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angstama · 3 days ago

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09 ; spaces between us | l.jn

pairing: dad!lee jeno x f!reader (ft. na jaemin)

genre: angst, slight fluff, co-parenting

synopsis — three years after divorcing jeno, you've found a careful rhythm in co-parenting your son jun. the old fights about his work schedule and emotional distance have faded into polite exchanges and shared custody arrangements. but when small moments of connection start to feel like second chances, you begin to hope that maybe you could try again. though, it all falls apart when jeno asks to introduce jun to his new girlfriend. suddenly, you're forced to confront a devastating truth: the man who claimed he "wasn't good at relationships" during your marriage has apparently learned how to love properly—he just needed someone else to do it with.

a/n: heyyyyyy lovelies🙇🏻‍♀️ i love this chapter so much y’all have no idea😭😭 i’ve also received SO MANY ASKS which im so thankful for and love reading them :”))) i’m slowly replying to the asks for now because i had been writing through my sinus and been sneezing non stop >:(((( (someone pls help me if y’all know how to deal with intense sinus!!!! it’s affecting my quality of life so badly😩😩😩) but anyways, thank you guys sooo much!! it’s been so fun reading all of your reactions🩵🩵🩵 as always, thank you so much for the support and see you guys in the next chapter 🩵🩵🩵

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jeno stood frozen by the sidewalk, watching the three of you emerge from the building like some kind of inside joke had just wrapped up. your laughter rang out into the evening air—loud, bright, alive—and it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

your eyes were crinkled at the corners, your hand casually brushing against jaemin’s arm, head thrown back just slightly as you teased renjun about his “frail wrists.” you looked light—like someone who had finally put something heavy down.

jeno's eyes dropped to the bag you were holding. his old bag. the one he gifted you during your first anniversary—slightly scuffed at the edges now, worn soft with time and use. and in your hair, those silver gentle monster shades you used to claim made you look like “a tax-evading heiress.”

he remembered you wearing that same combo the day you told him you were pregnant with jun.

you looked… free. not better off. not over him. just free. and maybe that’s what stung most of all. he took a small step forward on instinct, his hand twitching as if reaching for you would rewind everything. but nothing came out—no sound, no courage, just the hollow ache of watching someone you loved from too far away.

and jaemin was still there. just close enough to you to make jeno’s stomach twist.

jaemin’s voice from earlier rang loud in his ears: “you really don't know anything do you?.” " give y/n she clearly wants and focus on your pregnant girlfriend, jeno.”

his brows furrowed, guilt and frustration clawing at him in equal measure. how did it come to this? how did he become the man on the outside? he needed to get things straight. he pulled out his phone, a heavy sigh escaping his lips as he typed the message to his current lover.

jeno: my love, we need to talk.

because if there was ever a time for honesty, it was now. he needed answers. and he needed to find himself—before he lose everything else that mattered.

soomin’s apartment was dimly lit when jeno arrived. the curtains were drawn, a record played softly in the background—some ambient jazz track that normally would've helped soothe jeno’s nerves. not tonight. not after everything that had unraveled.

soomin opened the door dressed casually, barefoot, holding a mug of tea. her eyes flickered with surprise when she saw him, but her expression quickly settled into her usual cool composure.

“i thought i said we’ll talk tomorrow,” soomin said flatly, stepping aside as one hand supported her lower back and the other rested gently over her small bump. “i know,” jeno mumbled, stepping in without hesitation. he took off his shoes quietly, leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss against her belly. “but there’s something i need to clarify with you. if i don’t, it’s going to drive me crazy.”

soomin let out a tired sigh as she made her way to the couch, lowering herself slowly with practiced ease. “okay, speak your mind.” she gestured to the seat beside her. jeno hesitated, eyes looking down on the marble floor before finally joining her. his posture tense, the space between them seeming wider than the cushion that separated them.

“i need you to be honest with me, min.” his voice was low, almost pleading. “i ran into jaemin today. outside y/n’s office.” her gaze sharpened slightly at the name but she said nothing.

“he said something about your company settling,” jeno continued, frowning as he struggled to piece together the implications. “i didn’t understand at first… but then i realised he meant something legal. so i’m asking—what’s going on?”

soomin doesn’t say anything at first, shifting in her seat, her fingers absently rubbing small circles over her bump as her eyes stay locked ahead—empty, unreadable. and jeno recognises that look too well. too damn well.

it was the same one he used to give you, back when your marriage had been hanging by a thread. when every conversation felt like a landmine and he couldn’t be bothered to defuse any of them. that look that said i’m done talking. i’m already halfway out the door.

and now, sitting here, on the receiving end, jeno feels it land in his chest like a punch. your face flashes in his mind—eyes rimmed red, lips trembling from holding back things you wanted to say but knew wouldn’t land. he had met you with silence. indifference. an expression just like the one soomin wore now.

he almost winces. god. he hated that look. he hated knowing you endured it for so long. and now here he was, finally understanding what it felt like to be on the other side of it.

“soomin,” he says quietly, voice tighter than before. “just be honest with me. don’t make me ask again.”

she lets out a slow breath, then finally answers. “your ex-wife is leading an environmental litigation case. the client is going after jewel corporation.” her tone is flat, dismissive. “it’s nothing serious. we’ve had worse. she’s just—doing her job.”

jeno runs a hand through his hair, trying to calm the storm brewing in his chest. “you kept this from me,” he mutters, not as a question but a realisation. “all this time... you were dealing with her, and you never once thought to tell me?”

soomin shrugs. “it didn’t seem necessary.”

“you’re asking me to be a part of your life, min. to raise a child with you. and you don’t think something like this is necessary?” jeno huffed, frustration growing apparent in his voice.

she finally turns to look at him. “because i knew exactly how you’d react. like this." she paused, "and besides, we’ll handle it. our legal team is competent. we cover our tracks.”

jeno lets out a humourless laugh, standing to his feet, pacing. “you don’t get it. if y/n is pursuing this, it means she’s not playing around. she only takes the cases she knows she can win—cases that matter.”

“this is why i didn't tell you in the first place,” she replied without skipping a beat. “i knew you’d take her side.”

jeno’s jaw clenched. “this isn’t about sides. this is about what’s right. and if jewel actually—”

“don’t,” soomin interrupted, her tone sharp. “don’t sit there and play judge when you don’t even know what’s in the case file.”

jeno stared at her. “then tell me. convince me she’s wrong.”

by now, the room was thick with tension, anger simmering beneath every breath. both jeno and soomin were visibly shaken, their voices edged and sharp, their expressions taut with frustration. jeno could hardly believe it—this entire time, soomin had kept something so massive from him, and only now was he piecing it all together.

“you need to talk to her,” soomin said suddenly, her tone clipped. “get her to settle. drop the case, if possible.”

jeno freezes, turning slowly. “you want me to ask her to walk away from something she believes in? from justice?”

“i want you to protect what we have,” soomin replies. “our future. this baby.”

jeno stares at her, expression caught somewhere between disbelief and disappointment. “you can't use that against me min.”

for a moment, soomin didn’t speak. then, leaning forward slightly, her voice lowered—not quite a plea, but close. “i need you to talk to her, jeno. you still have influence. convince her to settle. to drop it. for everyone’s sake.”

jeno’s eyes darken at her words.

“influence?” he echoes, almost in a whisper, as if testing how the word tastes coming out of his mouth. “you think i still have that kind of hold on her?”

soomin doesn’t respond. she doesn’t need to. her silence is answer enough.

jeno exhales sharply, turning away from her to run a hand down his face, heart pounding, mind racing. “she gave up everything for me once,” he mutters, almost to himself. “her career, her dreams. i watched her put it all on hold—watched her choose me, over and over again, even when i didn’t deserve it. and now that she’s finally getting back up, finally finding something worth fighting for again... you want me to be the reason she lets it go?”

soomin’s jaw clenches. “this isn’t about her past, jeno. this is about now. about what’s at stake.”

jeno turns back to her, voice low but laced with fire. “you think i can walk in there and ask her to step away from victims who trusted her? from communities that are counting on her? from her own self-respect?”

“you can try,” soomin says firmly. “you owe me that much.”

jeno laughs, cold and bitter. “i owe you honesty. and right now, that honesty is this—if she’s not backing down, it’s because she has enough to bring everything down. and she will.”

“then make her stop,” soomin snaps, standing too. “do something, jeno. if you care about me, about this baby, you’ll at least try.”

jeno stares at her, chest rising and falling. “don’t ask me to become the man she divorced,” he says quietly. “because if i ask her to drop this, that’s exactly who i’ll be.”

they stand there, staring at each other. the space between them feels colder now, carved deeper by things unspoken.

jeno picks up his jacket, slipping it over his shoulders. “you should’ve told me the truth.”

and with that, he turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.

jeno had always hated drinking—the bitter burn, the way it made his thoughts swim in dangerous directions. but here he was, hunched over a bar counter like some cliché of heartbreak, nursing his third whiskey and feeling it blur the edges of everything he didn't want to think about.

mark slid into the stool beside him, the concern in his eyes sharper than any accusation. he didn't say anything at first, just watched his friend's unsteady hands wrap around the glass.

"okay, seriously," mark finally said, voice cutting through the bar's ambient noise. "what's going on with you, man? this isn't you."

jeno stared into his drink like it held answers. the amber liquid caught the dim light, and for a moment he wondered if this was what drowning felt like—slow, inevitable, strangely peaceful. "soomin's pregnant," he said at last, voice barely above a whisper. like he was ashamed of the truth.

mark froze. “wait—what?” he blinked, not sure he’d heard right. “what do you mean soomin’s pregnant?”

jeno exhaled sharply, dragging both hands through his hair. “it wasn’t planned. it just… happened.”

mark leaned back in disbelief, his jaw slightly agape. he couldn't believe his ears. “does y/n know?” jeno nodded slowly, his eyes bloodshot and weary. “yeah,” he murmured. “soomin told her. when she came by the house while i was sick.”

mark blinked, trying to process. “wait—soomin told her? not you?" jeno let out a bitter laugh, rubbing his hands over his face. “i was going to, after the camping trip. i just… didn’t expect soomin to say it first. not like that.”

mark exhaled sharply, leaning forward, his elbows pressing into the worn wood of the table. “that’s… not good.” he didn’t need to imagine how hard that news must’ve hit you—he knew. and knowing that you heard it from soomin, not jeno, must've twisted the knife deeper for you. not that hearing it from jeno would’ve made the pain go away. but it would’ve meant something—at the very least, respect. care. some small effort to soften the blow.

after all, you’d all been friends once. before everything got so tangled and broken. and mark had watched your love story unfold, piece by piece. he’d seen the way your eyes always found jeno in a room. the quiet, constant ways you held him together. he knew what jeno meant to you. you would’ve moved heaven and earth for him—if only he’d let you.

jeno didn’t say anything. his silence said enough. the guilt, the regret—it was etched all over him.

