/N’s jaw clenched but JJ didn’t seem to hesitate or hold back. He was too angry, too heartbroken, certainly too blindsided by his fury to bite his tongue.

“Looks like what Dad said was right.”

The words hit her like a slap and her breath caught in her throat, the blanket still clutched in her fingers, but looser now. Her lips parted, but she didn’t say anything because she knew exactly what JJ meant. Those words- those vile, disgusting things her father screamed at her before he kicked her out- they were still fresh in her mind, still echoing in her skull on loop. And now JJ, her own brother, was throwing them in her face too? Her chest tightened and the burn started behind her eyes before she could stop it. There was a sudden sound of shuffling growing louder in the hallway, before the rest of the Pogues walked in, their eyes landing on the scene in front of them. Pope slowed confused, and Cleo and Kiara’s brows furrowed. But John B took one look at Y/N’s tear-filled eyes and JJ practically vibrating with rage a few feet opposite her and he muttered under his breath quietly but unmistakably clear-

“Oh shit.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened when he saw her. Y/N’s eyes were glassy, her hand trembling slightly where it clutched the blanket against her chest and her shoulders had drawn in, like she was trying to make herself smaller. She wasn't going to be treated like this, not in front of him under his roof. “Alright,” Rafe muttered stepping forward slowly and dangerously calm, 

“You need to leave.”

“Get the fuck outta my face” 

JJ spat his eyes snapped to Rafe, shoving him back with both hands. Rafe stumbled a step, but the fury that flashed in his eyes was immediate. John B’s voice cut in, trying to de-escalate the sudden storm that had erupted in the room, 

“Okay man, I think we should-”

“No!” JJ barked spinning toward him. 

“NO! I’m not fucking leaving, alright?!”

Then he turned back on his heel to Y/N, stepping toward her with betrayal bleeding out of every pore. He jabbed his finger in her direction angrily,

“I can’t fucking believe you would do this to me! Seriously?! After everything that we’ve- he’s tormented us for years, and now you’re here- what- sucking his dick?!”

Y/N shook her head in disbelief backing away a step, her bare feet quiet against the hardwood. She felt like the wind had been punched out of her lungs. “Hey!” Rafe shouted, stepping between them like a shield. 

“Watch your fucking mouth.”

And then- he shoved JJ, hard. The blonde Pogue stumbled back, his chest still heaving. It looked like he was ready to throw a punch back in the Kook’s direction but then Y/N’s voice cracked through the standoff, pleading and desperate.

“JJ that’s not what this is, I swear- just listen to me please”

Her voice was breaking now, tears slipping down her cheeks despite her best effort to swallow them down. Her eyes bounced between the two boys, panic setting in as it all spiraled out of control. John B took JJ by the arm, yanking him back before anything worse could happen.

“Just chill out.” 

He muttered harshly under his breath, glancing toward the others. Pope was already stepping in too, grabbing JJ’s other side with a firm hand. 

“C’mon calm down.”

But Rafe wasn’t paying attention to them, instead his body was angled blocking Y/N from JJ’s view. His hand gently found her back, trying to ground her as she appeared visibly shook, her breaths short and quick. Sarah stood frozen near the doorway, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, this was her fault. She brought them here. She didn’t even think about the possibility of her being here. JJ shrugged both boys off with a rough jerk of his shoulders and suddenly, his voice cracked through the air again like a whip, 

“You’re not a Maybank, you know that?”

Y/N’s brows furrowed, her voice small and cracking, “what… what are you talking about?”

“A Maybank would never betray their own blood” 

JJ’s eyes were glossy now too and Y/N flinched like he’d hit her. Her lips parted trembling, her whole body shivering despite the blanket still clutched around her. 

“Jay I love you, you're still my broth-” 

Her voice broke as small sobs bubbled out of her chest now, no longer hidden. Her throat felt raw. Rafe turned instantly, cupping her cheek and whispering urgently shielding her from the looks of the rest of them.

 “Hey, hey- shh- it’s okay, it’s okay” 

In the back Kiara was already pushing past Pope and John B, her palm landing square on JJ’s chest with force. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” she hissed. “That’s your sister— what the hell are you doing?!” JJ’s jaw was clenched, fists balled at his sides, his eyes bore into Y/N, who was curled slightly into Rafe now, like she was a stranger.

"Guess selling yourself came easier than telling me the truth"

Y/N let out the softest, broken gasp- a wounded sound that barely passed her lips. Rafe stiffened, his entire body went rigid, jaw clenched and he turned on his heel so fast it startled even Cleo.

“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” 

Rafe’s voice boomed through the room like thunder. 

“NOW!”

JJ didn’t flinch, he didn’t move either but John B and Pope didn’t wait. They grabbed him- each taking one arm- dragging him back toward the hall as he thrashed back against them, with gritted teeth and burning eyes.

“Let me go- fuck- LET GO OF ME-”

They’d already pulled him out, and his shouting faded into muffled echoes down the corridor. The front door slammed and silence followed. Y/N was shaking in Rafe’s arms, hands fisted in the material of the blanket around her. He just held her tighter, his hand cradling the back of her head, the other rubbing soothing circles down her spine. Behind them, Sarah stood still, guilt choking her. “Rafe,” she said quietly, voice breaking. 

“I didn’t know. I swear- I didn’t know this was going to happen. I didn’t even know she was here- I’m sorry, I-”

Rafe sighed, long and slow, his hand never leaving Y/N’s back. He glanced over his shoulder tired, 

“Sarah… just go.”

Sarah swallowed the lump in her throat, gave one last look at Y/N crumpled against him, then turned and walked out without another word.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rafe’s bedroom was dim and quiet, except for the low hum of the fan overhead and the occasional rustle of sheets as Y/N shifted beneath them. She laid on the large queen-size mattress, an oversized t-shirt of his covering her frame. The door creaked open gently and Rafe stepped in, balancing a mug firmly in his hand. He murmured, setting it down on the bedside table with a soft clink.

“Brought you something,” 

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her head, then he sank onto the bed beside her, laying on his side to face her, his head resting in the palm of his hand, elbow propped up on the cushions. Y/N blinked at him through her lashes before turning to properly look at him, her voice still somewhat hoarse but nevertheless teasing. 

“I didn’t know Rafe Cameron knew how to make tea.”

“Yeah well, I’d learn how to make that weird green drink you like if you wanted.”

Her brow lifted as he gave her a smile.

“Matcha?”

“That thing.” 

He nodded like it was some foreign concept, not that he drank anything outside of black coffee. Her smile cracked through her exhaustion and Rafe watched her carefully for a second before brushing a hand against her arm, fingers sliding up and down the exposed skin, soft to the touch.

“You okay?”

She hesitated, her lips parting as if the answer was trying to form, but never quite managed to get out. “Yeah, I guess I just…” Finally, she let out a sigh.

“I don’t know how I expected him to find out but… that wasn’t it.”

“I’m sorry, baby.”

Rafe’s expression dimmed and he kissed his teeth before letting out a deep breath himself. She shook her head immediately, voice gentle.

“It’s not your fault.”

“Well…. I sorta think it is.”

Y/N shuffled herself closer towards him, propping her own elbow against the pillow, letting her rest her head on her hand. Her eyes met his and she tilted her head a little before humming as though deep in though, 

“Hmmm… that’s a little awkward then”

That pulled a soft laugh out of him, “Yeah, just a bit.”

They laid there like that for a beat before slowly, like he couldn't help himself, he pushed forward and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. His hand came up to cradle her cheek, thumb brushing over the skin just beneath her eye. When he pulled back, his eyes flickered down to the fading bruise along her cheekbone,

"It looks better."

She nodded slowly, lips pressing together, “Mmhmm.” But her eyes were distant, like her mind was still somewhere back in that living room. Rafe stayed close, his hand still holding her face like he was anchoring her to the present. His thumb gently traced over the curve of her jaw.

"You can talk to me" 

He said after a moment. She didn’t respond right away. Just leaned into his touch, eyes fluttering closed as her fingers curled lightly in the fabric of his t-shirt. Then she finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper, "He looked at me like I was a stranger." Rafe’s jaw tensed, but he didn’t say anything. Just let her speak, his thumb brushing slowly across her cheek. "It’s not even what he said. Not really. It’s just-" her throat tightened, 

"He meant it."

Silence settled again, thick and aching. Rafe shifted slightly closer, pressing a kiss to her temple as he let out a small sigh,

"He was hurt and angry- not that I'm defending him- but people say dumb shit when they’re angry"

"I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me."

Rafe was quiet, watching the girl as she sat up and brought her hand up to run over the arch of her brow. He sat up on the bed himself, back comfortably against the headboard as he spoke out,

"Then he’s not who you thought he was."

"He’s my baby Rafe."

Her voice was soft and breaking as she spoke, eyes glassed over again as she pulled her knees up, looping her arms around them. "I brought him up. Ever since he was a little blonde-haired toddler. I’ve looked after him, protected him- God, I used to wipe his nose and teach him how to tie his laces. I just..." She dropped her head into her palm, elbow resting against her knee her voice nearly a whisper now,

"I just want my baby back."

Rafe didn’t say anything right away. He just reached over and rested a hand on her back, rubbing slow, steady circles like he was trying to ease an invisible ache he couldn’t fix. "He’s still your baby" he murmured eventually.

"Give him time, he’ll come around."

Her eyes lifted, full of doubt, "And if he doesn’t?" 

"You still have me."

He added the words gently, a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he glanced at her. She couldn’t help it, a tiny smile bloomed on her lips too, and she nudged her shoulder into his, their arms brushing. "Well gee," she murmured, tilting her head toward him, 

"Isn’t that an upgrade."

Rafe huffed out a low laugh, his eyebrows raising, "Damn right it is," he shot back with a smirk. 

"I make you tea"

"Oh yeah, the bare minimum. You’re really setting the bar high Rafe."

Rafe smirked, then without a word, slipped his arm around her waist and gently tugged her down with him until she was lying flat against his chest. She let out a soft surprised laugh, the breath leaving her lungs as she landed against him. He looked down at her and pressed a slow, tender kiss to her lips. 

"Only the best for my girl" 

He murmured against her mouth and she giggled softly, her fingers curling in the fabric of his t-shirt. It felt safe, easy even, but then his tone shifted, not necessarily heavy but more serious. "Speaking of that..." Her smile faltered just a little as she pulled back enough to look up at him, brow furrowing slightly.

"What...?"

He paused just for a beat  and she felt the subtle tension in his chest beneath her. "Since you're living with me now..." He trailed off again and she stayed quiet, giving him the space to speak.

"...I need you to do something for me."

She blinked her voice gentle, "Anything you want."

His jaw flexed once, he looked like he was chewing on it,  the words, the timing, the fear of saying the wrong thing to her and fucking it all up again. Finally, he exhaled through his nose and said it voice low but steady:

"I want you to stop working at the strip club."

For a second, she didn't respond. Her brows knit tighter together as she lifted herself a little more, bracing a hand on the bed beside him.

"What...?"

It wasn’t angry. Just quiet and confused. Like it didn’t compute in her mind. She blinked, eyes searching his face like she hadn’t quite heard him right. “Rafe, I—” But he was already shaking his head,

“I know. I know you don’t wanna depend on me.”

He paused, “and I respect that.” His eyes held hers as he continued, “So you can work at the country club. Hell- pick up something else, I’ll help you look. But just…” he swallowed, voice thickening slightly. 

“Please. No more dancing.” 

She sat up fully, still facing him, legs folded under herself now as she looked at him with something close to disbelief. Not irritation, just shock and surprise.

“Are you being serious...?” 

Her voice cracked a little at the end. It wasn’t judgmental, not even hesitant- just stunned. Rafe sat up too, shifting so they were eye to eye. “Yeah.” His voice didn’t waver,

“Let me take care of you.”

Her breath caught as he continued,  “You don’t have to work yourself to the bone just to survive anymore, not with me.” His hand moved to hers, threading his fingers gently with hers like he was afraid she’d pull away.

“I know you’re strong and you’ve always figured it out yourself but…” 

She didn’t say anything right away. Just looked down at their hands, her thumb brushing across his knuckles and then, quietly, almost like a whisper:

“Okay.”

She leaned forward slowly, 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, okay.”

A soft smile tugged at her lips and he let out a quiet breath of relief then leaned in, pressing a warm lingering kiss to her lips, his thumb brushing her jaw. When he pulled back, a small smirk replaced the softness. “But… those cute little sets you’ve got-” His voice dropped an octave, playful now.

“You’ll still wear them for me, right?”

She let out an incredulous laugh, shoving him back against the mattress with both hands on his chest.

“You’re gross Cameron.”

He threw his hands up like he was surrendering, innocent of all charges that she was throwing at him, “What? I’m asking a reasonable question…” She bit back a grin as she swung her leg over his lap, settling comfortably against his thighs before leaning down, “Sure,” she murmured against his lips, kissing him again,

“The little sets are only for you now...”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Y/N sat tucked into the corner of a cozy little coffee shop, her fingers curled around a warm latte, although it remained untouched as her eyes kept drifting to the table across from her. A young couple sat there, blissfully unaware of anything but their baby. The mom had the little girl perched on her hip, bouncing her gently while the father reached out, making silly faces. The toddler giggled, tiny hands opening and closing as she made eager little grabby hands toward her dad’s face, like she couldn’t get enough of him. Her childish laughter rose above the soft clinking of dishes and quiet conversation around the cafe, a pure sound that made something ache in Y/N’s chest. She blinked, dragging her eyes back to the steam curling up from her drink just in time to hear a voice behind her:

“Well, well, well… look what the cat dragged in.”

Y/N turned, already smiling before she even saw her. Naomi’s arms were crossed, one hip popped out slightly, oversized sunglasses perched on her head and her long acrylics drumming against her bicep. She looked dead serious, her expression tight.

But then she cracked.

“You bitch.” 

She broke into a grin striding forward, Y/N stood up and was immediately wrapped in a tight, vanilla-scented hug. Naomi squeezed her like she meant it, “Hey, ‘Omi,” Y/N mumbled into her shoulder, suddenly breathless from how much she'd missed her. The girl pulled back, holding her at arm’s length.

“I was this close to filing a missing persons case. You had me picturing you dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve just… I’ve been busy.”

Y/N laughed and Naomi raised a brow, sliding into the seat across from her.

“Busy, huh?”

She looked Y/N up and down now, really taking her in; the clean hair, the soft looking oversized sweater, the lack of her brows drawn down in worry like they usually were and she narrowed her eyes slightly, legs crossing at the knee as she folded her arms 

“This better not be 'cause of your little boy toy.”

Y/N went quiet, lips twitching like she was trying not to smile but the attempt didn’t last long. A grin cracked through. Naomi pointed at her triumphantly with a finger, “I knew it. I knewww it.” She tossed her braided hair over her shoulder pridefully,

“I had a feeling, you know, and my feelings are never wrong.”

Y/N laughed under her breath, rubbing a hand over her cheek, the bruise having faded- which she was grateful for as she knew Naomi would be asking questions otherwise.

“Are you mad at me?”

Naomi didn’t answer at first. She reached across the table, slid Y/N’s untouched latte toward herself, and took a slow unbothered sip like it belonged to her. She placed the cup down onto the small plate with a clink and then she looked to her,

“Mad? Why would I be mad at you Bunny?”

“I don’t know… 'cause I just like disappeared without a word?”

Naomi clicked her tongue with a small shake of her head in agreement, “Okay, yeah. I was mad. A little mad.” She held up two fingers, like an inch apart to try to reflect the annoyance she had at the girl, but she quickly waved her hand in Y/N’s direction as she continued, “But I’m not gonna hold it against you girl and besides you’ve seen me mad.” Y/N pressed her lips into a thin line, amused, before speaking out,  

“I’ve seen you drag a man across a bar floor in six-inch heels.”

Naomi sat back, “Mmhmm, so trust me… if I was mad at you, you’d know.”

She picked up the cup again, her fingers wrapping around the warmth of it, took another sip, and gave a little satisfied nod. “Sorry, this is really good.” Y/N watched her, the corners of her eyes crinkling just slightly, that familiar heat blooming behind her ribs. She didn’t realise how much she’d missed this, missed Naomi, until this moment. The way she could cut through all the noise in her head without even trying. Naomi caught her looking and tilted her head.

“Are you gonna drink this or…?”

Y/N shook her head, “It’s all yours.”

Naomi grinned and pulled the cup closer, “Thanks, honey.” She leaned back in her chair with a satisfied sigh, “Sooo…” she started her eyes gleaming like she was bracing for a juicy confession, 

“Did you call me here cause you wanna know the club gossip or-”

“As tempting as that is, no. That’s not why I called you.”

Naomi tilted her head, her earrings catching the light as she gave her a mock squint. “It’s just cause you missed me, right?” Y/N gave her a look and said,

“Mmhmm. Yep. You got me there.”

That earned a full laugh from both of them, loud enough that the couple at the next table gave them a quick glance. A beat passed between them and Naomi took another sip, then glanced down at the cup before saying, “Well... I’ve missed you.” She didn’t say it like a joke, didn’t throw it out there for laughs or deflection. Just said it, quietly like it had been sitting on her chest since the last time they saw each other. Her gaze dropped to the coffee, swirling the liquid around slowly before speaking again.

“You know I don’t do emotions n’shit but... I’ve missed you.”

Y/N felt her throat catch for a second, her fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the table. Her voice was gentler when she finally spoke.

“I’ve missed you too.”

Their eyes met again, and for a moment, there was nothing between them; no neon lights, no heavy music, no mirrors or backstage chaos. Just two girls with a quiet understanding of each other. Naomi gave a soft little sniff, then she straightened up, “Okay, enough of the sappy shit.” Her voice returned to its usual sharpness, but the warmth behind her eyes didn’t fade.

“So what’s up? You coming back and wanna know what time slots are free this week?” 

Y/N gave a soft breath of a laugh, but it was tight around the edges. Her gaze dropped to the table, her fingers beginning to tap out a slow rhythm against the wood grain.

“Yeah, um… it’s actually the opposite of that.”

A pause settled between them, heavy and still and then Naomi’s brows lifted slightly.

“... you’re leaving?”

Y/N didn’t speak at first. She just looked at her and then gave a quiet nod. Naomi leaned back slowly in her chair, jaw shifting like she was working through something. Her lips parted, like she might say something but then closed again.  “Damn.” She tilted her head.

“So boy toy is your sugar daddy now, huh?”

“He’s not my sugar daddy.”

Y/N let out a breath of laughter and rolled her eyes, running a fingertip over the arch of her brow. Naomi narrowed her eyes like a lawyer catching someone in a lie mid case.

“Uh-huh. Does he drive a Range Rover?”

Y/N hesitated a second too long.

“…yes?”

That broke whatever tension was left, both of them bursting into giggles once more, Naomi nearly knocking her elbow on the table as she leaned forward and Y/N hiding her face behind her hands to calm herself down, both their stomachs starting to cramp from the laughter.

“That’s what I thought. Sugar. Daddy.”

“Stop you’re embarrassing me” Y/N laughed, kicking lightly at the girl's ankle under the table. 

“He’s just… good to me. That’s all.”

Naomi tilted her head, gaze softening again- less teasing now like she knew the moment deserved more than just jokes. “Good,” she said, her voice quieter. 

“You deserve better than the club anyway.”

Y/N looked at her, throat suddenly tight, the lump forming so fast it startled her. She swallowed it down with a soft breath, eyes lingering on Naomi’s face. “So do you.” Naomi just shook her head with a slow smile tugging at her lips knowingly. “That place is my home,” she murmured. 

“And you know it.”

Y/N nodded, the motion small but full of understanding. She looked at the girl across from her; sharp-eyed, loud-mouthed, ride-or-die attitude. The one who did her lip liner for her backstage when her hands were shaking, who taught her how to count her cash fast and stand her ground even faster. “Well,” she said, her voice softer now, 

“I’m glad that it managed to lure me in.”

“And why’s that exactly?”

“Otherwise I wouldn’t have met you.”

Y/N gave her a small, watery smile and Naomi groaned and tipped her head back dramatically.

“God, don’t be nice to me right now. I’ll cry all over my fake Gucci.”

Y/N laughed through her sniffle and reached across the table, fingers slipping into Naomi’s, palms pressed warm together on the wood of the table top. The girl didn’t pull away, just looked down at their hands, then up at Y/N. Her voice was softer than Y/N had ever heard it.

“I’m proud of you.”

Y/N smiled, a little tremble in it as she tried, really hard, to keep it together. 

“I love you Omi.”

Naomi batted her lashes, her lips quirking upwards, “I know. I’m very lovable.”

Time passed faster than the girls expected as they sat at the table, one latte having turned to three and before they knew it the sky had started to bleed into an orange hue. Naomi let out a long breath, giving Y/N’s hand one last squeeze before letting go, she spoke out her voice light but eyes serious.

“You better come visit”

“Duh- you won’t be able to get rid of me that easily.”

They both stood, half-laughing, half-lingering, until Naomi finally pulled her into a tight hug, not one of their usual playful ones, but something full and real and grounding. The bell jingled above them as they pushed the door open, the cool breeze brushing against their skin. “Get outta here Bunny,” she spoke waving her hand at Y/N dismissively, 

“Go live your domestic dream.”

“Oh shut up” Y/N said, laughing.

“I’m serious!” Naomi added, “and you tell little mr ‘trust fund’ that if he breaks your heart, I’m showing up with my six-inch heels.”

“He won’t.” Y/N’s voice was soft but certain and Naomi looked at her, then nodded. 

“Yeah. I don’t think he will either.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The late afternoon sun poured in through the wide windows of the country club, casting golden light across the polished marble floor. Outside, golfers milled about on the manicured green, their drinks in hand and voices drifting in through the open terrace doors. Inside, it was still pleasant, the weather having gotten warmer as the month progressed. It was quiet, the lull between lunch and dinner when the bar only saw the occasional regulars. Y/N stood behind it, restocking glasses with practiced ease. The air was soft with the scent of freshly cut lemon slices and citrus gin, the low murmur of conversation from a few older members huddled at a corner table the only background noise. She didn’t hear footsteps, but she felt it shift in the atmosphere when someone’s eyes were fixed on you. She straightened, turned toward the presence with a polite smile already in place. “What can I get you?” And then she saw who it was.

“…Oh.” 

Her smile faltered just slightly. 

“Hi- What can I get you?”

Sarah Cameron stood on the other side of the bar, hair pulled back into a loose pony tail, eyes steady on hers. There was no malice in them, just… something unreadable. For a moment Y/N wondered how Sarah had even managed to get in, she was pretty sure Rafe was the only Cameron with a membership.

“Can we talk?” 

Sarah asked plainly, albeit a quiet sense of nervousness could be heard, and Y/N glanced at the clock on the wall, then back at the mostly empty bar. Only three patrons sat at the far end, half-watching the golf tournament on the mounted TV. “Well,” she said, brushing her hands on a bar towel, 

“I’m kind of on the clock right now… but we can talk here.”

“Here’s fine.”

Y/N nodded once as she reached behind her and poured a glass of water, sliding it across the counter toward Sarah like a peace offering. Y/N reached for a dry towel, wiping it across a damp glass with smooth motion. It gave her something to do with her hands, something to focus on while Sarah settled into the stool opposite her. There was a pause, not awkward but thick with whatever Sarah had come here to say. Finally, the blonde girl across the counter spoke. “I, um…” Sarah cleared her throat, resting her elbows on the bar. 

“I’m sorry. For showing up at the house like that. I wasn’t trying to… interrupt anything.”

Y/N gave a small dry laugh, her eyes still focused on the glass in her hands, “You didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Still,” Sarah pressed gently, “I wasn’t trying to catch you off guard. I didn’t know you and my brother were… you know.”

That made Y/N pause for a second, the rhythm of her hands slowing just slightly. “Yeah uh” she murmured, setting the glass down. 

“It’s… recent.”

Sarah nodded, then twisted her fingers together on the bartop.

“I just— I didn’t mean to cause a thing with you and JJ. I didn’t know about any of that, I swear, and after the fight that night, I just kept thinking, like… if I hadn’t come by, maybe things wouldn’t’ve blown up like they did-”

“-Sarah.”

Y/N finally looked up, her face softening and she shook her head once, firmly.

“It’s fine. It’s not your fault.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment and the hum of the golf announcer on the TV drifted lazily in the background. Y/N busied her hands again, reaching for another glass, wiping it clean. Her voice was gentler now when she spoke again.

“Things were already tense with JJ… you just happened to walk in at the wrong time.”

Sarah’s brow furrowed slightly, guilt still resting behind her eyes, but she nodded slowly.

“I just wanted you to know I didn’t do it on purpose. I really didn’t know.”

Y/N gave her a faint, appreciative smile, “I know you didn’t.”

The quiet settled between them again like an unsure fog. Sarah fidgeted with the edge of a paper napkin from the counter, folding and unfolding it absently. Y/N had gone back to cleaning glasses, her movements smooth but just a touch too focused  like she was trying not to feel the heat of Sarah’s gaze as she suddenly spoke,

"Y/N, my brother... he’s not exactly the type to-"

Y/N let out a short breath and cut in, her voice firm but not harsh, "Look, Sarah. If you're here to lecture me about Rafe, I really—" her eyes flicked up, guarded now, 

"I really don't need that. Okay?"

Sarah opened her mouth like she was going to protest, but Y/N kept going.

"I get it. He’s your brother and you’ve seen him at his worst, but so have I.”

She stopped wiping the glass, placed it carefully on the drying mat, and rested both hands on the edge of the bar. Sarah hesitated, then leaned in just slightly, voice quieter now but still threaded with concern.

"I'm sorry but- it's Rafe. I've known him my whole life and he’s never been the type to help people, not unless there’s something in it for him. I’m just worried that maybe he sees you’re in a rough position and he’s just..." she trailed off not finishing the sentence and Y/N blinked slowly at her, jaw tightening. Then she shook her head. "Stop..." she exhaled, eyes flicking downward. 

"Stop"

Her voice cracked just slightly as she pushed the towel aside and her shoulders dropped a little. “No one has helped me the past few months the way he has. No one.” Her eyes draw away from the counter to meet Sarah’s,  

“He’s been there for me in ways you couldn’t possibly imagine. I wouldn’t even be able to tell you because you wouldn’t believe me.”

Sarah’s expression softened at that and she watched her quietly for a beat, lips parted like she might speak. Then her voice came quieter than before,

“Yes I would...”

Y/N looked at Sarah for a long moment. And all she could see was a girl who was open, understanding. Someone who wanted to know the truth rather than take it away and further spin it into a web of lies. She let out a breath less defensive this time, “I finish my shift at seven today,” she murmured, glancing out the window where the afternoon sun was beginning to lower. 

“Meet me outside by the staff car park and I’ll tell you everything.”

Sarah gave a small nod and Y/N turned, picked up the next glass. 

The cool evening air wrapped around them as they stood outside the club, the faint hum of the island's nightlife carrying in the background. Y/N leaned against the brick wall, the weight of the conversation she was having heavy on her shoulders. Sarah stood beside her, silent, but there was an understanding in her posture now. She was quiet- the whole time. She didn't interrupt once, just listened, waiting for Y/N to speak, to unload everything she had been holding in. 

Y/N took a long drag of her cigarette, the smoke curling into the air as she exhaled slowly. She raised her hand and offered it to Sarah, who smiled politely and shook her head. They stood silent for a moment, the quiet between them thick like the smoke rising from Y/N’s lips, but somehow it was comfortable. “No one knows this,” Y/N continued, her voice barely a whisper now. 

“No one but me and Rafe… and now you.” 

Sarah’s face softened with understanding, her eyes filled with empathy after having listened to Y/N, like a priest at confession. She exhaled slowly her words quiet, 

“JJ is pretty mad at you,” Sarah said her voice careful but not accusatory, “I don’t think he understands why you’d—” 

“-that’s not my problem anymore.” 

Y/N cut her off, her tone sharper than she meant. She sighed, rubbing a hand over her face in frustration before pursing her lips and shaking her head softly, speaking out, 

“You heard what he said… ‘I’m not a Maybank.’ ” 

She repeated the words, as if to remind herself just how much they stung. Sarah looked at her for a long moment, “It’s not that simple, Y/N. He’s hurting. JJ cares about you- more than he lets on. And he doesn’t know how to deal with this. I know it’s not easy, but I think you two need to talk.” 

Y/N shook her head again, almost to herself this time. “I don’t know if I can. It’s not about JJ anymore. I can’t keep trying to fix things with him. I've been doing that for too long- I’ve always made sure he’s happy Sarah, but now… I think I should focus on what’s best for me.” 

Sarah gave a small understanding nod, her eyes flickering down to the cigarette in Y/N’s hand, the older girl noticed, causing her to hold it up to her. Sarah took it, lifting it to her lips and taking a slow pull. The smoke lifting above the two of them like a small cloud.

“I get it. But I think you owe it to yourself to have that conversation with him to tell him what's really going on.” 

Y/N exhaled slowly, sliding down the wall so she was crouching by the floor, tapping the cigarette ash onto the paving on the floor. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for that, but deep down, she knew it was something that needed to happen. 

She owed it to herself 

And to JJ

The quiet between them stretched on, thick with unspoken thoughts and emotions. The last of the cigarette smoke curled up into the night air, disappearing into the sky as if it was never even there. Y/N stared at the glowing ember on the floor beside her, the weight of everything she had just said settling deep inside her.

"I... I love your brother Sarah." 

The words hung in the air as she suddenly spoke out, her voice trembling slightly, as if confessing it out loud to someone else except for him made it more real. Y/N didn’t look up. She couldn’t. Her eyes were fixed somewhere near the dark patch of pavement between her shoes, her heart thrumming beneath her ribs. Sarah’s expression softened, her eyes widening a little in surprise. She had never imagined hearing those words come from Y/N’s lips- not because she didn’t believe it but because she never thought anyone would be brave enough to admit that about him.

Her brother?

Sarah was silent as if trying to find the right words, but Y/N was too focused on the quiet to look at her. It wasn’t until Sarah’s voice broke the stillness that Y/N looked up, her eyes meeting Sarah’s. “I think he loves you too,” Sarah said, 

 “From what I can tell... I think he loves you a lot.”

Y/N finally looked up at that and Sarah pushed off from where she’d been leaning and crouched down besides her, her back against the same wall now, their shoulders a few inches apart. She rested her arms over her bent knees, then looked sideways at Y/N who gave her a small, tired smile and Sarah, after a beat, said gently but plainly,

“But... I know JJ loves you too.”

Y/N’s smile faded, and she stared ahead for a beat, her throat tightening as she let out a breath through her nose. Sarah didn’t say anything after that, almost as though afraid she’d pushed too hard. The older girl whispered, her voice so quiet it was almost lost to in the cool breeze of the evening,

"I don't know if I'm allowed to love them both"

“I think that’s for you to decide…”

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[ceilidho]

Margaritaville

For days now, you’ve been seeing the same broad-shouldered man lounging around the resort. Or: the knocked up on vacation au Part 3 masterlist

-

A shower and thorough scrub after the fact washes away most of the more damning evidence, but paranoia still buzzes under your skin when you rejoin your friends downstairs. They’re sitting beside each other in a row of lounge chairs by the edge of the pool when you reappear, beach bag in hand, waving at you from across the way. You hurry over to join them.

“What—did you fall asleep up there?” one of them asks you, and it takes a second for you to recall the excuse you gave them about going upstairs to look for a book to read. 

“Yeah,” you lie. “I wasn’t feeling too good, so I lied down for a bit.”

“Oh no,” one of them says with a frown, sitting up on her elbows to get a better look at you. “You feeling better now? We can go back to the hotel room if you want.”

“Nah, I’m alright now. I had a shower too, so I’m feeling much better.”

You might’ve been better off pretending that you just fell asleep upstairs rather than lying about feeling sick. 

Though still hours from sundown, the sun isn’t anywhere near as thick in the sky anymore; a cloudless expanse of blue as far as the eye can see, stretching from zenith to offing. Despite the slight breeze and the UV index starting to inch back down, you still slather on a fresh layer of sunscreen. 

“So what’d you get?”

You look up from your legs and a glob of sunscreen slips down your calf and onto the chair. “Huh?” 

“Your book,” she repeats, looking at you like it should be obvious. “What book did you go get?”

Your hands freeze over your bag, a cold sweat leaking through you. All that just for you to forget to bring back a fucking book. 

“Oh, I, uh,” you stammer, looking in your bag helplessly like a book might suddenly appear out of nowhere. “I must’ve left it back upstairs. Damn.”

Lucky for you, no one has the energy to care or look past the obvious stutter in your voice, accepting your words as gospel. Your friend closest to you rolls her eyes and pushes her sunglasses back up her nose. “It’s alright—here, I’ve got another in my bag. It would be such a waste of time to go all the way back upstairs.”

“Yeah,” you say, swallowing when you think about heading back into the resort and taking the elevator to the next floor up from your room, following the long hallway back to John’s room, where he’d be waiting for you with a wry smile and open arms, towel still cinched around his waist. “That would suck. Thanks.”

For one singular day, you actually make a concerted effort to steer clear of John. 

That means: no surreptitious glances or orchestrating accidental run-ins. You keep close to your friends the whole day, never more than a couple feet away. 

And for the most part, it works. You’re mostly successful that first day. For a while after your little hookup, you don’t see hide nor hair of him anywhere around the resort. Where before John was seemingly everywhere, now he’s nowhere to be found. 

It’s almost infuriating. Had he been this elusive in the days since you arrived at the resort, you might not have felt as tempted by his constant presence. It was the proximity and blatant invitation that gradually wore away at your resolve. 

You keep deferring responsibility for your actions. That belongs to a future, stronger you, whether or not she’ll ever come to fruition.

“Looking for someone?” your friend asks when you glance around the poolside for the umpteenth time. Her words are laced with a subtle kind of humour, some inside joke that you haven’t caught on to just yet.  

You shake your head. “Nope. Just people watching.”

“Right,” she drawls, only burying her nose in her book again after sending you a sceptical glance.

When her attention is back on her book, you peek around again, searching for any sign of someone in pin-stripped swim trunks. Disappointed when you find nothing. 

The girls insist on going down to the beach and renting jetskis in the afternoon, guaranteeing that you won’t see John for the rest of the day, but at least it gets you out of your head for a while. Air whips by your ears and you scream in delight, your arms cinching around your friend’s waist as she guns the engine.

Afternoon melts into evening, which melts into night. At supper, someone mentions taking a dip in the hot tub and you pounce on the thought, the four of you giggling and tumbling down the stairs on your way back to the pool area. 

The hot tub lights oscillate between purple, pink, and blue at a timed interval, keeping the water bathed in a cool, dark colour as night falls. Dusk ushers in a changed world. Large snails leave slimy trails as they creep out of the potted plants and slither across the furniture. Spiders and moths emerge from dark corners as well, the nocturnal world coming to life around you. 

The three of them get out of the hot tub around nine, someone complaining about still being hungry. As tempted as you are to join the girls for a late bite to eat at the restaurant, the hot water and jets are doing wonders for your sore muscles, especially after the previous day. You can’t exactly explain that to the others though, so when they try to cajole you out of the water, you brush them off and promise that you’ll join them in a few minutes. 

Besides, you’re overdue for some alone time. The more you have, the less likely you’ll be to start fights over nothing, cabin fever finding no foothold in a person aware that it hovers on the periphery. 

Around the complex, the pools glow cyan like bioluminescent glowworms, the floodlights on to keep drunk tourists from falling in on their way back to their rooms. Some angelic-voiced eighties singer croons over the speaker, music still playing around the pool area until it abruptly cuts out and silence rushes in like a wave to fill the emptiness. The silence doesn’t worry you though; it’s almost serene sitting alone in the dark and gazing across the way at the buildings still brightly lit from the inside. 

You don’t realize that you aren’t actually alone until someone joins you in the water. 

The loud splash of his feet entering the water is what alerts you to his presence, the sudden noise causing your heart to jump up into your throat, head snapping to the side when a large body sits down beside you, displacing the volume of the water in the hot tub. 

“Oh shit,” you gasp, heartbeat going wild for a second. You scoot away instinctively and hit the low wall to your left. 

“Didn’t mean to scare you, honey,” John apologizes, settling in beside you. “You seemed lonely all by yourself, so I thought I’d join you.” 

His body inadvertently crowds you up against the pool wall. Or at least, it feels inadvertent, like he just sat wherever happened to be free, notwithstanding the fact that by doing so, he had trapped you at the edge of the bench. 

John rests an arm behind you, almost tucking you into his side when he slides over a bit more, thigh pressed against yours under the water. Spreading his arms out along the edge of the pool forces his chest to stick out and his shoulders to broaden. 

“Where’d you come from?” you ask, glancing around behind you. 

“Around.” He cocks a thick, dark eyebrow, studying you. “Were you looking for me?” 

“No,” you deny, almost vehemently. More to yourself than to him. “You just caught me off guard. I thought I was alone.”

“Noticed that. Why aren’t you with your friends?”

“I am,” you object. “…I just wanted to be on my own for a bit.”

“Needed some time apart? They give you a hard time for what we did earlier?”

Heat rushes to your cheeks at that. “No,” you hiss, teeth clenched, pitching your voice lower to keep anyone from overhearing. “I didn’t…tell anyone. And we aren’t fighting. They’re getting something to eat and I wasn’t hungry.”

“Seems like I’m always catching you on your own.”

“I like being by myself.”

Your breathing is a little quicker than usual. His presence now is different than the times before, back when he was nothing more than a pretty face to you. You know what his mouth tastes like now, what the bristles of his beard feel like on the delicate flesh of your inner thighs and how deep his fingers can curl inside of you. He isn’t just a stranger across the pool anymore, but a man that knows you intimately. Biblically.

You wrap your arms around yourself to shield your breasts from his eyes. That’s what you tell yourself anyway. Maybe you cross them to make sure that you keep your hands to yourself.

“Why come with them at all then?” John asks, breaking the silence. 

“…I’ve never travelled on my own.”

He nods approvingly. “Good. Smart girl.”

That pisses you off for some reason. Probably the insinuation that there’d be something wrong with you travelling by yourself. Like you couldn’t take care of yourself. “I could if I wanted to.” 

“Didn’t say you couldn’t, but it’s smarter that you don’t. Safety in numbers.”

If he wasn’t so handsome, you’d probably be mildly off-put by the condescension in his voice. It’s part and parcel of him though, that slight arrogance that clings to his skin like the smell of smoke, like dirt wedged into the grooves of his fingers. Old and lived in. 

“Maybe I’ll just ask my husband to come with me the next time I feel like going somewhere,” you say snarkily. 