“soomin’s company is also being sued by the client y/n is representing,” jeno muttered, like it was the final blow in a week that had already wrecked him.

mark’s brows shot up, jaw tightening. “that’s... insane.” he leaned back, trying to wrap his head around it. “wait—if y/n’s going after soomin’s company, and soomin’s the vice ceo…” mark trailed off, piecing it together. “the company will crumble.”

jeno nodded slowly, rubbing his temples. “i told her that. warned her. and instead of dealing with it, she told me to talk to y/n. to convince her to drop the case.” he shook his head, a bitter laugh leaving his lips. “like it’s that simple.”

mark didn’t hesitate. “you can’t do that, jeno.”

jeno looked up, his expression tight. “i can't just not do anything, mark. soomin’s going to be the mother of my child. if the company crashes, it’s going to affect her—our kid. what am i supposed to do? just sit back and watch?”

mark’s jaw clenched. “and what about y/n?” he fired back, voice sharper now. “you think it’s fair to put her in that position? to make her choose between doing what’s right and the remnants of a marriage that already wrecked her?”

jeno’s face darkened, but he didn’t respond.

“you got another woman pregnant, jeno,” mark went on, voice tight with frustration. “you messed up. and now you’re trying to clean it up by asking her to compromise everything she’s worked for? everything she believes in? that’s not just selfish—it’s cruel.”

jeno dropped his gaze.

“if jewel corporation’s corrupt—if they’ve really done the things y/n’s case says they have—then whatever happens to them is on them, not on her. and not on you, either. don’t drag her down just because you’re trying to save someone else from their own mess.” mark stared at jeno, his frustration still lingering in the air like smoke. but after a beat, his voice softened just a little.“and what about jun?”

jeno’s head snapped up at the mention of his son, guilt flashing across his face like lightning. mark held his gaze, unwavering. “you keep saying you want to protect your kid,” mark said slowly, “but what about the one you already have?”

jeno swallowed hard, throat dry. “i’m trying—”

“are you?” mark cut in, brows furrowing. “you say you miss him, but missing someone and showing up for them aren’t the same thing.” mark’s voice dropped lower, more tired than angry now. “you let work get in the way. you let your own guilt push you further from him. and now you’re about to ask his mom to throw away her principles for someone else’s future, not even his?”

jeno’s jaw clenched. “it’s not like i don’t care, mark.”

“i know you care. but caring doesn’t make you a good dad. showing up does. fighting for him does. not asking his mom to abandon a case that could protect other kids like him from getting hurt by people like soomin’s company.”

jeno looked like he had been hit. hard. the weight of mark’s words settled in his chest, heavy and suffocating.

“jun is still watching,” mark added quietly. “even if he doesn’t understand everything now—he’s watching. and one day he’s going to grow up and ask why his mom had to fight alone. why his dad didn’t stand beside her.”

jeno blinked rapidly, jaw working but no words coming out. for the first time in a long time, he didn’t know what to say.

“you wanna protect your future?” mark stood now, tossing a few bills on the table for their drinks. “start with your present. start with your son.”

friday night rolled in faster than you expected. you stood in front of your mirror, doing the finishing touches to your hair, fingers nervously tucking a loose strand behind your ear for what felt like the tenth time. it had been a while since you’d dressed up—too long, in fact and confidence wasn’t exactly something that came naturally these days.

your eyes trailed down to the green dress laid out on your bed—the one jaemin had instructed you to wear. it was your favourite colour. and, of course, the exact shade he’d be wearing to match.

you slipped it on carefully, the silk gliding over your skin like water. it was elegant, timeless—floor-length with a subtle slit along the side and delicate straps that framed your collarbones just right. the deep forest green shimmered under the soft light of your room, expensive in a way that felt almost intimidating, like you were wearing someone else's life. and yet, somehow, jaemin had chosen it like he knew it would be perfect for you.

"you look so pretty, mummy!" jun giggled, clutching dino-chan in one hand as he ran over to wrap his arms around your legs. you smiled softly, your fingers instinctively reaching down to ruffle his fluffy hair. "you think so, baby?" you asked, crouching to meet him eye to eye.

he nodded eagerly, his eyes scrunching in delight—and for a fleeting second, you saw jeno in him. it made your heart ache, just a little. "so, so pretty!" jun beamed, throwing his hands up dramatically like the compliment needed physical punctuation, dino-chan bouncing in agreement.

you laughed, pressing a kiss to his cheek, trying to ignore the sting that came with seeing his father’s eye smile in him. "thank you, sweetheart. you're my best cheerleader, you know that?"

"i know," he grinned proudly. "are you going out with daddy, mummy?" he asked, voice soft and full of innocent hope. your smile faltered. just a little. your heart clenched at how gently the question was asked—how much quiet, unspoken longing was wrapped inside such a simple sentence. you took a breath, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

"i’m sorry, baby… i’m afraid not." your voice was careful, laced with a sadness that jun had begun to recognise, even if he didn’t understand the full weight of it yet.

"oh." he looked down for a second, pursing his small lips. then, with a tilt of his head, he looked back up at you. "then are you going out with uncle jaemin?"

you let out a soft chuckle, touched by his resilience. "yes, baby. uncle jaemin’s taking me to a party tonight."

“can i join?” jun grinned up at you, eyes sparkling with hope. “i’m afraid it’s only for adults, baby,” you pouted, brushing your fingers through his hair.

jun's grin faltered into a small pout, his tiny shoulders slumping just a little. "but i can be a big boy too..." he mumbled, hugging dino-chan tighter to his chest.

you crouched back down, brushing a thumb over his cheek and giving him a soft smile. "i know you can, baby. you're the biggest, bravest boy i know. but this party’s really boring for kids—no cartoons, no snacks, no pokemon!"

"no pokemon?" his eyes widened, scandalised.

"none," you whispered dramatically, making his eyes go round. "but... uncle renjun and uncle chenle? they said you’re the only one who can teach them how to play pokemon. and if you're not here, how will they learn?"

jun gasped, fully sold. "okay! i’ll teach them!" he nodded seriously. "but only if they bring honey star snacks."

you chuckled, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head. "deal. you, me, and honey stars when i get home too, okay?"

he beamed, eyes crinkling like his father’s again. "okay, mummy! you’re gonna look like a princess at your party!"

"only because i have the best prince cheering me on," you whispered, hugging him tight before the doorbell rang.

you opened the door, greeted by renjun and chenle’s excited hellos.

“you look absolutely gorgeous, y/n,” chenle gasped, a little mist in his eyes as he took in the sight of you all dressed up—something he hadn’t seen in so long. “jaemin’s lucky to have you as his plus one,” renjun added, jaw slack in awe. “seriously… you’re glowing.”

“ah, seriously, guys… stop glazing me like a donut,” you laughed nervously, shaking your head as you looked down at yourself. “just tell me I look horrendous already.” your voice was light, but the truth sat heavy beneath it.

chenle rolled his eyes with a dramatic sigh before stepping forward and placing his hands firmly on your shoulders. “okay, enough,” he said, steering you toward the full-length mirror by your front door. “look.”

you reluctantly met your own gaze in the reflection, the soft sheen of the green dress catching the hallway light just right. chenle stood beside you, eyes focused not on the outfit, but on you.

“you’re beautiful, y/n,” he said, his tone quieter now, more sincere. “you look beautiful. you just need to believe it for once.” he gave your back a light pat, a grounding gesture that somehow carried more comfort than all the compliments in the world.

renjun leaned casually against the doorway, grinning. “yeah, seriously. jaemin’s gonna be so distracted by how good you look tonight, he might not even try to out-sass you.” he winked. “might.”

you laughed, the sound a little breathless but genuine, and for a moment, the nerves in your chest eased. surrounded by their warmth, their teasing, and their unwavering belief in you—it was a kind of love you didn’t take for granted. not everyone got this. not everyone had friends who saw you even when you didn’t see yourself.

“thank you guys… for everything. and for watching jun for me tonight.” your voice was soft, touched with gratitude.

“please,” chenl e scoffed, waving a dismissive hand as if your anxiety were the most ridiculous thing in the world. “go. have fun. be hot. flirt with jaemin. we’ve got jun covered.”

you practically choked on your own breath, eyes widening as heat rushed to your cheeks. “chen le!” you hissed, swatting his arm. “i’m not going to flirt with jaemin. don’t be ridiculous.”

“who’s being ridiculous?” renjun chimed in with a smirk, arms folded. “i’m just saying… i highly doubt jaemin would complain.”

you rolled your eyes just as a familiar voice came from behind.

“complain about what?”

you all turned—frozen.

your eyes landed on jaemin, who stood by the doorway, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his royal green suit. your stomach dropped, not in panic, but something else—something fluttery. his hair was swept back cleanly, his expression unreadable, until his gaze finally met yours.

and then it traveled.

his eyes slowly roamed down your figure—his breath visibly catching as he took in the rich green of your dress that matches his, the soft waves of your hair, the quiet elegance you carried despite your nerves.

his jaw parted slightly. “you look…” he breathed out, voice low, almost reverent. “gorgeous.”

you blinked, thrown by how sincere he sounded—how his eyes hadn’t left you since the moment he saw you. you tried to find something witty to say, anything to ease the sudden tension—but nothing came out.

behind you, chenle and renjun shared a knowing look, smug and satisfied.

“see,” renjun muttered under his breath, nudging chen le. “told you.”

“uncle jaemin!” jun’s voice rang out eagerly from the hallway as he finally emerged from his room, eyes bright with curiosity over the commotion. jaemin crouched down and scooped him up effortlessly, as if holding jun was the most natural thing in the world.

“hey, champ,” jaemin chuckled warmly, ruffling jun’s hair gently.

“hey junnie, what about us?” renjun crossed his arms, pouting playfully as he shot a mock-serious look at jun.

jun giggled, his small face lighting up as he looked between them. “uncle renjun! uncle chen le!” he called out cheerfully, waving at them both with pure joy.

you chuckled softly, your heart swelling at the warm scene before you—jaemin meeting your gaze with that familiar, gentle look. you gave him a small, encouraging smile.

“baby, we have to go now, okay?” you said softly, crouching to jun’s level as jaemin carefully set him down. “remember to be good while we’re gone, alright?” jun nodded eagerly, his eyes shining with trust. “yes, mummy.”

jaemin stepped forward and offered you his arm, a small smile tugging at his lips. “ready, y/n?”

you linked your arm through his, taking a last look back at jun playing with his uncles before turning toward the door.