He doesn’t respond right away. When the weight of his stare gets a bit too heavy, you glance up at him to find his pupils blown wide. 

“Maybe you should,” John rasps. 

The sound of his voice, rough as tire over gravel roads, makes your nipples bead in your damp swimsuit.

For a moment, it feels like there’s nothing else in the world except for the two of you. All of the chatter and music from the nearby buildings drop to a hush. If you shut off your mind, you could almost trick yourself that it’d always been this way. 

Damp, calloused fingers pinch your chin and hold you in place, rooting you in that moment like his hold is the only thing tethering you to the world. 

“I should get back to my friends,” you say. Even though you practically whisper the words, they pierce through the silence, a little nearby lizard scuttling across the damp concrete floor towards a tree, where it disappears into the darkness. 

“They can wait a little longer,” he murmurs, leaning forward until your lips slot with his and your sigh makes your whole body tremble, lips parting when his tongue slips in and he slides a hand in between your thighs under the water. 

It’s torturous to see him around the resort and not be allowed to touch. 

Another day in the scorching heat and you’re on the verge of defeat. You sweat and you sweat until the only thing left to give is your will. It bends like straw, chaff breaking off the closer it comes to snapping. 

At a certain point, you have to accept responsibility for your own actions. You’re a big girl after all. Old enough to understand the weight that each of your choices bear and the consequences they’ll inevitably bring about. Disappoint your friends or disappoint yourself. Simple a choice as has ever been put in front of you. 

And, selfish as you’ve been this entire trip, the choice is easy enough to make in the end. 

In the early morning before the rest of your friends have woken up, you quietly slip out of bed and take the elevator up to John’s floor, knocking twice before he opens the door and pulls you inside with a growl. 

“John—John, fuck, please—”

“I know, honey, I know,” he murmurs into your neck, exhaling heavily when he drops you back down onto his cock, juices running from the base of his shaft to his balls. “I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”

Your thighs burn with the effort to bounce on his dick, John having to do most of the work once your muscles begin to give out. 

Not even the pretense of a condom this time. You didn’t say anything when he didn’t make a move to take one out and now it feels a bit too late to bring it up. It’s not the end of the world though; you’ll just tell him to pull out when he’s close to coming. 

“Fuck, honey, Jesus Christ—”

“Sorry,” you whimper, inner muscles suddenly clenched so tight that you nearly come right then and there. Just the thought of him coming in you raw sends a sharp spike of pleasure through your body. 

All you can think of is sticky, messy cum leaking out of you. Thick strands ribboning between your fingers when you pull them apart. It’s a dangerous thought; you’re playing fast and loose with the most dire of consequences. 

“Ohmygodohmygod—” you whimper, tears building on your waterline and spilling over. “Oh f-fuck, I’m gonna—come, John—” 

“Yeah, you are,” he grunts, brow furrowing in concentration, the vein in his forehead more pronounced than ever. “C’mon, honey, give it to me—give me it—”

It rushes over you all at once, inner walls tensing and squeezing around his shaft. Eyes rolling back in your head when you feel him come inside you, a rush of heat flooding against your womb. 

He doesn’t make you wait long after pulling out, immediately ducking his head down to burrow his face between your thighs, running his tongue up the seam of your sex and huffing out in pleasure. Hot breath blows over your clit, and your whole body jolts at the sensation. Your clit is too sensitive, puffy and engorged. Your walls squeeze around his fingers when John shoves a couple in and busies himself with laving his tongue over your clit and sucking it into his mouth. 

“Wait, wait—” you squeal, threading your fingers into his hair and trying to pull him off. “I can’t—I can’t—”

His own cum trickles out down his fingers as he plunges them in and out of your hole, feeling the mess he left inside of you. Heat floods to your cheeks at the lurid squelch of your hole when he presses his fingers back in.

“You can,” John says unsympathetically, the fingers pistoning in and out of your hole punctuating his words. 

And, true to his words, you do. 

When you limp back down to your room an hour later, you turn the knob extra carefully lest someone wake up to you doing the walk of shame. 

You were stupid to ever think this could be a one time thing. That you could have him once and then move on like it never happened, like it scratched that itch of yours permanently instead of waking it up from its slumber. 

Now it buzzes under your skin morning, noon, and night. Insatiable—libido ramped up by a factor of ten and no matter how many times he fucks you senseless, you’re always desperate for more. When you see him from across the pool, it’s all you can do not to swim across and crawl into his lap, wedging his thigh between your legs and grinding down until the pressure tips you over the edge.

From the looks of it, your friends don’t suspect a thing. How could they after all? You leave the hotel room at the crack of dawn and come back before they’ve even turned over in bed. 

John is as subtle in public as ever. A thousand times more discrete than you. He’s so good at ignoring you around the resort that it’s almost infuriating.  It’s your own fault, seeing as how you begged him to keep a low profile. You have no one to blame but yourself for his inattention.

In the privacy of his hotel room, it’s a whole different story. 

Sometimes he says weird shit when you fuck. The pet names you can excuse because they get you all hot and bothered, but it’s harder to ignore the way he laces your fingers and looks deep into your eyes while rocking into you, patting your cheek roughly when you try to close your eyes. It’s too intense. Too intimate. Not the kind of thing you do with a vacation fling.

You’re speaking from limited experience though. A small sample size, if you can even call your love life that. Maybe this is something people do with their flings, the rules of intimacy eschewed with an established understanding of finitude. You are going home at the end of this, after all. Whatever you do in between then and now doesn’t matter. 

You could say or do anything and it wouldn’t matter. It’s not like you’ll ever see him again. 

On the pet name front though, you do test him on the off chance that he actually just forgot your name entirely. It catches you off guard when he remembers not just your first name but your last name as well, murmuring it back to you like he’s memorized it when you ask.

“Oh,” you reply, unsure of what else to say. “…Sorry. I thought…”

His thumb brushes over your cheekbone when he cups your face in one hand. “I know what you thought, honey. Never had anyone pay enough attention to you, have you?”

You don’t know what to say in response to that. He pops his thumb into your mouth when you gape at him for too long, letting it rest on your tongue. The weight of it holding your tongue down is almost soothing and the thoughts in your head fizzle and pop like stars when you close your mouth around it and suck. 

Sometimes though, you’re the one that makes things weird.

“I wish I came here with you,” you admit in a hushed whisper when you’ve been backed into his bed.

“Would’ve been me if I’d found you first,” John grunts, gripping you by your calves and yanking you towards the edge of the bed. 

Big hands scoop up under your ass and lift you into the air to get the angle right. He impales you on his dick inch by inch, the stretch familiar now even though it still takes your breath away. 

“Yeah?” you breathe. 

John doesn’t answer at first, eyes going blank as he draws you off his dick and then plunges back into you. His stare is blank and yet it doesn’t waver. Locked on your face even though he almost stares right through you. 

“Yeah,” he rumbles, snapping his hips forward. “Could’ve made a baby here instead of sneaking around like teenagers.”

Oh—

(fuck)

You know it’s just dirty talk, but you get all tight and tingly anyway, licking the sweat off your upper lip when you repeat, “A baby?” 

His eyes go darker when he hears you say it. Animalistic; mindless. And suddenly all you can think about is the fact that you’ve foregone protection again to let an older, virile man hit it raw. Dirty talk trembling over the edge of make believe and staring down into the abyss because he could

really knock you up right here and now. 

His lip curls up almost into a snarl. “Came enough times in you by now. ‘Be a miracle if you weren’t.”

You lick at the sweat beading on your upper lip. “You want that?”

Dumb question. You know there isn’t a shot that a man his age on vacation is looking to knock up the first girl he comes across, but it gets you so hot that you forget about common sense for a second. It’s irresponsible. Selfish. Stupid. 

He hikes a knee onto the bed to get some leverage before folding his whole body over yours. All however many pounds, enough to take your breath away and make your heart beat faster. A heavy, suffocating presence punctuated by the way he fucks into you even harder, huffing as he chases after it.

“Would’ve used a fuckin’ condom if I didn’t,” John snarls right in your face, and the pleasure that evokes hits you so hard that you nearly pass out when you come. 

Sooner or later, you were bound to slip up. 

Your friend catches you on your way out the door one morning on your way to see John, your hand barely brushing the doorknob when her voice suddenly comes out of nowhere. “Going to get breakfast?”

You flinch at the sound of her voice, head whipping to the left. In your hurry to meet up with John, you hadn’t noticed her standing in the bathroom with the door wide open. Arms crossed and already dressed, staring at you like catching you almost out the door isn’t surprising. 

“Uh, yeah. What’re you doing up?”

She shrugs. “I slept long enough; been up for a while actually. Mind if I come with? I’m starving.”

You do in fact mind, but short of telling her why you’d prefer she didn’t, you have no excuse for why she shouldn’t join you for breakfast. You acquiesce instead, forcing a smile and nodding before following her out the door and in the opposite direction of the elevators. 

Breakfast is awkward, to say the least. The conversation comes strained and stilted, like it’s the first time you’ve ever met the girl sitting opposite you instead of a friend of several years. You can tell that she suspects something, but since she doesn’t bother bringing it up, you don’t either. 

All you can focus on is the fact that somewhere upstairs, John is still in his room waiting for you, and that as more time passes with you downstairs at breakfast, the less time you’ll have with him when you finally make it upstairs to his room. 

“Hey? Are you listening to me?”

Your head snaps up. “Hm?” 

The look she levels you with is thoroughly unimpressed. “I asked if you’d finished your book yet.”

“Oh, yeah. I finished it the other day at the beach. Did you want to borrow it?”

“Yeah, that’s why I asked.” She sounds annoyed, and with good reason. You’ve been flighty and inattentive at best; downright neglectful at worst. 

You eat quickly, downing half your plate before a server comes by with coffee, which you very nearly refuse until you catch the way your friend squints across the table at you. Too obvious. Her hackles are already up, suspicions hissing like snakes in her hair. 

The terse conversation that follows only further illustrates that. If she hasn’t already figured it out, she’s at least begun to suspect your frequent absences and the perpetual smell of sex on you. She’s just nice enough to not come right out of the gate and say it. 

A busser comes by as soon as they spot your empty plate, gathering everything up and piling the cutlery on top before hurrying away to bus another table. When the server comes by again to top up your cup, you politely refuse, finishing the rest in a single swallow. 

“What’s the rush?” your friend asks, cocking an eyebrow. “Somewhere else to be?”

“No, I just—” You freeze, half out of your seat, the sound of the chair scraping against the tile underneath abruptly cutting out. Excuses assemble on your tongue but refuse to leap off, choked back by the fact that you just don’t know what to say. “I just…I’m done eating.”

“Right,” she drawls, arms folded on the table, nearly full plate still in front of her. “I guess my conversation was staler than the food.”

“No, look, it’s not—”

“It’s fine,” she sighs, waving you away. “I’ll tell the others you went down to the pool when they wake up. Just be there in an hour.”

You didn’t expect the reprieve. You barely deserve it, as a matter of fact. But her dismissal rings loud and you aren’t about to pass up the opportunity to go up to John, despite the guilt curdling in your belly. 

“Yeah, okay,” you promise. “I’ll be there.”

And you really, truly think you’re in the clear until you turn to walk away and she says her parting words. “Give him my best, by the way.”

Full body cringe. You don’t turn back around though, shame finally catching up to you, and the sound of your flip-flops squeaking against the tile on your way towards the elevators mocks you the whole way up to John’s room.

[vxnillabxn]

Heya! Could you do headcannons of the LIs overhearing your parents advertising you/someone asking if you are willing to date their child?

I had this situation a few times and it was kinda funny/interesting situation and I couldn't help but wonder how the boys would react as I love reading your headconnons on them <3 keep up the good work!!

𐙚˙⋆.˚ mainfive! x gn!reader ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ fluff! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sfw! ꒰੭

𐙚˙⋆.˚ do not translate/copy/repost! ꒰੭

﹙♡﹚HI! i hope i got this request right, and also... i'm truly sorry for the delay ८ ◞ ◟ ⑅ ა i've been so sick these days, it even hurts to get up, istg— and shark week just started, so i am in misery ꒰˵ˊᯅˋ˵꒱ anyway, once i feel a little bit better, i'll go back to my usual posting routine! thank you in advance for the patience, and enjoy! ♡

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

he took you to your favorite childhood skating rink after years of not going.

he helped you out by putting on your roller skates, but he had to wait for the employee to get a pair in his size.

“have i really grown that much, pips?”

you only giggled, looking at him up and down.

“i mean… yeah? and i doubt grown men come here to roller skate anymore.”

when the employee finally called him, he left your side for a while, and you stood up a bit clumsily, trying to get comfortable and remember how it was to skate, just like when you were a kid.

suddenly, you heard a sweet voice calling out for you, and when you turned around, you saw a wrinkled, familiar face.

“ah! mrs. jiang? what a pleasure!”

the old lady took your hand in hers and softly patted it, looking up at you warmly.

“look at you, dear. all grown up! how is your family doing?”

you answered briefly, yet happily too.

she was such a sweetheart back in the day, and you remembered how she would always bring snacks and water to all the kids who skated around.

“and what about marriage, dear? any plans?”

ah, right. you also remembered how nosy she could be.

“uh, not really, i mean—”

“perfect! my eldest would be perfect for you! you do remember him, right? he's an engineer, very smart!”

you just awkwardly laughed, not wanting to be rude.

“yeah, i… think i do remember him.”

where the heck was caleb?

you wanted to escape the situation as soon as possible, not only because you knew how weird her son was, but because you didn't want to turn her down when she looked so excited.

luckily for you, a tall figure rolled behind you, and you could see caleb reflected in the lady's eyes.

“oh, my goodness! look at you!”

caleb's cheeks were attacked by her hands, and he couldn't help but let her do as she pleased.

after a few minutes of stretching and kneading his skin, she finally pulled back.

“we were just talking! i think my son would be an excellent husband! what do you think, caleb?”

caleb smiled warmly, but his hand found your waist and pulled you closer.

“i don't doubt that for a second, auntie. though… i think he might have to wait a bit longer to get married.”

the lady's smile faltered for a second, but she soon grinned, noticing his gesture.

“ah! i get it! you two sneaky little things… we all knew you would confess eventually! took you long enough, though.”

caleb's grip tightened, and his cheeks turned red.

you muffled a laugh, and soon enough, the lady sent best regards to both your families and left.

“pipsqueak.”

he called out, turning you around gently.

you looked up at him with a cheeky grin on your face.

“jealous?”

he didn't answer, but he did take your hand and guided you to the center of the rink to start skating around.

“do you have to tattoo my name on your forehead for everyone to know we're together?”

he mumbled, and you tried not to stumble as he rolled a bit too intently for your liking.

“you're so dramatic, lebbie! not everyone is going to assume we're together. it's not like i had a wedding ring or anything obvious, you know?”

oh, you just gave him the greatest idea ever.

and just like that, the frown that was on his face turned into a plotting smile.

and he happily lifted you in his arms bridal style to skate by himself, making the kids around you giggle and point.

he could truly be so childish when he wanted to, but he'd do anything just so no one would ever see you as single anymore.

even if that meant rushing a marriage that, after all, was going to happen anyway.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

you invited rafayel over for a family and friends reunion.

…he actually invited himself, since he said it would be fun to get to know another important aspect of your life.

the main problem was that only your close relatives and loved ones knew you two were dating, and you weren't ready for all the questions and gossip that would emerge after showing up with him.

however, he insisted, and it all went quite well, to be honest.

or that was until the rest of your family arrived.

rafayel went for some drinks to calm you down, and relax a bit himself, as the event started to pack up a little.

“hi, love!”

one of your aunts screamed, waving her hand excitedly before walking toward you.

you smiled and hugged her, and just when you were about to look back to see where rafayel was, she dragged you along with her.

“i want you to meet someone!”

you were curious, to say the least, but you were also nervous.

she took you to a friend she invited, and said friend was standing next to a young man —presumably her son.

“this is gemma, and this is her handsome son, finn!”

you smiled politely, outstretching your hand.

gemma shook it with a smile, but finn was a bit awkward when taking it.

was this… what you thought it was?

no, your aunt wouldn't set you up, would she?

“so, finn works for this amazing company, he graduated with honors, and he also helps charities! isn't he amazing?”

poor finn looked away as your aunt talked, and you just nodded.

“well, yeah! that's awesome, but uhm, auntie?”

yet, she kept talking, and eventually, gemma jumped in.

“yes! and dating is such an issue these days. everything is so fast, so superficial… actually, your aunt told me you were single, isn't that a lovely coincidence? my finn is, too!”

you looked around, quietly begging for someone to help you out of this.

and just then, rafayel appeared with two cold lemonades and a charming smile.

“ah, ladies and… gentleman! what a pleasure. do you mind if i steal this cutie right here for a second?”

he handed you a glass, and his other hand gently caressed your cheek.

your aunt was stunned, and both gemma and finn stared quietly at rafayel.

“i'll take that as a no, then. great talk!”

he softly guided you away, and you quickly waved your hand, smiling sweetly and a bit apologetic —but not really.

once you two were away, he crossed his arms.

his charming façade was now replaced by his pouty lips.

“you know, cutie, you should take this as an opportunity to announce we're together. your whole family is here, some close friends of your family are here, friends of the friends of your family too, and—”

“okay, raf, i get it!”

you chuckled, taking a sip from your glass.

“don't get me wrong, i think being with you is awesome! but i know how nosy my family can be, and they might even start asking about the wedding or trying to rush our pace —a pace we're comfortable with.”

you explained, softening your voice so he wouldn't misinterpret your words.

and he didn't, thankfully, because he placed a wet kiss on your lips —one that tasted like sweet lemonade.

“well, you must know that i do not care about gossip or rumors. if anything, i love proving them wrong or… turning them around.”

before he could further clarify, he pulled you toward the rest of your family.

you panicked, but he just smiled.

“what are you doing, raf—?”

“i'll just introduce myself, naturally! let them assume or guess my relationship with you. no one will comment if they don't have the full information, will they?”

he's crazy.

but also, the idea does sound fun, and it will avoid more weird and awkward matchmaking moments if no one knows whether you're fully single or not.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

he wasn't supposed to hear your private conversation, yet there he was, listening attentively as your parents rambled about potential suitors for you.

he was very amused, with his chin in the palm of his hand, while the other held his mug of coffee.

your parents didn't know about him yet… what would you tell them, anyway?

that you were dating a what?

a ceo of a shady organization?

a mafia boss?

a businessman that occasionally kills people?

it would sound like something out of the short drama series your older aunties watch on social media, and your parents would be literally alarmed about your well-being and how you even met a man like him.

you needed more time to prepare yourself for a long, long conversation, but until that happened…

you just had to hear your parents go on and on about why you should date the son of a close friend of theirs.

“he's such a sweetheart! he just graduated, but he already has a business. it's about, uh… what was the name, honey?”

your mother soon chimes in.

“cryptocurrency! he has a podcast, too!”

oh, yikes.

sylus smirked, leaning in to listen better, and also to enjoy the expression on your face.

“yeah, uh… i think i'm not interested.”

sylus mouths a “you think?” and you throw a cushion his way, trying to keep him out of the conversation.

sylus puts his mug away, and soon pulls you into his lap, making you yelp loudly.

your parents immediately question you about the sound, and sylus grins.

“are you okay, sweetheart?”

they ask, and you push sylus' face away, to once again sit on the sofa properly.

“yes! a pesky bird just entered the living room and won't leave me alone!”

“a bird? ah, that must be a sign! what bird, honey?”

you huff and put your hand up to stop sylus from approaching again.

“an ugly and annoying crow!”

sylus' eyebrow raises, and he's now hovering over you.

“ugly?”

you cover his mouth and turn to the phone again, squirming under his weight.

“well, as i was saying, i'm not really interested, nor… available for dating, sorry!”

“what? what do you mean you're not available?!”

your parents start rambling again, and sylus decides that enough is enough.

“what she said, ma'am. i hope we all meet very soon — it will be my pleasure. until then, take care.”

and he hangs up the call.

you are speechless.

why would he do that?

you finally manage to push him away with narrowed eyes.

“you…”

he doesn't smile. in fact, he looks dangerously calm.

but you're livid.

not only will your parents spam your phone with tons of questions about the male voice they just heard, but you will also have to explain what he is to you —and how long you two have been together.

“sylus, i can't believe you'd—!”

“so, pesky, ugly, annoying, hm? my, what a mix, kitten.”

he flicks your forehead, and your initial anger is replaced by indignation.

“sylus, you literally just—!”

“yet still…” he cups your cheeks a bit tight, enough for your lips to be pouty. “i'm a much better option than said guy, aren't i?”

you frown and try to speak, but he kisses your lips.

“yes, no, maybe? it's simple, sweetie.”

“yesh…”

“mhm. i'll help you talk to them, don't worry. i already thought of what to say —though i hardly ever need a script. they just need to know i'll protect you with my life, and that everything you need for, will be gladly provided.”

you stop resisting, and he finally sets you free.

“right, but… you'll still have to avoid mentioning the guns and killing part of your job.”

“we all have our flaws, don't we, sweetie? now, why don't you invite them over for dinner? they will be delighted. though, we'll have to hide mephisto. i do not want them to think he was the pesky bird you were talking about.”

ah, crap.

how can you deny him when he's literally standing up and organizing everything already?

and even if your parents do question you…

you already have someone to love and come back home to, and not even them could make you change that.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

what started as a relaxing morning ended up being the worst day for xavier.

you've been helping this old couple carry their shopping bags, since they live on the floor above yours, and the elevator's been under maintenance for a week.

they are very sweet, and they always give you fruit or a candy bar in exchange for your kindness.

the old lady also gives you veggies from her garden, and both you and xavier have been enjoying the freshest salads ever.

today, though, they needed even more help because their grandkids were coming over and staying for a few days, and they brought a lot of luggage with them.

you called xavier to help them out too, and he obliged —only because you asked him to..

obviously, it wasn't without a fight —or without promising something in return…

which, as he demanded, had to be lots of kisses.

but finally, with a bit of struggling, you two helped the neighbors' little granddaughter bring her stuff up first.

she was very energetic, and she was looking up at xavier as if he were a charming prince, rambling non-stop.

and suddenly, her big brother came up the stairs, carrying some bags.

the old couple seemed really excited to introduce him to you, just as xavier went inside to drop off some of the bags in the living room, the little girl excitedly following him.

“well, darlin'! this is our grandson, keith! we think you're both around the same age, aren't ya?”

you politely smiled, and keith shot a charming smile, taking your hand in his to kiss it.

oh!

you retrieved your hand a bit quickly, and laughed awkwardly.

“isn't he charmin'?” the old lady says, patting keith's arm. “he is also lookin' for love, and who better than our kind and helpful neighbor?”

is she… trying to set you up with him?

keith raises his eyebrows suggestively, and you instantly cringe.

“ah… i'm flattered, really! but i think keith might want to look for love elsewhere. no offense.”

keith is about to talk, when xavier walks out, soon approaching you and leaning you down in his arms.

just then, he steals a long, noisy kiss from your lips.

funnily enough, he is wearing a king's crown, which —most probably— the little girl managed to put on his head.

when xavier pulls away from you, he shoots a glare at keith.

“love has already found us. goodbye.”

and he turns around, dragging you by the hand.

the old man calls out.

“my, we're sorry! we thought you were roommates, as all kids are these days!”

“don't worry!” you smile and wave your hand, still being dragged away downstairs. “we hope you all have a great time!”

once in your shared apartment, he slams the door shut and hugs you tight, completely silent…

or wait, was that mumbling?

was he talking under his breath?

“...mine, and how dare they, and who do they think they are, and if he tries anything—”

“...xavier?”

“and how do they not know we're together? and wh—?”

“xav. hello…? it's not a big deal!”

he stops, and he steps back from the hug.

his blue eyes focus on yours.

“not a big deal?”

oh no.

“not a big deal, you say? i'm not a fan of that family. we must steer clear of them for now.”

“xavier, don't be mean…”

“they won't need our help with their grandkids around.”

“xavier—”

he hugs you again, nuzzling your neck with closed eyes.

“hm, no. shhh, kisses.”

“...what?”

he frowns slightly, kissing your jawline gently.

“kisses... my reward? did you forget?”

right, the king's demands.

you start kissing his head, his forehead, his cheeks, and finally… finally, he relaxes in your arms, forgetting his temporary tantrum.

you just have to avoid seeing your adorable neighbors until their grandkids leave… and maybe, casually let everyone in the building know you and xavier are dating, just for everyone's sake.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

a lunchbox in one hand, a coffee in the other, and a polite yet anxious smile on your face.

how obvious could everything be?

you were in a rush —you had to visit your boyfriend so he could eat and get an energy boost after a long shift.

yet, this lady had stopped you, saying you had good genes and other weird things that made your skin crawl.

she was also talking about her two kids, and how amazing they were.

and for some reason, she kept saying how one of them was a doctor here, very handsome, very wealthy… though he still lived with her because “he's mama's boy, isn't that adorable?”

and no.

it isn't, at all.

“uhm, ma'am, that's very lovely, but i really have to—”

“oh, but that isn't all, dearie! he's probably the most important doctor in this entire hospital! yes, yes, you've probably heard of him! he's dr. lynn! very popular among the nurses, too.”

you blinked in confusion and shook your head slowly.

“doesn't ring a bell, sorry…”

the lady seemed surprised; offended, even. she clutched her chest, but soon laughed it off.

“ah! well, it's not unusual for commoners not to know him. but don't worry, dear! once you get to know him…” she winked, before continuing. “you'll be just as well known, too!”

commoner?

well-known?

you wished you could eye roll, but you just smiled and nodded, frantically looking around in case zayne miraculously appeared.

and he actually had, a while ago —but you hadn't noticed until he stood right behind the two of you.

“i presume that's mine?”

he asked, pointing at the lunchbox and coffee you were clutching.

you sighed in relief and approached him, hugging onto his arm.

“hi…”

you handed him his lunch and coffee, smiling sweetly and feeling much more relaxed now that he was here.

he looked between you and the lady, before fixing his glasses.

“is she bothering you?”

he bluntly asks, and the lady gasps, horrified.

“bothering? how dare you! i was giving out the opportunity to date my precious son! i wish to speak to your boss, sir!”

zayne kisses your forehead, then nods to the old lady, still remaining polite.

“very well, then. in that case, you should ask for dr. zayne and see what he can do. good evening.”

“i will, you insolent youngins!”

she frantically says, still making a ruckus even as he guides you to his office, making you suppress a giggle as you two walk hurriedly.

if she only knew she just talked to dr. zayne himself.

once inside his office, though… he asks you to tell him everything.

you knew he could be a bit nosy here and there, even when he preferred to just listen to whatever you chose to share.

however, he was particularly interested in knowing how things started, and what comments she had made.

you recounted from the start —from her praise when she stopped you, saying how stunning you were, something about your structure, your genes, your height…

and then, the rest of the things she also mentioned.

he was just as surprised, yet… he focused on the most uninteresting part of the story.

“dr. lynn, hm? ...he is good-looking. but i doubt he'd be your type. in fact, i know he's not.”

you cocked your head to the side, then smiled knowingly. this sounded more like self-reassurance on his end.

maybe he was jealous of dr. lynn?

“unless he's a tall, smart, handsome cardiologist with the prettiest hazel eyes and a soothing voice, i also know he wouldn't be my type.”

he looks away, but his lips are curled up softly.

“your lunch might be cold by now… at least i hope the warmth of my hand kept your coffee warm when i clutched it. that lady really got on my nerves…”

he finally chuckles, and he pats his lap as he sits down.

“come, bring your genetically-blessed self over here. i truly need to refuel with my love.”

and he emphasizes that “my” a little more than other times.

but you happily sit down, not commenting on it.

after all, he's only stating what's true, maybe to further reassure himself...

or maybe because he wants the universe to know, so it can spread the word and keep you all to himself, as it should be.

[nekonaps0]

Wait… YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND?! Pt3

✦part1 part2

✦fem!reader

✦characters: Rook, Ruggie, Floyd

✦streamer reader keeps her relationship private until….

✦good luck finding your usernames (post)

Rook Hunt

The soft lighting from your salt lamp bathed the room in a dreamy glow. On your desk lay your new collection of glimmering crystals, rose quartz, obsidian, all lined up neatly for your late night stream.

You held up a gorgeous amethyst to the camera, smiling as your chat scrolled rapidly in excitement.

“This one right here helps with stress and anxiety.” you explained, brushing your fingers over the stone.

Chat:

muzume: soooo pretty!!

swagdreamcat: your voice is so calming 🧘

gay-tomcat: do a tarot pull!!

alby-rei: tell us our fate 👀

jen_jen: is that a new deck?? it looks GORGEOUS

You reached for the deck beside you. “Yep! This one is new! And also has little cat paws on it. I figured we could do a quick pull later….”

You suddenly laughed mid sentence, eyes skimming over a very bold message in chat.

You read it aloud, mostly for the drama “‘Are you single, or are you looking for a good time tonight? 😉’”

Brows arched, you set the tarot deck down slowly and tilted your head toward the camera, deadpan. “I’m not sure if this is the right stream for that energy, my guy.”

Chat:

Neko: OOP!!

gay-tomcat: did he just shoot his shot

jen_jen: lmaooo not during crystal hour

muzume: bro got NO shame 💀💀💀

Just as you were about to move on, a fwip! sound sliced through the quiet.

You blinked. And then… thwack!

A suction cup arrow suddenly landed on the wall behind you. Stuck to it was a paper, with a single handwritten word "No."

You stared at it.

Chat exploded.

Chat:

muzume: WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL JUST HAPPENED?!?

alby-rei: WAS THAT AN ARROW???

swagdreamcat: DID SOMEONE JUST SHOOT A MESSAGE AT HER WALL??

jen_jen: "NO"??

gay-tomcat: WHY IS THIS SO FUNNY OMG

Neko: REVEAL THE ARROW SENDER

You turned back to the camera with a completely straight face, biting back a smile. “That… was a sign from the universe.”

Chat:

Neko: NAHHH WHO DID THAT

swagdreamcat: “A sign from the universe” she says while there's a literal arrow in her WALL

jen_jen: we are NOT letting this slide

gay-tomcat: it’s giving scary boyfriend energy

muzume: no way she doesn’t have a man

You reached over and casually peeled the arrow from the wall, inspecting it like it was just a regular Tuesday. “Happens all the time.”

But then…

A voice, smooth like velvet and echoed from somewhere behind the camera. “Forgive me, ma chérie. The angle was slightly off, next time I shall aim directly at the person who brings you uncomfort.”

You froze for a beat. Then sighed with a smile. “Rook…”

Chat:

swagdreamcat: WE KNEW IT

arlucent: THAT VOICE OMG

Neko: IT'S HIM

jen_jen: LITERALLY HIM??

gay-tomcat: OH MY GOD SHE BAGGED THE SNIPER GUY

alby-rei: the hunter protecting 😭

muzume: shooting arrows at flirty chatters I’M WHEEZING

He stepped into frame briefly, just from the waist down, gloves still on. His face remained out of sight, but his voice impossibly suave, dripped with affection. “She belongs to no one but the stars… but they currently favor me, non?”

You covered your face with your hands, half laughing, half dying of secondhand embarrassment. “I can’t take you anywhere.”

“I do not wish to go anywhere,” he replied smoothly, “except wherever you are.”

Chat:

gay-tomcat: GET A ROOM

gay-tomcat: actually… no bring him ON the stream

arlucent: THIS IS THE BEST REVEAL EVER

alby-rei: the arrow. the DRAMA.

muzume: “no” arrow >>> any response ever

You set the arrow aside, turning back to the camera. “So. Anyway. Let’s pull a tarot card now. Shall we ask the universe about jealous boyfriends with projectile weapons?”

From behind you, Rook chuckled.

The Lovers card flipped out on its own.

You looked at the camera, deadpan. “Of course...”

Chat:

Neko: HAHAHAHA

swagdreamcat: THE UNIVERSE HAS SPOKEN

jen_jen: WE SHIP IT

alby-rei: HUNTER x STREAMER CONFIRMED

Yn_arrow: tarot don't lie 🔮

Ruggie Bucchi

You sat in your cozy streaming chair, lazily blowing a small bubble with your gum as you chatted with your viewers. “…And yeah, the merch drop should go live next Friday,” you said between chews, “as long as the hoodies come back from the printer in time.”

Your chat was scrolling fast, buzzing about color choices and designs, when one comment caught your eye, just as you reached for a tissue to spit out the now flavorless gum.

You leaned back, chewing one last time before dabbing the tissue to your lips. “One sec guys, this gum’s dead.”

You reached over to the trash bin, tossed the tissue in, and then froze, brows pulling together as you spotted something… unhinged in chat.

“‘I’d pay good money for that gum.’” You blinked, then slowly turned to the camera, repulsed.

“Are you serious? No. Absolutely not. I am not selling my chewed gum. I don’t care how much you’d pay.”

Chat:

kiwiopal: 💀💀💀

suns-out-sleeps-in: wtf bro

pistachiokatelyn: not the gum simps

Neko: ayo how much tho?

jen_jen: don’t encourage them!!

sweetestlotusflower: she’s GROSSING OUT

cuupiisstupi: she’s about to block y’all 😭

You shook your head with a look of complete betrayal. “Y’all are outta pocket for real. I mean, that’s gotta be top ten weirdest messages I’ve ever—”

“Why not?”

You flinched and spun around.

There, in the background, casually munching on a rice cracker, stood Ruggie, your very private boyfriend. Still in his hoodie and sweats, hair tousled from a nap, he didn’t even blink as he added

“If someone offered me money for chewed gum? I’d bag it up, sign it, and throw in a ‘thank you’ sticker.”

You stared at him, mouth hanging open.

Chat:

cuupiisstupi: WHOA WHOA WHO IS THAT?!

jen_jen: WAIT

Neko: SHUT UP

kiwiopal: “I’d bag it up” I’M SCREAMING

sweetestlotusflower: YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND???

suns-out-sleeps-in: EXCUSE ME???

“You’re not helping,” you hissed, panic bubbling in your throat as you switched camera angles… too late. Everyone had seen him. His face. His voice.

And his perfectly casual grin.

“Oh no,” you whispered.

Ruggie leaned his elbows on the back of your chair. “What? You said you wouldn’t sell it, I’m just sayin’, that’s missed income, y’know?”

You smacked his arm, face flushed as chat erupted.

Chat:

pistachiokatelyn: IS THIS HER BOYFRIEND??

cuupiisstupi: NO WAY YOU’RE DATING HIM

kiwiopal: THE CAPITALIST HIMSELF

Neko: this explains EVERYTHING

pistachiokatelyn: when’s the couple Q&A?? 👀👀

You turned back to the camera, burying your face in your hands. “So… yeah. Surprise. That’s Ruggie. And no, we are not selling used gums. Mine or his.”

Ruggie leaned into frame with a grin and winked. “Unless you’re offering a good price. Then we’ll talk.”

You shoved him out of the frame while trying not to laugh. “Ruggie, get out!”

He popped another rice cracker into his mouth. “You love me.”

“Not right now I don’t.”

“You do~”

You absolutely did. And now, apparently, so did your entire chat.

Chat:

sweetestlotusflower: COUPLE STREAM WHEN???

suns-out-sleeps-in: I KNEW IT!

cuupiisstupi: the gum now is iconic

kiwiopal: so about the gum 👀

You sighed dramatically. “…Fine. You win. But we’re not selling used snacks.”

From behind you “...Unless it’s vintage.”

“RUGGIE EWW!!”

Floyd Leech

It was a warm, sunny afternoon perfect for a chill stream.

You were lounging comfortably on a sunbed by your backyard pool, the soft sound of birds and trickling water in the background. Wearing a cute two piece swimsuit and sunglasses, you sipped from your iced drink and leaned toward the camera.

“Alright chat,” you said, smiling, “today’s just a little hangout stream. Nothing crazy. I figured we could talk, enjoy the weather, and I’ll answer a few questions while I get some sun. Sometimes we need to touch some grass.”

Chat:

universallydazepenguin: omg ur swimsuit is so cute 😭

kaii156: pool stream??

spaceywaste: the vibes are immaculate

wokasiv: real question: iced tea or iced coffee?

imasip: who taking those aesthetic photos of u 👀

You laughed. “I told you, I use a timer! No secret photographer hiding behind the bushes.”

But that would soon turn out to be a lie. You were mid sentence, answering a question about your summer plans, when—

“Shriiiimpyyy~”

Your heart stopped. You turned your head in slow motion, already dreading what you’d see…

And there he was.

Floyd wearing only his swim shorts, dripping slightly, towel tossed over his shoulder, and a glint in his eyes that screamed trouble.

He leaned over you from behind, resting his chin on your head. “You done yet? I wanna play with you now~”

“I—! Floyd!” you yelped, scrambling to mute the mic but only managing to knock over your drink. “I’m still streaming!”

“Oh?” He blinked once… then grinned, wide and sharp. “You didn’t say that~”

Chat:

alby-rei: WHO IS THAT

calcifiedunderland: WHO JUST SAID SHRIMPY??

imasip: NO WAY

wokasiv: sir! Put some clothes on… never mind… I like the view…

universallydazepenguin: EXCUSE ME???

kaii156: he’s shirtless IM GONE

spaceywaste: AYO! Double fan service?!

You reached to cover the camera or do something, but Floyd was faster, he snatched the camera with one hand and tilted it toward the pool, still holding you effortlessly in the other arm like a ragdoll.

“Alright, chat~” he announced cheerfully, “boring talk stream is over! It’s a pool stream now!”

“Floyd, NO—!”

Before you could stop him, he sprinted toward the pool and jumped in with you in his arms.

SPLASH.

The camera caught the blur of movement, a flash of water, and then the screaming laughter as you both surfaced.

You spit water out, gasping. “You’re insane!”

Floyd slicked his wet hair back, grinning at you like you were the most fun toy in the world. “Mmm… is that a complain?”

Chat:

jen_jen: WHAT JUST HAPPENED

spaceywaste: SHE’S DATING WITH A PSYCHO???

alby-rei: HE PICKED HER UP LIKE NOTHING 😭

calcifiedunderland: THIS STREAM TOOK A TURN

Neko: pool stream of the year LMAO

wokasiv: DID SHE JUST GET YEETED INTO THE POOL

You swam over to the pool’s edge where the camera was still rolling and sighed, water dripping from your lashes. “Well. Um. Surprise?”

From behind you, Floyd wrapped his arms around your waist and pressed a kiss to your temple. “You said when I get back we’d hang out…”

“…after the stream,” you muttered, but couldn’t help smiling as he nuzzled into your neck.