“have fun, mummy!” jun called after you, his voice full of excitement and love.

you squeezed jaemin’s arm and smiled. “we will.”

and with that, you stepped out into the night, a mix of nerves and anticipation fluttering in your chest.

the gala was held at The Lotte Hotel Seoul, one of the city’s most exquisite and prestigious landmarks. you couldn’t believe your eyes when jisung pulled up to the grand entrance — the towering hotel gleamed under the night sky, its sleek glass facade reflecting the city lights. luxury cars rolled up one after another, their polished exteriors catching every eye. elegantly dressed guests stepped out, draped in designer labels so lavish you could only dream of affording them in this lifetime. the air buzzed with sophistication and quiet excitement, and you felt a mix of awe and nerves stirring inside you.

jaemin caught the subtle way your fingers twisted together, a small, nervous habit he’d come to recognise over time. without a word, he reached out, his fingers gently tracing soothing circles on the back of your hand. you flinched slightly at the unexpected touch, heart skipping a beat, but gradually relaxed, leaning into the warmth of his hold. “relax,” he murmured with a soft chuckle.

“how can i?” you whispered back, lips pouting just a little, your voice barely audible as you both navigated through the crowd towards the ballroom. “you never told me it was going to be this grand.”

jaemin laughed quietly, his eyes sparkling with amusement as they scanned the elegant room ahead. “i thought you’d know by now,” he said, nodding briefly at the registration table. without pausing, he passed by—their staff already familiar with his name, because everyone should know who na jaemin is by now.

the two of you entered the ballroom, and it was as if the air shifted. heads turned, eyes drawn to the entrance—drawn to you, or more likely, jaemin—and suddenly you felt like the spotlight was burning holes into your skin. every glance made you feel smaller, like you were a misplaced jigsaw piece in a picture-perfect puzzle of designer gowns and confident laughter.

you instinctively clung tighter to jaemin’s arm, your grip desperate, as though he was the only thing anchoring you to solid ground. your knuckles whitened slightly, breath shallow.

“jaemin!” a voice called out from behind, smooth and booming.

jaemin paused, turning around with a polite smile. “mr. lee, good evening,” he greeted, offering a respectful bow to the middle-aged man whose cheeks were already flushed with wine. “this is y/n, my date for tonight.”

your eyes widened at his words—date—and for a moment you forgot how to function. “hi, good evening,” you managed to say, voice barely above a whisper, hoping the tremble didn’t betray your nerves.

“nice to meet you, y/n,” mr. lee said with a nod before turning back to jaemin. “i’ve got something i need your opinion on—swing by my table later, will you?”

“of course,” jaemin replied easily, all poise and confidence. “i’ll stop by once i’ve made my rounds.”

as mr. lee moved along, jaemin leaned closer to you with a grin. “ease up, ace. you’re gonna rip my arm off.”

you blinked, realising just how tightly you’d been holding onto him. flustered, you loosened your grip, mumbling an apology. jaemin made a subtle gesture towards one of the passing waiters, who approached with a tray of drinks, picking up two glasses of wine and handing one to you. “here,” he said, the smile on his lips soft and reassuring. “this might help.”

your chest. before you could gather yourself, another couple approached—this time led by a woman with sharp eyes and a voice like honey laced with subtle thorns.

“jaemin!” she chirped, lighting up as if she owned the room. “you’re here!”

jaemin offered her a polite smile, but before he could respond, she turned her gaze toward you, eyes flitting over your frame.

“and with another woman, again,” she added with a lilting chuckle. the words weren’t cruel, but the tone stung. not malicious—just indifferent. like she’d seen this scene a dozen times before and had already written you off as another forgettable name on jaemin’s long list of arm candy.

you shifted slightly, the sting of her words making your heels feel even higher, your dress more suffocating. the security you felt with jaemin’s arm around yours flickered.

“hyuna,” jaemin warned, his tone tight. “watch your manners.”

“i’m sorry,” she sang with a small shrug, clearly not sorry at all. she turned to you, eyes expectant. “nice to meet you…?”

“y/n,” you stepped forward, forcing a polite smile, even as your name felt foreign on your own tongue.

“ah, yes. y/n,” she echoed, filing it away like something she wouldn’t remember past tonight.

your heart dipped a little—unexpected and irrational, but there nonetheless. another woman. so this wasn’t the first time jaemin had brought someone to a gala. and of course it wasn’t. a man like him—sharp suit, easy charm, looks that could silence a room—it made sense. of course women gravitated toward him. and who were you to feel anything about that?

you weren’t his. there were no promises. you were just a plus-one.

“don’t mind what hyuna said. she’s always this insensitive,” jaemin leaned in to whisper, his voice low and reassuring by your ear. you nodded slowly, grateful for his words, but the sting still lingered. you tried to smile, but it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

jaemin’s gaze swept over the ballroom, scanning the glittering crowd with ease until his eyes locked onto someone. “c’mon,” he said, gently placing his hand at the small of your back, guiding you through the room. “i have someone you should meet.”

you let him lead you, each step echoing in your heels as the air around you buzzed with clinking glasses and murmured conversations. “jaehyun!” jaemin called out.

standing by the corner, half-leaning against a pillar with effortless poise, was a man dressed in a deep navy blue suit. the fabric hugged his frame perfectly, his presence calm and self-assured. his smile grew at the sound of jaemin’s voice.

“jaemin,” jaehyun greeted, pulling him into a firm handshake, the kind that spoke of years of mutual respect. jaemin turned to you, hand motioning your way. “this is y/n. she’s working on the jewel corporation case, the one with donghyuck.”

you blinked. so this was part of it—the promise jaemin made that night. introducing you to “great men.” eligible, brilliant, everything you deserved.

and jaehyun fit the bill perfectly. “nice to meet you,” he said, offering his hand with a kind smile. “likewise,” you replied, shaking it gently.

jaemin gave your arm a soft pat, then excused himself with a brief, “i’ll be back—need to speak with a few others.” and just like that, he was gone, disappearing into the crowd.

you and jaehyun stood side by side, slowly easing into conversation. he was warm, charming even—telling you about his work in corporate law, his recent ski trip in switzerland, and his obsession with restoring vintage cars. his voice was smooth, every word polished and purposeful.

and yet… you felt yourself drifting.

it wasn’t him. jaehyun was lovely. anyone in their right mind would be swept up in his charisma. but there was a quiet disconnect—a sense that while the conversation flowed, your heart simply wasn’t in it. you nodded politely, smiled when needed, and tried to stay present. but the truth was, your mind had already wandered elsewhere.

your eyes flicked around the room, as if drawn by instinct.

and then you saw him.

jaemin. standing near the bar, deep in conversation with a woman dressed in a sleek black gown that shimmered like ink under the chandeliers. she was stunning—graceful in her movements, a soft hand on his arm as she laughed at something he said. the two of them looked like they belonged in a movie. perfect. magnetic.

and you hated the way your stomach tightened.

you quickly turned your attention back to jaehyun, who was now enthusiastically describing the difference between two italian car engines. but the words felt muffled, as if you were underwater. and so you excused yourself politely with a "i'm sorry i have to use the ladies." an excuse to leave the conversation.

you managed to slip away from jaehyun unnoticed, your heels clicking against the polished floor as you escaped to a quieter corridor just off the main ballroom. with a sigh, you sank onto one of the velvet seats lining the wall, slipping your feet out of your heels. you stared down at your aching feet, toes red from the merciless heels you had been stuffed in all night. the soft carpet beneath you was a small relief as you rubbed at the sore arches of your foot. the low hum of chatter and clinking glasses from the ballroom drifted out through the open double doors behind you, but you were content with your stolen moment of solitude in the quiet corridor—tucked away from everyone, including the man you were trying not to think about.

“you okay?” a familiar voice broke through your thoughts.

you looked up to see donghyuck settling down beside you, a small slider in his hand, already halfway to his mouth. he paused and held it out to you instead. “want some?”

you shook your head with a tired smile. “no, thank you.”

he popped the rest of the slider into his mouth anyway, chewing casually. “where’s jaemin?”

you rolled your eyes instinctively. you didn’t mean to, but the image of jaemin smiling at that woman flashed behind your eyes again like a reflex. “talking to some chick at the bar.”

donghyuck followed your gaze, his eyes scanning the crowd until they landed on the pair. he gave a short, unimpressed laugh. “eh. don’t worry about that woman,” he said with a shrug, brushing it off like it was nothing.

you turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes, your lips pressed into a thin line. “i’m not worried about her,” you replied coolly, but even you didn’t believe your tone.

donghyuck snorted. “yeah, okay,” he smirked. “you’re just out here in the hallway rubbing your feet and totally not thinking about how good they looked together.”

you shot him a glare, but it lacked bite. he grinned, knowing he was right. you looked away, chewing on the inside of your cheek, the silence between you heavy with something unspoken.

“i shouldn’t have come,” you mumbled. donghyuck tilted his head, watching you. “yo, relax. she literally flirts with everyone. even me!”

you turned to him, deadpan. “you?”

“yes! me!” he said, pointing at himself with exaggerated offense. “while i was literally chewing on shrimp toast. i nearly choked.”

despite yourself, you laughed. a soft, genuine laugh that bubbled out of your chest like a release. “she’s not jaemin’s type anyway,” he added with a huff. you turned to him again. “…and what is jaemin’s type, then?”

donghyuck looked at you for a beat. then he deadpanned, “you.”

you blinked. “what?”

he didn’t blink. “you’re jaemin’s type.”

you scoffed, not out of arrogance, but disbelief. “sure. okay. now i really know you’ve had too much wine.”

“i’m serious,” he said, his tone suddenly softer, more sincere. “you should see the way he looks at you. it’s like… it’s like you hung the stars and then handed them to him personally.”

your breath caught, chest tightening. but then doubt crept in.

“…well, he clearly doesn’t look at me that way tonight,” you mumbled, folding your arms over your knees.

donghyuck sighed and reached into the inside of his suit jacket.

your brows furrowed. “what are you—?” to your complete disbelief, he pulled out not one, but two mini bottles of red wine.

“what the fuck?” you laughed, startled.

“gala survival kit,” he grinned proudly, handing you one. “rule one: sneak your own drinks. rule two: never trust hotel hors d’oeuvres. and rule three—always have a backup exit plan in case of emotional disaster.”

you chuckled, unscrewing the bottle cap. “you’re insane.”

“thank you,” he bowed dramatically. “now drink. doctor’s orders.”

the two of you leaned back against the wall, sipping from the bottles like rebellious teenagers sneaking liquor behind the gym. you giggled as donghyuck made dramatic commentary about the guests at the gala—especially the ones who clearly mistook the event for a fashion show. he even mimicked jaemin’s “intense business nod” which had you laughing so hard, wine nearly came out of your nose.

but then something shifted.

donghyuck stopped mid-sentence, looking past your shoulder. “uh-oh.”

you turned.

jaemin was standing at the end of the corridor, expression unreadable. his hands were in his pockets, but his eyes were sharp—locked on you. the low lighting from the chandelier above him cast shadows across his face, but you could still see the flicker of emotion there. something between confusion… and jealousy?

“i’ve been looking for you,” he said, voice even but soft.

you blinked, caught mid-sip, and quickly stood up, clutching your heels and the bottle awkwardly. “we were just… taking a break.”

donghyuck raised his wine bottle in greeting. “emotional support wine.”

jaemin’s eyes flicked to him, then to you. “should i be jealous?”

you blinked. “what?”

his lips quirked, just slightly. “of hyuck.”

you opened your mouth, but nothing came out. your throat felt tight. the wine wasn’t helping anymore.

“no need,” donghyuck piped in smugly, rising to his feet. “she’s only got eyes for you, romeo.”

you groaned, pushing him lightly, your cheeks flushing. “hyuck!”

but jaemin only laughed under his breath. the sound eased some of the tension in your chest. he stepped forward, eyes softening as he looked at you. “c’mon,” he said, holding out his hand. “dance with me?”

you looked down at your bare feet, uncertain.

he leaned in a little, voice low, gentle. “i’ll go barefoot too if it makes you feel better.”

from the side, donghyuck let out a whistle. “simp.”

jaemin didn’t even flinch. his eyes never left yours.

your fingers brushed his, then curled into his palm.

“okay,” you said, heart beating faster. “but if you step on my toes, i’m suing you.”

he grinned, pulling you gently back toward the ballroom. “i’ll risk it.”

the ballroom welcomed you back with golden lights and slow jazz humming in the air—soft and sweet, the kind of music that tugged at the corners of your chest and whispered things you didn’t quite know how to name.

jaemin led you to the floor with ease, weaving through the other dancing couples like he belonged there. and he did. the light caught his hair just right, his suit tailored perfectly to his frame, his presence steady. meanwhile, you were acutely aware of the slight limp in your barefoot shuffle and the awkward flutter in your chest that hadn’t left since he extended his hand.

your fingers slid into his again as he turned to face you. he gently rested one hand on the small of your back, the other still holding yours—and you suddenly forgot how to breathe.

“just follow my lead,” he murmured, voice so low only you could hear.

you nodded stiffly, unsure of where to place your feet. he began to sway, leading you into a rhythm you couldn’t yet feel. you tried to match it, but your steps were hesitant, clumsy. your gaze flicked down to your feet, trying not to step on his polished shoes.

“hey,” jaemin said softly, giving your hand a light squeeze.

you looked up—and his eyes were already on you. warm. calm. patient.

“you’re doing fine,” he assured.

you nodded again, this time slower, and let yourself breathe into the music. his hand on your back was gentle, guiding, never forcing. and after a few more steps, something shifted. you felt your body gradually relax into his, your muscles remembering how to move when you weren’t panicking about each step.

he turned you slowly, a half-spin so graceful you barely noticed it happening—until you were facing him again and the space between you felt just a little smaller.

your eyes met. for a moment too long.

you could hear it—your heart. loud in your ears. almost reckless.

but then you wondered—was that his heartbeat you were hearing?

jaemin’s gaze dipped for the briefest second to your lips, before quickly returning to your eyes. his hand moved slightly higher on your back, only a fraction, but it sent warmth rushing to your skin.

neither of you spoke.

you simply moved—slow, steady, delicate.

his steps were measured. yours began to mirror them naturally, as if your body had finally decided to trust his lead. and with each sway, each brush of your fingertips, each barely-there smile exchanged between glances—something fragile and unspoken began to unfold.

jaemin let out a quiet breath, like he’d been holding it too.

“you’re… kind of good at this now,” he said with a soft laugh.

“took me a minute,” you replied, eyes still on his.

he smiled—not the practiced, polite smile you’d seen him wear all night at the gala, not the one that charmed investors or kept conversations safe. no, this was something smaller. quieter. something that curled around the edges of his lips like a secret he’d been keeping just for you.

the two of you continued swaying under the soft chandeliers, feet moving gently to the rhythm. your bare toes brushed over the polished floor with each step, the cool surface grounding you even as your head swam slightly from the wine donghyuck had insisted on sharing. there was a courage in the warmth blooming in your chest now, half-tipsy, half-bold. and so, you asked, voice soft, a little breathless.

“donghyuck said i’m your type.”

jaemin looked down at you, surprise flickering briefly in his gaze before a low chuckle escaped him.

“did he?” his voice was a quiet rasp, amused but unreadable.

you nodded, lips pressing together as your eyes searched his, waiting—hoping—for something more.

he tilted his head slightly, studying you like you were a puzzle he’d never quite figured out until now. and then he said it, slowly, like each word was a decision.

“maybe you are.”

your heart gave a strange, fluttering tug at his words.

your hands tightened slightly around his as the two of you continued dancing, bodies close, warmth shared in the soft hush between songs.

“have you ever…” you started, hesitating, “have you ever seen me that way?”

jaemin’s movements slowed, not enough to stop the sway, but enough for you to feel the hesitation in his body. his grip on your hand remained steady, but his eyes didn’t meet yours right away. instead, he glanced away, inhaling deeply—quietly—before returning his gaze to you.

“yes,” he said, barely above a whisper. “i have.”

your breath caught. the room seemed to grow quieter, like the music had softened just for this moment.

“then… why didn’t you ever say anything?” you asked, your voice trembling with the weight of the question. “why didn’t you ever ask me out?”

jaemin’s eyes darkened slightly—not with anything cruel, but with something honest, something unflinching.

“because,” he said slowly, “your heart always belonged to someone else.” those words hit you harder than you expected. because you knew who he meant. and it stung—because it was true.

you stopped moving. the world around you didn’t. but you did.

jaemin didn’t let go. his hand stayed at the small of your back, fingers still wrapped around yours. he let you be still, let you take it in, as the music spun softly around your silence.

your gaze met his—this time not questioning, not fearful, but burning with something more. desire. longing. maybe even a little regret.

and then, before you could lose your nerve, you whispered, voice firm but tender:

“take me out, will you?”

jaemin blinked, just once, like he couldn’t quite believe what you were asking.

but then his lips curved again, into that same quiet smile—the one he saved for you.

“okay” he said softly, the word wrapped in awe. “let's go now."

// to be continued

taglist: @chaoticstrawberryland @bbykaixx @strawberrytyong @desiree-lee @mybearcollective @dilflover44 @kangshinwoolovin @kgneptun @firydst @httpsxnox @justineasian @sunflowerhae @huangberryyy @stelleduarte @luvleenono @ccoristu @gomdoleemyson @tinted-skies @dior-15 @socollectionmoom @blackberrywonie @dinonuguaegi @merakicafee @jenzyoit @haechsauce @lorena-mv33 @taeeflwrr@chocojiji @markleesleftpinky @carelessshootanonymous @l3l3luvs @gigikapptor @notmastyle @seesinblur @myrainbowgelpen @morklee02

369 notes · View notes

n1k0laa5 · 1 day ago

Note

you did not achieve anything in your shitty life yet sitting here and giving motivation. all the bloggers except some deactivated ones are nothing but bunch teenagers, obsessed with aesthetics. you guys DID NOT manifest anything big. stop shitting around and get life

anonymous rage and the art of talking to a wall in lowercase

good morningggg from me and my literally manifested phone btw. yes. a phone. yesterday. i had no money, no “logical” way, i was chilling on my bed being god and poof. gifted. put in my hands like it belongs there.

so anyway. let’s talk about YOU now. the lowercase warrior who decided to anonymously (of course it’s anonymously—cowardice wears that hoodie like a second skin) crawl into someone’s inbox and type:

“you did not achieve anything in your shitty life yet sitting here and giving motivation.”

okay first of all. let’s be professors. let’s do a little sentence dissection, shall we?

“you did not achieve anything in your shitty life”—bold of you to assume you know what anyone’s life contains while hiding behind the wifi router. i know for a fact you’ve never manifested anything or else you’d have the divine confidence that makes you shut the hell up when you see others doing their thing.

also? what does “achieve” mean to you? a diploma? a car? a billion followers? are you stuck in the 2008 grindset economy where unless someone has an office and a coffee mug that says “boss,” they’re not allowed to be fulfilled?

because baby. let me burst that balloon with a glitter knife.

you are not god because you hit “milestones.”

you are god because you exist.

every breath is proof. every “i am” is creation. we do not need a LinkedIn profile to post motivation. we do not need a bank account to affirm the truth. we do not need your permission to feel divine. and we sure as fuck don’t need your crusty, dusty projections choking the airwaves.

i manifested freedom from suicidal spirals. i manifested my entire identity. i manifested healing that not even doctors could map. i manifested relief. i manifested love. and YES. sometimes i manifest material shit too just because i want it. but don’t you dare think you get to rank people’s godhood by how shiny their life looks on the outside. this isn’t your sad little Netflix drama. this is real life. and i rewrote it.

now let’s go on—

“all the bloggers except some deactivated ones are nothing but bunch teenagers, obsessed with aesthetics.”

first of all, weird thing to say when YOU’RE clearly the one lurking here. who’s watching whom, sweetheart? sounds like you’re the one obsessed with what a bunch of ✨aesthetic teenagers✨ are doing. go outside. go lick a tree. you’ll probably feel better.

second, this sentence is hilarious to me. it’s giving “these kids and their tiktoks” energy. so what if they like aesthetics? so what if they make it pink or neon green or carved in bones and glitter? you think your lack of style makes you better? because that’s not self-awareness. that’s jealousy in a trench coat.

these teenagers? they’re teaching thousands how to escape their own suffering. they’re inventing magic on free platforms. they’re rewriting centuries of shame. they’re alchemizing trauma into poetry and you’re mad because they use cute fonts to do it?

baby. you’re not annoyed. you’re inspired and bitter. and that’s fine. let it out. cry a little. punch the air. then come back when you’re ready to learn.

“you guys DID NOT manifest anything big. stop shitting around and get life.”