Chat:

spaceywaste: AHHHHHHH

calcifiedunderland: I SHIP IT SO HARD

alby-rei: THEY’RE CUTE AND CHAOTIC HELP

imasip: she really tried to keep him secret 💀

wokasiv: it’s getting hot in here 👀

You shook your head and reached for the camera to end the stream. “Alright, alright, you guys saw nothing. Stream’s over, go touch some grass.”

Floyd grinned. “Why would they touch grass when they could watch us make out in the water?”

“FLOYD.”

You slammed the stream off, screen going dark

But the internet was already on fire.

..............................................................................................................................

I literally looked up “arrow sound” to write Rook 😭

[iamactuallysocute]

is there an alternate ending to that last baby saja story where she actually dumps his ass for someone better 😭

(/hj, I enjoyed the writing even if I wanted to read my hair out over how much an asshole he was being... half wilted flowers can only make up for so much...)

BABY SAJA – LOYALTY IS WASTED ON MEN LIKE YOU!

JINU/ABBY/ROMANCE/MYSTERY – LOYALTY AIN’T FOR ASSHOLES!

Where you dump his ass for another Saja boy💋

cw: cursing, mentions of sex (BDSM mentions, spanking, hair pulling, biting), light gore mentions

“I’m breaking up with you.”

You don’t shout it. You don’t even raise your voice. You say it the same way you’d tell someone it’s raining. Calm. Factual. Final.

Baby’s sitting on your couch. Slouched. Legs spread like a dickhead. Phone in one hand. He doesn’t even look up.

“Cool.” he says, shrugs, thumb still scrolling. “I figured.”

“You figured?”

“Mm.”

You want to launch a sandal at his face. Ancient demon or not.

You don’t even recognize the person standing here anymore. You—you, the one who lit up when he walked into a room, who spent months overthinking every look, every silence, every goddamn breadcrumb of affection he flicked your way like a charity case—you can’t believe you ever let this man touch you.

You grab your phone. Your keys. Open the door. “Don’t be here when I get back.”

He leans back into the cushion, arms stretched across the top of the couch, still acting like he’s on a fucking lunch break. “Sure.”

That finally breaks your heart clean open. Not because he said it. But because that’s all he had to say.

You walk out. You mean it. You’re done. You know that someone else wants you. That someone else who is a hundred times better than Baby wants you. And that someone is…

JINU

You just left your friend’s place. The air’s crisp. It’s late. You’re cute. You’re cold. You’re alone. You pull your little jacket tighter around yourself, cheeks cold, lips still sticky from the cherry lip balm you borrowed in the bathroom before leaving.

You close the building’s door behind you gently, click of the lock fading into the quiet street.

“Walking home alone? In this neighborhood?”

Not gonna lie you got scared a little.

You look up.

Jinu’s leaning against the wall near the steps. Hands in his pockets.

And you smile. Because it’s Jinu. And he’s never been anything but good to you. Even if you know what kind of demon he really is. Even if the boys call him selfish, sadistic, an absolute fucking tyrant on bad days. Even if he once pushed Abby through a wall just because he looked at his dinner the wrong way.

With you though?

He’s soft.

Warm.

Charming.

“Jinu.” you say, voice light, glowing without trying. “What are you doing here?”

He straightens up, steps toward you casually. “Was nearby. Figured I’d walk you home. Don’t want you out here alone this late. Not after the week you’ve had.”

“…News travels fast, huh?”

Jinu hums, offers you his arm. “What can I say? Some demons talk too much.”

God, his voice.

You hesitate a second. But only a second. Then, you loop your hand around his arm gently. Nestle in. Let yourself feel the warmth of him through the fabric. How solid he is. Stable. Steady. Unlike someone else.

“Sorry about the breakup.” Jinu says as you two start walking. The street is quiet, lamplight painting gold streaks on the sidewalk. “I mean it.”

You glance at him. “Are you really?”

He looks down at you. “I’m sorry he didn’t see what he had.” he says smoothly. “But I’m not sorry you’re free.”

Your cheeks heat. And not from the cold.

“Jinu…” you giggle a little, playful. “You’re too much.”

“Not enough.” he murmurs, but it’s low enough that it almost gets swallowed by the wind.

You blink up at him. “Huh?”

He just smiles.

You fall into an easy silence after that. He doesn’t flirt? not really. He just walks beside you like he’s meant to. Like his place has always been at your side.

He never says he wants you.

He doesn’t need to.

It’s there.

In every silent glance.

Every breath between words.

Every step closer he takes without touching you.

“Was it bad?” he asks after a minute. Voice quieter now. “The breakup?”

You shrug. “Not as bad as it should’ve been. I mean, he didn’t even fight me on it. He just… sat there. Didn’t even blink. Like I told him I was leaving to grab milk.”

“That tracks.” Jinu mutters.

“God, right?” you laugh, and then immediately start rambling, because you’re tired and warm from earlier and Jinu being so weirdly comforting is disarming as hell. “Like—I kept thinking I was gonna cry, or he was gonna cry, or something. But no. It was like breaking up with a brick wall. And I—I really tried, you know? For so long. I gave everything. I cooked for him. I listened. I supported him when he was moody and ancient and impossible. And he gave me nothing. Like not even eye contact sometimes. And I kept thinking, ‘Well, he’s a demon, maybe he just doesn’t know how to love like a human does,’ but that’s bullshit. That’s actual bullshit. Because you guys know how. You just don’t want to when it’s inconvenient. And I’m not—god, sorry, I’m totally trauma dumping, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t apologize.” Jinu says. Instantly. Firm.

You pause. Glance over at him.

“You’re allowed to talk.” he says. “You were with him a long time. You’re allowed to hurt.”

You breathe in slow, lips parting, unsure what to say to that.

“And for the record?” he adds after a beat. “You weren’t the problem. You’re… better than what he ever deserved.”

Your heart hiccups.

“Thanks.” you murmur, voice small, shy. “I… I’ve been doubting myself a lot lately. Wondering if I was the issue.”

“You weren’t.”

“You say that like you know.”

“I do.” he says. Simple. Straightforward.

“You always know what to say, huh?” you ask, nudging him gently.

“I usually don’t give a fuck.” he replies, lips twitching. “But for you? I try.”

You’ve reached your block. Your apartment is really high up. You should say goodbye. You should. But… you kinda don’t want to.

“Do you wanna come in?” You ask it like you’re not thinking about it. Like it’s casual. Like you haven’t been feeling oddly warm and floaty walking next to the demon embodiment of selfish cruelty for the last twenty minutes. You smile at him, gentle, a little shy. “Just for a drink or something. Water. Tea. I think I have juice.”

He looks past you, up at your building. Then at the door. Then back at you. And for a moment, there’s hesitation—not that he looks uncertain, but that something else is pulling him back. Because you don’t know this, but Gwi-Ma’s voice has been digging into his skull since he saw you leave your friend’s building. Jinu had brushed it off. As he always does. But it’s still there. Gwi-Ma knows. Of course he knows. And Jinu’s already pushing it.

Because he likes you. More than he wants to. More than he should.

And he’s not good for you.

He knows that, too.

“Can’t.” he says, tone low. “I’ve got something to handle.”

You don’t hide your disappointment, just like you don’t make it a big thing either. You’re a sweetheart like that. You just nod, lips pushing into a soft little pout. “Right.”

You reach for your keys.

And then you feel it—his hand, gently taking yours.

You blink.

He lifts it to his lips, slow. Elegant. Eyes on yours the entire time.

He kisses the back of your hand. Just barely.

When he lets go, your hand stays there for a second.

He steps back.

“You’re doing alright.” he says.

You blink at him, soft. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” he murmurs. “Better without him.”

Then, with a final glance, he turns, shoves his hands into his pockets again, and walks off down the street. You stand there a second longer, hand still tingling, heart annoyingly fluttery. You should go inside. You should forget that Jinu, of all people, just made you feel like you were made of glass and diamonds.

But you don’t.

You stay right there.

Watching until he turns the corner and disappears into the dark.

The next time you invited him in, he came in. Just a drink. That was the deal. He didn’t touch you. Not once. But he looked. Leaned back, one arm thrown over the backrest, watching you.

The second time? He actually asked to come in. He made you laugh. God, he always made you laugh in that infuriating way, like you knew he was an arrogant bastard and yet somehow it still felt hot. You talked. Not about anything important.

Still didn’t touch you.

But when you stood up to grab a blanket, you felt his eyes on the backs of your thighs.

By the third time? He stayed late. You gave him something fizzy to drink. You got comfortable. He got comfortable in your space.

He came close that time. Leaned in when you were talking. Let his knee brush yours. Watched your lips when you spoke, which made you mess up your words three separate times.

And when you got up to get him a snack, he followed you into the kitchen. Not saying a word. Just leaned against your counter, arms crossed, watching you dig through a cabinet like you were the midnight craving.

Not like he told anyone else though. He wants to show you off, he really does, but if Baby knew Jinu was here? Sitting on your floor while you braid a red string bracelet for him? Watching you hum to yourself while you slice peaches into a bowl? He’d burn the whole damn apartment building down. Demon pettiness knows no bounds.

The fourth time? You didn’t even ask if he wanted to come in. You just stepped aside, and he walked in like he belonged there. He did. That’s the problem. The more he came over, the more it felt like he was meant to be here. In your space. In your air. In you.

And he’s so evil.

He’s not even pretending to be soft with anyone else. You’ve seen it. The way he shoves Baby in rehearsals, talks over Abby, rolls his eyes when Mystery gets too feral. He’s cruel. Self-centered. Cold.

But not to you.

Not anymore.

Because Jinu’s smart. He sees things for what they are. And he sees you. Bright. Effortlessly kind. All sunshine and softness and stupid cute sweaters. With your cute apartment and your warm drinks and your tendency to talk about things like the shape of clouds or the way the sidewalk smells after rain.

And he fucking wants to be gentle to you. Wants it in a way he doesn’t understand. Because it doesn’t make sense. He’s a demon. A selfish bastard. He takes what he wants and leaves everything else bleeding.

And he really really likes you.

Not that he says that out loud.

No.

Not Jinu.

And then one night, finally—after three drinks, and one of those long silences that stretch and hum with meaning—you looked at him. Really looked. And he was already looking back.

You said, “What?”

He said, “Nothing.”

Then he reached out—slowly, carefully—and tucked your hair behind your ear.

And you kissed him.

You kissed him first.

He kissed you back.

Just once.

Slow.

Hot.

Hands cupping your face.

And when he finally pulled back? He whispered against your lips, “…Took you long enough.”

He is, weirdly, incredibly caring. He listens when you talk. Actually listens. Like, retains info level listening.

Jinu went from kicking chairs across the dance floor to gently moving your hair out of your eyes when you were half-asleep on the couch. From barely tolerating Baby’s tantrums to learning how to make your tea just right because you “always drink that bitter shit.” From using people like pawns to holding your face after a kiss.

Wild.

He texted you first. You didn’t even know demons could text properly. Baby had replied with fucking emojis and one-word answers. But Jinu? He talked to you. He paid attention. Like actually paid attention. He remembered things you said in passing and brought them up again days later. You told him once—once—that you liked chocolate-covered almonds and he showed up with a bag the next time he came over. Said nothing. Just tossed them to you like it was nothing.

And the sex? Oh my god.

Not like it was bad with Baby. Technically. He had a nice face, a hot body, and 300+ years of “dicking around” (literally) experience. But it was empty. Detached. Mechanical. Like he was doing it because he was bored or hungry. Not because he wanted you.

Jinu fucked like he meant it.

Like your pleasure was his business. Like you were the event, not the warm-up. He could be rough—god, could he—but he watched you the whole time, learning what made you shake, what made you cry out, what made you go all soft and fucked-out and begging without using words, and made it clear that if you weren’t enjoying yourself, it wasn’t fucking over.

And the aftercare. You never expected that from someone like him.

And it wasn’t just about the sex.

It was everything.

All little things Baby never did.

Baby never asked if you made it home safe. Jinu does.

Baby never remembered your favorite things. Jinu remembered everything.

And yeah, sometimes he was still a prick. He didn’t say the right things all the time. He never apologized first. But he never ignored you. Never cold-shouldered you. Never made you feel like you were chasing.

Strange. How different they are. How much difference it makes.

You used to think demons didn’t know how to love.

Turns out they just didn’t know how to love you right.

Right now, the boys just finished practicing. Well, the four boys did, Jinu mostly barked orders around and threw a tantrum when they weren’t behaving, but they’re done now.

“Yo, you done?” Abby’s voice cuts through the cool-down haze, breathless as he peels off his drenched tee and slaps it across Romance’s back.

Romance barks out a fake scream.

Jinu doesn’t answer any of them. Doesn’t have to. He’s already at his bag, slipping out of his black hoodie, fixing his hair back into place like he hasn’t just spent the last hour moving like he wants the floor to crack beneath him.

Romance clocks it first. “Yo, where you going so quick, stone-face?”

Jinu straightens up. Hooks a thumb in his belt loop. Looks over his shoulder. “Date.”

Everything.

Stops.

Even Baby, slouched against the mirror, sipping on a bottled water freezes. Mid-sip.

Abby blinks, scoffs, then leans forward like he misheard. “Wait. With who?”

Jinu smiles. Just a flick of it. Sharp. Smug. Slow.

“Y/N.”

The blood visibly leaves Baby’s face.

Romance’s jaw drops. “With—wait. Our Y/N?”

Mystery’s eyes open. For the first time in the past hour.

“You’re lying.” Abby says, but it sounds more like he wants Jinu to be lying.

“I’m not.” Jinu zips his bag shut.

Romance walks over, pushing his hair out of his face. “Okay, but like… how serious is this date?”

Jinu doesn’t even look at him. He just reaches into his pocket, casual, unfazed, the picture of confidence, and pulls out a condom and cheekily waves the little packet between two fingers.

And then he walks out.

Boss.

BOSS.

B. O. S. S.

Romance’s hands are on his head. “That motherfucker.”

Abby’s jaw is locked so tight his temple’s twitching.

Mystery says nothing. Just slowly sits up, lips parting like he’s about to growl.

Baby is still facing the mirror. Staring at himself. Water bottle hanging loose in his hand.

His reflection?

Absolutely fucking fuming.

At your place, you were already waiting by the door, if you’re being honest. Not right by it, but close enough that when the knock came, you could open it in record time. Like the angel you are.

When you hear him knock, you open the door already smiling, already glowing, because how could you not? He’s leaning one shoulder against the frame like he didn’t just practice for hours and mentally wreck the other boys. He’s dressed down tonight, sleeves rolled up to reveal those sharp, veiny forearms you’ve grown to obsess over.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” you melt, breathe, stepping aside to let him in.

You barely have time to close the door behind you already turn to peck him on the lips. Just a sweet little kiss, because you’re such a sweetheart.

You pull back with a grin, and before you can even take a step away, Jinu leans in and peppers your cheek with tiny, rapid-fire kisses. It’s playful. Stupid. Adorable.

You let out a surprised little shriek, swatting at his chest, and he just smirks, tilting his head.

“Jinu.” you laugh, trying to shove him lightly, “Stop, that tickles.”

“Mmm.” He doesn’t stop. Just mutters into your skin. “Don’t tell me what to do in my girlfriend’s house.”

That word.

Girlfriend.

God.

You’re weak for it.

You turn into actual mush under his hands, and you know he knows it because he’s smirking now, all cocky and smug. His fingers sneak under the hem of your hoodie, palm splaying against your lower back, wandering

“You’re handsy today.” you tease, wrapping your arms around his neck, fingers playing with the ends of his hair. “Not even a glass of wine first?”

“You want me to leave?” He buries his nose in your neck, breath warm.

You scoff. “Shut up. Totally not what I said.”

He grins.

You lead him to the kitchen, still buzzing from the warmth of him, feeling that weird, dizzy contrast, how the fuck someone so ruthless, someone who literally is here to take souls, can turn into this clingy, lazy bastard who latches onto you.

And the crazy part? This is the relationship you always wanted. No games. No confusion. No cold shoulders or question marks or awkward silences. No laying in bed wondering if you’re the problem. Just… this.

Jinu stealing kisses when you’re mid-sentence.

Jinu opening the fridge like he pays rent.

Jinu pretending not to care but kissing your knuckles when you hand him a glass of water.

Jinu looking at you like you’re the first human he’s ever actually seen.

You always knew he was better.

That was the thing.

That was the problem.

That was the reason.

You broke up with Baby because you stopped lying to yourself. Because once Jinu started looking at you like that, once he started stepping in when Baby would step back—how the fuck could you stay?

It wasn’t just that Baby didn’t treat you right.

It was that you knew someone could.

And now?

Look at you.

Happy. Soft. Glowing.

Your lips are pink from kisses. Your hoodie smells like his cologne. Your smile won’t fade.

He’s a man. A real one. And he wants you. Fully. Openly. So when he follows you to the couch, wraps you up in his arms, you let yourself melt. You let yourself trust it. You let yourself be happy.

Because look at you.

Glowing.

ABBY

He showed up at your door with a busted lip, knuckles bloodied, and a body even worse. Looked horrible.

“Holy fuck.” was the first thing you said.

He smiled, that same lopsided, boyish, dimple-popping, fucking adorable smile, and said: “Hey, angel. You got food?”

Food.

Not gauze. Not antiseptic.

Food.

You stared at the walking wound in front of you, torn between smacking him and hugging him. But he just gave you the world’s most manipulative puppy eyes (oneof which was rapidly swelling shut) and you sighed, hard, and let him in.

“Here.” you mutter, placing the steaming plate down in front of him.

He grins through the cut on his cheek. “Thanks, babe.”

He’s already halfway to digging in, but you’re already gone, striding back to your room, cute little pastel first aid kit in hand. The cute one. Pink zipper. Stickers. Possibly glitter. Baby didn’t like when you used it on him, said it was embarrassing. But Abby? He’s a fucking man.

This is fine. Totally healthy.

You come back around the corner, already snapping open the box, ignoring the way he’s shoveling rice like he hasn’t eaten in two weeks. He probably hasn’t.

“Alright.” you mutter, kneeling beside him on the couch. “Lemme see that jaw.”

He tilts his face toward you, obedient but still chewing. “Mmm. You smell good.”

You sigh and start dabbing antiseptic on the cut under his cheekbone. “Hold still.”

“I am holding still.” he mumbles.

You hold his chin between two fingers when you dab at the cut on his cheekbone. “Sorry if this stings.”

“It’s okay.” he says. Quieter now. His eyes are on your face.

“You’re doing great.” you murmur, brushing sweat-soaked hair from his face. “Not gonna hurt. Just cold.”

“Mmm. I like the cold.” he mumbles.

You keep tending to him, voice a soft stream of kindness. “You’re doing so good, Abby. Almost done, okay?” you say as you disinfect a scratch along his collarbone. “You’re really strong. You must’ve scared the hell out of the other guy.”

He just hums.

“Shirt.” you hum, digging into the kit.

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it.” he says, and shrugs out of his already unbuttoned top.

You try not to stare.

(You fail a little.)

A chest broad enough to put a family on. Shoulder blades like a wet dream. One of his shoulders is a little purple, like someone bigger than him tried and failed to pin him down.

You wince at that one. “Jeez, Abby.”

“I won.” he says, like that makes it okay.

“Tell me if this stings.” you say, pressing to the cut.

“It stings.”

You glance up. “Seriously?”

“No.”

Yes.

You sigh and trail your fingers along his arm as you clean a cut there, caressing gently to keep him calm. Every time he flinches—even a little—you hush him sweetly, murmuring, “I know, I know. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Almost done. You’re being really brave.”

He watches your hands. Careful. Precise. You’re not even realizing how tender your touch is.

“You’re okay.” you whisper. “I’ve got you.”

And god, if his heart wasn’t doing push-ups before, it is now.

He’s quiet for a long second. Just looking at you. Watching the way you lean in to check his side. The way you frown when you see a deeper bruise. The way you mumble things like “poor baby” and “this looks worse than it is” like you’re apologizing for not being able to magic it away.

And you don’t even know what you’re doing to him. You don’t realize that the ache in his chest has nothing to do with the fight anymore. That he came here because something pulled him here.

Because when he got thrown through a brick wall and spit blood, the only person he wanted was you.

And all he can do is stare. Softly. Silently. Desperately.

“Look at this bruise.” you whisper, lightly tracing one with a finger. “Poor thing.”

“‘M fine.” he mutters. But it’s breathless. Awkward.

You glance up. Smile. “You will be.”

He looks away. Down, then on the floor, then back at you.

“You’re doing great.” you whisper, dabbing another bruise. “You’re always doing great. Can you lift your arm a bit for me, sweetie?”

He obeys. And when he does, your hand brushes along his bicep, steadying him. God, his arm. You could cry. You could sleep on that arm. That arm’s more built than your entire credit score.

But you’re not being flirty. Not really. You’re being… you.

You’re pressing gauze against his wounds like he’s glass. Stroking a thumb across his cheekbone when you clean the bruise blooming under his eye. Murmuring things like, “you’re okay” and “this might sting, I’m sorry, love” and “you’ve been so brave, Abby, really.”

And he just sits there. Food forgotten, spoon paused halfway to his mouth, just staring at you. Big brown eyes, wide and blinking. Shoulders tense. Lips parted. Not in lust. Not even in flirt mode. Just… in awe.

“There.” you hum, leaning back just a bit. “Not too bad. You’ll live.” You flop down next to him finally, close but not too close, letting your shoulder brush his. He’s warm. Too warm. “So, what happened?”

He pauses, wiping a bit of rice from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, like the feral fucking asshole he is. “Huntrix.”

Your mouth opens in a little “oh.” you lean your cheek into your palm. “They really don’t give you boys a break…”

He shrugs. “Just me and Mystery.”

Your eyes go wide. “Oh my god, Abby.”

“They were more pissed at Mystery, to be honest.” he says, voice casual as hell, but his thigh is tense next to yours.

You let out a little noise of distress. “That’s awful! You poor thing. You don’t deserve that.”

He chuckles under his breath. “I kinda did.“

“Well… I’m glad you’re okay. Even if you’re an idiot. A big one.”

He glances at you. “I’m really okay.”

You smile up at him, sweet and simple, like loving is your default setting.

He swallows.

That quiet lingers.

“You, uh… still dealing with that breakup?”

You blink. You weren’t expecting it. Not now. Not from him. “Yeah.” you say. “I guess.”

He looks at you, brows tugged together. It’s almost funny. Abby could punch a tank in half and not blink, but one mention of your broken heart and he’s clenching his fists like he wants to go out and commit a homicide.

“It’s not like I regret loving him.” you say, quietly. “I just regret waiting so long to love myself too.”

“Why’d you even stay with him?” he asks. Not judging. Not curious. Just… confused. Like someone just tried to explain calculus to a rock.

“Because I believed he could love me back,” you shrug. “That he wanted to. But love without effort isn’t love. It’s just ego. And I was just… easy. I made it too easy for him.”

Abby leans back, jaw clenched, looking away from you like he can’t stand the thought of it. You being easy. You being hurt.

“But it’s okay.” you say softly. “It’ll pass.”

“You’re too good for that guy.”

“Thank you.” you say, voice barely a whisper, touched in ways you don’t want to admit. “That means more than you know.”

You look at him. Really look at him. Big, busted-up, beautiful him. You’ve known Abby long enough to understand his language. And now? He’s watching you like something clicked. Like something’s changed.

You’ve been sitting on something too.

“You know,” you begin. “you’re kind of part of the reason I broke up with him.”

That gets his attention. He stiffens slightly, brows pulling together. “Wait, me?”

“I remember it.” you nod. “That day you sat down next to me.”

Abby blinks. You can tell he’s replaying about ten thousand moments in his mind, all of them loud, messy, probably involving a punch or a flirt or something in between.

“We were at the studio. I brought food. Baby was ignoring me, shocker.” You smile, a little bitter, but mostly sad. “You were the only one who noticed I was sitting by myself. You sat down next to me, told me I looked good. And I remember… I felt it.”

His eyes flick to yours, still a little confused but hanging on every word now.

“I felt seen.” you go on, voice softer now. “You helped me realize I deserve more than someone who only looks at me when my shirt’s off. I need someone who sees me when I’m sitting on the sidelines, doing nothing, just being. And still thinks I’m worth sitting next to.”

Abby exhales, slow and low. “…I didn’t know I mattered like that to you.”

You smile, gentle. “You matter more than you think.”

For once, you’re not the one giving all the love. You’re just sitting there. Being loved back.

You lean over just a little, not even making a thing of it, and press the softest kiss against his cheek. His stupid, handsome cheek.

You’re not trying to seduce him.

You’re just being you.

“You know…” you say, casually, like it’s just a passing thought. “you’re so much more than your body, Abby.”

He stares at you.

“You’re kind.” you go on. “In your way. You notice things. And yeah, you’re hot,” you chuckle, waving vaguely at his whole shirtless situation. “but that’s not why I let you in tonight. Or why you being here makes me feel… safer.”

His breath hitches. Actually hitches.

You’re not even flirting, you’re just telling the truth. Nobody ever talks to Abby like this. Not the girls he hooks up with. Not his bandmates. Not even himself. They call him muscle. Weapon. The guy who throws people through walls and then flexes about it.

He’s wrapped. Absolutely wrapped around you. The way you see him? He could scream. He could bite something. He could drop to his knees and ask why the hell you didn’t choose him first.

He finally swallows, voice rough. “I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me.”

You tilt your head, smile soft. “That’s a shame. It’s true.”

He’s evil. Like, actively evil. Bro’s literally killed things for less than an insult.

But you? You’re the dream. The light. The human warmth.

And now you’ve kissed his cheek and told him he’s more than his abs?

Yeah. He’s done.

Deadass done.

Here’s the truth, Abby is not a better person than Baby. They’re both demons. They’re both horrible people. They’ve both probably killed people with their bare hands.

But Abby? Abby’s a better boyfriend. A better man. A better presence in your life.

Baby never liked being seen. He hated vulnerability. Every time you got close, he pulled away, rolled his eyes, played it cool, made you feel like you were doing too much for simply wanting a boyfriend who didn’t treat you like a side quest.

Abby? Abby makes a meal out of you just walking into the room. He watches you. In that aware way. He knows where you are at all times. You move across the room? His eyes flick. You laugh? He twitches. You wear something cute? He’ll make a joke, sure, but you catch him staring five times when he thinks you’re not looking.

He pays attention.

Not just when you’re crying, either. Not just when you’re naked. Always.

When you’re upset, Baby used to pretend not to notice. Would roll his eyes or sigh. He never asked what was wrong. Never pulled you close. He’d ghost you for three days and then show up to your place acting like you were the clingy one.

Abby hears it in your voice. Sees it in your face. And sure, maybe he’s not great at talking about it, but it’s real. He notices.

And fuck… that alone is sexy.

He’s still a demon, of course. A complete beast. Manhandles you left and right. You’ve been lifted. Tossed. Pinned against a wall, a counter, the hood of a car, the floor, once even your own front door. The man can’t keep his hands to himself. Whether he’s slinging you over his shoulder just to “see something from a higher angle” (read: flex) or pinning you to the couch because “you’re not sitting properly” (read: he missed holding you), the constant manhandling is weirdly tender. Protective. Reverent. He’s carrying you across the room because “you were in the way, babe.” His strength? Ridiculous. There’s no such thing as “gentle” hands with him, not physically—but emotionally? The care? The softness in the grip? It’s there.

And okay, listen—not to be petty—but Abby’s body? Yeah. Sorry. It’s just better.

Not that Baby wasn’t hot. He was hot. Annoyingly so. That’s half the reason you stayed as long as you did, right?

But Abby’s a tank. He’s the blueprint. You’ve felt safer wrapped in his arms than you ever did laying next to Baby in bed, and that says everything.

And god, the sex? With Abby? There’s feeling. There’s love. There’s effort. It’s not some lazy “come over” and then silence for two days after. It’s intense. Hot. Real. He looks at you the whole time. Tells you what he likes, asks what you like, leaves kisses in your hair after and holds you.

There’s something sacred in the way you gasp when his hand slides up your thigh. Like he’s worshipping you with every kiss, every grip, every bite and bruise and sweet whisper that you’d never expect from a man who bench presses cars for cardio.

It’s rough, yeah. It’s filthy, yeah. But it’s also… loving.

Abby’s the kind of guy who lifts you when he kisses you. Who makes you feel it in your bones, down your spine, in places Baby never bothered to reach, emotionally or otherwise. He’s got that kind of body that makes your knees weak just from a back hug. And he knows it. He uses it, too. To hold you like you’re breakable. To fuck you like you’re not. All that manhandling? The way he grabs your thighs and drags you closer without asking? The way he flips you like you weigh nothing, like you’re his favorite thing to play with? Oh yeah. It’s insane.

Abby wants you. You see it in the way his eyes darken when your shirt lifts even a little. You feel it when he groans, low in his throat, just from hearing you breathe hard. You know it when he grabs your hips, when he pins your wrists down, when he pulls you flush against his chest and growls something absolutely obscene in your ear right before he ruins you.

And he doesn’t just take, he gives. Over and over. Until you’re limp, delirious, completely spun out, and the only word you remember how to say is his name.

Baby never ate you out.

Yeah. Let that sink in.

Meanwhile, Abby has an actual addiction. You so much as breathe too sweet and he’s already got you on the kitchen counter like a last meal.

He calls it “protein.”

You don’t ask questions.

It’s not just sex—it’s focus. Attention. That thing you were always starving for with Baby. You could wear a dress for hours for Baby and get a peck on the forehead, a side comment about being “too much.” Meanwhile, Abby will walk in, shirtless from training, take one look at you and say something like, “Come here. Now.”

And you do.

Happily.

Abby’s a giver. The kind who looks at you like worship, who doesn’t stop until you’re crying into the sheets and then asks if you’re good for one more. The kind who loves how messy you get, how good you feel, how much you react to him.

Manhandling is basically his love language.

Push you into a wall just to kiss your forehead? Standard.

Tug your hips into his lap without a word? Also standard.

Hold both your wrists in one hand and still be able to run the other down your back? Standard and unfair.

And that body drives you crazy. Abby’s physique looks unreal. Baby? Cute. Pretty, even. But if we’re talking who wrecks you and still asks how your day was? Abby wins. By a landslide. With his arms tied behind his back. (Which, by the way, you’ve also tried.)

One day you’re lying awake next to Baby, wondering why you feel lonelier than you do when you’re alone, and the next you’re dodging Abby’s impossibly wide shoulders as he carries you across the damn apartment because “you looked tired, babe.” And he doesn’t even let you walk half the time now.

He’s not perfect. No. He still forgets to text sometimes. Still gets into fights with the others. Still eats like a linebacker and leaves blood on your towels. Still occasionally lifts you without warning, or slaps your ass so hard you fucking collapse.

But you know he cares.

He’s still evil. Still punches first, asks nothing ever. Still can’t figure out how to say “I love you” without mumbling and looking away like he didn’t just cradle your face an hour ago and call you “precious.”

But you know what?

He actually likes you.

And you’re not crying in hallways anymore. You’re smiling in kitchens. With hickeys on your neck and his hoodie on your body. Wrapped up in the arms of someone who chose to see you.

Every day.

Every time.

Without needing to be asked.

Now, it’s that crash after rehearsal. Sweat. Sore muscles. Jinu barking like a drill sergeant two hours past when he swore he’d stop. Everyone’s spread across the kitchen, chairs, counters, floor. They’re tired. They’re hungry. And Jinu’s scrolling through delivery apps.

“Can someone just pick already?” Jinu snaps, scrolling violently on his phone, thumb moving fast enough to kill.

“I told you.” Mystery mutters from the floor, lying flat, then whispers something.

“You said that three decibels above a whisper, no one heard you.” Jinu huffs.

From his place leaned against the fridge, Romance looks up, dreamy as always, shirt sticking to his chest from sweat, but still looking heavenly. “Okay but if we’re ordering, I want the tteokbokki from that place. With the fried egg. No, wait, two eggs. Poached. And if they don’t poach, scrambled. And no onions. Actually, caramelized only—”

Jinu lets out the sigh of someone who’s aged 30 years in the last 30 seconds. “Baby? Food?”

Baby barely lifts his head from the counter, where he’s face-down, chewing gum. “Whatever.”

“Perfect. You?” He looks at Abby.

Abby shrugs. “Nah. I’m good.”

Pause.

“Wait, what?” Romance perks up. “You’re skipping dinner?”

Jinu narrows his eyes. “You never skip dinner.”

Abby just shrugs again. But this time there’s a little curl at the corner of his mouth.

Romance is practically vibrating now. “Who’s cooking for you?” he asks, voice like a gossiping schoolgirl. “You got a girl, Abs?”

Abby looks around the room, takes his time, then drops it like it’s nothing. “Y/N’s cooking.”

Dead silence.

Jinu stops scrolling. Baby lifts his head. Mystery’s head rolls to the side, one eye cracking open.

“What.” Romance gasps, slapping the counter.

Abby doesn’t answer immediately. He’s not a man of drama. “We’re seeing each other.”

Romance looks scandalized, hands over his chest like he’s personally been betrayed. “You’re dating Y/N?! You?! I’ve been trying to hit that since—”

Jinu cuts in. “Please. Stop. Talking.”

Mystery mutters something about “rip the bandage off next time,” while Jinu just glares at Abby like this is somehow his fault.

Baby’s watching, silent. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. Because the little twitch in his jaw is enough.

Romance is still being dramatic as hell. “I mean, no offense, but I never saw Y/N going for Abby.”

Abby gives a slow smirk. “You’d be surprised.”

Romance shivers. “Ugh. I love that for her.”

Baby’s watching Abby now.

Jinu notices, of course. Jinu always notices. He doesn’t say anything, but he throws Baby a very specific look over his shoulder as he finalizes the food order. A “don’t be a bitch” look.

Baby doesn’t do anything. But there’s that thing in his eyes now.

He didn’t want you. Not really. Not enough.

But someone else having you?

Someone else earning what he wasted?

Oh, he feels that.

He feels every fucking second of it.

About two hours later, your door unlocks. Opens. Closes. You peek out from the kitchen the second you hear that heavy, familiar step.

“Abby.” you beam, stepping out, hair a little messy. “You’re late. Did they keep you after again? Did Jinu make you run the chorus five more times? Did Romance throw a tantrum again? Sit. Sit down, babe.”

He barely gets his shoes off before you’re already ushering him into the chair, hand at the small of his back. As he sits down, he pulls you down onto his lap and plants a kiss behind your ear.

“Did anyone hit your face again?” you ask and gently cup his chin and turn his head side to side.

“Looks worse than it is.” he murmurs, his hand already finding the back of your neck, thumb brushing there like it’s muscle memory.

“Still.” you pout, watching him eat. “You’ve been taking hits all week. They better not think they can just throw you around like that.”

“Sweetheart.” he says, voice dropping slightly as his fingers drift down to your shoulder. “I’m the one throwing people.”

You furrow your brows a little but let it go. “I missed you today.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, distracted by your scent, by the curve of your hips on his lap.

“Mhm.” You trace a finger down his jaw.

Baby’s a fucking loser. The biggest fucking idiot walking this dimension.

Because Abby gets it now. Gets what the others saw. Why even Romance toned down his jokes around you. Why Mystery offered you a weird little flower once and then didn’t try to bite your fingers off.

Abby’s into you. Fully. More than just physically, though, yeah, that’s definitely part of it. You’re hot. Delicious. But more than that? You care. And that? That shit’s rare. Especially in his world.

He digs some food into his mouth and groans. “God, marry me.”

You swat his chest, laughing. “Shut up and chew.”

“I’m serious.” he mumbles around another bite.

“Shut up.” you smile, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

He kisses your wrist. Quick. Thoughtless. Casual.

You didn’t become a better girlfriend.

You were always this good.

You just finally gave it to someone who knew what the fuck to do with it.

ROMANCE

A few days post-breakup. Quiet night. TV humming low in the background. You’re curled up on the couch in an old hoodie, cradling a pint of ice cream, bare legs tucked under a blanket. You haven’t cried today, which is honestly kind of a win. You’re halfway through a spoonful of rocky road when there’s a knock at the door.

You blink. Glance at the clock. Almost midnight.

You grab the remote, pause the show. Wipe your mouth with the sleeve of your hoodie and shuffle barefoot to the door. And when you open it, yup.

It’s Romance.

Hair perfect. Skin glowing. Black button-up shirt, slightly open at the collar. Tight jeans. He’s got that lazy, sexy smirk carved right into his face like he was born with it. Like he came out the womb hitting on the doctor. (AN: guys I’m cackling at myself) He’s holding the most stunning bouquet of flowers you’ve ever seen in your goddamn life. I could list them but don’t know shit about flowers, so I’ll just say it’s gorgeous. The whole thing wrapped in this gauzy black ribbon, tied in a bow.

You blink, stunned.

He gives you a slow once-over, from your messy hair to your bare thighs to your socked feet, and purrs. Actually purrs.

“Well, hey, baby.” he purrs, like you’re the gift at his door. “Heard you finally came to your senses.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s been, like, three days.”

“I waited. Didn’t want to seem desperate.”

“You are desperate.”

“Desperate for you, sweetheart.”

You squint at him, but it’s useless. He’s already grinning. Already slipping in like he belongs here. He lifts the bouquet slightly. “These are for you.”

And then—screw it.

Your fingers curl into the collar of his shirt and you yank him in.

His lips crash into yours. The bouquet hits the floor with a soft thump, petals fluttering everywhere as his arms wrap around your waist. He kisses you like he’s starving.

“Yeeaaah, babe.” he mutters into the kiss, grinning against your mouth. “Fucking finally.”

Romance fell for you ages ago.

Not just because you’re hot, though he thinks you’re criminally hot, and he’d happily die suffocating in your thighs if given the option. Not just because you’re sweet, though your kindness makes his chest ache every damn time you smile at him. Not even because you made Baby jealous, although that? That was delicious.

He loves the way you talk when you’re excited.

He loves the way you tilt your head when you’re curious.

He loves the way you treat all of them, even the ones who barely deserve it. He loves that you stayed so long, and that you finally left.

Because you deserve to be chased.

You deserve to be wanted.

And he wants you.

Bad.

Always has.

You kiss him harder. And he’s all in. Mouth warm and eager, tongue sliding against yours, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your hoodie like he’s been dying to touch you for centuries.

Your back hits the inside of your door. His body presses into yours. And even then, even now, lips swollen and breath ragged, he still finds a way to smile against your mouth.

“You taste ice cream.” he whispers.

You breathe out a laugh. “Shut up and keep kissing me.”

And he does.

He kisses you like Baby never did.

You laugh, breathless, fingers tangling in his hair now. “You’ve been waiting for this, huh?”

“Since the day I met you.” he whispers, brushing his nose against yours. “You have no idea.”

His hands are warm. His smile is even warmer. And for the first time in days, you feel wanted. Not in that shallow, transactional way. But really wanted. Worshipped, almost.

He kisses you again. Softer now.

And maybe this is reckless. Maybe this is fast. But damn, it feels right.

“Oh—shit.” you mutter, pulling away from him, though Romance follows your mouth a little, chasing it like he’s not ready to let it go just yet. His grin’s lazy, lips parted, so pleased with himself. “Your flowers.”

You bend to scoop them up. A couple petals have scattered across your hallway tile, and you frown, trying to gather them gently.

“I’m sorry.” you say, glancing back at him.

He shrugs and lets out this giddy little laugh, breathless and bright and boyish. “Totally worth the loss. I’d drop twenty more bouquets if it means I get kissed like that again.”

“I liked them.” you say softly.

“I can bring more.”

You gently sweep it into your arms and walk them to the kitchen, but Romance? He’s glued to you. Still holding your hand. Every time you move, he follows.

He doesn’t let go of your hand.

Not when you rinse out the vase. (yeah you got one now)

Not when you fill it with water.

Not even when you one-handedly stick the bouquet into it.

He’s giggling behind you the whole time. Actually giggling.

“I know I flirt a lot.” he says quietly. “Joke around. But I need you to know, I’m serious about this. About you.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re… rare.” he continues, brushing his knuckles up your arm. “You’re not just pretty, though damn, you are, you’re good. You’re kind in ways that make people better. You glow, baby. You glow.” He grins, but it’s laced with something deeper. “Even when you were with him, you made everyone feel like they mattered. Including me. And I…”

He trails off. Shakes his head. Smiles again, but it’s a little shy now.

“I want to be the one who makes you feel that way. Every day. No cold shoulders. No emotional constipation. Just me. Right here. Saying it plain.”

He lifts your hand. Kisses your knuckles.

“I’d love it if you gave me a chance. I’d be so good to you. If you let me.”

You swallow.

His thumb strokes your wrist. He leans a little closer, voice low. “I’d love to be the one you come home to. To bring you flowers you actually get to enjoy. Not just drop on the floor after a desperate kiss.”

You laugh softly, cheeks warm, heart so full it almost hurts.

“You don’t have to say yes.” he whispers. “I know it’s messy. But if you do wanna give someone a real shot? Someone who actually sees you, and wants all of it—”

He pauses.

Then breathes—

“Let it be me.”

“…Sure.” you whisper.

He blinks. “Yeah?”

You nod, smile tugging at your lips. “Yeah.”

Romance—your Romance now—is exactly what his name threatens. He’s dramatic. Intense. Recklessly affectionate.

And you eat that shit up.

And god… the way he talks to you?

Unreal.

Every sentence is laced with a compliment, a flirt, a tease, something to make your cheeks warm or your stomach flip.

And the way he looks at you.

He worships with his eyes.

Romance is so fucking into you, it’s criminal. The second your shirt lifts even an inch, his brain turns to static. He’s obsessed. With all of you. With the noises you make. The way you touch him. Your thighs. Your hips. The sound of your laugh. You once sat on his lap just to tease him and he literally whined like a man starved. Whined.

And the man is a freak in bed. Certified. Stamped. You’re pretty sure he gets off on being bossed around sometimes—like the second you put a hand in his hair and pull, he’s gasping like he’s been blessed. One time you slapped his ass as a joke during sex and the man moaned. Looked over his shoulder all breathy like: “…Again?”

You were like, Excuse me??

And he was like, “No, but for real, can we explore that later?”

Yeah. Freak. Slut. But a generous one. He always puts you first. Every time. Makes a whole production out of it. He’ll go down on you like it’s a five-course meal and he’s not coming up for air until dessert.

The bed, the wall, the couch, the shower, the kitchen counter, he turns every inch of your home into a sex spot.

Says shit like “Say it again. Say it and I’ll make you see stars, come on—” He does. He absolutely does. “Make it hurt, sweetheart. C’mon. Gimme something to remember.” and whatnot.

Hair pulling. Spanking. Face pressed to the mattress. Tied wrists, licked tears, pillow in your mouth because god forbid the neighbors hear you scream his name again.

And he still manages to be romantic about it. Whispering praise in between the filth.

“So perfect like this. Look at you. Can’t believe you’re mine.”

Sir, please.

He’s never distant. Never cold. Never leaves you wondering. He’s the opposite of Baby. Every damn way.

He loves being manhandled. Loves it when you get a little mean. Push him back. Scratch. Bite. He whines when he’s not allowed to touch.

He lives for the pain.

You don’t know when you figured it out—maybe the first time your nails raked down his back and he moaned like you kissed his soul—but it clicked fast. Too fast.

He’ll rile you up on purpose, cocky little smirks, snarky comments, full-on brat mode. Then the second you snap? When your fingers dig into his jaw or you call him a name you definitely shouldn’t call someone mid-makeout? He’s in heaven.

“Do it again.” he’ll whisper, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen. “Make it hurt a little this time, sweetheart.”

You’ve spanked him. Bit him. Once even slapped him across the face during an argument-turned-hookup and he melted.

And he worships you.

Your body. Your voice. Your moods. The way you boss him around when he’s teasing you. The way you look down at him like he’s yours. He wants to be yours. Fully. Constantly. Messily.

He never lets you doubt it.

Never lets you question if you’re loved.

Never lets you go to sleep without a reminder that he wants you, exactly as you are.

Because yeah, he might be a demon. But god, when he loves? It feels divine.

Pillow talk with him? Unreal. He traces lazy shapes on your back and talks about everything. About the way you laugh. About how pretty you looked that one time you fell asleep on his chest and drooled on him and he swears he didn’t mind.

Romance doesn’t do things halfway. Not sex. Not love. Not you.

Now, it’s one of those weird ass afternoons where everyone’s in the same room but no one actually wants to be. Takeout boxes are scattered across the coffee table. Nobody’s speaking.

Abby leans back, crunching a lettuce wrap. “Man… you know what I miss?” he says mid-chew, voice louder than necessary.

Romance doesn’t look up. “Peace?”

Jinu snorts.

Mystery, sitting cross-legged on the floor, flicks a piece of food at Romance’s knee just for that.

Abby ignores the whole damn vibe and continues, shoving more food into his mouth. “I miss Y/N’s cooking. Shit had me seeing stars.”

Baby, slumped on the far side of the couch, head tilted back, lets out a sharp exhale. Doesn’t look at anyone. Doesn’t comment. Classic.

Romance, cool as ever, is picking through a box of something, eyes half-lidded. He doesn’t even flinch.

Abby grins and nudges Jinu with his elbow. “Honestly? I think I should ask her out. For real. Like—date her. She’s sweet as hell, fine, and she made me cupcakes that one time with the little dumb hearts on them—”

“Don’t.” Romance says. Calm. Flat. No heat in his voice.

Abby blinks. “Huh?”

“I said don’t.” Romance repeats, setting his chopsticks down slowly. He doesn’t even look mad. Just focused. Chill as hell. “She’s taken.”

Abby tilts his head. “By who?”

Romance doesn’t blink. “Me.”

Silence.

It takes a while for them to realize he’s not joking.

Jinu’s eyebrows raise slightly, just enough to betray his internal what the actual fuck? before he goes back to drinking from his water bottle like this is none of his business.

Abby blinks twice. “…You?”

Romance shrugs, leaning back on one arm. “Yeah.”

Mystery’s mouth is open, he’s so cute.

And then there’s Baby. Stone still. That jagged feeling of fuck-you-I’m-fine that’s not working anymore. He doesn’t say anything. But there’s the way his gaze flicks, just once, toward Romance, like he’s two seconds away from launching across the couch and strangling him with a charger cord.

But Romance? Unbothered.

“Well,” Abby says, shoving another bite into his mouth. “guess I’m not gettin’ any more cupcakes.”

“Look, if you really want her cupcakes…” Romance checks his nails out. “She might still make some for you guys. If I ask her nice.”

Abby blinks. “Wait. For real?”

“Sure.” he says, tone light. “I’ll ask her. She likes feeding you.”

Abby lights the hell up. “No fucking way. Thanks, man!”

Romance gives him a casual fist bump like this isn’t the worst day of Baby’s life. Okay, not the worst, he’s been through seeing people get torn apart and had organs splash ALL over his face, but still, not a nice day.

Jinu nods, looks like he approves. Even Mystery lets out a heh.

Everything around Baby is noise—wrappers crinkling, Abby talking about cupcake frosting, Mystery poking around in someone else’s takeout like a raccoon in a trash bin—but it all sounds muted behind the pulsing, echoing ache in his chest.

Because the last time you made cupcakes? You kissed his cheek while they cooled. Called him “handsome” for no reason. Asked if he wanted the first bite.

“She made me a chocolate batch last week.” Romance says, conversationally, as if this isn’t killing a man in real time. “You remember how good those were, right? The ones with the little sea salt on top.”

Abby’s groaning like he’s about to cry. “Bro. Stop.”

“Can’t help it. She spoils me.”

Baby doesn’t do reaction, but Jinu can see it. The part of him that wants to punch a hole in the floor. The part of him that remembers everything he never said to you. Every text he ignored. Every time you looked at him like he was the center of your damn world and he just… brushed it off.

Because now someone else gets it.

Someone else has it.

“She’s so sweet, man.” Romance says, leaning back. “Like. On another level. You ever meet someone who just makes you better? Who makes you wanna try? That’s her.”

He doesn’t even say it to be cruel. That’s the worst part. He says it because it’s true.

That night, Romance is asleep on your couch. One leg hooked lazily off the side, head tipped back, the gentle rise and fall of his chest visible through the soft tee you made him put on after round two of “dessert.” His hand is still on your thigh, not in a horny way (for once) just… resting there. You’re too lazy to wake him up to tell him to drag his ass to the bedroom and go to sleep there, so you stay in place.

The truth is, Romance, for all his flirty, devilish, tongue-in-cheek charm, is the kind of man who has earned this. Earned you.

He wants your love. Doesn’t just bask in it, or tolerate it, or make you fight tooth and nail for it. He wakes up early just to warm your shower for you. He texts you “eat something sexy” when you’re busy and forget lunch. He leaves notes in your coat pocket, dumb ones, like “You’re my cupcake” with a little doodle of a whipped cream swirl and a dick with arms, but they always make you laugh. He listens when you talk. Doesn’t just nod and grunt like Baby used to. No. Romance looks you dead in the eyes, grins when you ramble, encourages your dumb little things because he thinks every thought that stumbles out of your pretty mouth is magic. He touches you like… no words, actually, there’s no words to how he touches you. Not just sex—though, let’s be real, the sex is insane. The man is a freak. You’ve had orgasms that made you cry. Literally. Not even because of the orgasm, but because he kept going and told you, “You don’t have to be quiet anymore, sweetheart. This is your place.”

He doesn’t make promises he can’t keep. He just shows up.

Every. Fucking. Day.

You don’t cry yourself to sleep anymore. Don’t wait for a text that never comes. Don’t feel like a second thought, a filler girl, a body in a bed for someone who never really held your heart with care.

He’s your reminder that love isn’t supposed to feel like begging.

It’s supposed to feel like this.

MYSTERY

You’re walking next to Mystery on the street. Late. He’s quiet, hands in his pockets. Doesn’t say much—he never does—but he’s here. Walking beside you. Not rushing you. Not brushing you off.

“So then he said, ‘Sure,’ and I swear to god, Mystery, I almost hit him.” You wave your hand in the air dramatically, smiling even though it still hurts a little. A lot. But it’s a cleansing kind of hurt now.

Mystery doesn’t laugh—he rarely does—but the corner of his mouth twitches. That little upward flick you’ve learned to treasure.

“He really said that?” you ask. “Like… actually, out loud?”

Mystery nods once. Not sarcastic. Not dry. Just a simple confirmation that yes, Baby really is that much of an asshole.

You huff out a laugh and stuff your hands deeper into your sleeves. “God. I was in love with that man.”

Mystery glances sideways at you. You catch it from the corner of your eye. He looks with his head, you saw that shift. Something quiet—but electric—passes between you.

“You know,” you say softly, eyes flicking up to the streetlights above you. “I spent so long thinking that if I just did more, he’d come around. That if I wore the right thing, cooked the right food, said the right words… maybe he’d look at me like he actually saw me.”

Mystery’s jaw ticks.

You don’t notice. You’re too busy watching your own breath fog in front of you.

“I thought I was the problem.” you admit, softer now. “Like maybe I was just too clingy. Too emotional. Too soft. Too much.” You laugh again, weak this time. “Turns out he just didn’t want me.”

“You’re not too much.” It’s so quiet you barely hear it.

You blink, eyes snapping to him.

“I don’t…” He frowns, and for a moment it looks like he might bite his own tongue off. But then he says it anyway. “I don’t like people.”

You smile a little. “Yeah, I figured.”

“But I like you.”

You stop walking. Your boots scuff the pavement as you turn to look at him.

He slows, stops too, a few steps ahead. Finally turns his head just enough for you to see his lips parted like he hates every word that just left his mouth but also meant every syllable.

You don’t say anything. Not yet. You just smile—soft and a little surprised. Because for the first time in days, you feel seen. Not by someone trying to get in your pants. Not by someone trying to hurt you. Just… seen.

So you gently nudge his arm with your shoulder.

“Wanna keep walking?”

He nods.

And that’s that.

“Seriously, though,” you say, pulling your scarf tighter around your neck. “you don’t get cold? Not even a little?”

Mystery doesn’t answer. His arms are bare, bare. In this wind? Man’s got short sleeves. He just walks beside you in silence, hands in his pockets.

“I mean, you’ve got blood, right?” you tease, elbowing him lightly. “Warm-blooded? I’m out here layered like a croissant and you’re giving freezer aisle.”

Still no answer. But his lips twitch. Just a little.

“I’ve been… off, lately.” you say. “It’s weird. You think that when you break up with someone who made you feel like shit, you’d be relieved, right? But it still hurts.”

He says nothing. But his body turns slightly toward you, steps syncing perfectly with yours.

“It’s not even the breakup that hurts.” you continue, voice softer now. “It’s the knowing I let myself stay. That I tried so hard for someone who barely noticed. Like I gave and gave and he just—took. And I let him. Because I thought he’d see me eventually. That he’d wake up one day and realize I was it.” You breathe, fog in the cold air. “He didn’t.”

Mystery’s jaw flexes. His eyes don’t leave the sidewalk, but there’s something in his silence now. Like if Baby were here, he wouldn’t be.

You glance up at him again. “Sorry. I’m trauma dumping.”

He shakes his head once. Slow. “You’re not.”

You smile, soft and warm. “Thanks. You’re sweet.”

He exhales like you just punched him in the stomach. Like he doesn’t know how to receive kindness and still survive.

You reach up and tug his sleeve lightly. “Still not cold?”

“No.”

“Are you lying to look cool?”

“Yes.”

You laugh. Loud, sudden, delighted.

He really likes you.

You squeeze his bicep absently as you talk. “You know, I don’t even miss him. Not really.”

Mystery glances down at your hand on his arm. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t pull away either. His expression is neutral, but his cheekbones have that faint flush.

“You get it.” you say, nodding dramatically. “You know what I mean. He’d show up at my place, act like we weren’t dating, and then get jealous when I so much as talked to the others. Like—hello? You ignored my birthday. You didn’t even know what day it was.”

Your grip on his arm tightens, and he doesn’t react. His muscles stay flexed under your fingers. You’re not even sure if he notices how touchy you’re being, or if he’s just letting it happen because it’s you.

“And the thing is,” you go on, “I kept telling myself that maybe he just didn’t know how to show it. That maybe I had to teach him how to be loved. And isn’t that stupid?”

Mystery doesn’t respond. But he slows his pace just slightly, making sure you’re in step. It’s subtle. Sweet.

“I kept lowering the bar.” you sigh, looking up at the stars. “Until the bar was on the floor. And then I kept digging.”

Your fingers slip down a little and wrap around his forearm instead. Veins. Veins. You don’t say anything about it, but you feel them. The warmth of him is starting to seep into you.

“But, you know,” you continue, quieter now. “I think I’m mostly mad at myself. For knowing the truth and staying anyway.”

Your words hang between you both. Heavy. Raw. True.

You glance up at him with a small, sheepish smile. “Sorry. You didn’t sign up for the ‘girl vents about her asshole ex’ package.”

He shakes his head once. “I don’t mind.”

You smile again, brighter this time. “You’re lovely.”

He doesn’t answer. But you swear you feel him lean into you just the smallest bit. Like maybe—if you weren’t holding onto his arm, he’d be holding onto you.

“I don’t get how you’re so warm.” you murmur. “Is it a demon thing?”

“Probably.”

“Well, I like it. I’m freezing. Don’t let me go.”

He doesn’t.

For a second… you wonder what it’d be like to kiss him. Just once.

Your boots crunch to a stop as you reach the front steps, wind still curling around the corners of the brick. The overhead light flickers like it’s about to die.

“Can I ask something kinda dumb?” you say, toeing at the edge of the sidewalk.

He nods, once.

“Why do you always have your hair in your face?”

He blinks. Doesn’t respond right away. You panic immediately.

“Wait—no, sorry! You don’t have to answer that. I wasn’t trying to be like—ugh, I’m sorry. You don’t need to tell me anything. If it’s a demon thing or a personal thing or whatever, I didn’t mean to—”

He shrugs. Just a simple shrug. Barely a movement.

You pause. “That’s it?”

He shrugs again, like: Yeah. That’s it. No big reason. No ancient trauma.

You stare at him for a second and let out a soft laugh, almost bashful. “Okay, that’s fair. You just… keep it like that?”

He nods. Then, maybe to throw you a bone, he mutters, “Don’t like people looking too long.”

Your chest squeezes a little. There’s so much weight in that one sentence. He didn’t have to tell you that. But he did.

“Do you want to come up?” you ask gently, glancing sideways. “No pressure. Just—if you’re not busy or if you don’t have to, I don’t know, bite someone tonight. You could stay for tea.”

He nods. Slow. Once. “Yes.”

You unlock the building, glancing back with a teasing grin. “You don’t have to bite anyone while you’re here either, by the way.”

Behind you, you swear you hear him exhale something that almost sounds like a laugh.

When you get to your floor, the door clicks shut behind you. Mystery steps in behind you, silent as a shadow.

“You can sit wherever.” you say over your shoulder, dropping your keys in the bowl by the door. “Couch, counter, kitchen floor.”

You catch the tiniest curve of his mouth as he makes his way to the barstool by the kitchen counter. He sits slow.

You head to the kettle, reaching for your tea stash. “Okay, I have like… a dumb amount of options.” you ramble. “Chamomile if you want to sleep, peppermint if you want your soul to feel sparkly, lemon ginger if you’re into that breakup aesthetic, or… ooh, this one’s cinnamon vanilla.”

He says nothing. He’s watching you. You don’t feel creeped out. At all. In fact, it’s weirdly comforting. And sweet.

“Cinnamon vanilla it is.” you decide, tossing the bag into a mug.

You mostly ramble to him as you set the mug down in front of him once the water’s poured. He takes it without a word. The mug looks adorable in his hands. He stares at you over the steam rising from the mug.

You smile sheepishly. “Sorry. I talk too much, huh?”

“No. I like your voice.”

Your heart skips once. Hard. You feel your face heat up. “Thank you.” you murmur, suddenly bashful.

He sips his tea.

You swear you’ve never seen anything so tender in your life.

And it doesn’t even occur to you that he could be here for your soul.

He’s not. Of course he’s not. That was never the intention. But you don’t even hesitate. And you’re not stupid. You’re not weak. You’re good. You invited him in without having a doubt about his intentions.

“Do you like it?” you ask, nodding toward the mug.

He lifts it. Sips. “…It’s warm.”

You giggle. “That’s what tea usually is, genius.”

His lips twitch again, just barely.

You beam.

It’s hard. His hands aren’t made for warmth. They’re made for killing. Biting. Ripping. He’s taken more than he remembers. There are people buried in unmarked graves because of his wrath. He always felt bad about it.

And now watching you be hurt made him want to rip Baby’s lungs out through his back and hang them from the rafters.

He didn’t.

But he wanted to.

He wanted to so badly.

He didn’t want to rip Baby apart in front of you. He didn’t want to scare you. Not you. Never you.

He’s feral, he knows that. Abby had to tackle him off Romance once because he got possessive over a chair. He bit Jinu’s arm so hard it didn’t heal for three days.

Mystery doesn’t do control. He does rage. And yet, here he is. Sitting next to you, still, quietly sipping tea. You’ve brushed his arm twice now, leaning close to get something or adjust your sock, and he hasn’t done anything. You could reach up and touch his hair, and he wouldn’t stop you.

He thinks about that for too long.

You don’t know what he looks like under it. Not really. You’ve seen glimpses but you’ve never seen him bare. Unhidden.

He wants to show you.

He wants you to see him.

It makes him sick to his stomach. This… vulnerability. The sheer size of what you make him feel. There’s something inside his chest that crawls and claws and burns whenever he hears your voice or smells you.

It isn’t just lust. Lust he can handle. This is longing. Something hungrier. Like his soul is trying to dig itself out of him just to be closer to you.

He’s killed people for less.

He’s scared he’d kill for more.

He’s been locked up. He’s been chained. He’s been called “freak,” “monster,” “filthy.” Gwi-Ma once told him he was a “bad breed.” That he was born dirty and should die the same way.

Mystery didn’t know what the hell he was doing.

You were soft. Sweet. You had stars in your eyes even after all the bullshit with Baby, who still walks around like you didn’t carry the entire weight of that relationship on your glittery-ass shoulders. You could’ve had someone like Jinu, or Abby, or even Romance—hell, Romance is still sulking about it. And yet… here you are. With Mystery.

You didn’t mean to fall for him.

But it was one night. That one night.

You’d been laughing—actually laughing—after you made him taste a spoonful of something you baked and he winced like it was poison (it wasn’t, it was just sweet—Mystery’s weakness). And you leaned in, playful, a little buzzed on wine and comfort. You said it gently, like you weren’t expecting anything back. And you asked—offered, really—“Do you want a kiss?”

He didn’t answer.

He just leaned in.

Didn’t say yes, didn’t say no, just moved until his mouth was on yours and your fingers were in his hair and you could feel how hard he was holding back.

You kissed him soft. Real soft. Not the “I want to fuck you into the floor” kind (though… that came later). But the kind that said, you deserve to be kissed like a person.

And man, it’s so much better than Baby.

Let’s be real—Baby was beautiful, sure. Pretty face. Cool voice. Big dick, maybe, but no heart. Cold. Unbothered.

Mystery? Mystery worships you. In his own fucked up, wordless way.

He bites.

That’s a thing.

Like actually. His love language might as well be “mild flesh wounds.” You’ve got little indents on your collarbone, your shoulder, your hip. Nothing that scars. Nothing you didn’t moan for.

It’s not even sexual all the time. Sometimes he just nips your wrist while you’re reading. Or your thigh while you’re brushing your teeth. It’s instinct. It’s affection. It’s him. Cheek, shoulder, thigh, neck, doesn’t matter. Sometimes it’s playful, a little warning nip when you’re teasing him too much. Sometimes it’s deeper, sharper, when he’s lost in you, in love, in lust, in need. He won’t apologize. Never does. But he always presses his lips to the mark after.

You let him.

Hell, you want him to.

And you love it.

You love him.

Even though he’s a mess. And fuck, is he a mess.

He doesn’t open up easily. You’ve had to piece together his past from half-sentences and the way his breathing changes when certain names come up. Sometimes he doesn’t sleep. Sometimes he does, but only when he’s curled into you. He flinches in his dreams. Sometimes growls in his sleep. Once said something in a language you didn’t understand and woke up shaking.

And his love is a little violent, sometimes. In general, but you know he means well. He’s also violent during sex. Not cruel. Never cruel. Just raw. Messy. He’ll leave marks. He likes them. Especially the ones that show.

Feral.

Animalistic, sometimes.

But never disrespectful.

Never cruel.

Never like Baby, who touched you when it was convenient and ignored you when it wasn’t.

Mystery doesn’t fuck for fun.

He needs it.

Like hunger.

Like instinct.

He puts you in positions that make yoga look like child’s play.

Yeah… you’re getting wrecked. There’s no other way to say it. The man is feral in bed. An absolute beast. Quiet until he’s not, then all teeth and breath and growling in your ear like he’s going to eat you alive. The way he grabs you? Rough, but careful. You’ve had your ankles over his shoulders. You’ve been face-down, claw marks on your hips. You’ve ridden him while his fingers dug into your thighs hard enough to bruise. He’s bent you over your own sink, your shower, your dresser. He doesn’t care. The world’s his hunting ground.

But even with all the filth and heat and obscene sounds he pulls from you? There’s a weird tenderness underneath it all. Like when he presses his forehead to yours mid-thrust. Or cups the back of your neck like you’re fragile even when you’re screaming his name. Like he’s worshipping and wrecking you in the same breath.

It’s in the way he pins you, mouth dragging across your neck like he’s tasting your pulse. The way he bites—god, the biting—sharp enough to leave dents, never enough to break skin unless you ask. That one time he sunk his teeth into your hip so hard it left a mark for days, and when you told him it hurt, he looked like he was about to kill himself.

You had to pull him back by his shirt and kiss him stupid just to calm him down.

He’s messed up.

He’s been through things you can’t imagine.

Sometimes he gets quiet for days. Sometimes he won’t let you touch him. Sometimes he disappears for a whole night and comes back with blood under his nails and guilt in his eyes.

But he always comes back.

And when you’re there, holding him, kissing his jaw, letting him rest his forehead against your chest, he doesn’t feel like a monster.

He just feels like your boyfriend.

“Hi booooys!” you sing out, balancing a stack of takeout bags in your arms as you enter the boys’ place. “I brought you food.”

It’s the kind of entrance you used to make back when you were still dating Baby. But that’s over now. Dead. Buried. Burned. Pissed on. That man is not even a memory, he’s a warning label. You broke up with him. You healed. You moisturized. You leveled up. You’re dating his feral little teammate now and wow, life is good.

Anyway, food.

“Angel?” Romance gasps like he’s hallucinating. Then immediately bolts from his seat. “You didn’t tell me you were coming. You know I get weak in the knees when you surprise me.” He spins dramatically, then snatches a bag out of your hand and presses it to his chest like it’s you. “Is this for me? Wait, don’t tell me.”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t get too excited.”

Abby’s already biting into something, looking like he hasn’t eaten in days. “Damn, you look good.” he says, talking around a mouthful.

“You’re an angel.” Jinu says.

Mystery’s coming up for his food too, but he doesn’t say anything.

Baby’s sitting by the speakers, scrolling through his phone like the food doesn’t exist and neither do you. Same blank-ass face. Same “I’m too cool to care” slouch. Same lazy gaze that doesn’t quite meet yours. He looked up when you walked in. Just once. Briefly. But the moment he saw your smile? Your mood? The glow that he hasn’t been the source of for weeks now? He looked away.

You don’t give a fuck though, just hand Jinu his drink.

Romance doesn’t know what “subtle” means. Or “boundaries.” Or “that’s your bandmate’s ex, chill.” So when he’s saying something about your pretty hands, you look at Mystery.

He’s not doing anything. Not touching. Not speaking. Just looking.

But god do you know that look. That posture, that pout.

Romance doesn’t, though. He’s still talking, still throwing casual shoulder grazes and puppy eyes and leaning juuuust a little too close when he thanks you for the food.

“Anyway,” you say, turning back toward Mystery. “I should go.”

You smile up at him—just the tiniest bit mischievous—and you press a kiss to his lips. Quick. Casual. Soft.

Mystery blinks, stunned but still. He doesn’t move for a second. Just stares down at you, but he’s happy.

“Bye, babe.” you whisper, low enough that only he hears it.

Then you turn and start walking out like nothing happened.

Until Abby lets out a low, slow, “Hooooooly shit” and claps Mystery on the shoulder like a proud older brother. Romance looks like he’s going to flip a fucking table.

Mystery just licks his lips, slow.

Baby? Still not looking. Still scrolling. But his grip on the phone tightens, just slightly.

Crack.

[yuyuyukiii]

The Outfit? Offensive ⛐

Summary: The paddock thought race day was intense. Then a five-year-old showed up with glitter sunglasses and a clipboard. Chaos followed.

Content: cuteness, chaos, toddler logic, paddock drama, fashion crimes, soft dad moments, glitter-level confidence, and even retired or inactive drivers somehow getting dragged into the drama

Author's Note 🏎️:

I’ve always liked writing cute stuff, especially with some of the drivers or team principals as dads since a few of them are older now and it just fits so well. This one was super fun and chaotic to write, so I hope it made you smile. If you have any requests or ideas you want to see written, my DMs and request box are always open!

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Security didn’t question her. Probably because she looked like she owned the place.

By the time the first batch of drivers had checked into the paddock, she was already seated outside the motorhomes in her tiny foldable chair, glitter sunglasses on, clipboard in hand, and a sign (written in crayon) that read:

FASHION CONTEST. WINNER GETS HUG + CANDY. + and maybe sumthin else if u dress rilly rilly good ◝(ᵔᗜᵔ)◜

The “judge” was Y/N. Age five. Future fashion dictator. Also known around here as “Toto’s kid.” Which explained how she had clearance before sunrise and knew exactly where to set up for maximum drama.

Max Verstappen was first in. Walked through security. Barely two steps in and—

“Minus three! AGAIN with the Red Bull shirt? BORING.” You scribbled with flair, then flipped your whiteboard. “You get a zero.”

Max blinked. “It’s part of my job?”

“Not my fault you picked the boring work shirt,” you pouted. “Why no sparkles or colors or fun?”

He walked away muttering something about unfair systems and needing a stylist.

Then came Oscar, pink hoodie and all.

“POINTS for pink! You’re automatically higher than Max!” she cheered.

Oscar blinked. “Thank you…?”

The others trickled in like lambs to the fashion slaughter. Charles got a 6.5 and was already arguing about it.

He blinked. “But this is Dior.”

“I’m five,” you replied flatly.

Lando got a 4.25 because of his mismatched socks. “A four point what?” he repeated, stunned.

You raised your board. “Four. Point. Two, Five. Don’t argue with the system.”

Carlos came next, looking a little too confident in pastel colors and suspiciously clean shoes.

“Mmm. 7.4,” you said, scribbling on your whiteboard. “Points for the matching socks.”

George looked scandalized. “Wait, he gets a 7.4?”

“You’re not up yet,” you warned him.

As more drivers arrived and got judged, the area around your chair became less a walkway and more a pit lane of chaos.

“I better be higher than Carlos,” George muttered, peeking at your notes.

“You’re not,” Gabriel said from behind him.

“You got a five,” Kimi added helpfully, “and a note that says ‘pants are too tight.’”

“They are!” you shouted.

At one point, Lance walked up wearing Crocs. The judging panel went silent.

“Crocs?” you asked, peering over your whiteboard like a judge on TV. “Two out of ten.”

Lance looked like you personally offended his ancestors. “They’re limited edition!”

Pierre came back holding the ice cream like a peace offering. “I brought you something, look.”

You squinted. “Is it chocolate?”

“No…”

“Then it’s a 5.5.”

Valtteri arrived next, holding a protein bar and a juice pouch like he was paying tribute. You took the juice and sipped dramatically.

“You’re now a 6.2,” you announced with a proud nod.

Fernando, ever the opportunist, approached with a bag of chips. “What if I throw in a selfie?”

“I can’t eat a selfie,” you said.

“She’s right,” Nico Hulkenberg muttered. “Give her the chips.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

By mid-morning, the judging line was done.

But instead of going to their garages to get ready like professionals, the drivers started hovering behind Y/N’s chair like she was hosting the paddock version of the Met Gala.

Then it happened. Someone, probably Lando, pointed at a poor, unsuspecting crew member just walking by with a headset and clipboard.

“What does he get?”

You looked up. Squinted. “His jacket’s cool. 6.6.”

“6.6?” Ollie nearly choked. “That’s higher than me!”

“He has a lightning bolt on his arm,” you said proudly. “That’s awesome.”

Some poor team staffer walked by with a coffee tray and got hit with:

“Okay, why does he get a 5?” Alex pointed aggressively. “He’s literally wearing beige. Like, beige on beige. He looks like a bread roll.”

“BEIGE SNEAKERS TOO,” Nico gasped.

“I think he’s just doing his job,” Zhou said gently.

Another guy walked past wearing skinny jeans and a massive team jacket.

Oscar pointed. “That jacket’s so big it has zip codes. Why does he get an 7.2? And I got a 4?”

“I like big jackets,” Y/N said.

Fernando pointed at another staff member passing by. “Okay, and why does she get a seven? What did she do?”

You tilted your head. “She smiled at me before.”

George looked personally betrayed. “That’s not fair! I smiled at you all morning.”

“You also wore pants that looked like they couldn’t breathe,” Yuki muttered.

Someone else walked by, probably a logistics guy.

“0,” you said.

“Finally,” Max muttered.

“Wait, no. 3,” you said, thinking hard. “He gave me gum yesterday.”

Alex narrowed his eyes. “Wait. Are we really losing to people just walking by?”

You looked at him. “You wore that hoodie yesterday. And yesterday was not fashion day.”

Someone else passed, this time pushing a catering cart. “6.7,” you decided. “The food smells yummy.”

“Unbelievable,” Nico muttered. “Outscored by a sandwich guy.”

“Sandwich guy has style,” you added, chewing a gummy worm.

Another poor soul walked by with a clipboard and two phones, just trying to do his job.

Liam pointed. “Him. That guy. Why does he get a six and I got 4.5?”

“Because I like his phone case,” Y/N said, totally confident.

Everyone turned to stare.

“What’s on his phone case?” Logan asked.

“A duck. In a hat.”

Liam dramatically collapsed. “I lost to a duck.”

“Don’t say that sentence out loud,” Franco said, wheezing.

“I’m judging the judge now,” Oscar announced. “This whole system’s rigged.”

“You’re just mad you peaked at 4,” Pierre smirked.

“I bribed her,” Oscar said. “She took the Oreos. She took them.”

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

Somewhere else in the paddock, a reporter hesitated mid-question and glanced at his earpiece.

“Sorry, Toto,” he said carefully. “There’s… a situation.”

“What kind of situation?”

“Your daughter’s judging the drivers.”

“She’s what?” Toto blinked.

“It was cute at first. But now the drivers have formed a line, and they're heckling anyone who scores higher than them.”

Toto stared.

“They’re terrorizing innocent staff,” the reporter added. “One guy just walked by holding cables and got a 6. George is demanding a recount. And someone might’ve cried. We don’t know who. We just know one of them walked off muttering, ‘I got a two. A two.’”

Toto closed his eyes for a second. “Where is she now?”

The reporter just pointed. “Follow the chaos.”

With a sigh, Toto turned and started walking. As he stepped outside, he was immediately hit by the sound of complaints.

“I got a three? Can you believe that?” an engineer said loudly, holding a banana like it had failed him.

“Look at me. I got a two,” someone else muttered. “She said my shoes look like ‘marshmallow blobs.’”

“She’s not wrong,” another voice chimed in.

Toto paused, slowly dragging a hand down his face.

This... was going to be a long weekend.

—

And things were only getting worse.

The bribery escalated fast. Isack came with gummy bears. Yuki offered a big bag of Cheetos. Franco brought stickers. Zhou offered gum. You accepted everything like a tiny goblin hoarding treasure.

You pointed suddenly, like you just saw a crime. “Wait. He has Crocs.”

Lance looked like he was about to cry. “You already rated me!”

You blinked. “I did?”

“Yes! You said two out of ten. In front of everyone!”

“Oh.” You stared at his feet. “Yeah. Now you get a 1.6. The socks made it worse.”

Lance threw his hands in the air. “They’re also limited edition!”

“They’re limited ugly,” you said, munching on your Tim Tam like nothing happened.

Off to the side, the drivers had started judging each other.

“Why is he a seven?” Alex pointed at Zhou. “He’s literally wearing that.”

Zhou folded his arms. “This is Balenciaga.”

“Yeah,” you said. “But I like purple.”

“I have purple socks!” George yelled from the back.

“Too late,” you replied, taking another bite of Tim Tam without even looking at him.

—

After all the snacks, and panicked sock changes, the board had definitely changed. And now? Everyone wanted to know who climbed, who fell, and who got pity points.

“I better be higher than YOU,” Lando muttered under his breath.

“You wore mismatched socks,” Yuki pointed out.

“I changed them! I literally ran back to my room!” Lando yelled.

Pierre leaned in smugly. “She said my outfit had ‘French flavor!’”

“You got a 4.8!” Franco yelled. “How is that flavor?”

“It’s called ✨style✨,” Pierre replied, flicking invisible dust off his shoulder.

“Bro, you’re wearing boat shoes!”

“She said they were yacht-core!”

"She gave me a sticker and told me to 'try again later," Logan added, offended.

"Huh. I got bumped up to a 6,” Oscar muttered to no one in particular.

"That's solid. That's decent."

"You're lucky," Alex said "She looked at my pants and said “what's happening here?'"

“Bet I look better than Nico,” Carlos added smugly.

“He got a four,” you muttered. “Because I said his shirt looks like a couch.”

“Hey!” Nico protested from the back. “It’s vintage!”

“She gave me a 5.2,” Esteban muttered. “What does that even mean?”

“It means you’re five-point-two out of ten,” Yuki said. “Be grateful.”

Then George came storming back, holding your scorecard like it was a trophy.

“I got an eight,” he announced, waving it in the air. “Eight! Highest so far. I am literally winning Fashion GP.”

He turned like he expected applause. There was none.

“You bribed her,” Alex said flatly.

“I did not! I matched my socks and wore pastel. I’m a fashion icon.”

“She said your pants were too tight earlier,” Yuki muttered.

George pointed at you. “Yeah, but she said they’re tight but committed. That’s growth.”

“She just gave you pity points,” Pierre said.

George scoffed. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you.”

Carlos raised a brow. “You really think you’re winning?”

“Obviously. You got a 7.4. I got 8. Highest score. I’m unbeatable.”

Right on cue, Lewis strolled by, humming to himself.

He was in full chill mode, wearing a silk bomber jacket with hand-painted flames, tailored trousers, silver chains, and reflective sunglasses. The grid might as well have been his runway. Everyone else just looked underdressed.

He paused when he saw the crowd. “Hi? Is there a meeting I forgot about?”

Your eyes lit up. “Lew Lew!”

He blinked. “Oh no. Am I being judged too?”

You stood up, arms wide. “You get a hundred out of ten!”

The crowd gasped.

George actually dropped his scorecard.