“anything big.” define big. define it. because that tells me everything about you. you think “big” means cars, riches, followers, jawlines. that’s not big, darling. that’s capitalism.

you know what i call big?

someone deciding not to give up on themselves.

someone manifesting safety in a home they never thought they’d survive in.

someone saying “i am” and choosing to live instead of loop the same trauma script forever.

someone realizing they’re god in the middle of a panic attack and saying “actually, no. i choose peace.”

that is fucking big. that is galactic. and you missed it because you were too busy waiting for someone to post a tesla receipt.

we’re not here to prove things to you. you’re not the divine accountant. you’re not the spiritual IRS. you’re a random bitter pixel throwing rocks at a rainbow and wondering why you’re still colorless.

and finally: “get life.”

oh sweetie.

we are life.

we are the I AM.

we are the fucking spark that chose to manifest itself in a body and play pretend for a while just so we could wake up one day and say “holy shit. it’s me. i’m god.”

we’re not gonna go “get life.” we gave it to ourselves.

so respectfully?

maybe YOU go get one.

or better yet?

manifest it.

and oops! i dropped these…

PLACES I’VE SHIFTED TO

THINGS I’VE MANIFESTED

THINGS I’VE MANIFESTED… AGAIN.

OH WHAT? THINGS I’VE MANIFESTED AGAIN!

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brokenengene · 2 days ago

Text

･ﾟ✧ * —𝑴irrors - n.rk

“Maybe we’ll finally learn how to stay on beat.” You were supposed to take a break, not let your dignity go down the drain. Turns out it’s hard to count to eight when Riki’s tongue is halfway down your throat.

pairing: nishimura riki x fem!reader

genre: dancer au, college au

This content is only for readers 18+

word count: 2.3k(of dry humping help)

content warning: kissing, making out. strong language, dry humping, grinding, clothed orgasm, dirty talk, lots of (fuck) usage, poor attempts at humor(it's kinda funny?)

soundtrack: love galore - SZA

m.list! ⋆୨୧˚

“Five, six—up, down, right,” you hear Riki pant behind you as the sound of the music vibrates off the walls.

The squeak of your sneakers echoes off the cold mirrors of the studio as you run through the routine for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

You toss your hair out of the way, focusing on your dimly lit figure in the large mirror in front of you. Arms calculated to his every beat. Steps in tune with the bounce of the music.

The choreography slows, Riki’s hand slides to your waist like so many times before. Sliding down your hip as you turn your torso on the count of four.

“Five, six—“ he whispers, his voice husky as he pants for breath. You turn left on the count of seven and eight.

But Riki’s hand stays resting on your waist.

“Shit—“ you gasp, stumbling through the next round of counts. Sweat running down your temples as you shake your head, running the routine back through your head to get on track with the rhythm of the music.

“Stop..stop we’re off…” You hear softly from behind you. Immediately, the sound of footsteps comes to a stop as the music continues to play lowly from the speaker in the back of the room.

“Sorry, I just—all this practice is starting to fuck with my head…” You say as you grab the hem of your shirt to wipe the sweat from your face.

Your partner Riki steps closer in the dim light of the studio. The two of you had a competition coming up. And there was loads of pressure to not screw this up.

You’ve been dancing with Riki since freshman year. You were one of the people who knew him best. Dance was everything to you, and it was everything to him.

“Let’s just take a breather, alright?” He suggests, the music fades into silence.

You tie up your shirt, showing off your stomach and waist to get the fabric somewhat off your sweaty back. You mindlessly take a sip of your water, wiping your brow. Letting your heart rate show a resting level.

Your chest still feels warm from his touch. You shake your head, trying to snap yourself out of it. It couldn’t have meant anything; the two of you are strictly just partners.

Riki glances at you from across the dance studio floor. A tinged smirk on his face as he watches you pull up your shirt and hydrate.

“You’re staring…” You shoot back as you notice him staring at your reflection in the large mirror. You try to brush it off, taking another sip of your water.

The sound of footsteps is loud in the silence. Before you know if that soft scent of black pepper and rosemary from his cologne is faintly brushing past your senses.

“Can you blame me?” Riki whispers as his hands hesitate before sliding to your waist. Your eyes widen as he backs you up against the mirror.

Your heels hit the edge of the glass as he cages you in. His tall body bends down to be eye level with yours.

“Riki the competition—“ you gasp as he pushes his body up into yours, gently, softly—giving you space to turn him down with ease.

But you don’t.

“This isn’t about that. This is about us…” Riki whispers, his plump bottom lip notching between his teeth as he thinks. His thumbs gracefully brushing against the bare skin of your waist.

“We’re partners…” You gasp as he leans in, letting you get another whiff of his cologne. The warmth of his lips hovering right above yours.

“We are, but we could be more. Imagine how unstoppable we’d be if you’d let me—“ Riki whispers, his voice low as it fades out.

“If I’d let you what?” You ask. The words are heavy in your throat as you tear your eyes from his chest to his face.

He pants softly. His grip on you is tight, fingertips gliding across the soft skin of your sides.

“If you’d let me fucking kiss you…” He whispers, voice hoarse, barely audible in the silence.

“Yeah?” You breathe out, your heart racing as his fingertips brush against your soft skin. You let him gently touch your head, hand slotting between the back of your hair and the cold glass of the mirror.

“Yeah,” Riki responds, his other hand sliding down to your waist, gently resting on your warm skin. His lips are nearly breath away from yours.

He leans in, lips catching on yours like a question. His chest was heavy with breath, his hands trembling at your side.

You close the distance, letting your lips melt into his. Your stomach flutters at the contact. You kiss him back, loosening your jaw as you savor the taste of his plump lips.

A soft groan gets caught in Riki’s throat. He breaks away to suck in a sharp breath, only to turn his head to kiss you at a deeper angle.

You swallow it, letting your hands slide up his arms to tangle in his hair. Pulling his mouth into yours even more.

His body pushes into you, your back arches against the mirror, aching for his touch.

“Fuck…” you pull away, gasping for air. Your lungs feel tight, and your head feels like it’s spinning.

Riki pants, he grinds his hips up slowly, tantalizing against the heat of yours.

“Fuck—” you moan again, your back arching against the cool, hard mirror, meeting the grind of his hips with your own.

Riki moans, his hand sliding from your face to slap against the foggy glass mirror right next to your head. Gripping the cold glass to keep himself from going too far.

“Holy fuck…you feel that?” He gaps as he grins into another kiss. You whimper, he’s already hardening beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants.

“I feel it…” You whisper, pulling him back into you, kissing him hot and messy.

Riki chuckles against your lips, letting his tongue slip between the seam, seeking out the hot cavern of your mouth.

You drop your jaw, letting him brush and caress his tongue against your own. His breath, hot, fanning across your cheeks as he savors the softness of you.

You feel a tingling warmth in your core. His mouth, his hands, his hips. It’s all too much, and so good.

“Shit, you’ve already got me wet—“ you confess, as Riki’s mouth reluctantly drags away from yours, spit still connecting your swollen lips.

He smiles, leaning in to drag his lips underneath your jawline, his large body pressing into yours even more.

“Is that right? God, you can’t just say things like that…” he pants against your skin, his lips warm and wet as the sounds echo off the studio walls.

Your hands slide down his back, across his muscles, to land at his hips. Your body is already seeking him out more as you pull him into you.

“You can’t just say things like that and expect me to hold back,” Riki whispers as his head drops to the crook of your neck. The heat between you is nearly unbearable. He continues, lazily kissing the side of your neck.

“Your lips feel so good. Bet they’d feel good between my thighs too..” you say, shaking, breathless with need. Aching for a release you didn’t know you needed.

“I’d do it…don’t care that you’ve been dancing all day. I’ll drop to my knees—“ he says, his voice low and deep as he kisses up your neck to find your lips.

He you moan as he crashes his mouth back into yours. Teeth pulling at your bottom lip enough to nearly draw blood.

“I’d eat you out, right here…we can clean up the studio later, I really don’t give a fuck.” he confesses against your hot mouth.

“Damn it, Riki—” you curse, your thighs clenching together from the thought alone. You let your fingertips slip into the waistband of his sweats, feeling his warm skin as you tug him closer.

He thrusts against you again, his hardness against your warmth sending a delicious friction throughout your body.

You let him grind into you, body pressing against the mirror with each urgent roll of his hips.

“God, you’re driving me crazy…” You murmur as you try to catch your breath. Lungs heavy as he rubs his clothed desire against your warmth again, and again, and again.

You feel yourself dripping into your sweats, soaking your panties from just his body and words. Every grind hits your clit with rough friction, making you drip more and more.

“Tell me you’ve thought about it too…” Riki gaps, his lips starting to bruise from the intensity of yours as he pulls them away.

“Sex…bet I’d slip in so easily right now, you’re dripping.” Riki gasps as his hands grow rougher, grabbing at your hips, thighs, sliding to cup your ass.

“Fuck you're making me want it more…you’re—all I can feel..” you gasp. His hands send waves of hot warmth throughout your body with his touch.

“I’d beg, no shame, fucking beg for it.” Riki curses as his hips twitch against your own. He lets out another moan, the front of his gray sweatpants already turning damp.

“I’ve seen you dance…I know I can fold you over in all the ways I want,” he confesses. His lips lazily found yours again. Dragging his plump, swollen lips against your own with no coordination.

“Shit…” you whisper with disbelief, trying to cover up your curse with a deep chuckle. You kiss him back, grinding his hips faster against your own.

You repeatedly slam back into the mirror without a care. You're just chasing that pleasure, that warmth between your aching thighs.

“Holy shit, I’m close..” you moan into his mouth. In return, he grips you harder, his movements growing rougher. The mirror fogging up underneath the heat.

“I can’t—fuck me too I—can’t stop.” Riki whines; the sounds of weak moans echo in the silence. Shameless, completely shameless as the two of you hump on each other like mindless animals.

“Fuck fuck fuck—“ you gasp, gripping his bare shoulders tight as he repeatedly hits exactly where you need him to.

“This is insan—oh God I’m gonna come..” you choke out, voice breathing with desperation as your nails dig hard into his shoulders.

Your back arches off the mirror as you clench around nothing. Dripping into your panties, making a mess underneath your sweats.

You let out high-pitched moans of pleasure, your pussy still throbbing as you come down from the high.

“Goddamit—Wwait” Riki croaks, his voice cracking before you're hit with silence.

The two of you pant hard, sweat dripping down your bodies. Lips bruised, arms shaking.

Riki loosens his tight grip, breath still heavy as you both let it process.

The two of you tremble, shifting awkwardly in the mess.

“Did you just—“ you whisper, so quietly you’re not even sure Riki could catch it.

“Did I just—“ Riki whispers, pulling back reluctantly to run his hands through his sweaty, damp hair.