“That’s not even allowed!” he cried. “You said the limit was ten!”

“You’re just mad you peaked too early,” Lando said, wheezing.

“He gets more than a candy and a hug,” you declared. “I will spend my whole race weekend with you.”

Silence. Shock. Betrayal. Emotional damage.

George stood in stunned silence, watching all his fashion dreams crumble.

“She WHAT?” Yuki gasped.

“No, no, no, hold on,” Pierre cut in. “That was not in the prize list.”

“Had I known that,” Charles muttered, “I would’ve worn the leather pants. The ones I saved for Monza.”

Oscar blinked. “I gave her my last pack of Oreos and got a six. Lewis just exists and gets her soul?”

Max looked around, offended. “If I knew that was on the line, I would’ve worn a full suit!”

Isack scowled. “Should’ve told us. I would’ve ironed my shirt.”

Carlos crossed his arms. “Why didn’t anyone say that? I literally brushed my hair today. That should’ve counted for something.”

Fernando raised a finger. “Where was the memo that spending time with the cutest kid on the grid was on the table?”

You wrapped your arms around Lewis’ legs. “You always dress good. Not like Maxie. He wears Red Bull every day.”

Amidst the chaos, just as George’s soul visibly left his body, Toto turned the corner and found you proudly holding up a whiteboard.

You grinned and pointed directly at him. “Papa! You get the same as Maxie. Zero out of ten… but plus one because you’re my dad.”

Toto blinked. “I get a one?”

“Yup. Same uniform. Same boring.”

“How is it boring? We’re literally at work!” Max yelled, gesturing at his team gear like it made perfect sense.

Toto nodded. “He’s right, though. We have to wear it.”

“See?” Max said, pointing at Toto like he’d just won a case in court. “It’s mandatory!”

You shrugged. “Still boring. Papa, you should wear a fun hat or something.”

Toto looked down at his black team jacket, then at Max. “Maybe we are the problem.”

Lewis crouched beside you, his grin far too satisfied. “By the way,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, “she told me the prize for winning is spending the rest of the day with her.”

There was a collective groan from the grid.

Toto sighed, rubbing his forehead. “You’ll be spending the rest of the day in the Merc garage, young lady.”

“No,” you said immediately, pointing at Lewis. “He won. I go with him. You better start dressing good.”

Toto blinked like she’d cursed him.

Lewis just smiled and held out his hand. “Guess I have a co-pilot this weekend.”

The grid was devastated.

Oscar looked like someone stole his snacks (the oreos). George was still trying to argue about scoring criteria. Pierre quietly whispered “bro…” under his breath.

Somewhere in the background, Lance was still yelling about his crocs.

And your fashion reign?

Had only just begun.

By the time you walked away with Lewis, bag of Cheetos in one hand, whiteboard in the other, the grid was still recovering from the fashion carnage you left behind.

And next time? They’d better dress like their contracts depended on it.

END.

₊˚ ✧ ‿︵‿୨୧‿︵‿ ✧ ₊˚

[feelingdozy]

WE EQUATE TO LOVERS - Johnny Storm

Pairing: Johnny Storm x Shy!Reader

Summary: hired as Reed's assistant to help him in the lab, you're not a people person. And you're definitely not a Johnny person. Yet, when he starts coming by constantly, you can't help but ask yourself if he's just being nice, or if what you're starting to feel is real.

Warnings: f4 spoilers, post movie, emotional mild hurt/fluff, extrovert x introvert, friends to lovers, shy tendencies, overthinking, anxiety, self doubt/depreciation, johnny being down bad, heavy makeout sesh, eventual confessions, eventual romance

req: Can I req an extrovert x introvert trope (the reader being the introvert and Johnny being the extrovert)... read full

w/c: 3,2k ･ a03 ･ prompt list ･

"Yes she's my assistant, but she's not up for unnecessary chat, do you have that clear?" He wagged a finger aggressively for Johnny as he sighed dramatically with a hint of defeat though even he knew he wouldn't back down if he got the chance to bother his in-law.

"Hey man, I don't flirt with every single woman I come across. Just the interesting ones-"

"Well you don't flirt with this one at all, because she won't want to talk to you in the first place" he sighs, turning on his heel to approach his lab again, papers in hand that also have your application of a brand new assistant.

Ever since the whole incident with Galactus had happened, Sue had encouraged (begged) Reed to find some way to take a break and get more time with Franklin than with saving the world.

So he landed on the smart idea of an assistant. He found one almost immediately when his eyes landed on your resume full of courses you'd taken, classes completed and the sciences being a full time job of exploration for you.

He knew with one scan that this wasn't just a career. It was everything to you, just like they were to him. You were a special one- and he wasn't gonna give that up because Johnny couldn't keep his words, and hands, to himself.

When you first walked into the Baxter building, it was safe to say your jaw had dropped in amazement at the size. It was almost overwhelming to see it in person.

Getting lucky enough to finally get a good solid job off your resume you worked years to polish with a renowned scientist teaching you and getting to see his projects?

You'd think you might finally be seeing the light.

This was your holy grail- beep beep

A- a robot..? You were taking in the view you didn't realize the little robot that had come up to you, waving with his tiny hand and gesturing for you to follow. You were in for a ride.

When you got to the door, Reed had shook your hand as you managed to contain your excitement to a smile and not shaky hands (it was almost impossible), and he had given you a tour of the whole place, up and down. The living quarters where your room would be next to Mr Storms, the kitchen you could get food at any time, the multiple bathrooms scattered around which him and Sue had built early on.

Just as you were almost done the tour, grazing through some of his projects and skimming through the detailed formulas, you heard footsteps approaching and the air get extremely humid very quickly.

"Reed! You finally brought her-"

When you turned around, he couldn't help but shut himself up when he saw you.

It was like a.. twinkle in his eye. Like he knew, the first time seeing you that you were it for him. He was already falling.

Like that singular strand of hair over your face. The way you wouldn't admit it, but your cheeks lit when you saw just how stunning he was in person. How your eyes longed and sucked him in immediately.

You stood, eyes wide in shock, nervous, definitely nervous to be near the Johnny Storm.

Boisterous, loud, womanizer and non-stop talker that he was. It scared you, but you couldn't deny the charming looks and the confidence oozing out of him like second skin- well, until he met eyes with you.

Oh.. maybe he didn't like you? Maybe women who weren't his type just got in the way.

Little did you know, his heart was skipping beats like no tomorrow. His flames grew hotter, and somehow he was flushed to the tips of his ears like a schoolboy witnessing his first crush again.

He smelt burning. Was his hair burning?

"Johnny.. meet my new assistant" Reed attempted to break the ice, ending up with you sporting a very awkward smile, and Johnny giving one back.

You had already messed this up haven't you, god-

"You're- pretty, very, I mean, haha! Pretty! Woman- you are. Jesus" he left the room in a rush, brushing the hair out of his face in a flurry to stop the sweat beading down his neck.

Stuttering? When had this man stuttered in his life over a woman? Let alone Reed's new assistant! First he was going to get pummeled by him, then Sue, maybe Franklin next. And then you.. with that look and that shy demeanour that made your shoulders shrink.

He wanted to see it again.

The next few days were spent solely in Reed's lab. You refused to exit unless you desperately needed something that science couldn't provide you.

Breakfast was short and easy. Lunch was a sandwich made hastily with crooked meat thrown on and cheese that wasn't the right one, but you hadn't time to change it anyways.

Dinner.. well. Dinner was spent with the rest of them, and somehow, a constant locking of eyes with the blonde that sat across the table.

Sue would ask the questions, but Reed would always answer because you chose to stay quiet and everyone knew that Reed didn't just interrupt for anyone.

You spoke up when she asked how your day was, Ben poking a threat at you that you better like his food with a small laugh. But Johnny never took initiative to spark a conversation.

Not until he found you stored up in the lab.

"So this is what you've been up to, sugar?" His voice was loud and very recognizable, echoed off of each glass vile stored in there with the utmost precision and perfection.

You stopped in your tracks and turned to find him there, smile wide and a hand holding his chin while he leaned on a desk nearby.

You only nodded, turning back to distract yourself.

"I just uh- wanted to say sorry for the sudden compliments.. probably overwhelming to you and I realize that now, just.. wanted to start off a little simpler."

You poured one test tube into the other before he came up on the other side, eyes focused on the concoction you were making up.

"this for one of your experiments? Or for the lab grump?" You huffed out a tiny laugh at that, making his eyes sparkle at the sound, giddy that he'd been able to cheer you up a bit.

"It's for Reed- he's been working on stabilizing the teleportation so it doesn't take up as much energy as it has before" He nodded along, acting like he was listening and not just staring at your lips.

You added, "But the test tubes? Those are mine." he observed the way your fingers poured one into the next, took a pencil and wrote things down.

"What does the Johnny Storm have bursting into the lab at this time?" You almost shied away from asking, but you were genuinely curious as to the time this man had in his schedule to be talking to you.

"I- uh.. hah, honestly- just wanted to see you again." He tried to shrug it off casually, but he had to keep his hands away from the countertops in case something else of his decided to light itself again. He didn't want explosions other than the hair on top of his head.

You attempted to hide a smile at his confession, since when has this happened to you? You almost didn't want to believe him, gaze settling anywhere but his dead on.

"Now, if I let you hold this, do not heat it up, alright?" He stood straight and nodded eagerly

"Got it!" With a playful salute.

Every since that day in the lab, he had almost clung to you like a puppy. You wanted a snack from the kitchen?

You were already there, putting together one of your weird uneven sandwiches, until he scooped in behind you and took it, "Here, let me show you how it's done" with a wink.

It only took him about a minute, crafting and bantering with you while he did so, fist-pumping Herbie for handing him the right cheese.

It was a pretty good sandwich.

Movie nights with the team usually happened on weekends, Franklin tucked and soundly asleep. Usually, Johnny would've made do and sat by Ben. But tonight, he was curled up weirdly close to your side.

"D'you want some popcorn, sugar?" He'd whisper, just raspy enough by your ear for you to catch it and reach in, hand grazing his own. For the first time you had ever been near him that close physically, he was warm.

Almost welcoming, and soft for a man who lit on fire. It set something inside you alight too. A knowing. Creeping in, deep in the pit of your stomach you were losing the battle to time and patience of liking him.

"Chocolate?" He asked as he reached a hand out, offering you a piece of his own.

This- this was your favorite chocolate?

And he knew that. You'd mentioned it a few days ago off handedly to Reed when nagging him about how he'd sneak a piece when no one but you was looking and announced your favorite. He'd never admit it, but he listened more than you thought.

You took up his offer again, and your touch lightly meshed with his fingertips when he passed it over. You froze in your seat at the images popping up in your head.

You wanted to put your head on his shoulder- but you'd resist it.

You'd act casual, stay calm, try to keep your vitals down and act normal.

And still, the two of you got closer. Off time spent travelling to bakeries on breaks while you got a whiff of fresh air and sunlight, drinking in his boyish laugh and gentlemanly tendencies when he'd open a door and say, "m'lady" with a bow.

Until a harsh realization began to sink.

It had been going good until an interview you had passed by on the living room television, Johnny standing tall, stance playful and grin wide to appease the shrieking girls that lined the back of the camera, streets full and compact as his hands rested on both hips.

"So, Johnny, what can you tell us as of lately on your love life? As single as ever?" The journalist held the mic close, and you could see the twitch in his eye before he went back to his charming smirk as they shrieked again, shaking his head as he looked down like he was reigning defeat.

"Now, now. You know I don't answer these questions on the air. These poor girls- what are you trying to do?" He laughed, bold and gave her his classic wink and ooze of charm before flaming up and flying away

The angle they showed gave you a quick span at all the girls that had lined up, magazines, mini storms and posters that had him plastered like their favorite little collectible.

Their hair was done up.. makeup flawless and bases shiny. Their dresses were rich of color that spoke of knowing how to come off nicely, heels, jewelry, the whole collection.

And who were you?

A little scientist Reed had scouted to do your science project along with his.

Not some model type girl. Not the flawlessly pretty, easily confident and flowy ones that crowded and observed his every move? How would you even admit you were falling for him in a sea of all the others?

You wouldn't.

No, you couldn't. He liked space, and he liked women, but..

Not the type who would spend all day in the lab, dark circles and hair barely brushed, eager to get back to the workspace. Not the ones that analyzed deliberately, for enjoyment and for success that had you on the tips of your toes.

The fashion ones maybe. He'd like a girl who baked him cookies and tucked him into bed-

So you ignored him.

Avoided, moreso.

And it got harder each time. More noticable.

The dinner table became harder to sit at when he tried to make conversation and you just spaced out, faraway smiles and hollower laughs. Reed almost let himself give way to asking about it- but Sue's hand on his thigh made him do a take back and realize what he was going to say was wrong in the moment.

She mouthed small affirmations to ease his nerves a bit.

In the bathroom where once he might've snuck in to spare a glance at your tied up messy hair, over the shoulder shirt while you brushed your teeth and splattered words out over the toothpaste with a slap of his chest at his stupid dad jokes and weird humor.

Now, it was already dark and scented by the time he'd gotten there. He could still sense your presence in there. Shampoo faintly lingering, clean, somewhat soft and warm familiarity that stuck to your clothing after a wash.

He missed it all- but most, the little talks you squeezed in with him while in the lab. Things may have exploded once or twice, a third from a heated hand reaction to a very sensitive mix.

Now, he started to get anxious when he entered. Almost nauseous, a sense of not wanting to mess it up with you when he finally found you. But before he could enter, Sue interrupted his thoughts in the hallway.

"Johnny?" Sue called out, softly as she rubbed a hand down his back.

She asked it like she'd always known, "What's on your mind?"

"I-" he hesitated with a huff, knowing she'd see through it if he lied anyways.

"Her. She- she started avoiding me and I.. I dunno what I did. I thought we were going good?"

*So it just happened one day? Like a switch?"

"Yeah! And I.. I didn't want to let that personality get in the way- cameras and journalists. We had our talks, personal and I liked them. I actually.. looked forward to them and now- now something's missing." Sweeping his hair back with his hand, he rubbed his eyes with a tiredness that spoke of confusion and prolonged agony.

Sue nodded along, as she knew just how all the fans could get and how he came off, although deep down he was very sensitive- genuine and soft, through and through Johnny was a family man.

But that wasn't obvious to everyone. She knew that. Knew the opinions, the views, the big posters and what they showed.

And Sue had started to know you. She saw the ponder. She saw the border of overthinking cross it's line. You were like a tiny reflection of her husband in the way his mind always got the best of him before someone could show him the way back.

"Not to bring it up, but, I heard the news going a couple days ago- I forgot to turn it off because I went to check on Franklin, but when I came out, she was there listening. Almost starstruck while staring at it."

The realization started to kick in when he glared behind him to see you staring back, hastily turning away from his line of sight and tensing like you'd stumbled across something you shouldn't have.

"Oh. Oh."

"Crowds of ladies don't mix with a little scientist and a brain that's built with doubt. She might just be.. scared." Baby monitor in her hand, Franklin started to whine.

"Scared?" It came out desperate, like he just needed to grasp whatever he was missing. That one puzzle piece to put it all back together like it was.

"Of what is truly there between you two. Not the fans. Not the articles. You, and her."

That night, Johnny had come up with the best stealth mission of finding where you'd hidden yourself this time around.

He knew it wasn't your bedroom, too early. He could've knocked.

Not the kitchen nor living room, too obvious, spoke too loud and petty. Left nothing to the imagination.

You'd never think of the bathroom, too stuffy and easily caught.

Until he thought of the balcony.

"I like the stars" he announced, making your knuckles grip the rails a little tighter when you realized he had finally caught you.

"They make me feel like I've got someone sometimes. I can talk to them." As he got closer, his voice got quieter. More.. peaceful, though you stayed silent.

"And.. I want to be that someone."

You looked at him.

"I know...I know that's not your thing. It might be too far. But I don't want you to shy away from me. Not the things we shared. Behind the looks and tiny smiles, you spoke out to me."

He continued, passionate and earnest

"No matter what those interviews say- what you think of those girls and their collections-"

"Wouldn't you be better off with someone like them?" You interrupted, trying not to come off as mean, but biting your lip to hold back tears wasn't helping the tone and the way it happened to slip out.

He stayed quiet for a second too long, wide eyes and mouth slightly ajar.

"fluffy hair, dressed in their cute sundresses and bowties. They're nice. Heels and all. The better choice. Easier." You said it like it was fact- like you were already certain he'd chosen them.

"I don't want easier. I don't want flawless and perfect- I want those morning's with your laugh that makes Reed choke on his food because he never expects it. The one that makes Ben smile though he doesn't admit it, and how you'll insult his cooking just to see him pout funny,"

"they're not the better choice- no, you're the only choice. Do you think they clean my vinyls when I don't notice? Make me special hand protectors and Franklin fireproof baby shirts? Not those girls. You do"

You almost couldn't believe it, though his eyes were glassy and his hands desperate to grab onto you again. To find you in your mind that swam one hundred miles per hour.

"It's always been you." He whispered, strained and raw.

Still a little unsure, you gripped the fabric of his collar, pulling him in closer to you.

"Then.. then show me, Johnny. How much I mean to you" And with that, your lips collided.

It wasn't hungry, or quick. It was slow. It was like the both of you had broken down the barriers and everything failed to come out before was spilling in hidden feelings and covered confessions in the way gentleness carved itself into the mold of your lips.

His fingers held your jaw, crawling up behind your neck to deepen the kiss and find his tongue exploring your mouth with unexpected fervor. He cradled you closer, not wanting to part, last forever with you intertwining with him in shared saliva and swollen lips at the gesture.

You gasped into it, knuckles tightening onto the hem of his shirt for dear life, dissolving into the way he slotted against you so perfectly and took you into his arms like he'd needed it to survive- and maybe, just maybe he did.

Before pulling away completely, he pressed a peck to your lips again, then below your jaw, up to your ear. You giggled at the sensation, and he laughed back, delighted to finally have the moment with you.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes finally connected and noses bumping. "I'm never letting you go, you know that?"

"even if Reed says so?" He smiled widely at that. And with a firm nod of his head,

"Even then."

thank you for reading :) requests are open! || Marvel Masterlist

[kissandtellus]

Hellooo ^⁠_⁠^ can you please write like a short story about the mc's child hearing clapping and weird noises at night HIHIHIHIHJIJI if yk, yk. And like asking them about it and Iike "Daddy why is mommy begging to spanked?" AHAHHAHAH I just wanted to see sylus react to that question and how it'll play out. Thank you (⁠ㆁ⁠ω⁠ㆁ⁠)

The Birds & The Bees: LADS Edition

Synopsis: Your kids overhear interesting noises and your husband acts like he’s about to kill over.

Warnings: LI’s are embarrassing, Caleb’s contains smut, Sorta crack-ish, Fluff.

☁︎｡Zayne

It’s a bright and early Sunday morning. The birds are chirping the sun is shining, and your 3 year old….she looks a hot mess.

Her little hair is sticking up all over the place as she rubs her tired eyes with a balled up fist. Zayne, who is sipping his coffee and reading a newspaper, raises an eyebrow.

You frown and slide a pancake on her plate. “My poor girl…”

Zayne observes your daughter's entire personality shift, considering she was usually so bubbly and talkative in the morning.

"What happened?" he asks, a hint of concern in his voice. "Why couldn't she sleep?"

He takes a seat next to the little one, gently stroking her hair to offer comfort.

"You need more sleep, sweetie," he says, looking at her with a gentle smile. "You can't stay up late every night."

Your daughter huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. “W-well it’s Mommy’s fault! She kept asking Baba for ‘more’! Baba, I thought we weren’t ‘sposed to be greedy!?”

Zayne nearly spits out his coffee. He stutters over his words and clears his throat.

"Your mommy doesn't know when to stop, does she?" he says, giving you a playful wink.

"You know, even grown-ups like to indulge a little sometimes. It's not about greed, it's about having a good time."

He reaches out and tousles your daughter's hair.

"But you're right, too much 'more' can keep you awake at night. Maybe next time, we'll have to set a bedtime."

You, on the other hand, are so red in the face you just want to pass away. “Sweetheart, what all did you hear?”

Zayne smirks, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction.

"Oh no, now you're worried?" he teases lightly before turning back to your daughter. "Alright, tiny eavesdropper—what exactly did Mommy say?"

Your daughter puffs her cheeks in thought before mimicking in a (terribly inaccurate) high-pitched voice- "'Zaaayyne~! One more time! Pleeease!'"

He barely holds back a laugh as you bury your face in your hands. "...Well. That’s enough syrup on your pancakes for the next decade."

☁︎｡ Sylus

Sylus is playing dolls with your daughter while you lounge in a nearby chair reading a book. Everything is well, before your little girl starts mimicking a VERY SPECIFIC sound you make when having…alone time with her father.

Your face flushes red.

“Sweetheart? Where did you hear that sound?”

Sylus stopped halfway, still in the midst of brushing the doll's hair, his gaze shifting from the doll to you in disbelief. The moment you mentioned the sound, it took a few seconds before the realization washed over his face. The brush slipped from his hand as his eyes widened.

A look of pure horror mixed with an underlying hint of humor flashed across his features as he slowly turned to his daughter.

"Sweetie.. Where did you hear that noise..?" He repeated your question, sitting the doll aside.

Your daughter only points a tiny finger directly at her father before going back to playing with the dolls, completely oblivious.

Sylus freezes like a deer in headlights, his ruby eyes darting from your daughter to you, the silence stretching as he internally debates between playing dumb or bribing everyone involved into forgetting this ever happened.

"Uh. Hah. Funny story—I think she got it from… Mephisto? Yeah, the crow. Crows can mimic sounds, right?" He flashes you that stupidly charming grin. “Definitely the bird."

Your daughter suddenly claps her tiny hands together and, in the sweetest, most innocent baby voice possible, squeals-

"Daddy’s kitten s’sooo good for him!"

Sylus chokes on air mid-grin—his entire face turning the same shade as his ruby eyes. He slowly looks at you, then back at her.

"Okay. New plan. We move countries. Tonight." He scoops up your daughter under one arm like a football and gestures dramatically toward the door with his free hand. "Pack light—we’ll fake our deaths in Switzerland."

Sylus is now frantically packing up his entire gun collection, muttering about witness protection programs and the Swiss Alps. Your daughter, thrilled by the adventure, is giggling and ‘helping’ by throwing her toys into the suitcases.

You stare at the chaotic scene, half-amused, half-apprehensive. You never thought that the sound you made during your intimate moments would spark an international family crisis.

“Switzerland, huh? Should I start learning German or just stick to 'meow' for communication?"

☁︎｡ Xavier

“Daddy, can I color the bear’s hat pink?” The younger twin asks as he reaches for the pink crayon. Your twin sons and Xavier were coloring at the dinner table while you cooked.

Xavier smiles, reaching out to pat his head. “You can color it whatever you like, baby.”

“Can I color my bunny yellow like my hair?” The older boy asks as he points to his messy, blonde mop-top.

Xavier nods. “Mhm, sure. And don’t you think I can’t hear you kicking your brother under the table, young man,” he added.

But then, the oldest twin mumbles and expletive when he accidentally colors outside of the line. “Shit!”

Xavier gasps, reaching out to put a finger to his son’s lips. “Hey, Language. Your mother would kill me if she heard you say that,” he sighed.

You looked over at your boys from the stove with a raised eyebrow. “What was that baby? Where did you hear that from?”

You asked your oldest son. The boy puffed out his cheeks. “I-I heard daddy say “Shit, you feel so good!’ last night!”

Xavier immediately choked on his own spit, face turning beet red as he slammed a hand over his son’s mouth again. Oh god oh god oh god—

"N-no! That’s—that’s not what happened!" He sputtered, flailing slightly before shooting you the most desperate, pleading look of his life.

His twin brother, ever the opportunist, perked up with a mischievous grin and chimed in: "Daddy said it when Mommy was making those weird noises too! Like ‘ughhhh Xavieraaaahhh~!’" He dramatically mimicked your voice (poorly) while flopping backwards in his chair like a swooning Victorian widow.

Xavier looked ready to combust on the spot. “Well it’s time for bed!” He yelped, scooping both giggling boys under each arm like footballs and sprinting for their room before they could spill more incriminating details. Over his shoulder, he hissed at you: "We are putting them in a boarding school!”

“They’ll—They’ll forget about it. It’s fine. Nothing happened,” Xavier reassured himself as he came back into the kitchen, though he sounded about as confident as a squirrel being chased by a big dog. He wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his face into your shoulder.

“That’s not exactly what we were doing,” he added, though it was clear from the color of his ears that he wanted to change the subject. He kissed the lobe of your ear as if to plead for your forgiveness.

You smile up at your lover, brushing a piece of blonde hair away from those gorgeous blue eyes. “Oh? And what do you think I sounded like last night?”

"You sounded like you wanted to have a third kid," he joked with a playful grin on his face. He rested his head against your shoulder, his arms wrapping around you and holding you close.

"Maybe I can get you to sound like that again?" He purred, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "The kids are asleep, you know."

☁︎｡ Rafayel

Rafayel had a small, soft smile on his face as he watched his 4 year old daughter paint.

She was currently painting a picture, and she was quite dedicated to this task.

Rafayel approached her, kneeling down next to her.

"How's the painting coming along, sweetheart?"

The little lilac haired girl gave him a grin with missing teeth. But then her little eyebrows furrowed at her father and Rafayel could immediately tell she wanted to ask a question.

Seeing the look on his daughter's face, Rafayel chuckled. He knew that look well.

"Alright, out with it, sweetheart. What do you want to ask?"

Rafayel nodded slowly.

"That's right, sweetheart. We're not supposed to hit."

He looked at her with concern, wondering why she was asking such a question. He wanted to make sure she understood the importance of avoiding physical violence whenever possible.

"Why do you ask? Did someone try to hit you?"

She huffed and shook her head. “No…but why were you hitting Mama last night?”

Rafayel felt his face flush crimson in an instant. His eyes widened as he choked on nothing but air, a coughing fit overtaking him for a moment.

"W-WHAT— No! Sweetheart, I wasn’t hitting Mama! I would never—"

He pinched the bridge of his nose with a strained sigh before kneeling down to her level again, voice softening into something both amused and mortified.

"...You must’ve heard us… wrestling. Mama and I were just playing. Like how you and your friends roughhouse sometimes."

Was this what karma felt like? Absolutely brutal.

The little girl stared up at him for a moment in thought. Then the confusion came back and Rafayel had to suppress another groan. She was too young to understand.

“Does wrestling make Mama cry?”

He felt like his brain had just short-circuited. It was true that you had a strong reaction to his… ‘assault’.

He scrambled to find the right words.

"It-- I-- Um--"

He cleared his throat, trying to compose himself.

“...Mama was just surprised. It’s nothing to worry about, I promise. Mama… likes the game."

"Oh God, I swear I’ll get you back for this,” Rafayel grumbled internally.

But his little one didn’t look convinced whatsoever. “B-but she kept sayin’ ‘too much, too much Raf!’ Over n over! ‘N Papa didn’t stop!”

Rafayel was now mentally composing his own eulogy. He was sure you would kill him when she found out about this conversation. His ears burned so hot he could probably melt steel with them.

"...Okay. That— That sounds bad, but I swear it wasn't!" He ruffled her hair nervously, voice dropping into a hushed whisper like this was some top-secret mission debrief. "You know how Mama exaggerates sometimes when we play? Like when you pretend the couch is lava? It's just... like that."

(Dear universe: Please let a meteor strike me down before Y/n hears about this.)

"Besides, if I actually made Mama cry for real," he added with exaggerated solemnity, “do you think she’d still kiss me goodnight?"

The little girl pondered and pondered. Eventually, she seemed satisfied with her father’s reasoning.

Then she went back to her painting, her little tongue poking out with concentration.

Rafayel was still worried about what she heard and how she would perceive it, but he couldn’t help but smile at his daughter’s determination.

He ruffled her hair fondly and said, “You’re a good girl, sweetheart. Please don't tell Mama about this, okay? Daddy's going to be in big trouble if she finds out.”

☁︎｡ Caleb

Life was sweet.

You had a son who was now 7, all boyish charms and boy did he love his Mama.

But right now it was special alone time between ‘Mom and Dad’. Caleb had you bent over the bed, one of your own hands covering your mouth to stifle any noise while he drove into you from behind.

“A-ahh…Y/n…” he panted, his body pressing against yours. His breathing was heavy in an attempt to keep quiet, to keep the noises from waking your son from his sleep. “Y-you’re being too quiet,” he whispered with frustration, his hips bucking forward. “L-like this? I-I can’t tell if you like it.”

You try to block your moans with your hand, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I-I don’t want to wake up our son. H-he’s grouchy when he doesn’t get his 8 hours.” You laugh between a pleasured sob.

He whined. “B-but, if I don’t hear you, I… I can’t tell how well I’m… mmm… doin’…” he said, the hand covering your mouth slipping away so he could entangle his fingers with yours.

“Come on, love. Just a lil’ louder f’me,” he urged. With his free hand he stroked your skin, mapping every single scar and dip . “It feels good, doesn’t it? You like it when I… mmm… make you feel special, hmm? You can tell me,” he whispered, his voice husky.

It was almost like having another kid, both pining for your attention every time you turned around.

He pouted at you. “But you’re always giving him attention, I love ‘em but, you’re hardly paying any attention to me! I’m feeling kind of left out… you’re not going to let me down now, are you? Not my sweet-sweet girl…” he whined, his fingers tightening around yours. “I just want to hear your voice, is that too much to ask, love?”

His thrust grow more desperate and soon enough you are moaning out loud, praising your man for how good he was making you feel. “Mm fuck Caleb! S’too much! Gonna-gonna-“

He let out a shaky moan, his breathing labored as he started to lose himself. “C-come on… that’s it… m-more… like that… you know I love it when you sing to me,” he whispered into your ear, his lips nipping and kissing along your neck. “You’re so good… you’re driving me crazy…”

His praises lit a fire under you, but your walls were fluttering. “S’ mean to me Cal! So so mean~!” You purr, drool spilling from your mouth.

Your voice caught in your throat when you felt the headboard slam against the wall with force, causing a sudden silence followed by—“Mama?! Dad? What was that?”

Caleb’s movements stilled as his heart almost stopped beating. His body stiffened as he quickly yanked the blankets over both of you. You could hear footsteps padding down the hallway towards your room.

You expected him to stop, to just ask what was wrong. What you DIDN’T expect, was your loving 7 year old to come barreling in dressed in his super hero costume, and try to tackle his Father off the bed. “Let my Mama go!”

“What are you- ack!” Caleb was cut off by your son knocking him off the bed, the pair of them tumbling to the ground. There was a scuffle, your son clinging to Caleb’s neck while Caleb struggled to stand up. “Get off of me-!” He managed to gasp out. “Let go! How are you so strong when you’re so small?!” Caleb cried out, struggling to pry your son off of him.

You tried to pry a very protective boy off of his father while holding a sheet to your chest.

“Baby I promise it’s not what it looks like!” You try to plead with your brunette baby boy.

This is exactly what Caleb got for making a carbon copy of himself.

[imaxdead]

what i meant was you

—★ popular girl! daniela avanzini x fem! reader

synopsis: you never wanted to agree to this — helping him win over her — but here you are, knee-deep in love with the very girl you were supposed to help him get.

genre: angst, slow-burn, fluff

warnings: strong language, dani is straight(?), kind of a doomed yuri, homophobia, religious stuffs, internalized guilt, my gayass sucks sb w love stuff, reader is fighting the bro-code (BUT LIKE. IT’S DANIELA AVANZINI. BE SRS) also mention of alcohol, and g*y ppl kissing?????

heavily inspired by the half of it (WHICH U NEED TO WATCH IF U HVN’T ITS SO MEANINGFUL AND UNDERRATED I LOVE JT AND YURI SM)

a/n: my 2nd ex and my principal r def going to hell. anyway enjoy reading ts it’s sooo long don’t fall asleep gays

they say every story has two halves. the one you tell the world, and the one that keeps you up at night.

love, in its purest form, isn’t a fairytale or a firework. it’s a slow ache. a quiet kind of violence. it’s watching someone fall in love with the version of you that isn’t yours to give.

people think love is kind. soft. something that makes you whole.

but i think love is selfish. it takes before it gives. it demands. it hides in the spaces between what you say and what you mean.

and sometimes —

the worst part of loving someone isn’t that they don’t love you back.

it’s that they never even knew it was you.

this isn’t a love story. it’s just the wreckage it left behind

and somewhere under all that rubble — what i meant

what i really meant — was you.

the library was technically quiet.

but only in the way a classroom is quiet right before a test — low murmurs tucked between pages, someone laughing too loudly two tables down, chairs scraping against old tile floors like nails on a chalkboard.

the librarian, bless her heart, didn’t give a single fuck.

she was parked at the front desk, head bent so deep into her phone you’d think she was texting Jesus himself. probably some messy affair, based on the look on her face — equal parts giddy and guilty. either that or she was reading fanfiction. no judgment.

you were seated in one of the corner tables, leaning back in your chair, eyes scanning the most painfully awkward piece of writing your hands had ever touched.

“dear daniela,

i know we haven’t really talked that much before, but i think you’re really pretty. and even if you weren’t, i’d still want to get to know you because you seem kind. and smart. most people only have two of those things, but you have all three, and i think that makes you special.

well about me i’m just a normal guy with a regular life. i play basketball. my family thinks i’m cute — well just my grandma. she’s dead though. enough about my dead grandma, i like eating fries dipped in milkshakes. is that weird? i think it’s good. i’d like to try it with you sometime.

— park sunghoon (the basketball guy)”

you stared blankly at the last line for a moment, the silence sitting heavier than it should. then, slowly, you lowered the paper and looked up at the idiot responsible for this war crime.

park sunghoon was sitting across from you, elbows on the table, hands clamped over his mouth as he watched you with wide, nervous eyes. like a kid waiting for a bomb to go off. or worse — your opinion.

to the rest of the world, sunghoon was a “cool guy.”

he was tall. semi-decent at sports. had that “i don’t know how hot i am” aura that somehow made people like him more.

but to you?

sunghoon was the kid from next door.

the one you met when you were twelve. the one who once cried because he stepped on a snail. the one who always got his words jumbled when he was nervous and said “breasts” instead of “brisket” at a barbecue once.

so yeah. he wasn’t that cool.

especially not now, as he practically begged you to help him romance someone out of his league.

you sighed, setting the paper down with the kind of controlled disappointment usually reserved for bad report cards.

“what the fuck even was that—”

“do you like it?” he blurted at the exact same time.

you both blinked.

you groaned, pushing your glasses up your nose. “do i like it? sunghoon, this sounds like a twelve-year-old trying to flirt after watching one romantic movie and panicking halfway through.”

he winced. “okay. yeah. but like, it’s not that bad, right?”

“you mentioned your dead grandma right after calling her pretty.”

“yeah, i panicked.”

“it shows.”

you leaned back in your chair, arms crossed, your tone flattening. “and no, before you ask — i’m not writing a letter to daniela avanzini... or anyone. it’s weird. it’s not real. and it’s definitely not you. i can’t be you.”

he let out the most pitiful groan known to man, flopping forward dramatically like he was auditioning for a tragedy. “y/n, please. just one letter. i’m so bad at this. i know i suck, okay? i just need a little help. just enough to not embarrass myself.”

you raised an eyebrow. “you already have embarrassed yourself.”

“i’ll buy you lunch. every day. for a week.”

you stared at him.

you should’ve said no.

you should’ve laughed in his face, stood up, and walked away with the satisfaction of keeping your dignity and your hands clean from whatever mess this was bound to become.

but instead—

you sighed. “fine. lunch for a week.”

sunghoon’s entire body lit up. “DEAL!” he nearly jumped out of his seat, fist-pumping the air like he just won a scholarship.

you turned in your chair, snatched the disaster of a letter, and uncapped your pen, eyes narrowing as you began to underline the few salvageable parts —namely, the fries and milkshake thing. that part was weirdly charming.

“i still don’t get why you’re writing a letter,” you muttered, scribbling notes in the margins. “you could’ve just DMed her. she’s literally active on instagram 24/7.”

sunghoon shrugged, slouched in his seat like a melted candle. “you think i have the balls to text her? i’m not built for this, bro. and letters are like... romantic. vintage. mysterious.”

you shot him a look. “just say you’re trying to stand out.”

“okay, yeah, that too.”

you shook your head. “people and their dumbass ideas of love... all of it’s ridiculous.”

still, you circled the fries line. “this can stay.”

for a second, there was silence again.

and then, sunghoon cleared his throat. a little too softly. a little too hesitant.

“…you’ve never been in love, have you?”

your pen stopped moving.

you looked up slowly, raising one brow. “what?”

he blinked. “nothing, it’s just—like, you talk about love like it’s... stupid. like you don’t believe in it or something.”

you blinked once. then twice.

and then came your answer, crisp and matter-of-fact: “i haven’t, and don't ever wanna.”

he tilted his head. “but then how do you know what to write?”

you scoffed, pushing back your chair and standing up, gathering the papers in one sharp movement. “you wanted a love letter?”

“yeah?”

you tossed the pages at him. “then watch me write a fucking love letter.”

“wait — where are you going?”

“home, hoe.”

“what? why—WAIT FOR ME, YOU MENACE!”

you were walking down the hallway, still thinking about sunghoon’s disaster of a letter and what the hell you were supposed to do with it. love letters. love. love. it wasn’t like you hated the idea of it, but it was the one thing you weren’t good at. not really. you could write, yeah. about politics. about grief. about astronomy or dead languages. but love? it always felt like trying to write in a language you didn’t speak — like everyone else had the translation, and you were just left guessing the syntax.

kids moved around you in loud, annoying clusters. locker doors slammed. voices bounced off the walls—gossip, laughter, someone crying into a phone like the world ended.

but all of it was background noise.

you weren’t listening. not until your phone vibrated inside your pocket, interrupting your spiral.

your hands were already full—papers, your bag hanging halfway off your shoulder—so when you fished your phone out with your wrist and chin like a goddamn contortionist, it was a little miracle you even answered.

“god, hello?” you muttered, adjusting your bag strap with your elbow.

a beat of silence.

then a voice — low, smooth, shameless.

“hey there, baby.”

your brain blanked for half a second.

what the fuck

in the same cursed moment, someone crashed into you from the side.

their shoulder hit yours hard enough to knock the stack of papers right out of your grip.

everything scattered like confetti—except the vibe was fucking miserable.

you staggered a little, caught yourself, already cursing under your breath when the guy turned, annoyed.

“watch where you’re going, nerd.”

you blinked at him. it was his fault, clearly. but you didn’t have the energy to argue with a walking case of male entitlement. so you just crouched down, starting to gather the mess in silence.