You glance at the wet spot on top of his pants, feeling the mess dripping into yours.

“That’s not what I meant to do,” Riki confesses as he pulls away, laughing with disbelief, cheeks flushed a hot red with embarrassment.

“Did you come?” You ask weakly, nearly flinching at the words yourself as they harshly cut through the silence. Riki winces as he computes.

“Oh my God…” he groans as he drags his hand down his face, peeking through his fingertips to look at his disheveled appearance in the mirror.

He just glances at his disheveled appearance before tearing his gaze away to look at yours.

Sweaty, flushed, damp.

Then reality hits him.

“Are we in fucking high school? There’s no way we just—I just.” He stutters out, covering his face with his hands.

You chuckle as you step towards him. Noticing how bright red his ears are.

“Hey, it…happens. It’s not just you. Riki, we’re going to have to mop the floor—“

He cuts off your words with a moan of embarrassment. Of the sheer absurdity.

“Me, you—two grown ass adults…dry humping to the point where we need a fucking mop? When does that just happen!?” Riki complains, throwing his hands up in eternal surrender.

“Uhhh, since now?” You say cheerfully. As you pull him by the shirt, I’m back into one more messy kiss.

“Don’t make this worse,” he mumbles into your lips. His hand reluctantly cupped your face through the kiss. Shaking as he holds back from taking more.

He pulls away with a smile, causing you to chase his lips for more.

“Woah…I need to make at least one responsible adult decision tonight.” Riki confesses as he leans back, throwing his arms up in surrender.

“What do you—“

“Kiss me again and I’ll make a bigger fool out of myself.” He confesses in defeat.

“We need Clorox.” You chuckle.

“Don’t remind me.” Riki groans as he pulls away with a grin.

“That was kind of hot.” You confess. The room still feels like it’s spinning from the pleasure and the realization.

“Was it?” Riki asks as he turns over his shoulder, cheeks still red, lips still plumped.

“I mean, looks like we both needed that…” you confess with a sweet tone.

“We’re still partners?” Riki asks, eyes wide, chest tight. He bends down to lazily grab a clean towel from his pile of stuff.

“More than…if you want.” You say casually. Grabbing your long-forgotten hoodie and water bottle off the dance floor.

Riki smiles, his voice soft and sweet as he replies.

“More than sounds good." He confesses as he playfully wraps the towel around your shoulders, pulling you in closer.

He bites his lip, physically fighting off the urge to lean in for more.

"Maybe we’ll finally learn how to stay on beat.”

kate's note: In dry humping we trust! This fic is based on an experience I had wayyy out of high school. I was a little too old for it, but it's definitely the move. Thank you, guys, for the love on "five stars!" That fic lowkey blew up? So, i'm here to feed my loyal ni-ki gooners again.

thank you guys for all the ineraction and the love!

xoxo kate <3

p.s riki stans click here! for more :)

perm. taglist: @aggarwaldrishti @kristynaaah @vanillaxbambi @ninistranaut @dulcetnostalgia @1-itsneverthatserious-1 @nesquikluvr @osakinanadesu @m1kkso @yazmike @lovcheol @luvksnn @taesnumber1 @kookiesnkim @skzenhalove @seungsoftly @sourkiki

#enhypen smut #enhypen fanfiction #enhypen x reader #enhypen au #nishimura niki x reader #niki smut #niki fanfic #niki x reader #dry hunpimg. im hard.#enhypen fic #enhypen hard hours #niki hard hours #brokenengene #enhypen scenarios

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angelickks · 2 days ago

Text

III. salt

REVENANT, au!remmick x reincarnated wife!reader

synopsis Scarred throat. Ocean-wrecked eyes. A name that tastes like ash on your tongue: Remmick. He doesn’t flirt. He doesn’t ask. He just waits. With the patience of a man who’s died for you before. A man who remembers what it felt like to burn in your fire, to worship at the altar of your wrath. And he’s been waiting long enough to know the signs when your soul starts to flicker awake. When recognition hasn't bloomed, something older—something feral—starts to stir. Then walks in another ghost, one from this lifetime. warning(s) nsfw. mdni, 18+. sex occurring in dream. insomnia. blood. slightly pervy!remmick. more sea imagery. religious undertones. unhealthy coping mechanisms - mentions of one-night stands. swearing. alcohol. smoking. slight! gore - descriptions of death/murder. implied jealousy. it dual pov time babyyyyy.

angel talks fuck me, this chapt took 5ever guys. I had to rewrite like a million times but i came up happy on this one. i'm so happy u guys loved the last one even tho it was a lil bit of a doozy. just had to hit yall w dual pov this time and a phat dosage of yearning here. is there a spn reference written in there? perchance :'). also we just hit 700 followers!! a celebration post will be coming soon so stay tuned for that! thank u guys for the tremendous amount of love, can't say it enough. muah! enjoy u freaks ;)

#NAV.ᐟ prev. II. hunger⋆.˚revenant mlist, au!remmick x reincarnated wife!reader⋆.˚ ao3

"and time goes by so slowly, and time can do so much

are you still mine?"

SALT MAKES THE BLOOD BITTER.

Or so the hollow-eyed sailors say, dragging the words with that lazy smirk like they invented it, tossing it at you when your temper flares hotter than the bourbon you pour.

You used to laugh. Now, it just grates.

It digs in deep, slow and steady, the way saltwater leeches into wood, warping the grain until even the strongest beam begins to bend. Finds every one of your nerves and lights it up raw, a slow burn until it eats away. Makes your hands twitch, jaw tense, until a glare sets mean and even behind your eyes and something sharp and dangerous cuts out of your mouth before you can stop it.

It shouldn’t bother you—not after all these years, not after hearing it spill from enough mouths to drown in. But still, it claws in deep. Still, it sticks. Because the worst part is you can’t pinpoint a time it wasn’t true.

You don’t remember softness, not the kind that stayed. Can’t remember nor tell where being gentle once began and where your temper rose up to smother it. Can’t recall a version of yourself that didn’t taste like brine and heat and bite.

And what makes you ache more than anything? You don’t remember being something pure.

Not in the Sunday-best sense. Not in the eyes-lifted, prayer-on-your-lips kind of way. But in the quiet way. In the before way. The way a soul might’ve once felt when it was still clean—not holy, not righteous—just unmarked. Before fear sunk its teeth in. Before fury became second nature. You can’t remember what it felt like to be untouched by survival and grit.

And survival? It ruins more than it saves. That much you’ve learned. If your memory—warped and waterlogged as it is—serves right, at all.

You tried, might’ve been several times, but still you tried. Tried to clamp your jaw shut around words sharp enough to draw blood. Tried to count to ten, clench and unclench your fists like it could calm the itch inside them. Like rage could be reasoned with. Like hands trained to break could be tamed.

But salt lives in you now. It lives in every crack of your foundation, every old wound that didn’t quite heal right. It coats your tongue, your breath, the backs of your teeth. It crusts over everything soft. Everything gentle.

Much like saltwater meeting fresh water—pushing, shoving, a brutal dance for dominance that only nature knows. Each shift, each pull, it feels like the earth itself is holding its breath, watching two forces collide in their ancient struggle. One fights for control, relentless, untamed, while the other resists, a quiet defiance against the inevitable. But nature doesn't yield to resistance forever. No.

The currents settle, the tides find their rhythm. They clash once more—harder this time—until, at last, they merge, finding that delicate balance. It’s in the moment of surrender that they meld as one, a pact formed not by choice, but by the forces that govern the world beneath the surface. A peace that isn't so much an agreement, but an understanding. The saltwater pushes deeper, relentless in its hunger, until it overflows—its dominance undeniable, the fresh water’s purity diluted, swallowed whole.

And yet, the union doesn’t feel like a loss. No. It feels like a new beginning, an unspoken promise that with time, one will inevitably rise, and the other will give in. Until the cycle begins again.

Some say anything pure and still—cool as springwater, soft as a held breath—never stood a chance against something heavier. Against something brined and ancient, something that moves with weight behind it. Because purity may be precious, but salt is stubborn. Salt knows how to linger, how to cling to skin and soul alike. It thickens the blood, roughens the edges. It doesn’t ask—it consumes. And anything soft that stands in its path? It doesn’t get spared. It gets changed. Diluted. Hardened. Loved into ruin.

And maybe that’s what they don’t understand about salt. It doesn't just season. It preserves. It remembers.

Just like the wood beneath your hands.

The bar under your palms has memories of more than just spilled whiskey. It remembers the weight of fists and blood, the time you cracked a bottle over some dockhand’s head because he thought a drunk man's hands could trespass on things that didn’t belong to him. Your mouth had been worse back then—sharper, meaner, unafraid to tear into anyone who dared. The worst part? Sometimes, you miss her. Not the bruised knuckles or the bloodied knees. But the clarity. She knew what mattered. She didn’t ask twice.

“She was sweet ‘til she wasn’t.”

That’s what they whispered in town, where salt lives in every crack of the wood, and the gulls’ calls drift on the wind like warnings more than songs. They still remember you—sun-dried and freckled, hair pinned back in a way that looked accidental but never truly was, skirt hiked just a little too high for tradition. You could be seen humming behind the bar, sweet as anything, your mouth soft—unless it opened. And when it did? God help anyone who was around on a bad day.

Because when the red hit your cheeks, it wasn’t from the sun.

They still talk about the time you shattered a glass on the bar and told a man twice your size he could either bleed in the alley or apologize to the girl he'd grabbed. He didn’t make a choice fast enough, so you made it for him. Gave him a bloody nose and a black eye, and then told Jaime to clean up the mess while you threw back something that burned your throat raw. The mayor’s nephew tried his luck once, too. Got real close, whispered something about how a girl like you didn’t belong behind a bar. You dragged him across the counter by his collar so fast he choked.

The old-timers say the sea softens everything in time, that it wears away the jagged edges. But you know better. The sea is just another beast. And beasts know beasts when they see one.

Now, after a few strange years and too many nights swallowed by drowning liquids that stung on the way down and the cold concrete of pitiful county jail cells or bleeding knuckles, people say you’ve softened. They say the red faced men in too-tight collared shirts you tossed out of your bar—spat out like the sea spits up anything it deems too bitter to keep—were a kindness. They say that, somehow, every salt-bitten incident you clawed your way through has faded into something gentler.

You call bullshit.

You haven’t softened. You’ve just learned how to bury it in different places. Easier places. Quieter ones. You tuck it into the same liquor you pour for others, in the warm bodies that pass through town like ghosts, people you kiss like trouble and never expect to see again—and never do. You’ve learned to blow off steam in ways that don’t leave bruises, but still cut deep in their own way.

And the truth is, even that’s a kind of hiding. Because those lesser evils don’t just keep you moving—they keep the insomnia at bay. They dull the edges of mornings where your dreams claw at you, dragging you back under, where you wake up teetering too close to something you can’t name but know damn well could swallow you whole.

Call it whatever you want, but your blood still runs bitter—and you reckon it always will. Just like the old-timers say, thick with bite and salt and memories too spoiled by the past to ever sweeten. So until that bite finally stops tearing through your veins like it’s found its favorite meal, you keep smiling—keep trading pleasantries laced with sea salt and sun-warmed charm. Sweet on the surface, sure, but there’s always something bitter simmering just beneath, waiting like a storm on the horizon, ready to break.

And tonight, well, tonight feels like a breaking point for everything but your rage.

No, tonight—it's your body, undone, unraveling for that thinly veiled man whose favorite place to find you in your dreams is between your legs. Every night, you’ve felt him there—his presence, his hands, his breath—always lingering like a prayer you can’t quite remember.

Tonight, you’re in a river.

Fresh water. Clean, cold, a stark contrast to the stinging salt you know so well. It’s icy, the kind that seizes your breath and shocks your body, but the sun overhead pulls a warm, quiet comfort from the chill. It makes you feel... right.

The ache inside of you, the unbearable tightness, eases under the water’s touch. The way it moves over your skin is like the balm for some wound you can't even remember inflicting. Your back is turned to him. You don’t need to turn around to know who he is, the pull of him so familiar that it carves through your bones. But god, you feel him. You feel every part of him as he presses into you, his hands gripping your hips, your waist, anywhere his hands can find purchase. Those calloused fingers digging into you like they’ve forgotten how to touch anything that isn't wholly theirs.

He doesn’t let go. He never does.

His touch is sharp, relentless. You can feel the weight of his wedding band against your skin, glinting gold in the sunlight as it catches the river's surface. It burns, somehow—his touch, the weight of that ring, the knowledge that it’s meant to mark you, to brand you deeper than any ink or sin could.

His pace, god, it’s unforgiving. He doesn’t move, not really—just ruts into you with a rhythm so fast and deep, you can’t keep up. Each thrust sends shockwaves through you, every push of his body against yours making the world around you spin. Your head tilts back against his solid chest, your hair plastered to your wet skin, mouth falling open in a gasp that feels like an exhale of something holy.

The river wraps around your legs, coaxing at you like it’s in a hurry to sweep you away, but you’re anchored by him. Anchored by his weight, his desperation, the feverish need that pulses through every inch of him. He doesn't let up, doesn't stop, even as the water rushes past you both, as if time has no hold here—only this, only the slow, inevitable burn of salvation and ruin intertwined in every movement.

His movements mark you with something heavier than lust. It’s like worship, but it’s violent, twisted, soaked in the kind of hunger that only the damned understand. There’s no pretense, no softness. It’s pure need—the kind that blurs the line between pleasure and punishment, between being devoured and being claimed.

And still, he presses, still, he takes—all with a force that sends your pulse spiraling. And he, much like saltwater, pushes deeper, relentlessly, until it overflows—his stubbornness undeniable, until it’s your very soul's purity that's diluted, swallowed whole

You’re drowning, caught in the pull of it. Caught between the river’s endless flow and the fire that licks up your spine. But it’s never enough, never. Not until the two of you are one, until his hunger consumes you whole, until there’s no fresh water, no salt, no body, no soul but the two of you, tangled in what feels like the inevitable.

Your body responds with instinct, with the knowledge that this is both what you crave and what will destroy you. The clash of these desires is the only thing that matters now—the sacred and the profane woven together until there is nothing left but the raw, desperate need to feel him break inside you.

And just as you feel that familiar knot preparing to snap, that final release—the one that promises all the relief your body has been aching for—something cracks.

The ice-cold water that once embraced you now begins to shift. You feel it before you see it, a strange warmth unfurling against your skin, like a fire growing under the surface. Your eyebrows furrow, confusion settling in like a weight. You crack your eyes open for just a split second—and the sight is enough to pull you back, to rip you from that edge of bliss.

The water, once clear, once cold, is now thick, dark with blood. It swirls around you like some kind of living thing, and you’re painted in it, drenched. You don’t even have time to gasp before you hear him—his voice, low and satisfied, like he knows exactly what’s happening to you.

“Shoulda kept those pretty eyes closed f’me, baby. It was jus’ about to get good.”

And then—just like that—comes the sharp, brutal pain. It’s deep, sinking right into your pulse point, twisting like a knife made of hunger. Your body jerks in shock, but it’s too late. The wrecked groan that follows it is drawn from his very soul. It’s a sound that reverberates through your body, raw and helpless, like you're being torn apart and rebuilt at the same time.

And as he sucks, letting his teeth rip through your neck—pulling that same deep, wrecked groan —you feel the warmth of the blood around you, filling the spaces you didn’t even know were empty. It’s intoxicating, like drowning in something far deeper than the river. You can't decide if it's salvation or damnation. Maybe it’s both.

“No, no. Not you.”

The words slip from your lips like a confession—soft, desperate, as though saying them could somehow stop the vision in your mind from taking root. But it’s too late. That’s the last thing that escapes your mouth before you shoot up in your bed, your chest heaving with the force of a breath you didn’t know you were holding. The room is still dark, the weight of the dream lingering like a fog in the corners of your mind.

Your hands tremble as they clutch the sheets, the cold sweat on your skin a sharp contrast to the heat of the nightmare you’ve just left behind. You can still feel the echo of it—him. The pull of his presence, the voice that was both a plea and a command, whispering through the shadows. The blood. The ache that doesn’t just settle between your thighs but in your ribs.

The room is silent, save for the frantic thud of your heartbeat. You can almost taste the blood again—sharp, metallic—like you never left that river. It clings to your tongue, a reminder of something dark and unfinished. The dream hasn’t fully let go, instead it's wrapped its tendrils around you, squeezing tight. Your chest rises and falls in quick, jagged breaths as the remnants of it settle in the pit of your stomach.

You close your eyes, trying to steady your breath, pushing the images away, but they cling to you like a second skin. The weight of his presence presses against your ribs. You can still feel him—his hands, his voice, that haunting promise that sounds too real to be a dream at all. The echo of it buzzes in your ears, a hum that feels almost physical.

With an effort, you crane your neck to glance at the alarm clock on the nightstand. The numbers blur for a moment before they finally focus.

5:52 a.m.

“Too early for this shit,” you mutter, your voice raw from the remnants of sleep. The crickets outside, the soft rush of the sea, are the only things that hear you. The quiet is thick and heavy, like the fog that rolls in from the coast every morning, thickening the air, making it hard to breathe.

You pull yourself up from the bed, every muscle protesting as you swing your legs over the side. The floor is cold against your bare feet, the chill biting through the soles of your feet as you stand. Your head spins for a moment, your skin feels like it’s crawling.

The storm had cleared up, but the aftermath still lingers in the air. The clouds that hung low over the town yesterday are gone, replaced by a pale, washed-out sky, the light of the morning struggling to break through. The air feels damp, like the earth itself is scared of what will become of it when it exhales.

You shuffle across the room, hands rubbing your eyes in an attempt to tame the weariness from sleep, but it’s no use. It never is. You stare at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, eyes bloodshot and heavy, like you've been holding on to something for far too long.

The face staring back at you doesn’t even feel like yours—not really. The tiredness in your eyes is a weight, something that’s been there so long you’ve forgotten how to shake it off. That hollow look of someone who's been running on nothing for too damn long. And for a second, the silence of your home swallows you whole, a deep, hollow thing, like the stillness between the crashing waves before the storm. It’s the kind of quiet that’s so heavy, it feels deafening—like it presses in on you from all sides, suffocating, unbearable. The air feels thick with it, the walls closing in as if the house itself is holding its breath. And you’re stuck here, drowning in that silence, searching for an answer that you know won’t come.

You ponder those haunted words, the ones that linger in your head, their meaning still sharp and raw, like salt cutting into an open wound.

No, no. Not you.

The words haunt you, reverberating like a chant that won’t stop echoing in your mind, spiraling out of control.

But who? Why? God, why do I beg, even if I don’t know who I’m begging to?

You stand there, the floor beneath you solid but unsteady, like you could fall through it at any moment. The questions, the confusion, they weigh heavy on your chest, pressing down like the weight of the ocean. You feel like you’re sinking, pulled under by an unseen force, helpless against the tide that’s rising inside you. You feel the desperate ache, the pull of something you can’t grasp, can’t understand. A thirst you can never quench, no matter how much you cry out.

Please. Please, someone—something—answer me.

But the silence remains, as vast and unforgiving as the sea, and you’re left stranded in it, your voice swallowed by the storm brewing in your soul.

Why does this keep happening to me?

The question claws at you, relentless. Like a prayer unanswered, a plea that falls on deaf ears. And you wonder, maybe it’s not just the silence you’re drowning in—it’s the absence of something, someone, a presence you can’t even name. And you’re left to wonder if you’ll ever be saved, or if you’re fated to drown in this endless, suffocating silence forever.

"Ma’am?" A voice cut through the hush like a slow knife—thick, low, and foreign in the way old sea winds are, dragging itself through the stillness like it had weight.

Your body reacts before your mind can catch up, moving toward the sound almost instinctively, as if it knows something your brain hasn’t quite figured out yet.

"Hey there, stranger," you mutter, the words slipping out with a bite of salt, the edge sharp like a wave crashing against jagged rocks.

This voice—and the man it belongs to—has been haunting your counter for exactly five nights. Five nights of money barely trickling into the till, five nights of the same mind-numbing tasks to kill time, five nights of nightmares so vivid they bleed into your waking hours, and five nights of his presence, a constant, unnerving shadow. It’s not your usual regulars, not the familiar faces that blur together in this town—it’s him. The stranger, who’s somehow become a fixture of your nights, lingers like a storm that won’t pass—still raging even when the tempest from five nights ago has finally released its grip. That storm, the one that flooded the streets for a few of those nights, has calmed, but the unsettled feeling he brings still churns in the air, as relentless as the drizzling that lingers.

And that accent—thick, foreign, oddly wrapped in far off Southern heat that's not placed anywhere near the sea and something older—dug its way under your skin like a splinter you couldn’t quite reach. It settled somewhere low in your spine and burned. You hated how it crawled inside your ribs. Hated more that he knew it. What a damn fool he is, you thought.

While always cut from the same cloth—same lean frame, same careful calm that didn’t match the chaos you knew lived behind his eyes—tonight he revealed something new. Subtle, but strange. Different in a way that made your stomach tighten without reason.