“fuck off,” you mumbled under your breath, not loud enough for him to hear. just loud enough for the rage inside your chest to breathe. as you reached for the pages, someone knelt down across from you. “motherfucking—”

you didn’t think anything of it until you looked up—

—and froze.

it was

daniela avanzini.

what.

the.

fuck.

is.

doing.

here.

kneeling right in front of you like this was some teen movie and not your actual life.

what. the. fuck.

“looks like someone’s in a little trouble here,” she said, her voice teasing but weirdly soft. like you knew each other. like this was normal. which it wasn’t. you didn’t know her. not really. just… admired her from a distance. kinda.

you stared at her, brain struggling to reboot, as she casually collected your scattered papers like she hadn’t just blown up your entire nervous system

“do you know me?”

you asked it before you could stop yourself.

she looked up at you and smiled —

not sarcastic. not fake. just… warm.

“of course i do,” she said, handing you pages. “y/n y/l/n, you’ve only been playing my dad’s church service every sunday for, like, two years.”

oh.

right.

her dad was the pastor.

“you’re his favorite heathen.” she added with a quiet laugh, “i love the way you play. it’s… comforting. in this weird, grounding way. i always feel better after.”

you stared at her. she didn’t sound like she was lying. and it fucked your brain a little.

you both stood up at the same time.

she gave you a little nod, then walked off like that was the most casual interaction in the world.

your eyes stayed on her, trailing her steps down the hallway until she disappeared into the crowd.

then slowly, you brought your phone back up to your ear.

“‘do you know me?’” you repeated, annoyed as fuck.

because yeah. that sentence wasn’t meant for daniela earlier, it was for the idiot on the other end of the call.

who replied with a snort, “uh huh. look behind you, loser.”

you frowned and turned.

fuck.

standing there like a boss bitch in a teen drama was jimin, better known as karina — the school’s it girl, walking ego, and certified pain in the ass

behind her stood her minions — minjeong, giselle, and ningning.

they had the same expression they always wore when they looked at you.

bored. mildly amused. slightly threatening.

the very same people who tried to bully you when you first got here. keyword: tried.

karina gave you a once-over, chewing gum like she had nothing better to do.

“god, what the fuck do you want now?” you asked, exhausted.

you were too fucking tired for her bullshit.

karina raised an eyebrow. “excuse you?”

before you could breathe, her right hand— minjeong —stormed forward like a fucking pitbull off the leash.

“who gave you the fucking right to talk to us like that, huh, freak?!”

before you could dodge, she grabbed the front of your shirt and slammed you back against the lockers so hard it made your teeth rattle. the cold metal pressed against your spine as your papers crumpled under your arm.

you met her glare without blinking.

“no one needs to,” you muttered. “now get your crusty ass breath outta my face.”

her eyes went wide. “you bitch—”

and her fist cocked back.

you braced.

but then karina’s voice, sharp as a whip, sliced through the tension.

“minjeong. off.”

minjeong hesitated, but stepped back with a huff, glaring at you like she’d left the punch on layaway. you exhaled through your nose. fixed your collar. scooped your phone from the ground.

your voice was flat. “you done?”

karina just stared at you, something unreadable flickering in her eyes.

you didn’t know what the fuck they wanted.

“y/n, i’m home. let’s eat,” your dad called out as he stepped inside, voice echoing through the hallway before his head popped into your room.

you froze mid-sentence, pen hovering above the paper like it was a loaded gun. your body stiffened, eyes snapping up to meet his, wide with the kind of panic you only feel when you get caught doing something that isn’t illegal but still feels like a fucking crime.

“i know. i already ate,” you mumbled quickly, setting your pen down like nothing happened, like your heart wasn’t just in your throat. “was over at park’s place.”

he nodded like it was nothing. because it was. it had become this unspoken routine — dinners at sunghoon’s. his mom always made too much food and insisted you stay. you didn’t even bother fighting it anymore.

“she sent you food, too,” you added, trying to shift the attention off you.

your dad didn’t even acknowledge it. instead, he let his eyes wander past you, scanning the chaos spread across your desk. loose pages everywhere. ink-stained hands. scratched-out words.

“what are you writing?” he asked, arms folding across his chest as he leaned on the doorframe.

your eyes flicked down at your desk and only then did it hit you just how much of a disaster it looked like. not just in the physical mess, but in the way it screamed you were trying too hard to say something you didn’t even understand yet.

“nothing... just... an assignment,” you muttered, barely convincing yourself.

“oh yeah?” he raised an eyebrow. “what kind of assignment? let me see.”

he stepped closer, hand reaching for one of the papers. you moved without thinking, throwing yourself in the way like you were protecting classified fucking documents.

“dad, no.”

“what? it’s just an assignment,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“this has nothing to do with you,” you snapped back, a little too defensive, a little too fast.

but he didn’t listen — when did he ever? — and swiped one of the pages anyway. the corner tore in the process, and that sound alone made your stomach drop.

“dad!” you tried to grab it back, reaching over, almost wrestling him for it.

he held it up, smirking, dodging your hands with way too much amusement. “uh huh, let’s see what kind of life-changing schoolwork this is.”

“give it the fuck back!” you hissed, both of you practically the same height now, so it turned into a stupid tug-of-war.

he squinted at the page. “...are you writing someone a love letter?”

your entire spine turned to stone.

“fuck no,” you snapped way too fast, too sharp. “sunghoon asked me to write one for some girl. it’s for him.”

he burst out laughing, like that explanation was somehow even funnier. “you suck. let me help you write it.”

and you let him.

because yeah, you did in fact suck.

“she wrote back.”

that’s the first thing that dropped out of sunghoon’s mouth, his voice low, almost hesitant, like he didn’t quite know how to say it. and he looked weird — not excited, not smug or proud like you expected. just... confused. like her words rearranged the atoms in his brain.

you froze mid-wipe of the countertop, hand still clutching the damp rag as a drop of foam slid off the edge of a coffee cup. you glanced at sunoo behind the bar and gave him that look, eyebrows raised just enough to say, i need to disappear right now. he saw it immediately, barely nodding before nudging your elbow and sliding into your place like a goddamn angel.

you tossed the rag and practically yanked sunghoon by the sleeve, dragging him toward the back hallway, away from customers, from your boss's eagle-ass eyes, from the espresso machine that wouldn’t shut the fuck up. and before he could say anything else, you snatched the paper right out of his hand — eyes already scanning, already desperate.

daniela fucking avanzini.

your heart thumped hard. she’d replied.

the page was folded like it had been read a hundred times already, smudged with sunghoon’s gross fingerprints probably.

but there it was. her handwriting. clean, sharp.

i love wim wenders too. wouldn’t plagiarism him though.

— d

you just stared at it for a second, brows slowly knitting, lips parting like you were about to say something but your brain hadn’t caught up yet.

“who the fuck is wim wenders?” sunghoon said, words rushing out of his mouth like they were tripping over each other. “and what’s plagiarism gotta do with—what the hell is she saying? is she mad? is it over? did we just get dumped?”

you didn’t even answer at first, jaw clenched, tongue pressing to the inside of your cheek as your eyes narrowed on the signature. that little dash and the single letter. d. fucking d.

“…fucking dad,” you hissed under your breath, your voice a tight whisper. “god, i told him not to—”

“for fuck’s sake,” sunghoon groaned. “i trusted you with one—”

“it’s not over.”

he blinked, mouth hanging slightly open. “…what?”

you turned the letter over, scanning the back as if something else would suddenly appear. nothing did. just her words echoing in your skull. “she’s... provoking us. that’s not a no. it’s not even rejection. she’s just throwing it back in our face.”

“like... a test?”

“like a fucking game,” you muttered, eyes still locked on the paper. then you looked up, meeting sunghoon’s stare head-on. “and she wants to see what we do next.”

he ran a hand through his hair. “okay. okay. so are we doing this? like—for real?”

you didn’t even hesitate. “yeah.” and then with zero actual enthusiasm, you added, “yay.”

he grinned, cocky suddenly. “we’re gonna win this.”

“obviously.”

but before anything else could leave his mouth, the sharp bark of your name came from the front. your manager. you rolled your eyes so hard it hurt

“that motherfucking bitch,” you muttered, stuffing the paper into your pocket. “whatever. i’ll write something new tonight. you’ll get it tomorrow.”

you gave sunghoon a lazy slap to the chest and turned on your heel.

but inside your chest, something was boiling. burning.

game on, daniela avanzini, game on.

you wanna play? fine.

but you didn’t know. not then. not really.

you didn’t realise this would turn into something.

maybe it was the beginning of something.

or maybe it wasn’t anything at all.

maybe it was just… something to hold.

but still—you did what you said you would.

you wrote daniela avanzini back.

in sunghoon’s name.

you didn’t think she’d reply.

but she did.

and then she did again. and again.

okay yeah. you caught me.

i hide behind other people’s words sometimes. the ones that already sound better than anything i could say myself. truth is, i don’t know a goddamn thing about love. i’ve lived in this town my whole life. same streets. same noise. same people.

i’m the oldest in a family that never runs out of things to say. i’m alright at basketball. but when it comes to shit that matters — my thoughts, my feelings, what i actually want? i’m useless.

and yet here i am, writing this to you.

— p.sh

did you know yawning uses ten different muscles? i keep that fact in my head like it’s supposed to explain something. maybe to remind myself that even the smallest things take effort. maybe to stop myself from showing when i’m tired. or bored. or feeling anything at all.

i use other people’s words too . and yeah, i know how this sounds, but i’m gonna say it anyway— you’re writing to me because i’m pretty right? when you’re a pretty girl, people treat you like a projection. they give you things because of who they think you are, not because they actually see you.

they don’t want to love you. they want to have you. there’s a difference. and somewhere in that difference, i ended up not being anyone at all.

— d

you hadn’t expected the letters to go back and forth like this.

you hadn’t planned for the rhythm of it — her writing, you replying. her unfolding the paper in class with that little smirk, that spark in her eye like someone had finally given her a secret worth keeping.

you’d see her resting her chin in her palm, eyes skimming every word like they were meant just for her.

and maybe they were.

even if she thought they came from someone else.

even if she thought they were sunghoon’s.

maybe that wasn’t your problem.

maybe that meant you were doing a good job.

but the fucked up part? once people decide you don’t fit in, they stop expecting you to. and there’s something kinda freeing in that. lonely. but freeing.

i used to think being different was the worst thing in the world.

— p.sh

don’t we all think we’re different, though? we say we’re weird. unique. strange. but then you zoom out and realize we’re just… the same kind of different. over and over. like a copy of a copy. i sit at the top of the popularity food chain or whatever. but it’s cold up here. it’s always cold.

— d

says the girl who probably doesn’t know how to be anything but a cliché. i don’t even know what i’m saying anymore. maybe the point is that people don’t notice what they don’t want to see.

sometimes that’s you. sometimes that’s me.

— p.sh

i keep thinking about something you said. there was an art teacher once told me that what makes a painting great instead of just good is five strokes. they’re the boldest ones. the scariest ones. the ones you make even if your hand’s shaking.

so now i’m stuck thinking

what’s your boldest stroke gonna be?

— d

sunghoon kept asking if she was saying anything good.

if she liked it.

if there were signs.

if they were winning.

and every time, you said yeah.

yeah, it’s going great.

yeah, she’s opening up.

yeah, she thinks it’s you.

you never said the truth.

you never said she thinks it’s you, but it’s really me.

you never said i think i’m falling into something i wasn’t supposed to start.

i get it now. you spend all this time building something that’s almost beautiful, and then you freeze at the idea of messing it up.

but maybe the only way to make it better is to risk fucking it up completely

— p.sh

that’s why i quit painting.

too scared to mess up something that was already okay. i wonder if that’s what i’m doing with my life.j ust living a pretty good life. not amazing. not wild. just good enough. probably the best you can get when you’re stuck in a town like fairpoint, kentucky.

— d

but do you even really know fairpoint?

you didn’t expect her to go.

to actually follow the instructions you wove into the letter, half as a dare, half as a breadcrumb trail.

but she did. she traced every sentence, every suggestion, every quiet direction—until she ended up there.

a wall. off the main roads. behind a chain link fence, next to the train tracks, half-hidden from the world.

the kind of place no one would bother to look. the kind of place people forget.

and there, sprayed in black paint, uneven and fading but there:

any five strokes here.

the can sat on the ground like it was waiting for her.

when she pressed down, it hissed.

fssssss.

just one line.

one clean, unbroken, bold stroke across the bricks.

and under it, she wrote:

your turn.

then stepped back.

then smiled.

not because of what it meant.

but because something in her already knew it wasn’t just a game anymore.

and maybe it never had been.

you came after she left.

it was quiet, the way alleys get after the buzz dies down. streetlights hummed above, casting a soft orange haze on the cracked wall. a can in your hand. one bold stroke.

you pulled back, tilted your head. it looked... okay.

then, just below your work:

so THAT’S your boldest stroke??

left it there.

walked away.

she came the next morning.

hair tied back, hoodie sleeves shoved up.

she paused when she saw your note.

eyebrow lifted.

“…hm.”

and she didn’t say anything else. just grabbed a can, shook it, and stared at the wall like it insulted her entire bloodline. then she started painting. copying the angle of your strokes — twisting them, playing off them. there was something soft about her chaos.

then below your message, she wrote, sloppily but sure:

i’m into the slow build. what was that?

you came back.

the paint was still damp in some parts. you touched the brick lightly, added a smear of blue into the curve she left. not to fix it—just to nudge it further. let it spill.

it was transforming. slowly. not into something recognizable, but into something honest.

then you wrote:

decisiveness. but, please, take all the time you need to be bold.

next day, she came.

she didn’t speak.

she just painted.

bold reds. a streak of silver like a knife cut through the black. it made no sense and all the sense at once. you watched from a distance, hidden behind a dumpster. she stepped back, studied the mess of colors like it was scripture.

then she looked dead at your last message and wrote under it:

is this BOLD enough for you?

the next time you came, it was finished.

like really finished.

no more space.

just a riot of color and contradiction and layered lines, the kind you don’t even realize are meaningful until you step back. until you breathe.

you stared for a long time, a little grin tugging at your lips.

“and thus was abstract art born.”

daniela avanzini came two hours later.

sunlight hit her cheek, hands in her pockets. she was chewing gum. tilted her head.

“yo, sunghoon did this?”

she scoffed, grinning.

“damn, manz needs to see this. wait, i need to take a pic—”

then—

“HEY! STOP RIGHT THERE!”

a fat security guard barreled into view, flailing.

daniela blinked. blinked again.

then fucking booked it.

“OH SHIT—”

she was gone.

the next day, you returned.

you froze.

someone had ruined it.

paint splashed all over, like blood over skin.

but there was something.

a new line, in shaky handwriting. small.

sighs :(

you squinted.

the “:(" had a little curl at the bottom.

you knew that curl. it was her.

you stared for a bit. let your breath go.

“that motherfucking man—” you muttered.

then sighed.

took out your can. shook it.

and beneath it all, where the mess lived, you added your final line:

everything beautiful is ruined eventually.

sunghoon was dribbling the basketball like it owed him money, his brows scrunched together, sweat glistening at his temple even though it wasn’t that hot. he looked at you like you were the fucking oracle or something.

“so when am i supposed to text her? or like… take her on a date? or whatever the fuck this is—dating?” he asked, pausing the bounce and spinning the ball lazily in his palm.

you sat leaned back on the worn-down gym bench, legs spread, wrist dangling over your knee, sipping that expired-tasting energy drink like you needed it to stay sane. you rolled your eyes without looking at him.

“too soon,” you muttered, pressing the cold can to your cheek for a second. “you text her now, she’s gonna think you’re another try-hard dickhead with zero game.”

“god,” he groaned, dragging the word out like it physically hurt. “i can’t keep doing this shit. this is so ridiculous. i just wanna be straight with her—wait, nah, fuck it, i’m texting her.”

he pushed the ball toward you and you caught it by instinct, your brain registering danger instantly.

he’s gonna fuck this up.

“bitch, do not—” you yelled, standing up just as he started walking toward his bag, phone already out.

but he was already doing it. standing there like a dumbass, typing away like it was a normal thursday and he wasn’t about to tank his one shot.

you stomped over, grabbing his shoulder, trying to talk some sense into him. “if you text her now, she’s gonna think you’re like every other guy who fell for her face and not her brain—”

but it was already too late.

“oh…” he said, blinking at the screen.

you tilted your head to see what fresh hell he just sent and read it aloud under your breath, stomach dropping.

@ hoonieee: would be mind drinking coffee w me ts weekend? 😊😊😊☕

what the fuck even is “would be mind.” was his brain buffering mid-text?

you immediately looked up, scanning the second floor of the gym. it had been seventeen minutes since daniela was up there with sophia and lara, laughing about something you couldn’t hear but wished you could. and there she still was, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the railing.

her phone was in her hand.

oh god. oh fuck. she saw it.

both you and sunghoon watched as her expression shifted — just slightly. a small, fleeting frown. that’s all it took to make your gut twist. then lara said something, and daniela slid her phone away like the message was a fucking fly she swatted.

you turned to sunghoon with murder in your eyes.

“you fucking idiot.”

you snatched the phone from him like it was a weapon, your mind already scrambling for some kind of damage control. maybe you could say it was a dare. maybe say it wasn’t meant for her. maybe—maybe—

then, a notification popped up.

daniela texted back.

@ danielavanzini: uh

sure?

sunghoon let out a sound that was definitely louder than it needed to be—a victorious scream muffled by his own hands as people turned to stare. he was grinning like an idiot, eyes wide, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“it worked,” he whispered.

he got a date. he actually fucking did it. with daniela avanzini. this weekend.

you stared at the phone for a second. then you looked back at him.

“give me your account password.”

he blinked, confused. “what??”

you raised your eyebrows. “i’ve made it this far into this shitshow, i’m not letting you fuck this up from here. i’m handling your texts from now on.”

“i mean… sure. it’s hoonissexy.”

you blinked.

“oh.”

you didn’t even say anything else. just slammed his phone against his chest and walked off, grabbing your bag like you were escaping a crime scene. you didn’t want to be seen anymore. not in this fucking gym, not around this stupid boy with hearts in his eyes and no brain in his skull.

but before you stepped out, you glanced up—just for a second.

daniela was looking straight at you.

smiling.

you didn’t smile back.

you just turned and walked away like you didn’t feel your heart fucking stutter.

“so you’re seriously telling me that awkward lgbt looking guy pulled that girl?” sunoo muttered from behind the counter, eyes glued to the corner table near the window. his tone was disbelieving, borderline offended. “like, jaw-dropping goddess levels of hot, sitting right there like she’s the lead in some tragic indie romance. she even looks like she’s from scissor city, if you get what i mean.”

you didn’t respond immediately. your gaze was already fixed in the same direction—daniela avanzini, wearing a cap low over her forehead, casually scrolling through her phone. even with half her face shadowed, she looked… god, she looked good. like a painting someone accidentally spilled golden light on.

“he’s not lgbt,” you said finally, quiet.

sunoo snorted. “i didn’t say he is, i said he looks gay. huge difference, babe.” he leaned back against the espresso machine with an exaggerated sigh. “where the fuck is he anyway? this man’s already late to his first date? damn.”

“maybe focus on the orders in front of you instead of sunghoon’s love life,” you mumbled, still watching daniela from the corner of your eye.

sunoo groaned and waved his hand. “no, listen. i have a gut feeling about this. that man? he’s hiding something. and that something is probably glitter and a hidden pinterest board full of andrew garfield gifs.”

“i hope so too,” you murmured without thinking.

you immediately glanced around, heart stuttering for a second — no one nearby had heard, thank god.

“y/n!” your boss’s voice snapped from the back, sharp and way too cheerful. “go get miss avanzini’s order!”

you blinked. of course. out of everyone in the cafe, you get sent to her. like the universe was playing some kind of joke.

daniela avanzini wasn’t just any pretty girl. she was the pretty girl in town. the kind people whispered about at church and stared at in grocery stores. her dad was the pastor, which only made things worse—like a halo she didn’t ask for but still wore everywhere.

you sighed, smoothed your apron, and forced yourself to walk over.

when you reached her table, you cleared your throat gently. “may i take your order, ma’am?”

she looked up, and the second her eyes met yours, her whole face changed. the kind of smile that spreads instantly, like it was just waiting for an excuse to appear. “oh—wait. it’s you?” she blinked, then let out a surprised little laugh. “you work here?”

you rubbed the back of your neck. “uh. yeah.”

“damn,” she said, still smiling, like this information genuinely delighted her. “i’ve been to this cafe before but i’ve never seen you.”

“i don’t work every day. just monday, tuesday, and thursday after school,” you said. “sometimes sunday too, if they need extra hands.”

she nodded, then tilted her head a little, clearly amused. “i guess that makes sense. i must’ve missed you.”

you shifted slightly, clearing your throat. “you’re waiting for someone, right?”

she hummed, glanced briefly toward the door, then back at you. “yeah... kind of.”

“is it, uh. like... a date?”

her eyes flicked up again, curious. a small smile tugged at her lips. “what do you think?”

you hesitated. “you seem... eager. that’s all.”

“eager?” she repeated, her voice light with amusement. “wow. that’s a first.”

you didn’t really know what to say to that, so you just nodded, trying to seem normal. like your stomach wasn’t doing slow, complicated flips.

there was a short silence. daniela looked up at the ceiling like she was thinking about something else entirely. her smile stayed.

“i’ll come back for your order when your... uh, date or friend arrives,” you said, turning to leave.

“y/n,” she called out, just as you started walking.

you paused. turned.

“it’s not a date.”

what the fuck

“it’s not a date,” sunoo repeated in a mocking sing-song tone once you got back to the counter, snickering. “girl, she literally said that out loud. you heard her. not a date. she even looked smug about it.”

you rolled your eyes. “shut the fuck up.”

“nah, but for real. you think she’s even into that awkward-lgbt-looking man?” he asked, snorting. “where is he, anyway? he’s late as hell.”

“i’m here!” a voice burst through the entrance, followed by sunghoon stumbling into the cafe, hair disheveled, breath shallow like he’d been sprinting. “is she still here? fuck, mom made me wash the dishes before i could—”

“bruh,” sunoo interrupted, completely deadpan. “shut up and go. she’s sitting right there, and you’re already fifteen minutes late. stop talking.”

sunghoon started toward her table, but you stopped him with a hand on his arm. “listen, she likes books. like actually loves talking about them. she prefers abstract art over literal. if she brings up remains of the day, tell her the movie didn’t do the book justice—especially when it came to the nazi subplot.”

sunghoon groaned. “y/n, it’s a date. i’m not prepping for a goddamn history essay.”

you raised both brows.

he shrugged you off and started walking to her table. you watched his back, not saying anything.

sunoo leaned in closer to your ear. “he’s absolutely gonna fuck this up,” he said under his breath, tone smug and certain. “but hey, silver lining…”

you didn’t respond.

you were still staring at them — sunghoon awkwardly sitting down, daniela smiling at something he said, her hand resting lightly on her chin.

you couldn’t look away.

sunoo nudged you. “so that means i have a chance with the awkward-lgbt-looking man, right?”

it wasn’t going nearly as smoothly as sunghoon swore it would. it was awkward. painfully, bone-deep, secondhand-embarrassment-inducing awkward.

daniela set the book down on the café table with a soft thunk, sliding it across to him like it was some kind of offering. “i’m pretty sure you’ve already read this,” she said, brushing her hair back like she was trying to play it casual. “but it’s signed. thought you’d appreciate it.”

remains of the day.

he stared at the cover like it personally insulted him.

“uh, yeah...? nazis. i... love that. thanks.”

the words flopped out of his mouth like a dying fish. because sunghoon had absolutely no fucking idea what the book was. or who wrote it. or what it was even about. the guy barely even skimmed textbooks, let alone literary fiction from the twentieth century.

daniela nodded, but she looked... off. not disappointed, exactly. just—off. like she was trying really hard not to let the silence choke her to death. “i’m glad we’re friends,” she said, gesturing between herself and him, forcing a smile.

he blinked. friends? after all that shit?

his eyes flicked to the counter. you were busy, hands full, chatting with some customer, but he could feel your gaze drift back every now and then. checking in. just like you always did.

“yeah. friends. sick,” he replied quickly, practically drowning himself in iced americano to avoid the taste of guilt.

the whole thing was fucked before it even got off the ground.

because sunghoon wasn’t the person who wrote those letters daniela still kept in her bag.

he wasn’t the one who painted abstract dreams into cement walls and gave them meaning with strokes bold and stupid and honest.

he wasn’t the one who wrote decisiveness, but please, take all the time you need to be bold.

he wasn’t you.

and daniela didn’t know that.

so of course she was gonna sit there confused as hell. of course she was gonna wonder where the magic went. why it felt so hollow. so off.

and sunghoon?

sunghoon was just trying not to burst into flames under the weight of a lie that wasn’t his.

“y/n, listen—”

“shut up.” your voice was flat, not even bothering to look up from your textbook as your pen dragged across the page, already halfway through solving a problem you didn’t even care about. “i knew this was gonna go to shit the second you asked me to help you ‘woo’ daniela avanzini.”

you exhaled sharply through your nose, the kind of annoyed breath that carried weeks of pent-up irritation. “now she’s gonna figure out you’re a fucking weirdo and ghost you like every other girl with a brain.”

sunghoon groaned from your bed like a dying dog, rolling onto his stomach dramatically. “fuck, please,” he whined. “do something. i literally started reading that book for her.”

your hand paused mid-sentence. slowly, you turned around to stare at him like he just confessed to murdering someone. “you? reading?”

“yes! even though i fell asleep like, five times,” he said, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand like a toddler. “but i tried.”

you blinked. this idiot.

“there’s nothing we can do—”

your phone vibrated on the desk with a quick buzz, and your eyes darted to the screen without thinking.

“she texted—”

“WAIT LET ME SEE!” sunghoon practically launched himself off your bed, scrambling toward your desk like his life depended on it.

you tilted the screen toward him just long enough for him to read:

@ danielavanzini: so that was weird

“YESSSS!” he fist-pumped his voice echoed off the walls and made you cringe.

you tossed your phone down and dragged your hands over your face, glasses slipping off as you rubbed your temples.

“…fine,” you mumbled. “i’ll help you.”

sunghoon froze. “really?!”

“yeah. now get ready before i change my mind and you’re left crying into your fucking shampoo bottle.”

and that’s how the mission started: operation somehow-make-sunghoon-less-of-a-dipshit-so-he-has-a-chance-with-daniela-avanzini.

aka: stalking her but in a totally educational way.

step one: figure out what daniela liked, hated, what books she actually read (without sleeping through them), and how the fuck to coach sunghoon into holding a conversation without tripping over every word like he was being strangled mid-sentence.

you and sunghoon had been “casually observing” daniela for a week now. trailing behind her at school, hanging back in the grocery store while she bought those granola bars she always carried around, watching her hang out with her friends — especially that one guy, ryan.

ryan.

god. that fucking guy.

he wasn’t officially her boyfriend or anything — at least, daniela never confirmed it — but his family was always around hers, like they were already being forced into marriage or something. and he acted like it, too. always hovering around her, but also all over every other girl he could find.

you hated him immediately.

he was obsessed with himself.

talked about his stupid car like it was the second coming of christ.

never paid enough attention to daniela.

and daniela... she deserved better than a self-centered poser with a mediocre jawline and no personality.

you even managed to interrogate some of her friends. megan was the easiest to crack—girl couldn’t keep a secret if you paid her. you got her to spill everything: favorite café, favorite poet, what kind of music she listened to when she was sad, which movies made her cry like a baby.

sunghoon asked her out again.

and to everyone’s surprise—

she said yes.

you didn’t say anything when he told you. you just looked at him, blinked once, and muttered,

“you better not fuck this up.”

you and sunghoon sat on the edge of his porch, the wood creaking beneath you every time either of you shifted. a soft summer breeze tugged at your clothes, and above, the stars looked unusually bright — like they knew something the two of you didn’t.

sunghoon tilted his head toward you, eyes catching the glow of the moonlight. “i can’t wait for tomorrow,” he said with a small smile.

you hummed in agreement, leaning your head against the wall of his house, cheek pressed to the cool surface. “me too. after that day... i’ll finally be free.”

he frowned a little at your wording. “don’t say it like that,” he muttered, half-laughing, half-scolding.

you chuckled under your breath, not looking at him.

the silence that followed was gentle but heavy, like it was waiting for something. after a while, you spoke, not turning to face him. “why do you love daniela avanzini so much? what is it about her that made you go this far?”

sunghoon blinked at you, surprised. not by the question—he had clearly been expecting it—but maybe by the way you asked it. like you were trying to understand something deeper.

“i was wondering when you’d ask me that,” he said, straightening his back slightly. he took in a deep breath, staring ahead at the empty street. “honestly? who wouldn’t love her? she’s basically perfect. she’s kind, she’s beautiful, she’s smart. she’s... everything a girl dreams of being.”

you scoffed, shaking your head slowly. “that’s not love, you idiot.”

he raised an eyebrow. “then what is it?”

you looked down at your hands. your voice came out quieter now, more vulnerable. “it’s when you notice the small things. how her eyes actually hold your gaze when she talks. how she absentmindedly twirls a strand of her hair when she’s focused on reading. how her laugh kind of explodes when she finds something genuinely funny. how she acts all fierce and untouchable, but deep down she’s soft. she cares. she really cares about the people she loves. and her voice... her voice and her eyes. they are so pretty...”

as the words spilled out, it stopped feeling like you were explaining something to him. it felt like you were finally admitting it to yourself.

you felt the air shift. you looked up to find him staring at you—expression unreadable at first, then shifting into something else. not shock. not anger.

“you like daniela,” he said quietly.

you blinked. “i—hoon, it’s not like that—”

“what do you mean ‘not like that’? i tell you i love her and you’re here describing details i didn’t even notice. do you even realize how people act when they’re in love?”

you looked away, throat tightening. it didn’t feel like you were denying it to him anymore—it felt like you were trying to convince yourself.

“no. no, i don’t like her.”

the lie tasted bitter.

sunghoon stood up suddenly, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans. “goodnight,” he mumbled, voice stiff. “i think i should go.”

you stayed seated, but your voice followed him. “you love daniela,” you said simply, watching him stop mid-step. “you’re the first man i’ve seen—aside from my dad—put in this much effort for a girl. i think that’s real. i think that’s love.”

he turned to glance back at you. you gave him a small smile — one filled with guilt, sadness, but also truth.

he didn’t say anything, but the corner of his mouth tugged up before he looked away again. “best of luck for tomorrow,” you whispered.

he nodded once and disappeared into the house.

and you stayed there, under the stars, heart heavy with realization.

you were in love with daniela avanzini.

you were sitting on your chair, staring blankly at the wall like it owed you an apology. your thoughts were loud, louder than any noise outside. it was one of those nights where everything felt heavier, tighter, like your own brain was turning against you.

i’m so fucked.

you kept repeating it to yourself, over and over, like some broken prayer. like saying it enough times would un-fuck the situation. like it’d pull you out of this twisted shit you somehow let yourself fall into.

you always said love wasn’t your thing. it’s not for me.

that’s not what i’m here for.

it ruins shit. it gets in the way.

and guess what? it’s doing exactly that. it’s in the way. it’s chewing your thoughts up like meat.

your phone buzzed. again. and again. and again.

reluctantly, you reached into your pocket and dragged it out, papers still stuffed under your other arm.

@ danielavanzini: hi

u up?

i’m sure u r

of course it was her.

your eyes hovered over the name like it had teeth.

your chest ached, head pounding with the aftermath of too much thinking, too much wondering, too much pretending like it wasn’t messing you up.

you did the thing you shouldn’t have done.

@ hoonieee: yeah

why?

@ danielavanzini: nothing rlly

can’t wait for the next weekend tho. hope it doesn’t end up like last time lol

you froze.

she was excited… to see him.

not you. not who you really are.

him.

@ hoonieee: same

can’t wait to see u

you stared at your own message like it was written by someone else. was that sunghoon? was that you trying to be him? why the fuck did that sound so... desperate? too warm, too open?

you waited. she didn’t reply. not for a while. your fingers clenched, your jaw tightened. you finally tossed the phone beside you and let your head drop back—

buzz.

@ danielavanzini: why r u always awake ts late?

your eyes dragged across the screen.

you thought for a second, typed slowly.

@ hoonieee: the world is sleeping, more room for thoughts

@ danielavanzini: hours of secrets?

you scoffed.

secrets?

you had so many, they were practically roommates at this point.

@ hoonieee: no secrets.

lie.

@ danielavanzini: speaking abt secrets

i’ve been thinking abt smth a lot

don’t rlly have someone to share

i mean i do but i can’t really let it out to anyone

@ hoonieee: ohh. that’s bad

@ danielavanzini: it is! so i’m thinking i should tell u

bc u understand me a lot

u get it ok? like no one does

i mean others would too if i were this open w em

but anyways

i think i like someone

your entire body stiffened.

eyes wide, fingers clenched around the phone like it might shatter.

did she just say that?

did she just say she likes someone?

your heart fucking dropped.

you sat up. you sat up like it was a fire drill.

what the fuck did she mean by that?

you started typing.

@ hoonieee: who do you like?

delete.

@ hoonieee: is it someone i know?

delete.

@ hoonieee: who is that?

delete.

you stared at the blinking cursor. your chest was rising and falling way too fast for someone just “chatting.”

don’t lose it. don’t act weird. don’t act like it’s about you.

@ danielavanzini: sorry for dropping the bombshell out of nowhere

i js thought u deserved to know

well i can’t rlly say who it is

but i’ve known them for a long time

i think they like someone else tho

you blinked at the screen. the words punched through your skull one by one.

them.

fuck.

who’s them?

why the fuck is it them?

you swallowed hard.

is she talking about ryan?

is it someone else?

your stomach felt like it flipped over. your tongue was dry.

you didn’t know if you wanted to throw up or scream or laugh like a maniac.

@ hoonieee: its okay

you sent it.

the fakest two words you ever typed.

because it wasn’t okay.

none of this was okay.

but still you sent that

@ hoonieee: if u think they’re worth the risk, js confess

you didn’t even register how you ended up at a party sunghoon dragged you to, somewhere in a house that belonged to one of his friends—some guy named jake, you barely knew him beyond the name.

partying was not your thing. never was.

you’d rather be buried under three blankets, headphones on, pretending the world doesn’t exist.

but that night, you didn’t put up much of a fight. maybe you were tired. maybe your heart had been screaming too loud lately, and alcohol was the only thing that could get it to shut up.

you remember the blur—music, lights, sunghoon’s arm around your shoulder, someone laughing too loud, drinks you should’ve said no to but didn’t.

you remember being handed shot after shot like it was water.

you remember a sharp pain in your gut, a sick twist.

then you remember throwing up.

and sunghoon, always the loyal idiot, dragging your half-dead weight to his car.

somewhere in all that mess, you’d caught a glimpse of daniela’s friend. not daniela.

of course not. she couldn’t come. her dad had her on lockdown, the kind of curfews you couldn't negotiate your way out of.

it made sense. still didn’t stop the ache.

now, you woke up in a bed that wasn’t yours.

your eyes cracked open slowly. the air was unfamiliar. the blanket wasn’t yours—too dark, too scratchy. the smell wasn’t yours either.

you sat up, your head pounding like you got into a fight with a train and lost.

you blinked a few times, reached for your glasses on the nightstand.

sunghoon’s room.

of course. where else would you be?

you groaned. everything hurt.

your eyes landed on the table beside the bed. a small folded note and a pill next to it.

take this

you didn’t hesitate. you popped the pill into your mouth, grabbed the water glass, chugged it like your life depended on it.

anything to make the headache disappear.

and then—

voices. muffled, outside the room.

sunghoon’s mom.

“hoon just left with his dad, you can wait for him here.”

wait? who?

“i’m not planning to wait, i’ll just leave the drawing and go.”

your heart slammed against your ribs.

fuck.

no. no no no no no.

you spit the water out like it burned your throat. shoved the blanket off, scrambling for your bag, your jacket, your keys.

you couldn’t be here. not now. not like this.

daniela was here?

“oh, y/n is here, you two talk, i’ll be back!”

you froze mid-motion, jacket half on, bag hanging off your shoulder.

the door creaked open.

she stepped in, and you swore your brain short-circuited.

daniela looked surprised—but not in the bad way. just startled. and then she smiled. that soft, polite smile she always had.

“h-hi,” you stammered, the word cracking like glass. you awkwardly waved with one hand, trying to look casual while literally holding your jacket halfway across your torso. “i was just… here to take my books back.”

she tilted her head. “books?”

you adjusted your glasses like it would make your lie sound more believable. “yeah. he’s been doing a lot more reading lately.”

she nodded slowly. “aww, is it because i kept asking him too many questions about books? god, i’m so annoying.”

your mouth moved before your brain could stop it.

“you’ve never been annoying.”

then you winced. fuck.

there was silence. awkward. thick. heavy.

she glanced down at the paper in her hands. “i was just here to give him this. i drew it last night.”

she held it up like it was nothing. like it wasn’t a part of her heart scribbled in ink.

you walked up to her and took it gently, your fingers brushing against hers.

you stared at the lines, the curves, the soft shadows of the drawing.

“i like the stroke here,” you said quietly, handing it back. “he’s gonna love it.”

she smiled, looking down.

and god, you hated how much that smile did to you.

“uh, i gotta go,” you said quickly, suddenly breathless. “i have to be at the café.”

you turned to leave, already halfway out the door when you heard her call your name.

“y/n?”

you turned, half-expecting her to vanish if you blinked.

“yeah?”

“can i come with you?”

“well. uh. that’s… awkward,” sunoo muttered under his breath, glancing at you from the side like he didn’t want to be caught caring. “you literally have a whole-ass girl sitting out there waiting for you, like—full-on waiting. and you're here giving all your attention to someone’s half-assed espresso order or whatever. like. respectfully. minus aura, y/l/n.”

you groaned under your breath. “god, what am i even supposed to do?”

sunoo shrugged like it was obvious. “i don’t know. skip your shift? take her somewhere? literally anywhere?”

“and where am i supposed to take her, genius?”

he blinked at you, blank-faced. “why are you asking me that?”

“bitch because you’re the one who said i should take her somewhere.”

“yeah, because you need to. you can’t just leave her out there like some kicked puppy while you’re inside pretending your life’s not imploding. and if you're worried about the boss—don’t. i got it. i’ll cover your shift.”

“are you sure—”

“bitch, just go.”

you didn’t argue after that. you just muttered something that vaguely resembled “okay goddamn” and yanked off your apron, barely managing to hang it up without tripping over your own feet.

daniela was still there, still exactly where you left her, sitting at the corner table with a book in her hand. she’d insisted she’d wait. insisted she didn’t mind. but her leg was bouncing under the table, and the crease between her brows hadn’t left since the second coffee was handed to her.

“hey…” you said, awkwardly rubbing the back of your neck.

she looked up immediately. “you’re done already?”

you scratched your temple, glancing over your shoulder. “not technically. sunoo kind of kicked me out. said i wasn’t allowed to make lattes while i’ve got a girl out here waiting like it’s a drama or something.”

you gestured toward the counter where sunoo had taken your place, and as daniela’s eyes followed your hand, he looked up—grinned—and gave her the most unserious little wave.

her lips twitched. “he’s cute. can i steal you for a while?”

“steal me?”

“yeah,” she said, standing and gently tugging at your sleeve. “can i take you somewhere?”

you blinked. “where?”

she smiled. that kind of quiet, secret smile that curled like a hook at the corner of her mouth. “you’ll love it,” she said simply, already pulling you by the wrist like she wasn’t giving you an actual choice.

you didn’t fight it. you followed her out the door, across the parking lot, into her car. she closed the door behind her with a soft thunk and turned to face you, like she was waiting to watch the curiosity bloom in your expression.

you looked over. “okay. so. where are we going?”

daniela grinned. the kind of grin that promised something warm. “my secret favourite spot.”

the car ride was quiet. not the awkward kind filled with tension or unspoken arguments, but the soft kind, where the only thing filling the silence was the low hum of the engine and daniela’s occasional, almost subconscious humming.

you had no idea where she was taking you. you didn’t ask either.but it wasn't until the car slowed to a stop that you realized.

a hot spring.

tucked quietly between tall trees and thick mist, like it was hiding from the world on purpose. the kind of place you’d see in someone’s dream or a movie.

“this is the place i always come to when i need to clear my mind,” daniela said, her voice a little louder now, like she was trying to snap you out of the daze. she shrugged off her jacket, “my cousin found this place. it’s really tucked away, barely anyone knows it’s here.” she gave a small laugh, not looking at you, but at the water.

you just blinked. why did she bring me here? we’re not even that close.

and before you could gather your thoughts, she was already tugging her crop top over her head. you turned around so fast it almost hurt your neck. your hand flew up instinctively, eyes wide, heart skipping like a scratched record.

she chuckled softly. why is she so casual about it?

“it feels so good here,” her voice echoed off the water gently. “thought you’d like it.”

the steam curled around the edges of the spring like soft fingers, and when you turned your head just slightly, you saw her already sitting in the water. she looked relaxed. comfortable. and naked. like the heat of the spring belonged to her.

her eyes found yours, then flicked down to your clothes.you hesitated.

she raised a brow. gave you a small, knowing smile. you adjusted your glasses awkwardly and gestured for her to turn around. she made a dramatic little “aww” face but obeyed, turning her back to you. “this is kinda awkward, but i’m gonna ignore it,” she mumbled playfully.

your fingers trembled a little as you undressed, leaving your shirt on. you couldn’t make yourself take it off. your skin felt too visible already. too bare under her gaze, even if she wasn’t looking.

you slipped into the water slowly. the warmth crawled up your legs.

she turned when she sensed you were near. her eyes met yours.

you were still wearing your glasses. your t-shirt clung slightly to your skin. your knees were drawn up, trying to shrink into yourself.

her gaze dropped. “is that… a long underwear?” she said, one brow lifted.

you looked down at yourself. “…y-yeah.”

her lips twitched like she was trying not to laugh too hard.

then, suddenly, she stood up slightly, eyes widening a bit. “oh—music. i forgot.”

music?

you turned your head, and just for a second, saw too much of her bare skin before snapping your eyes away again so fast they almost teared up. your heart was beating hard. annoyingly hard. like it was trying to break out of your ribs.

“there’s no signal here,” she said, walking over to the side where she’d left her stuff. she bent down, still unfazed, pulling out a small, slightly old-looking radio from her bag. “but i’ve got this guy. it should work.”

she fiddled with it for a second, static filling the quiet air, before she found a station. a soft lo-fi track began playing through the speaker, mixing with the sound of water.

she got back in, like none of this was weird.but your thoughts were anything but calm.

the hot spring steamed softly around you, a hazy warmth rising in the quiet air. daniela had her eyes closed, her back leaned against the stone edge, the softest smile on her lips like the world didn’t weigh so heavy on her shoulders.

you sat beside her, unsure. stiff. trying not to let your eyes drift too long in her direction — but you couldn’t help it.

the water clung to her skin, highlighting the soft curve of her collarbone, the faint moles that dotted her shoulder. even with her eyes shut, she could feel you looking.

“so…” her voice broke the silence, eyes slowly opening as she tilted her head your way, “how’s life here? any plan after school?”

you blinked, pulled out of whatever daze you’d fallen into. “uh— it’s… good. i’m still figuring things out. my dad wants me to go out of town, maybe some big university or something.”

she nodded, listening, fingers absentmindedly trailing through the water.

“what about you?” you asked.

she paused for a beat. “mm, not sure either. but… i overheard my dad talking to ryan’s dad again. about our ‘future marriage.’”

your body stiffened.

“they’ve mentioned it before,” she went on, looking down at the rippling water, “but now it sounds like they’re serious.”

a heavy silence fell. you stared at her, but she didn’t meet your gaze

“...but what do you want?” you asked softly.daniela exhaled, a quiet, almost resigned sound. “i don’t know,” she said. “maybe… everything happens for a reason? maybe that’s just what god wants for me.”

“you mean… marrying someone you don’t even love?” you muttered.

she laughed at that, not mocking, but warm. “you’re funny, you know that?”

you squinted at her. “is that sarcasm?”

“what do you think?”

“...it is sarcasm.”

she laughed harder now, the sound echoing gently in the open air. “no, no,” she waved a hand, “i actually mean it. you’ve got this unintentional humor. it just sneaks up on people.”

you didn’t say anything. just looked at her.

then, without warning, she said, “do you believe in god?”

you didn’t answer right away. your fingers twitched, and your eyes flicked toward the floor

“no,” you finally said, voice quiet but certain.

she exhaled a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “that sounds kind of peaceful.”

you shook your head almost instantly. “it’s not. it’s not peaceful at all. it’s—” you glanced at her, “it’s like walking around with something missing all the time. like carrying around a silence that no one else hears but you do.”

her eyes stayed on you for a long moment. she gave a slow nod, like she understood something but couldn’t find the words for it. you turned the question back to her. “what about you? do you believe?”

“yeah. yeah, i do,” she said, “my dad’s a pastor. we pray before dinner. before bed. i don’t even remember when i started or if i ever had a choice. it’s just always been there.” you listened, nodding gently. “but lately…” her voice thinned. “i don’t know. it’s hard.”

“why?”

she hesitated, like the truth was something she wasn’t sure she should hand over. “because i think i’m falling for someone i probably shouldn’t. and i keep praying about it, but the feelings don’t go away.” she laughed, but it didn’t sound amused. “they just get louder.”

the silence sat between you like a ghost neither of you wanted to acknowledge. you looked at her, unsure—unsure what she meant, unsure who she even liked, unsure if you had any right to ask.

were you even close enough to her to know that kind of truth?

“i should probably marry ryan, right?” daniela said suddenly, almost too casually. your heart paused.

“i mean, he’s a good guy. everyone would love to get a husband like him.” she turned to face you, eyebrows raised. “or not?”

you blinked. “do you love him?”

her lips pressed into a line. “i could try. maybe i should. maybe that’s the safer thing.” she looked away again, out at the sky like she was waiting for god to answer. “but it’s just... love shouldn’t be something you have to force, right?”

“you shouldn’t be scared of who you love,” you murmured, surprising even yourself with how soft your voice sounded. “because love—it’s never been a sin. not real love.”

daniela gave a quiet laugh, but there was no amusement in it. “tell that to a church pew.”

you shook your head. “god didn’t make love just to call it dirty. he didn’t give us warmth just to punish us for wanting to be held.”

daniela looked at you now. “you think god’s sitting up there mad at me for looking at her like she’s the first light after a long winter?”

it’s a her???

“i think,” you said, voice low, “if god’s anything like love, then he wouldn’t be mad. he’d understand.”

she was quiet for a beat. then, “you’re dramatic as hell.”

you laughed—half from nerves, half from how her voice softened the weight in your chest.

“and you're deflecting,” you said.

“maybe,” she smirked. “or maybe i’m just saying it’s silly. all of it. trying to explain love with scripture and guilt.”

then she turned toward you fully, that mischievous spark flickering back into her gaze. “you know what else is silly?”

your brows furrowed, but before you could ask, she stepped closer. and you noticed—god—how close she really was now.

“this long ass underwear,” she teased, tugging it slightly. “what are you hiding under there, huh?”

“stop—” you tried to snatch her hand away, heat already rising up your neck.

“wait—” she laughed, tugging more. “is there another layer underneath this?!”

you shoved her a little, half-laughing, half-dying inside. “you’re so annoying—”

“you’re like a nesting doll,” she giggled. “how many layers do you wear?? are you okay?? blink twice if you’re freezing to death—”

you were both laughing, breathless, her hands still teasing the fabric. then you both paused. just for a second. not because the moment called for it. but because your eyes met. and that tiny space between you disappeared.

her breath was soft against your cheek now. her hands still close. too close.you forgot what you were going to say.and she forgot to move away.

“say something,” she breathed, and though it wasn’t desperation exactly, there was something in her voice that cracked under the weight of the silence. like if it stretched a second longer, it might shatter her entirely.

your eyes met hers. her face was flushed, probably from the steam rising around both of you—but her eyes… they were burning. not from the heat. from something so much heavier. so much closer to unraveling.

“what do you want me to say?” your voice was quiet, almost stolen by the gentle ripple of the hot spring.

her gaze dropped to your lips, then darted back up. she looked like she was standing at the edge of a cliff, like she already knew the fall would hurt and still—she leaned closer

“tell me i’m not insane,” she said. not in a pitiful way, no—more like someone trying to believe herself. “for feeling like this.”

you blinked. heartbeat stuttering. “feeling like what?”

“like i’m not broken.” her voice cracked. “like i’m not gonna destroy everything again if i just—if i let myself want something for once.”

your words caught in your throat. “daniela—”

“fuck it,” she muttered, eyes closing like she was swallowing every doubt at once.

“god, i’m gonna regret this—”

and then she kissed you.

no warning, no breath between the words—just lips crashing into yours, urgent and reckless and full of everything she couldn’t put into sentences. her hands cupped your cheeks, sliding to the back of your neck, dragging you impossibly closer as if she could anchor herself in your skin. her body pressed against yours, chest to chest, her kiss hungry and trembling. like she was trying to convince you. like she was trying to convince herself.

you froze.

for a second, you weren’t even kissing back. you were just feeling. her breath mixing with yours. her fingertips digging into your skin like she was afraid you’d vanish. her heart hammering fast enough that you could feel it through the wet heat between you.and then reality.

daniela avanzini was kissing you.

and it felt good.

too good.

but before you could melt into it, before you could even let your body answer what your mind was too scared to say—you pulled back. fast. breathless

she flinched, just slightly. her lips parted, her face contorting like she’d just broken something delicate and couldn’t figure out how to fix it.

“i-i’m sorry,” she stammered, wiping her mouth with the back of her trembling hand. “fuck, i—I couldn’t hold it in. i’m sorry.”

you stared.

“so... the person you were talking about...”

she nodded before you even finished. “you. it’s always been you. i know it’s stupid, i know—heck, i remember the first time i saw you at church and i felt something so wrong. like i wasn’t supposed to feel it. you’re a girl, and that should’ve stopped me. but it didn’t. and i tried to forget it, to erase it, but i couldn’t. not when you looked at me like you didn’t even know you were undoing me.”

she pushed her soaked hair back with both hands. “you don’t have to say anything. really. i get it. i’m sorry if i messed it all up.”

your heart was pounding so loud, it almost drowned the quiet hiss of the water.

everything made sense now.

the way she smiled at you when no one else was looking. the way you were the secret she carried with shame and softness.

but all you could say was—

“sunghoon.”

the name left your lips before you could stop it. and immediately, her face fell. “he likes you,” you whispered, guilt settling into your chest like an anchor. “i can’t. i’m sorry.”

you weren’t sure who you were apologizing to—her, yourself, or the part of you that wanted to kiss her back. because something in your chest twisted painfully when you said it. like betrayal. like regret. like love trying to crawl out of your mouth but choking on someone else’s name instead.

daniela swallowed. “what about me?”

you looked up.

“i like you, isn’t it worth something?”

a/n: help meeeee guys i hv been peeing a lot lately, is that a bad sign

[ghstyles]

Rejection Therapy | H.S

First part of Operation Pizza Renissance

Main Masterlist

Summary: A bubbly college girl volunteers at a struggling NYC pizzeria thinking she’s found the perfect place to volunteer her social media skills and gain culinary experience. What she doesn’t know? The pizzeria is a front for the mafia. While she’s busy staging pizza photos and planning giveaways, the crew is laundering money and dodging feds. She's just trying to go viral—meanwhile, the mob is trying to keep her from accidentally blowing their cover.

And the more time Harry spends with the chaotic sunshine in his kitchen, the more he realizes: she might be the most dangerous thing to ever walk through that door.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

The bell above the door chimes as Y/N pushes into Sal's Pizza, her sneakers squeaking against the checkered linoleum floor. The place looks like it hasn't been updated since 1987—faded red booths, fluorescent lighting that flickers ominously, and a dusty jukebox in the corner that probably hasn't played a song in decades.

Three men in expensive suits look up from their table near the back, their conversation dying abruptly. The one behind the counter, a heavyset man with graying temples, freezes mid-motion, a coffee cup halfway to his lips.

Y/N takes in the scene with the oblivious enthusiasm of someone who's never learned to read a room properly.

"Hi there!" she says brightly, approaching the counter with a smile that could power half of Manhattan. "I'm Y/N. I'm doing this thing for my marketing class where I have to practice putting myself out there, and I noticed you guys don't really have much of a social media presence."

The man behind the counter, Sal, according to his name tag, exchanges a look with the suited men that could generously be described as 'what the fuck.'

"Social media," Sal repeats slowly, like she's speaking a foreign language.

"Exactly!" Y/N pulls out her phone, already scrolling through apps. "I mean, no offense, but I've walked past this place probably a hundred times, and I've never seen any customers. Which is crazy because you're in such a great location! All you need is some Instagram posts, maybe a TikTok showing how you make the pizza, and boom—viral sensation."

One of the men in suits, a tall, lean guy with a scar running from his left ear to his jaw, slowly stands up.

"Listen, sweetheart," he says, his voice carrying the kind of tone that usually makes people reconsider their life choices, "maybe you should—"

"Oh my God, are you Italian?" Y/N interrupts, completely missing the implicit threat. "That's perfect! Authentic Italian pizza maker! We could totally play up that angle. Do you have any family recipes? Stories about your nonna? People eat that stuff up."

The scarred man's mouth opens and closes like a fish. Behind him, his companion, a stockier man with knuckles that look like they've seen some serious action, starts to laugh despite himself.

"Kid's got balls," the stocky one mutters.

That's when the door to the back office opens, and Harry Styles steps out.

He's not particularly tall, but there's something about the way he carries himself that makes the already small space feel smaller. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, his black shirt is expensive enough to fund a small country's education system, and his green eyes sweep the room with the kind of casual authority that comes from knowing everyone in it would follow his orders without question.

His gaze lands on Y/N, who's now bent over the counter examining a laminated menu that looks like it was designed by someone with a personal vendetta against graphic design.

"What's this about?" Harry asks, his voice low and smooth with just a hint of his Manchester accent.

Sal straightens immediately. "Boss, this girl just walked in talking about Instagram and—"

"I'm offering to be your social media manager!" Y/N announces, straightening up and turning to face Harry with the same bright enthusiasm she's shown everyone else. "For free! Well, technically for class credit, but still free. You guys are sitting on a goldmine here, and you don't even know it."

Harry's eyebrows rise slightly. In his world, people don't just walk into his establishments offering free services. They usually want something. Whether that be protection, favors, or their debts forgiven. But this girl, with her golden-brown hair catching the harsh fluorescent light and her hazel eyes sparkling with genuine excitement, seems to want nothing more than to help a struggling pizza shop succeed.

It should be alarming. It should set off every warning bell he's developed over years of navigating New York's criminal underworld. Instead, he finds himself... curious.

"And why," he says, moving closer to the counter, "would you want to do that?"

Y/N's smile somehow gets even brighter. "Because everyone deserves a chance to succeed! And honestly? This place has so much character. Look at this vintage aesthetic. If we market it right, you could be the next trendy throwback spot. Brooklyn hipsters would line up around the block for this kind of authentic atmosphere."

Behind Harry, the scarred man makes a noise that might be a snort or might be him choking on his own spit.

"Plus," Y/N continues, completely oblivious to the undercurrents in the room, "rejection therapy. I'm supposed to put myself out there and ask for things that might get me a 'no.' But you haven't said no yet, so technically I'm winning."

Harry studies her for a long moment. She's tall, maybe 5'9", with the kind of natural beauty that doesn't need enhancement, though she's clearly made an effort today. Her outfit is casual but put-together: jeans that fit perfectly, a cream-colored sweater, and sneakers that have seen some miles but aren't falling apart. She looks like sunshine personified, which is particularly jarring in a place that hasn't seen actual sunshine in decades.

"Rejection therapy," he repeats.

"It's this thing where you deliberately seek out situations where you might get rejected, to build resilience and confidence," Y/N explains helpfully. "I figure if I can handle getting turned down for volunteer work, I can handle anything."

Harry's lips twitch in what might be the beginning of a smile. "And what makes you think you're qualified to be our social media manager?"

Y/N pulls out her phone again, scrolling quickly. "I run the Instagram for my friend's boutique. She's gotten three thousand new followers in the last six months. I also did a campaign for the campus coffee shop that increased their sales by forty percent. I'm a marketing major, but honestly, most of it is just understanding what people want to see. I also really love food and cooking, and all that"

She looks around the restaurant again, her expression turning thoughtful.

"People want authenticity. They want stories. They want to feel like they're part of something special. This place has all of that. It just needs someone to tell the story properly."

Harry finds himself genuinely impressed despite himself. The girl has walked into what is essentially the lion's den and is pitching business strategies like she's in a boardroom instead of a glorified money-laundering operation.

"Alright," he says finally, ignoring the looks of disbelief from his men. "Let's say we're interested. What would you need from us?"

Y/N's eyes light up like she's just been offered front-row tickets to her favorite band.

"Really? Oh my God, that's amazing! Okay, first I'd need to try the food. Can't promote something I haven't tasted. Then maybe some photos of the kitchen, the staff, the pizza-making process. Oh, and stories! Like how long have you been open? What makes your pizza special? Any interesting customers or—"

She stops mid-sentence, her nose wrinkling slightly.

"Actually, let me try a slice first. What do you recommend?"

The silence that follows is deafening. Sal looks like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. The suited men exchange glances that seem to communicate entire conversations. Harry watches this unfold with the detached interest of someone watching a car crash in slow motion.

"The...the margherita is popular," Sal says finally, his voice strained.

"Perfect!"

Ten minutes later, Y/N sits in one of the red vinyl booths with a slice of what can only generously be called pizza in front of her. The crust looks like cardboard, the sauce has the consistency of ketchup mixed with sadness, and the cheese appears to have given up on life sometime around the Clinton administration.

Harry slides into the booth across from her, genuinely curious to see how this plays out. His men have positioned themselves strategically around the restaurant, probably still trying to figure out if this girl is the world's most elaborate undercover cop or just genuinely this naive.

Y/N takes a bite. Her expression goes through several rapid changes: surprise, confusion, barely concealed horror, and finally, diplomatic consideration.

She chews slowly, thoughtfully, like she's trying to find something positive to say about what is clearly a crime against Italian cuisine.

Finally, she swallows and sets the slice down with the careful precision of someone defusing a bomb.

"Okay," she says brightly, "so there's definitely room for improvement."

The stocky man by the jukebox actually laughs out loud at this.

"Room for improvement," Harry repeats, his own amusement barely contained. "That's one way to put it."

Y/N turns to face him fully, and he's struck by how earnest she looks.

"Have you ever actually had good pizza?" she asks, like this is a perfectly reasonable question to ask the head of a criminal organization.

Harry blinks. "Have I...what?"

"Good pizza," Y/N repeats patiently. "Like, proper pizza. With fresh ingredients and dough that doesn't taste like it was made from sawdust and broken dreams."

Despite himself, Harry finds himself leaning forward. "Broken dreams?"

"That sauce," Y/N says, pointing at the offensive slice, "tastes like someone read a description of tomatoes in a book once and tried to recreate them from memory. And I'm pretty sure this cheese was never actually milk at any point in its existence."

She pauses, studying his face carefully.

"You know what? Forget social media for a minute. Before we can market this place, we need to fix the actual product. You can't polish a turd, as my grandmother used to say."

The scarred man makes a choking noise. "Did she just call our pizza a turd?"

"A fixable turd," Y/N clarifies helpfully. "Look, you guys seem nice, and this place has such great bones. But if you want customers to come back, you need to give them something worth coming back for."

She stands up suddenly, her eyes bright with inspiration.

"Do you have fresh ingredients in the kitchen? Like, actual fresh ingredients, not whatever preserved-in-formaldehyde situation is happening with this cheese?"

Harry stares at her. In the span of twenty minutes, this girl has walked into his front operation, criticized his terrible cover story, and is now offering to teach them how to actually make pizza. The smart thing would be to have her escorted out immediately. The safer thing would be to make sure she never talks about what she's seen here.

Instead, he finds himself saying, "Show me."

Because there's something about Y/N. Maybe it’s her complete lack of fear, her genuine enthusiasm, or the way she manages to critique their operation while somehow making it sound like she's doing them a favor. But she’s unlike anything he's encountered in his carefully controlled world.

And Harry Styles has always been curious about things that don't fit into his carefully controlled world.

"Really?" Y/N's whole face lights up. "Oh, this is going to be so much fun!"

As she heads toward the kitchen, chattering excitedly about fresh basil and proper cheese ratios, Harry realizes he might be in serious trouble.

But for the first time in years, it's the kind of trouble he thinks he might actually enjoy.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

Twenty minutes later, the kitchen of Sal's Pizza looks like a war zone. Flour dusts every surface, there are three different types of cheese scattered across the metal prep counter, and Y/N stands in the middle of it all like a general surveying her battlefield.

She's tied her hair back with a rubber band she found in her purse and somehow acquired an apron that reads "Kiss the Cook" in faded red letters; though where it came from in this establishment is anyone's guess.

"Okay, first lesson," she announces to her assembled audience of one crime boss and three very confused enforcers. "Dough is alive. It's a living thing that needs to be treated with respect."

Tony, the stocky enforcer, snorts. "It's flour and water, sweetheart."

Y/N's smile tightens just slightly, but she maintains her patient teacher voice. "It's flour, water, yeast, and time. The yeast is literally alive. It's a living organism that's going to make your crust light and airy instead of..." she gestures vaguely toward the dining area "...whatever that was."

She demonstrates kneading the dough with practiced movements, her hands working the mixture with surprising skill.

"See how I'm not just mashing it? You want to fold and turn, fold and turn. You're developing the gluten structure, which is what gives you that perfect chewy texture."

Marco, the scarred enforcer, watches for about thirty seconds before rolling his eyes. "Boss, you really want us to stand here and watch Martha Stewart teach bread class?"

Y/N's hands still for just a moment, so briefly that if Harry wasn't watching her carefully, he might have missed it. But he sees the way her shoulders tense, the slight flush that creeps up her neck.

"It's not bread, it's—" she starts, but Tony cuts her off.

"Yeah, yeah, it's 'alive,'" Tony says with exaggerated air quotes. "What's next, we gonna light some candles and sing to it?"

The other men laugh, and Y/N's hands fumble slightly with the dough. She recovers quickly, but Harry catches the way she bites her lower lip, the careful way she's not quite making eye contact anymore.

"Maybe we should just...use the old method," Sal suggests awkwardly from where he's hovering by the door. "Keep things simple, you know?"

"Simple," Marco agrees. "Like how we've been doing it for years."

Y/N stops kneading entirely now, her hands going still on the flour-dusted counter. When she looks up, Harry can see the hurt she's trying to hide behind her determined smile.

"Right," she says quietly. "Simple is probably better. I mean, what do I know? I'm just a college student playing with rejection therapy, right?"

The change in her voice, from bright enthusiasm to carefully controlled disappointment, hits Harry like a physical blow. The way she's trying to make herself smaller, less bright, less...her.

Something hot and protective flares in his chest.

"Marco," Harry says, his voice cutting through the kitchen like a blade. "Tony. Sal."

The laughter dies immediately. All three men turn to look at him, and they're smart enough to recognize the tone that means someone is about to have a very bad day.

"Did I ask for your fucking opinions?" Harry continues, his voice deadly quiet.

Marco straightens. "No, boss, but—"

"But nothing." Harry steps closer to the prep counter, never taking his eyes off his men. "This woman walked in here offering to help us for free. She's trying to teach us something useful, and you're acting like a bunch of fucking children at recess."

He turns to look at each of them in turn, and they all suddenly find the floor very interesting.

"She's been nothing but patient and professional, and you're treating her like entertainment. So here's what's going to happen. You're going to shut your mouths, pay attention, and learn something. Or you can get the fuck out of my kitchen." 

The silence that follows is deafening. Tony and Marco look like they're trying to disappear into the walls. Sal has gone pale.

Harry turns back to Y/N, who's staring at him with wide eyes.

"Please," he says, his voice gentling completely, "continue. I'd like to learn how to do this properly."

Y/N blinks, clearly trying to process the sudden shift in dynamics.

"You...you want to learn?"

"I want to learn," Harry confirms, moving to stand beside her at the counter. "Show me how to knead the dough."

There's something almost reverent in the way he says it, like he's asking her to teach him something sacred rather than basic cooking skills.

Y/N's smile returns slowly, tentatively, but genuine.

"Okay," she says softly. "Put your hands like this..."

She guides his hands to the dough, her fingers gentle as she positions them correctly. Her touch is warm against his skin, and Harry finds himself far more focused on the sensation than on the actual instruction.

"Feel how it gives under pressure but springs back? That's the gluten development I was talking about."

Harry nods seriously, following her movements exactly. Fold and turn, just like she showed them. His hands are bigger than hers, scarred from years of violence, but he handles the dough with surprising delicacy.

"That's perfect," Y/N says, and the pleasure in her voice makes something warm unfurl in Harry's chest. "You're a natural."

Behind them, Tony mutters something under his breath that sounds like "never seen the boss knead anything that wasn't someone's face."

Harry's hands still for a moment, but Y/N either doesn't hear the comment or chooses to ignore it.

"Now," she continues, "while that's resting, let's talk sauce. The secret is San Marzano tomatoes. They're from volcanic soil in Italy, so they have this perfect balance of sweet and acidic."

She moves to the stove, pulling out ingredients with practiced efficiency. Harry follows her like a particularly attentive student.

"You don't cook them too long. Just enough to break down the tomatoes and marry the flavors. Fresh basil at the end, never during cooking, because heat destroys the oils that give you that bright, fresh taste."

Harry watches her work with growing fascination. Her hands move with confidence and grace, tasting and adjusting seasoning with the kind of intuitive knowledge that can't be taught from a book.

"Where did you learn all this?" he asks.

Y/N glances up at him, and there's something soft in her expression.

"My grandmother," she says. "My dad's mom. She came over from Italy when she was sixteen, and she said cooking was how she kept her homeland close. Every Sunday, the whole family would gather in her kitchen, and she'd teach us traditional recipes."

She stirs the sauce gently, her voice taking on a wistful quality.

"She used to say that food was love made visible. That when you cook for someone, you're putting a piece of your heart on their plate."

Harry finds himself hanging on every word. In his world, food is fuel, cooking is a chore, meals are business meetings or solitary affairs. The idea of cooking as an act of love is so foreign it might as well be from another planet.

"She sounds like a wise woman," he says quietly.

"She was," Y/N agrees. "She died when I was fifteen, but I still use her recipes. It's like having a conversation with her, you know?"

There's something achingly vulnerable about the admission, and Harry realizes she's sharing something precious with him. Something real.

"Taste this," Y/N says suddenly, holding up a spoon of sauce.

Harry steps closer, close enough that he can smell her perfume. Something light and floral that seems completely at odds with the industrial kitchen around them. She holds the spoon out, and for a moment they're standing so close he can see the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes.

He tastes the sauce, and his expression immediately changes. It's nothing like the watery red substance they've been serving. This is bright and complex, with layers of flavor that develop on his tongue.

"Fuck me," he breathes, then immediately looks embarrassed by his language. "Sorry, I just—"

Y/N laughs, a sound like silver bells. "That's exactly the reaction I was hoping for."

Behind them, Marco clears his throat. "Boss, maybe I could try some of that sauce?"

Harry turns to look at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Please," Marco adds hastily.

Y/N beams and immediately prepares another spoon. Marco tastes it, and his expression mirrors Harry's—surprise, then something close to reverence.

"Holy shit," he mutters. "This is..."

"Language," Y/N chides gently, but she's smiling.

"This is really good," Marco corrects himself, looking slightly dazed.

Tony and Sal edge closer, drawn by Marco's reaction. Soon all three of Harry's men are clustered around the stove, watching Y/N with newfound respect as she explains the importance of fresh herbs and proper seasoning.

But Harry barely notices them. He's too busy watching Y/N herself. The way her face lights up when someone appreciates her cooking, the graceful efficiency of her movements, the generous way she shares her knowledge without making anyone feel stupid for not knowing it already.

She's transforming his kitchen, his men, his entire operation, and she doesn't even realize it.

"Now for the cheese," Y/N announces, moving to the refrigerator. "Fresh mozzarella, obviously. See how it's stored in water? That keeps it soft and prevents it from drying out."

She demonstrates how to tear the cheese instead of slicing it, explaining how the irregular pieces melt better and create more interesting texture.

"Harry, you want to try assembling the pizza?"

The way she says his name–casual, friendly, like they've known each other for years instead of an hour–sends an unexpected jolt through him.

"Show me," he says.

Y/N guides him through stretching the dough, her hands occasionally covering his to correct his technique. Each touch is electric, and Harry finds himself deliberately making small mistakes just to feel her fingers on his skin.

"Perfect," she says as he spreads the sauce with careful, even strokes. "You've got really good hands for this."

Tony makes a choking noise that he tries to cover with a cough.

"The key with the cheese," Y/N continues, either oblivious to the innuendo or professionally ignoring it, "is less is more. You want pockets where the sauce shows through. That's how you get that traditional Neapolitan look."

Harry follows her instructions exactly, placing each piece of torn mozzarella with the concentration of a surgeon. Behind them, his men watch in fascination as their normally impatient boss takes painstaking care with something as simple as cheese placement.

"Fresh basil goes on after it comes out of the oven," Y/N explains. "The residual heat will wilt it just enough to release the oils without burning the leaves."

The pizza goes into the oven, and they all stand around waiting like expectant parents. The kitchen fills with aromas that are completely foreign to this space: bright tomato, fresh herbs, real cheese actually melting instead of congealing.

Fifteen minutes later, Y/N pulls out a pizza that looks like it belongs in a magazine spread rather than a mob front. The crust is golden and slightly charred, the cheese has melted into perfect creamy pools, and the fresh basil on top provides vibrant green contrast.

The silence that follows is reverent.

"Boss," Sal says quietly, "that looks like actual food."

Y/N cuts the pizza into neat slices and serves everyone a piece. Harry takes his first bite, and the difference is so stark it's almost shocking. This tastes like what pizza is supposed to taste like. Each ingredient distinct but harmonious, the crust chewy and flavorful, the sauce bright and fresh.

He looks up to find Y/N watching him expectantly, and he realizes she's genuinely nervous about his reaction.

"It's perfect," he says simply.

The smile that spreads across her face could power half the city.

"Really?"

"Really," Harry confirms. "This is the best pizza I've ever had."

Y/N's cheeks flush pink with pleasure, and she ducks her head almost shyly.

"It's just basic technique," she says. "Anyone can do it with the right ingredients and a little patience."

But Harry is looking around at his men, all of whom are devouring their slices with expressions of religious ecstasy, and he's thinking that maybe what they've needed all along isn't a better cover story. Maybe they've needed someone who could actually make this place legitimate.

Maybe they've needed her.

"Y/N," he says, and she looks up at him with those warm hazel eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Would you be interested in more than just social media consulting?"

She tilts her head, curious. "What did you have in mind?"

Harry glances around at his men, at the transformed kitchen, at the evidence of what this place could become with the right guidance.

"How would you feel about being our head chef?"

The offer surprises him as much as it does her. He hadn't planned to say it, but now that the words are out, he realizes he means them completely.

Y/N's eyes widen. "Are you serious?"

"I'm always serious about business," Harry says, which is mostly true. "You've just proven that you can turn this place from a..." he pauses, remembering her earlier critique "...turd into something people might actually want to eat."

Y/N laughs, that bright silver sound that's quickly becoming his favorite noise.

"I don't know," she says teasingly. "What kind of benefits package are we talking about? Health insurance? Dental? Employee pizza privileges?"

Harry finds himself grinning despite himself. "I think we can work something out."

Behind them, Tony mutters to Marco, "Did the boss just offer some college girl a job because she made good pizza?"

Marco responds, "Did the boss just smile? Like, actually smile? When's the last time you saw that happen?"

Harry hears them but doesn't care. He's too busy watching Y/N consider his offer, hope and possibility dancing across her features like sunlight on water.

And for the first time in years, Harry Styles finds himself genuinely excited about the future of his business.

Even if she has no idea what kind of business it actually is.

· · ─────────── ·· ────────── · ·

a/n: what do we think of this? I’d appreciate the feedback 😁

Taglist: @triski73 @angeldavis777 @ivegotthecinema @bethiegurl19 @sstylezzz @spargelhund @myfavfanficsever @spinnic @fruity-harry @mads3502 @namoreno

[shy-writer-999]

𝒞𝑜𝓃𝓉𝓇𝑜𝓁𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑔 (𝒾𝒾𝒾)

𝒮𝓊𝓂𝓂𝒶𝓇𝓎: Prince Luffy has taken a liking to you. If you refuse to be on his crew, he has a different sort of proposal. Are you going to allow yourself to grow closer to him, or will something (or someone) get in the way? 3.2k words.

Part 3 of (?) - (read part 1 here) Pairing: Luffy x reader (she/her pronouns used) CW: SFW! (so far...)

✦ Chapter 3: The night erases all worries ✦

You returned to Prince Luffy’s quarters after a couple of nights. He was happy to see you, immediately treating you as cordially and kindly as he had before. He treated you like an old friend, like there wasn’t any class difference between the pair of you, and it was easy to let your differing statuses fade into the background.

It was a little troubling though, and a hard line to walk, because as much as he treated you like a friend, and as much as you felt like one, you couldn’t shake the glaring fact that he was a prince. It was a fact that was dangerous to forget, and you didn’t want to fly too close to the sun.

When you entered his chambers, he was waiting on the chaise for you, staring at the door. He cracked a grin and got up.

Prince Luffy had been thinking about you ever since he met you. There was something about you that he couldn’t get out of his mind. He was wondering about your personality, your reality, and what you needed. He was determined to get you on his crew someday and he had a nagging feeling that you were better at woodworking than you let out. Of course, he already had someone on the crew who specialized in that, but he figured the more the merrier. Franky could use some help.

He decided that utilizing your services was a good excuse to have you come over, eat dinner with him, and keep him company. That maybe you felt more at ease when you were able to do your job and chat after or during. Maybe you felt on edge (and would be more comfortable talking to him) when you followed the palace protocols, which he knew had been your survival mechanisms.

After coming to this conclusion, the prince wondered what sorts of services you were capable of doing. He didn’t want to risk any more massages, gods forbid that happened again. So, when you came to see him, he eagerly asked you what his options were. “I don’t feel like a massage today. What else do you do?”

“I can do facials, bathing rituals, hot stone treatments, scrubs, manicures, anything like that.”

He thought about it. “How about a facial?”

“Certainly. But I must insist that we do it in the bathing chamber, because there’s too much and clay water involved to risk getting it all over your bed. Is that alright?”

When he agreed, he led you to the huge bathing chamber. It was spectacular—everything was made of marble, there was a bathhouse-style tub in one corner, a shower in another area, a sauna, sinks, you name it. All of this for one person? One person who couldn’t care less about it.

You pulled out a wooden folding table that was tucked away in a corner and set it up. Gesturing to it, you encouraged the prince to lay down.

“Do I keep my clothes on?” He asked quizzically, and you stifled a laugh at how clueless he was before telling him to keep them on.

The facial was nice. You could see each of his dark, long eyelashes, every pore, the shape of his lips. He was pretty.

You moved his hair out of his forehead, wiped his face down, then mixed up a eucalyptus and clay mask, applying it delicately to his skin with a brush.

“That tickles,” he giggled, moving around a bit. His eyes were closed and he scrunched his nose up whenever you brought the brush close to the center of his face.

“Please stay still, prince, so I don’t get this everywhere.”

Pouting, he corrected you. “It’s just Luffy. No prince. You never say my name just as it is.”

“My apologies, Luffy,” you said, realizing that his name minus his status slipped out of your lips with far too much ease. “Now, would you please stop wiggling around?”

Hearing you say his name made him smile and your heart did a thumping thing.

The prince enjoyed the treatment. Your touch was gentle, the clay mask smelled good, and you smelled good too. He opened his eyes once and you were close enough he could have leaned up and—

When the treatment was over, Luffy marveled at his glowing skin in the mirror, thanked you, and then you ate dinner together. A routine was forming, one that you had no qualms against. It was nice to eat dinner with him. He was unassuming, non-threatening, compassionate, and kind.

During the meal you talked about what life was like growing up. You learned that childhood had been rough for him—Luffy didn’t have the attitude that there was anything particularly hard about it, but it sounded twisted and tragic at times. He was put in isolation frequently for misbehaving, for spouting what his father called nonsensical dreams. He fought with his brothers but loved them all the same. He wasn’t allowed to play with toys, wasn’t allowed to have friends other than other nobility (who were horrible company), wasn’t allowed to go anywhere by himself or be by himself much until he was older. He funneled all this frustration into the only thing they would allow him to do—strength and combat training for hours each day, until he got old enough and strong enough to set sailing. No one could stop him from taking to the seas and no one dared to.

As you listened to him talk about his childhood and his attitudes towards the unfreedom that came with being a prince, you started to understand why he was being so kind to you, and why he spent all his time out at sea. The context and sincerity made you trust him more.

All he wanted was to be free. You felt the same. You shared a similar dream. You wanted to be free from the stress of money and labor, and he wanted to be free of the ginormous expectations and suffocating responsibilities foisted upon him by nature of his birth. But for Prince Luffy, achieving his dreams didn’t sound like the most herculean task. Maybe his fate was to be free. But you knew that yours wasn’t. You were stuck. You couldn’t think too much about dreams because this was your life, for good.

When the conversation about your shared dreams and differing circumstances dwindled down, you were both quite touched at how much you seemed to have in common. Dreams and views on life. Understandings of how things should be. Freedom.

Now came the moment the prince had been planning for. “I have a question,” he began, “I know you won’t join my crew yet, but… will you join my waitstaff? So we can hang out more? You’d get paid a lot more too.”

You were caught off guard and flattered, but hesitation flooded your body, twinged in happiness at the gesture.

“I want to say yes, but I need to get permission from the head of my department before I agree to anything,” you said.

“I already did that. She said it’s okay with her if it’s okay with you.” He beamed and you felt your stomach flip.

“She did?”

You accepted his offer. He couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the night.

“Your room is all set up,” Luffy said eagerly, “it’s the building next door. I made sure your pay would be tripled. And you get nice new robes too. I don’t want them to work you to the bone really so I told them to take it easy on you, you can just be the resident spa lady and that’s it. Does that all sound okay?”

You were speechless. The generosity was too good to be true. Triple pay. The words rang in your ears for a few seconds. Triple meant that you’d be able to send so much more back to your family. Think of the things they could do, you told yourself. Meat every night. New tools. New bedsheets. Tears started to well in your eyes.

After that, Luffy showed you to your new room. It was spacious with a plush bed. Such a stark difference from the old servant’s quarters. You’d miss some of your coworkers there, your friends, or, well, as close to friends as they could get. But it was worth it for all this.

Luffy was elated—one step closer to convincing you to go to sea with him. He hadn’t known you for long, but he knew that he wanted you on his crew, there was just something about you.

---

Your first couple of days on Luffy’s waitstaff team were uneventful. Luffy disappeared for a little while on palace business, dragged into meetings with his father and preparations for his eldest brother’s return from a long trip. The kingdom was going to throw a festival for Prince Ace, a welcome back party of sorts, since it had been over a year that he was last there. There was only a week until he was expected home.

You were quick to recognize that there had been no festivities for Luffy’s return, but it was not like he would have wanted them anyway.

The rest of the team told you that you didn’t have to help with preparations, since you were there expressly for spa services, but as you had nothing else to do you figured why not. It was easy to get sucked back into the monotonies of palace events, cleaning, etc., and it was a nice way to pass the time.

When Luffy finally summoned you, it had been four days. His presence was always in the back of your head—wondering about him, what he was doing, what he thought of you, why you got along so well, whether he was being sincere in asking you to join him at sea. The offer sounded crazy, considering the fact that he hadn’t known you long and you were just a commoner.

It was nice to see him again. He welcomed you all the same—with a big smile and a laugh. This time you gave him a manicure before you ate dinner. He had never had one before and was absorbed in the process for the first couple minutes, then got distracted and started chattering about other things.

“The doctor on my ship is named Chopper. He’s a reindeer. He’s the best doctor I know.”

You paused. “A reindeer?”

Luffy nodded vigorously. “He can fix anything. I wonder if he could do manicures, too. Do doctors do those?”

You let out a laugh. “Princ—Oh, sorry, Luffy, manicures aren’t something doctors do. They’re cosmetic. But if he’s so amazing, who knows.”

“Do you like giving manicures? Maybe you could teach him when you join my crew.”

He was talking about it like it was a given already. Would he fixate on this for a while and then forget about you? Fear of that is one of the reasons you were holding off on accepting his offer, as well as the fear of being disappointed, over-promised, and left for nothing.

“I do like giving manicures,” you started. “It’s basically just holding hands with a stranger for an hour and getting to make friendly conversation. It’s very repetitive and soothing to follow all the steps, too.”

“A stranger?” Luffy cocked his head. “But I’m not a stranger, right?”

A smile worked its way across your lips and you felt your heart threatening to flutter. Something about his unassuming way of making conversation, of insisting on your familiarity, and looking at you so plainly… it made your feel funny. That doesn’t bode well, you told yourself. You’re starting to like him like him, aren’t you?

“No, Luffy, you’re not a stranger.”

He was pleased with your response, as well as the results of the manicure, telling you that his hands had never looked so clean before. While he was chatting away, you pondered on what it would be like to really hold hands with the prince—his hands were nice. Big, strong, and manly. They’d feel good other places too…

“I said it’s dinner time,” Luffy broke you out of your distracted train of thought. “C’mon.”

The dinner table was set, the meal was enjoyable, and you found yourself feeling genuinely happy. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt this happy. It was scary how happy you were.

Luffy was in the middle of a long-winded story about his right-hand man and best friend, Zoro. You learned that everyone on his crew was a member of the commonfolk— some came from countries that didn’t have a monarchy, some came from countries that Luffy had actually liberated from abusive and authoritarian governments.

You started to see that Luffy meant what he said he meant. He was a nobleman by birth but not by attitude. By attitude he was a something of an anarchist, a revolutionary, and a freedom fighter. Contrary to every other member of his family, his immediate friends and chosen family were as far from royalty as could be. He raised them up, fought for them, would die for them, loved them, and cared for them, and they did the same for him.

Maybe you could let yourself dream a little bit more about running away to join his crew. Running away to sail the seas with Luffy, no longer Prince Luffy, to you, but Luffy.

“He uses three swords, one in each hand and then one in his mouth. He bites the hilt and everything. I don’t know how his teeth handle it, and he’s so strong he can cut through—”

The huge wooden door on the other side of the room swung open with a bang. You couldn’t make out right away who was barging in, but you heard him before you saw him.

“LUFFY!”

He was tall with a dark, thick head of hair and sparkling eyes, wearing an all-black, high-collared military general’s uniform and tall black boots, with a sash and cape in the royal colors. There was a golden pin the right side of his chest—the royal crest. Your eyes grew wider.

“ACEEEE!” Luffy jumped up, running towards him, and the two brothers embraced, slapping each other on the back. You could immediately see the sibling dynamic jump out. “You’re back early?! I haven’t seen you in ages, how’ve you been? Have you still been getting your ass kicked?”

Prince Ace laughed and threw it right back in Luffy’s direction. “Yeah? Are you still not king of the pirates, little bro? What have you been up to, just gettin’ injured? Your crew had to drag your ass back home?”

“Pffft, you wish! last I heard they had to escort you out of the general’s meeting because you got your briefs in a twist—"

More bantering happened before the pair realized you were watching the reunion quietly, mere feet away.

Ace paused mid-sentence, spun on his heels, and sauntered over. “Who do we have here?”

Before you had the chance to get up and curtsy, he leaned down and pressed his face close to yours, like he was inspecting you. At this proximity, you could make out freckles that dusted his nose and cheeks. He had gorgeous, long eyelashes just like Luffy’s. His eyes were a deep, dark color; you would have thought they were black except for some residual rays of the sunset shining from the skylight above. His eyes were a rich chocolate, entrancing. It was hard to look away.

“You’re gorgeous,” he pronounced after a second. “The royal colors fit you beautifully. Luffy, I take it this is your fiancée? Have I missed out on yet another secret engagement? You dog!”

“No, she’s—" Luffy started, but Ace cut him off with a raucous laugh.

“I didn’t know you had it in you! C’mere.” He walked over, pulled Luffy’s head down forcefully, and started rubbing his hair with his knuckles.

They play fought for a moment until they were both out of breath before returning to the subject of you.

“So, where are you from?” Prince Ace approached and leaned down again, far too close to your face for comfort. His eyes did the same trailing around your face that Luffy’s had done the first time you met him. They landed on your lips for a second before flashing up to your eyes. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you around before. Which noble family are you from? You’re ravishing.”

“Excuse me, your highness, I’m not—” You tried to speak again but Luffy cut you off to deliver the news.

“She’s not my fiancée, she’s a member of my waitstaff and a friend.”

Prince Ace’s jaw dropped, maintaining how close he was to your face for a second, studying it one more time before straightening up.

“Waitstaff? What’s she doing eating dinner with you?”

“We’re friends,” Luffy arched an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t we eat together?”

Prince Ace exhaled and did a stiff bow in your direction. “Apologies for my impropriety, miss. I did think you were far too pretty for him,” he nudged his elbow in Luffy’s direction. “Not like this idiot could ever pull someone in the first place.”

You weren’t sure how to react. You were comfortable with Luffy at this point but… another prince?

The brothers didn’t waste a second before going back to fighting and catching up; you saw an opportunity to see yourself out and Luffy obliged.

---

When Prince Ace went back to his living quarters late that night, he started to pace.

There was something sick and twisted inside of him. It was tugging at his heart and whispering in his brain. He knew he shouldn’t indulge. He knew he couldn’t be trusted to indulge. But he notoriously lacked self-control when it came to these things.

One time couldn’t hurt, could it? He was just curious.

He wanted to get another glimpse of that woman from earlier.

So, she was a masseuse? Worked in the palace bathhouse before getting promoted (twice), ending up with Luffy, of all people? At first, he just assumed she was his brother’s fiancée because the colors she was wearing and how alluring she was. But afterwards, as he interrogated his own head of staff, Prince Ace learned that those robes were merely a new design for Luffy’s waitstaff and nothing more.

His mind wandered… a pretty woman like that, in private? Let alone one skilled in using her hands?

He hadn’t been touched in over a year. A massage or traditional bathing ritual would be nice. He deserved it.

Prince Ace stood still, ran his hands through his hair, and tried to control himself. But he lasted no more than thirty seconds before he hunted down a scroll and pen, and pinned the following note:

“Masseuse from Prince Luffy’s waitstaff requested at Prince Ace’s chambers tomorrow at dusk.”

Then he pinned another short message to have delivered to his brother:

“Need a massage. Borrowing that pretty servant for a night.”

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thanks for reading!! next part out a week from today or sooner if i'm feeling frisky!

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[stzrgirl4norris]

d’Amore si Muore - LN4

Lando Norris x Reader

summary: sun. sea & sex. that’s all you and your boyfriend need on vacation

warnings: +18, smut, (p in v), soft dom!lando, mild dirty talk, a bit of romance, fingering, oral sex (f receiving)

word count: 5k

based on this request

some songs for you to tune in:

sexy boy - air

champagne coast - blood orange

white mustang - lana del rey

music to watch boys to - lana del rey

honeymoon - lana del rey

salvatore - lana del rey

The sun was hanging high and golden over the yacht, rays of light casting over the Mediterranean sea in rippling gold, almost cinematic looking. The warm breeze ghosted over your bare skin, slowly, dragging bits of salt from the water with every touch. You were reclined on the plush lounger at the bow, stretched out, enjoying the chance to get a proper tan before going back to normal life. The sunglasses, vintage Celine, were shielding your eyes while you pretended to read a book, but the words weren’t as interesting as the view surrounding you.

Especially when you knew he was watching.

The bikini you were wearing – barely considered a bathing suit, consisting solely of two scraps of fabric, held together by a string – was Lando’s choice. Said he liked the color. A bright white with shimmering glitter. Said it brought out the tone of your skin more. You thought it was simply because it made your ass look fantastic.

You heard the water moving before you saw him, climbing up to the side of the yacht, water running down his body, catching the sun as it clinged to the line of muscle down his abdomen. He was tanned, golden, the most beautiful boy you had ever seen. His swim trunks hang low, allowing you to enjoy the “V” shaped cut view. It looked sinful and you would’ve been jealous of anyone looking at the sight of him like this, but, thankfully, you got him all to yourself.

Lando paused when he saw you laid out, didn’t even try to hide the way his eyes crawled over your body, from the dip of your waist, the valley of your breasts – rising slow and falling down – to the soft skin of your thigh where your bikini ties rested lazily. You didn’t move, just shifted your hips slightly, the fabric of the lounger crinkling beneath you.

Lando walked over without a word, dropping the towel he was holding before sinking down to his knees beside you. One hand rested on your ankle, bringing the coldness of the water, mixed with the natural warmth of his touch.

“You’re staring,” you murmured behind your sunglasses, not even bothering to look at him.

“Can’t blame me,” he replied, voice low, full with heat and second thoughts.

His fingers drifted upwards, from ankle to shin, to the inside of your knee. His thumb made slow circles, like it was a subconscious habit. Like he needed to touch you to breathe.

“You gonna act on that look,” you hummed, playfully, teasing him like you always did, “or just keep staring like a teenage boy who’s never seen tits before?”

Lando chuckled, amused with how you always had a witty comeback. His hand stopped just below the curve of your thigh and he leaned in closer, his wet hair dripping onto your skin, his lips just brushing your knee.

“If I touch you the way I want to, it’s gonna ruin all of our plans for the rest of the day.”

You tilted your head finally, pushing your sunglasses down just enough to meet his gaze. God, he looked even hotter in clear, bright light.

“So ruin them.”

The driver swallowed and his grip tightened just slightly on your leg. But then, he smiled, cocky, full of confidence.

“Nope,” he said, the “p” popping with deliberance, dragging his lips lightly across your skin in a kiss with no trace of innocence. “Not yet.”

And just like that, he stood up, walked off towards the deck bar, leaving you aching, amused, and already regretting letting him get the last word.

When the nighttime came, the sky was clear, filled with tiny sparkling dots. The tension between both of you was warm, slow, and sweet, like honey melting on your tongue. But it wasn’t just lust, you were there enjoying summer break together, celebrating your 1 month anniversary, which is why there was still something tender in the way he looked at you, like he carefully planned the trip to give you everything you deserved.

A golden light spilled across the deck, painting everything in warm, lazy hues. The sea had quieted, the breeze softening as if the island itself was holding its breath.

You stepped out from below deck barefoot, the wooden floor slightly cold beneath your feet. The dress you were wearing was brushing your thighs, it was short, white and just transparent enough so that anyone could see the skin beneath it depending on the light. The linen made you look effortlessly chic, a perfect muse.

Lando looked up from the low table he’d set near the edge of the deck, a chilled bottle of white wine nestled in ice between two glasses, a small spread of cheese, fruit, and torn bread laid out like it had all been thrown together and yet looked impossibly picturesque. His gaze skimmed over you slowly. His curls were still damp from the shower he took, messy from drying in the wind, and the corner of his mouth lifted like he’d just thought of something inappropriate.

“You’re trying to kill me,” he said.

You smiled, walking toward him.

“That’s dramatic.”

“You wore that on purpose.”

“You were the one who bought it, remember? Santorini last year? When we were just friends and you were trying to seduce me with your playboy charm.”

“Well, I didn’t buy it because it made you look ugly.” He chuckled, with ease, the memory sparking something soft inside his chest.

You sat down across from him, folding your legs to the side, knowing exactly what that angle would do to him. Lando poured the wine in silence, his knuckles brushing yours when he passed you a glass.

“Cheers,” you said, lifting it.

“To surviving dinner without ending up naked?” he offered.

Your laughter was soft, but your eyes stayed on him.

“We’ll see how it goes.”

The conversation drifted like the evening breeze – lazy, teasing, intimate. The kind that made your cheeks ache while smiling. You spoke about nothing, and still it felt like everything: old travel stories, whose music taste was worse, how he could never cook but always insisted he could grill.

However, beneath it all, there was the slow, persistent ache. The way his eyes lingered too long on your collarbones. The subtle shift in his posture every time you leaned forward and the fabric of your dress slid a little lower. The almost imperceptible movement of his fingers as they held the glass a little too tight, like fighting an urge.

You fed him a bite of peach from the bowl between you, and the moment his lips closed around your fingers, the air snapped tight. His tongue darted out to catch a bead of juice that rolled down your knuckle, and something in your chest fluttered violently.

Lando exhaled hard through his nose. Set the wine glass down with more force than necessary.

“You’re doing it again,” he murmured.

You tilted your head.

“Doing what?”

His eyes darkened.

“Testing me.”

You ran your foot up the inside of his calf slowly, sipping from your glass.

“That’s a bold assumption.”

He leaned in across the table, elbows resting beside his plate, his voice low and deliberate.

“You really think I won’t take you right here on this deck? Right now?”

Your heart stuttered, heat curling low in your belly. You didn’t answer, just smirked, stood slowly, and began gathering plates, the sway of your hips every bit as intentional as the silence that followed.

You could feel his eyes on you like pressure.

“I need to grab something from the cabin,” he said after a moment, rising to his feet. His voice was calmer than it had any right to be.

You turned just enough to look at him over your shoulder.

“Want help?”

His gaze dragged down your body like a hand.

“Only if you’re ready to lose that dress on the way.”

“Then maybe I’ll wait a minute.” You grinned.

He disappeared below deck without another word. You let him go, allowing the tension to breathe. You watched the sky and its own natural beauty, listened to the soft hush of waves and the faint sounds of movement below, but your heart was racing and your skin tingling with anticipation.

So, you decided to follow him. Each step down the stairs felt heavier, slower, like your body was moving through warm water – drawn, deliberate, thrumming with want. You opened the cabin door quietly and found him sitting on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his thighs, head tilted back slightly, eyes closed like he’d been trying to breathe through something.

Lando looked up the second you stepped in.

The cabin smelled like sea salt and his perfume. The curtains were drawn, casting the small room in a soft, hazy glow, the moonlight slipping through the gaps. The boat creaked gently with the water. It was quiet. Lando didn’t speak, he didn’t even move. He just looked like he was trying to memorize the way you stood there in the doorway, wearing only that white dress, the hem swaying just above your thighs, no straps, no lines beneath it. Nothing between your body and the fabric.

You leaned against the doorframe, heart thudding gently under your ribs.

“Why are you fighting it?” you asked softly. His brows pulled together, like the question caught him off guard. You took a step inside. “You want me. I want you. We’re alone. No one’s watching. So why are you holding back?”

He exhaled through his nose and dragged a hand through his hair, almost frustrated.

“Because I don’t want you to think…” He hesitated, but continued, choosing his words carefully. “I don’t want you to think you’re just some girl I’m trying to fuck on a yacht in Ibiza.”

You were pretty sure you couldn’t hold back the stupid shy smile that formed on the corner of your lips. Still, you felt your stomach tightening in a way that had nothing to do with desire.

“I want to be careful,” he said. “I want it to mean something. I’ve been wanting this, wanting you, for a while now, and if I go too fast, if I lose control like I want to…” His voice cracked a little. “I’m scared you’ll think that’s all this is. Just sex.”

You took a few steps forward, stopping right in front of him. Your hand brushed the curls of his hair, now completely dry, with the tenderness that only love could create.

“As much as I appreciate your concern, Lan… You’re worrying too much about something that… It’s not really a problem.”

His green eyes flashed at you, trying to find out if your words were a test, a trick.

“I don’t want you to be just a moment,” he added, more quietly this time. “You’re not.”

For a moment, all the tension in your body melted into something softer, something tender and impossible to ignore. You sank down onto his lap slowly, straddling his thighs, hands gently finding his face. His eyes fluttered shut when you touched him.

“Lando… if that’s all I thought this was, I wouldn’t even be here in the first place.” You leaned your forehead against his and whispered. He smiled faintly, a little sad, a little relieved. “You don’t need to prove anything to me, I know us.”

Lando’s hands found your waist, pulling you closer, careful even now. You kissed him, slow and warm and deep, like you needed to show him exactly what you felt, not with words, but with the softness of your lips, the slide of your hands through his hair, the way your body melted into his.

“I want you.” you whispered.

He groaned softly into your mouth, his fingers pressing into your hips now, need breaking through restraint.

“You sure?” he asked, even as his mouth moved along your jaw, your neck and shoulder.

“I’ve never been more sure.”

That’s when something shifted. The energy in him changed, from hesitation to hunger, from fear to clarity. He pulled your dress up slowly, his hands dragging along your sides, eyes roaming your body like you were the most beautiful work of art he had ever seen.

When the dress slipped over your head and fell to the floor, he went still. Just for a moment. Just looking.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, almost to himself.

Then he kissed you again, not rushed, not rough, but open and deep and grateful. His hands roamed slowly, memorizing, worshipping. There was something about the way he touched you, like you were fragile and infinite all at once.

You’d never seen someone come undone so beautifully. Or so willingly. And you’d never felt more wanted than this.

Lando was stretched above you, his skin hot and golden, the moon streaking across the cabin walls like it was painting him in light. He hovered there for a moment, just staring at you like he was trying to memorize everything. The flush on your chest, the kiss-bruises blooming along your neck, the slight tremble in your thighs as you waited for him to move.

The bed creaked beneath you as Lando hovered above, his body tense with restraint, even now, even with your bare skin pressed to his, he was still holding back, just barely. You could feel it in the way his fingers gripped your hips. In the way his mouth moved against yours like he wanted to devour you, but refused to rush.

He pulled back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, his breath hot and uneven.

“You’re stalling,” you whispered, threading your fingers into his curls. Your voice was breathless, teasing, soft around the edges.

“No,” he murmured against your sternum, “I’m savoring.”

You reached up to touch his jaw, soft and slow.

He kissed you again, but this time deeper, less cautious. His hands drifted down your sides, not rough but firm. He cupped your breasts gently, his thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles around your nipples, never quite giving enough pressure.

You arched into him, just a little and a smirk painted his lips.

“Getting needy already?”

You met his gaze, half-lidded and heavy with heat.

“You’re one to talk. You’ve been hard since the deck.”

He gave a short, low laugh, shaking his head.

“Oh, you noticed?” he asked, voice deep, dangerous now.

You tilted your head, feigning innocence.

“It was hard not to.”

He shook his head, burying his grin into your shoulder.

“You're gonna be trouble on top of trouble, aren’t you?”

“I could be sweet,” you said, dragging your nails lightly down his spine. “If you gave me something to work with.”

His hands trailed down the sides of your body, until his fingers slipped between your thighs, thumb brushing against where you were already soaked.

“Sweet?” he murmured. “This doesn’t feel very sweet.”

You gasped softly against his lips, your back arching, clenching around nothing, hips shifting toward him without thinking.

“Fuck,” he breathed, dragging his mouth down to your throat. “So wet already. Is that all for me?”

You nodded, head falling back, fingers twisting in the sheets.

“Always, Lan.”

Lando didn’t rush. He slid a finger through your slick folds, then circled your clit with maddening slowness. His eyes flicked up to your face like he was waiting for a reaction, enjoying the way your lashes fluttered, the way your lips parted around a soft gasp.

“God, look at you.” he whispered.

You whined in protest when he withdrew, feeling the sudden emptiness without his fingers, but before you could protest he kissed you again, slow and dirty, tongues tasting, hands tangled in each other’s skin like it was the only language you knew.

Then he kissed lower, lips playing against your throat, your breasts, your stomach, until he was between your thighs, shoulders pressing them apart.

“I’ve wanted to do this all day,” he said, voice like velvet against your skin.

You tangled your fingers in his hair.

“Then stop talking and—”

His tongue cut you off, he looked up once, eyes heavy and dark, before dipping his head without another word.

The first swipe was languid, confident, too slow to satisfy, but so precise it made your thighs tremble. He licked you like he had time to kill, like he could feast on you forever. His fingers slipped inside, curling, coaxing moans from your throat until you were breathing in broken syllables, back arched, begging before you even realized it.

“Oh my God, Lan, fuck–” A loud moan escaped your throat, loud and obscene, ‘Right there, baby.”

Slow strokes of his tongue, maddening circles, his free hand holding your thighs open, keeping you right where he wanted you. It was too much and not enough, and you were gasping, moaning, clawing at the sheets.

“You taste so fucking good,” he murmured between kisses, fingers curling just right.

“Lando—” Your voice cracked as your hips lifted off the bed. “God… don’t stop…”

“I’m not going anywhere,” he growled.

“Need to… ‘m gonna cum.”

And you did. You came shaking, your thighs trembling around his head, your breath catching on his name like it was the only one that had ever fit inside your mouth. He held you through it, humming against you, like your pleasure was something he could drink from.

Lando kissed his way back up your body, dragging his fingertips along your skin as he went, soaking in the way you looked beneath him, flushed and glowing.

“You’re unreal,” he murmured, sliding his hand behind your neck, bringing you into another kiss.

“I could say the same.”

His body shifted to reach for the condom on the nightstand, ripping it open with his teeth. He pushed your legs apart and there was nothing soft about the way he looked at you now. Then his hand slipped behind your knee, hitching your leg over his hip, and the tip of him slid through your folds. Still, he didn’t push in. Not yet.

“Say you want it,” he whispered, lips ghosting across your cheek. “Say it.”

You rolled your hips in response, and his eyes fluttered shut.

“I want it,” you breathed. “I want you.”

And finally he gave in. The first thrust was deep and slow, like he was letting himself feel every inch of it. You cried out, hands grasping at his shoulders, legs locking tighter around him.

“Shit—” he groaned, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel… fuck. I’m not gonna last.”

“You better,” you teased, gasping as he pulled back and sank in again, harder. “I’ve waited all day for this.”

That made him chuckle, a little breathless and wrecked, before he kissed you again, this time all teeth and tongue. Then he began to move in earnest , deep, smooth thrusts that stole the air from your lungs, that made your whole body coil tight. You clung to him, met him stroke for stroke, until it was just you and him and the heat between your bodies and the sound of skin and breath and muffled curses.

“Christ,” he groaned, gripping your thigh, his mouth brushing your ear. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You cried out, nails digging into his back.

Every stroke was desperate, relentless, not careless, but too long denied. Your bodies moved in sync, hips meeting his rhythm like you’d known it forever. The room was filled with the slap of skin, the sharp sound of breathing, his voice in your ear saying things that made your spine arch and your toes curl.

“You feel what you do to me?” he rasped. “Fucking perfect. Mine.”

“Feels so good, baby.”

Your words were barely slipping out, the feeling of euphoria taking over you, making it impossible to make sense of anything else. You felt one of his hands traveling to your clit, rubbing circles with is middle finger, just making a mess of the wetness between your thighs.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, tell me you’re close.”

Lando’s voice was broken, the sensation that took over his body was overwhelmingly good, nothing he had ever felt before. But sure enough, the tightness in your lower belly started to form and it all collapsed once his fingers applied just the right amount of pressure, while his cock hit the correct spot.

You came first, clenching around him, nails digging his shoulder a little too harsh. He followed fast, hips jerking, arm wrapped tight around your waist as he pressed as deep as he could go as he spilled into the condom.

But he didn’t move off you right away. Just rested there, foreheads touching, breath syncing with yours.

You were both still breathless, curled into each other, skin slick and warm, his arm thrown around your waist like he couldn’t stand the idea of letting you go. His thumb stroked lazily across your stomach while his lips pressed soft, mindless kisses into your shoulder.

But even then, barely minutes after coming undone inside you, you could feel him hardening again, slowly but steadily, against the curve of your ass.

You shifted, just slightly and he groaned, deep and low, into your neck.

“Can you gimme a few more, baby?” You whined, nodding with your head. “Yeah? Ok, lay on your side for me, k?”

You did as he asked. Lando slid closer behind you, your backs pressed tight, his hand gliding down to your thigh, lifting it gently over his hip. His cock brushed against you again, and he kissed along your shoulder as he slid inside again, slower this time, deliberate, every thrust dragging you closer to the edge.

You gasped, the stretch sweeter like this, the angle different. Intimate. Lando’s breath caught behind you as he bottomed out.

“You feel even tighter like this,” he whispered, voice thick, dazed. “Fuck.”

His hand found your breast, cupping it tenderly, fingers rolling over your nipple while his hips rocked slowly, rhythm unhurried. The slick slide of him was delicious, and with every roll of his hips, your breath hitched higher in your throat.

This time, there was no urgency. Just the slow burn of being so close. So full.

“Does it feel good, baby?” he asked, whispering against your ear, hips grinding, pelvis pressed tight to your ass.

You nodded, dizzy with it, your fingers clutching the edge of the pillow.

“So good. Please don’t stop.”

“Never,” he said, voice raw. “Not with you.”

His thrusts deepened, dragging whimpers from your throat. The kind of pace that left you trembling, not just from the friction, but from the closeness. Every sound was shared. Every pulse of pleasure echoed.

At one point, he brought your hand to your stomach, pushing just a little bit, but the pressure felt completely new.

“Feel that? Feel how deep I am?” You moaned, and he kissed your temple. “You’re gonna come again like this, aren’t you? So fucking good for me.”

“Yes… Fuck–”

And you almost did, right there, wrapped up in him, his breath on your neck, his cock stroking every sensitive spot inside you like he knew your body better than you did. But then he slowed, stilled.

You whimpered.

“Lando…”

“Shh,” he whispered, kissing your shoulder. “Wanna see you. Need you on top of me.”

You let him guide you, bodies still tangled, as he pulled out and laid back against the pillows, arms open, gaze blown wide. And god, he looked at you like you were holy. Like you were about to ruin him.

You swung your leg over his hips and sank down slowly, both of you gasping in sync at the drag, the way he filled you again like he was meant to. You settled there, still for a moment, skin to skin, your palms braced on his chest. His hands slid up your thighs, worshipping you with every slow touch.

“You’re driving me insane. I swear to god, I’ll never get over this.” You rolled your hips once. Deliberately. Lando groaned, head tipping back, curls fanning over the pillow. “Shit. Just like that. Take what you want, baby.”

You rode him slowly, your hands on his chest, his eyes fixed on your face like it was the only light left in the world.

At some point, his fingers touched your chin slightly, turning your head toward the wall, to the small mirror near the cabinet.

“Look,” he whispered. You saw your body above his, the flush of your skin, the way his hands gripped your waist, how his eyes never left yours even in the reflection. “Look at what you do to me.”

Your body clenched at the words. He felt it. Smirked.

“Yeah. You like seeing how fucking gone I am for you?”

You moaned as you moved faster, your palms pressed to his chest, hair falling into your face. His head fell back on the pillow, a quiet string of curses leaving his lips as he swore he wasn’t going to last.

The rhythm you set was faster now, a grind that made your clit catch just right against the base of him, pressure building with every motion. His hands gripped your waist, guiding but not controlling.

Then you leaned down, pressed your forehead to his, hips working in that perfect, maddening rhythm.

“Tell me what I do to you,” you whispered, voice wrecked.

He met your gaze, dark, glassy, gone.

“You ruin me.”

“Beg for me.”

“Holy shit, baby. You want me to beg?” You nodded, gaining a confidence from being on top that made you feel like the most powerful woman in the world. “Use me, love. Please, just fucking use me. However your want.”

You fucked him harder after that, a bit slower but deliberate, soaking in every moan, every swear, every time his hips bucked helplessly beneath you. And when he came again, this time with your name falling from his lips like a prayer, you followed, your orgasm crashing into you like a wave.

Your body collapsed over his, limbs shaking, hearts racing. He held you, buried in your neck, murmuring something you couldn’t quite make out.

Lando sprawled across the bed, still catching his breath, his chest rising and falling beneath you in steady, post-bliss rhythm. His arm was slung lazily around your waist, possessive even in exhaustion.

The cabin was warm with leftover heat. Sheets half-kicked down to your ankles. Skin still sticky with sweat and salt and him. He traced the constellation of sun freckles scattered across your back, his touch featherlight, almost reverent. You shifted slightly, pressing a sleepy kiss to the damp curve of his neck. He smelled like you now.

“So…” he muttered, voice hoarse and half-slurred with fatigue, “that bikini’s banned now.”

You let out a small laugh, too tired to tease.

“Oh, it was the bikini’s fault?”

“And the dress… Maybe I should stop buying you shit to wear.”

“And keep me naked forever?”

“Now that would get me arrested,”

He mumbled into your hair and you smiled against his skin.

Eventually, your breathing matched his. The waves lapped steady outside the porthole. The boat rocked with a slow, soothing rhythm, and the air stayed thick with salt and sex. You fell asleep tangled up in his arms, the Ibiza night warm around you, the rest of the world very, very far away.

When morning came, you woke to the sound of water lapping gently against the hull, the hum of cicadas drifting over the coast of Ibiza, and the warmth of his arms still wrapped around you.

The cabin was too hot to sleep in after sunrise, the sea breeze too tempting, so sometime in the early morning, Lando had dragged a thick blanket and you up to the sun deck, still naked and sticky with sweat and saltwater and everything that happened the night before.

Now, you were curled into his chest, bare legs tangled together beneath the blanket, your cheek pressed against his heart. His fingers stroked absentmindedly through your hair, like they had all night.

“Mm,” you hummed softly, eyes still closed. “What time is it?”

“Too early.” He yawned.

“You’re warm.”

“That’s because you’re practically lying on top of me.”

“Not complaining.”

You cracked one eye open and looked up at him. His hair was a mess of curls, face still half-sleepy, sun-kissed and soft. It made something tug in your chest. He caught the look, that flicker of emotion, and smiled, slow and crooked.

“What?” he asked, voice gravelly. “Regretting it already?”

You rolled your eyes and nudged his thigh with your knee.

“Please. I was the one who nearly made you lose your mind the whole day, remember?”

He laughed, deep in his chest, and tightened his arm around your waist.

You went quiet after that, full. Quiet in that way only people who know they’ve crossed some invisible line can be. The kind of silence that says: this wasn’t just about sex.

You rested your chin on his chest, studying him.

“So… you still scared I think I’m just another girl?”

His smile faltered, just slightly, not from fear, but something gentler.

“No,” he said, fingers tracing the line of your spine. “Not anymore.”

“Good.” You leaned in and kissed the underside of his jaw. “Because I’m not.”

“No,” he echoed. “You’re not.”

He pulled you closer again, tucked your head beneath his chin. The sun’s golden light spilling across the deck, catching on your bare shoulders and the curve of your thigh where the blanket had slipped. Lando’s thumb found that exposed bit of skin, traced soft circles there.

It could’ve stayed like that forever. Just the two of you, wrapped in salt-stained linen, the rest of the world so far away it barely existedm knowing full well this summer wasn’t about to fade anytime soon.

Not with him.

[sunsetmade]

Heyy! I’m new to your page and I’ve been reading your posta from the oldest to the newest, kudos girl! And I most love your angst-fluff writings sooo I would like to request a jealous Reader (in a healthy way) and just Rafe being Rafe. Hopefully you can read this, thank you in advance! Keep up the good work reallyyy! Much love from Italy. 💕

Thank you that really means a lot to me!! I hope you like it!

No Sharing Policy

Rafe Cameron x Reader

The bonfire cast a lazy orange glow across the sand, the air thick with salt and smoke and laughter. She sat perched on a driftwood log, knees tucked close to her chest, a plastic cup cradled between her hands. Her cheeks were warm— partly from the drink, partly from the summer night — but mostly from how hard she was laughing.

Jesse, some college friend of Sarah’s, was sitting beside her, retelling a story about a camping trip gone wrong. He was loud, animated, and flailing his arms like a cartoon. She didn’t even register when she touched his arm mid-laugh —just a quick brush, light and unthinking.

But Rafe saw it.

From where he sat just a few feet away, he didn’t miss a thing.

His jaw clenched as he watched the scene, muscles tight under his t-shirt, thumb flicking against the rim of his drink. The guy was leaning in, too close. She was laughing, too hard. And Rafe? He was two seconds away from snapping the neck off his bottle.

She looked radiant, all soft smiles and golden skin in the firelight. And that should’ve made him feel lucky. But right now, all he felt was territorial.

He stood without a word and turned toward the dunes.

She noticed the shift almost instantly.

“Rafe?” she called, her voice laced with confusion.

He didn’t stop walking.

She followed after him, sandals crunching in the sand. The closer she got, the more she felt it — the tension practically humming off his shoulders. He stopped at the back of his truck, arms crossed, gaze on the dark water just beyond.

“Hey,” she said softly, coming up beside him. “What’s going on?”

He didn’t look at her when he spoke.

“You looked like you were having fun. Figured I’d give you some space to keep enjoying it.”

Her brows furrowed. “What does that mean?”

Rafe’s eyes finally cut to hers. They were sharp, unreadable, a little cold in that way he got when something was bothering him more than he wanted to admit.

“You were laughing at everything he said like he was the funniest damn guy in the world,” he said. “And touching him like you didn’t even notice.”

She blinked, confused. “What? Jesse?”

“Yeah. Asshole Jesse.” He scoffed, the name tasting bitter on his tongue. “You really don’t see it, do you?”

Her voice softened. “See what?”

“He’s flirting with you. Has been all night. And you—” he huffed, running a hand down his face, “—you’re just sitting there giggling, hanging off his words like he’s worth your time.”

“Rafe,” she said, brows drawing together, “I didn’t even realize—”

“Exactly.” He stepped closer now, voice low but steady. “You didn’t realize. But I did. I saw every second of it.”

She opened her mouth, but he kept going.

“I don’t like it when other guys think they have a shot. Especially not right fuckin’ in front of me.” His tone wasn’t loud. But it was tight. Possessive. Firm. “You’re mine. That’s not up for debate.”

That word. Mine. It echoed in her chest louder than the waves crashing in the distance.

Her heart softened even as her breath caught a little.

“Rafe,” she said again, gentler this time, placing her hand on his chest. “I’m not interested in him. Or any guy like him. You know that, right?”

He didn’t answer.

She stepped closer, her other hand sliding up to cup his jaw, thumb brushing his cheek.

“Baby,” she whispered, eyes locking with his, “I only ever want you.”

He stared at her for a beat— like he was trying to decide if he believed her, or maybe trying to stop himself from doing something reckless, like dragging her into the leather backseat just to prove a point.

Then, finally, he exhaled. Some of the tightness eased from his shoulders.

“You laugh like that with me,” he muttered, quieter now, his hands finding her waist. “But tonight, it felt like I wasn’t even in the room.”

She smiled gently. “That’s because you were sitting over there brooding like a storm cloud.”

“I wasn’t brooding.” He said like he was offending at the statement.

“You totally were.”

He rolled his eyes with a small smile and then his grip tightened just a little —not rough, but secure. “He got to sit next to you. Got to touch your arm. That should’ve been me.”

She leaned in and kissed him once, slow and warm.

“It’s always you, Rafe.”

His eyes searched hers like he was looking for any cracks in that truth. When he found none, he kissed her back —deeper, more heated, both hands on her hips now, anchoring her to him like he was scared she’d slip away if he let go.

“I don’t like sharing,” he mumbled against her mouth.

“You don’t have to,” she breathed, smiling. “I’m yours.”

He kissed her again like that was the only answer he ever needed.

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