He wore a henley this time, dark gray or maybe navy, one of those muted tones that made his cerulean eyes shine like they meant to trick you. And sometimes, they did. Those weren’t the eyes of someone clean or saintly—no, they were storm eyes. Full of salted ruin.

But what caught you wasn’t the shirt or the stare. It was what the shirt didn’t hide.

That gold chain he always wore—always laid too pretty across collarbones that had clearly known pain—was no longer the only thing glinting in the low amber barlight. There, peeking just beneath the open collar, sat a pair of scars.

One ran clean across his throat. Precise. Calculated. Like someone meant it. The other was rougher—jagged and brutal—slashed across his collarbone like a warning carved in flesh.

You didn’t mean to stare, but it was hard not to. His posture, as always, was too perfect for a man who’d seen as much as he had. Back straight, shoulders set, but there was something different about the angle of his head tonight. Subtle. Tilted just slightly—as if his body, maybe even unknowingly, carried pride in the two acts of violence that brand him for everyone to see.

He looked like a man who had no intention of hiding it. And you? You were still stuck somewhere between wanting to slam the nearest glass over his head, despite your unjustified annoyance with this stranger—or sit across from him and ask who carved him up like that and why it felt like a memory.

Because that gnawing pulse at the base of your skull wouldn’t quit. A quiet throb, steady and unrelenting, like recognition hiding in the dark. You knew those scars. Not just in the way a bartender memorizes the faces that haunt their counter, not just in the way a woman catalogs every man who’s ever looked at her like a storm they couldn’t wait to drown in.

No, it was deeper than that. Like you could’ve been the one to lay those wounds yourself. Or worse—like you already had.

Delusional is what you are getting. Not soft, just plain delusional, babe.

He chuckles at the nickname you’ve so casually bestowed upon him, nodding like it’s one he’s worn before. He sucks his teeth for a second, and it feels like your words are settling on him like dust on a shelf—accumulating but never quite making it past the surface. That it’s just all caught up on his teeth and not his tongue.

“Ya mind pourin’ for me? Whiskey, neat.”

His voice threads through the low thrum of the bar like smoke, thick and warm and meant for your ears alone—like a secret draped in molasses. The way he says it, soft and sure, you’d almost think it was a request. Almost.

You don’t answer right away. Your eyes are still scanning his posture. You let your fingers finish lining up the fresh glasses, let the silence stretch, taut and waiting. When you finally do decide to answer, it’s with a huff and a half-smile, your head cocked just enough to betray your amusement.

“Doesn’t matter if I mind,” you say, voice light, but eyes sharp. “Only matters if you’re paying. Who’s it gonna be tonight? My friend Jack or Jameson?”

He doesn’t blink. Just lets that faint smirk bloom, slow and crooked, like he’s savoring it.

“Jameson, darlin’.” That little drawl in the word, the way it rolls out like honey left too long in the sun—it shouldn’t hit the way it does. But it does.

“Jameson it is, stranger,” You nod.

Your hand reaches for the bottle of the Irish whiskey like it’s second nature, like every label on the wall is a line in a prayer you know by heart. A religion made of rye and regret, offered nightly to the desperate and the damned. You don’t need to look—the bottle is already in your palm, glass cool and familiar. You pour steady, no jigger, just instinct. One, two, three counts in your head. A pour like muscle memory, like an old wound pressed just right.

He’s watching. You feel it, not on your skin, but somewhere deeper. Like the tide pulling in. Heavy, slow. Patient. The weight of it wraps around your ribs before you even set the glass down in front of him.

You slide it across with a tap of your finger against the wood. “Careful with that one. He’s got a bite.”

He catches the glass without looking down, eyes still on you. “So do you.”

You pause, just for a breath. Just long enough to let it sting a little. The smirk you offer is all edge, no warmth. It cuts clean, salt-ridden and sure of itself, like something that’s been sharpened on the bones of fools like him.

“That pretty mouth won’t buy you a damn thing in my bar but trouble,” you say, voice smooth but low, the kind that doesn't ask twice. “Now drink your whiskey.”

His lips finally pull into that knowing smile—slow, deliberate—the kind that reveals his too-sharp canines and eyes lit with something just shy of sorrow, like he’s tasted loss and found it tender. Your expression falters for a breath, just a flicker. Barely enough to catch.

“Yes, ma’am” He says with a slow nod, that smile still carved too wide across his face—sharp, proud, and far too pleased for something laced in nothing but salt and bite.

In one smooth motion, he tilts the glass and downs the whiskey in a single pull. You track the way his throat works around it, the ripple of muscle, the way the light catches on that scar—clean and deliberate, carved straight across like some cruel signature. It stretches with the motion, almost sings with it.

The corner of your mouth twitches up—just barely—a breath of amusement hidden behind practiced stillness. But you can’t help it. The sight of him like this, the light barely catching him like it’s afraid, posture damn near perfect, scars too bright, it tugs. At something.

Your curiosity rises more, like fog off the sea at dawn—soft but insistent. You shouldn’t ask, you try to reason with yourself. Maybe it’s a bad memory. A wound that hasn’t scabbed right. Maybe that pair of scars shining—the one you keep catching glaring at you when he moves—was earned in silence. Not meant to be spoken about, not in this place, not by your mouth.

But still, your eyes linger. You tilt your head, pretend it’s casual, like you’re checking the time or mentally going over your leftover tasks you’ve yet to get to.

He’s been here for five nights now.

Five.

Same stool, same smirk playing on his lips when you give him even an ounce of your attention, same silence. No order, up until tonight, just a silence that leaves the tension thick. Like clockwork. Like ritual. And in all that time, his eyes always find you. Around you, through you, tracking ghosts in the corners of the bar that don’t exist.

There’s something about the way he stares. Like he’s waiting for a shape to appear in the smoke, for a voice to crawl out of the floorboards. Like he’s reading scripture no one else can see, scripture written in the way the bottles glint, in how your hands move, in how the air tastes after the rain.

You don’t know what unsettles you more—his constant, quiet presence that lingers like a shadow under your ribs, or the way your ears sharpen, just slightly, every time his voice cuts through the noise. The way your pulse stutters, traitorous and telling, every time he speaks. Not loud. Never loud. Just enough to make the air shift. Just enough to remind you he's there. And damn you, some part of you listens for it now—waits for it, like your body knows something your mind refuses to name.

Stranger things have come through your bar. Drifters, heartbroken men with cash to burn and no intention of being remembered. But this one? This one is anchored. Not to this town, no. He’s tethered something else entirely. You feel it every time he walks in and your spine goes taut, every time his eyes follow the trail of your voice like it’s smoke he could chase back to the source.

“You look curious about somethin’, darlin’.” His head tilts slowly, voice coming in low, deliberate—like the words are meant to slip between the cracks in the noise and land only in your ears.

There’s a softness to it, almost lulling, like a man coaxing a lost girl out of the woods with nothing but a whispered promise. It’s disarming in a way it shouldn’t be, not from a stranger you’ve known for all of five days, a man who’s haunted your bar like a ghost with unfinished business. But the way he says it, the way it brushes up against your skin instead of the walls—it makes your stomach tighten with something you don’t dare name.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

Your brows draw together like you’re the one asking him the question. He’s read you a little too well for comfort, peeled you open like a page halfway through the novel—and you’d be damned if you didn’t answer. You square your shoulders, chin tilted with something just shy of a dare.

“Humor me,” you say, nodding subtly toward the pale scars cutting across his neck and collarbone. “What’re those scars?”

“Remmick.”

You blink. “You named them? How sweet.”

Your tone drips with sarcasm, one brow cocked high—but the huff of laughter that slips past your lips betrays your amusement. He smiles once again, the kind of smile that doesn’t chase approval, just waits for it to find him.

“No, ma’am. Not the scars,” he says, eyes never leaving yours. “My name. Figured since I’ve been hauntin’ your bar five nights straight, may as well not go nameless. ’Specially if you’re gonna be askin’ questions.”

You nod, slow this time. The playful edge in your voice dies on your tongue, simmering back into something quieter. The name sinks into you like water through old wood—slow, sure, soaking deeper than it has any right to.

Remmick.

You let it sit on your tongue, let your mind roll over each syllable like waves breaking apart a name etched into stone. There’s something off about it. Not wrong—familiar. But in a way that makes the back of your neck prickle and your gut twist low, like you’d just walked into a room you swore you’d never been in, but could describe down to the cracks in the floorboards.

It wasn’t a common name. You’d never heard it spoken in this town, not once—not in whispers, not in warnings, not even in barstool stories told by old men too drunk to lie. And yet… it echoes. Deep in some part of you that doesn't often stir.

And that—that unsettles you more than anything.

You swallow hard, the name still there, heavy as salt in your mouth. Something in you recoils from it, like a memory surfacing without context, like a storm forming on the horizon that you recognize by scent alone. You know that name. Not from this life, maybe. But you know it.

"That’s different. Suits you,” you say, simple and assured. The words come easy, firm but not unkind. Even as a flicker of unease flickers low in your gut, you don’t show it.

And though you feel as if you don’t owe him a damn thing, not even civility sometimes even if you’re unsure why, something in you finds it rude not to return the gesture. Your name slips past your lips before you can stop it—clean, unguarded, no salt or bite riding its tail. Just… honest.

You’ve had these kinds of exchanges more times than you care to count. Names tossed across a bar like poker chips, empty and forgettable. A formality. Something to fill the space between drinks and glances.

But this—this isn’t that. This is different.

Different in the way no man you’ve ever met has looked half as pleased to hear it as he does now. Like you just handed him something sacred, not a name. Like it means more to him than it ever did to you.

He holds it, silently, like a prayer. Like he’s afraid speaking it aloud might ruin it. As if your name is something he’s been waiting on. And now that he has it, he’s not letting go.

He just nods, offering a smile that lands far too tender. It lingers, gentle in a way that makes your throat catch, and suddenly the silence between you stretches too long—thin and taut like the pause before a wave breaks. The air, once yours without question, feels borrowed now. Less a right, more a privilege, and you’re not sure when that shift happened.

You clear your throat, trying to shake it off, anchor yourself back into the room, the bar, the moment. But the truth is—he’s shifted something. And if he’s noticed the flicker of uncomfortableness that dances behind your eyes, he doesn’t show it. Doesn’t press.

“This one right ‘ere is actually one of my favorites,” he starts, voice low and laced with a strange kind of tenderness that doesn’t belong in a sentence like that. His fingers brush absently over the scar across his throat—clean but glaringly angry, like it never healed right. “Nasty thing I got at the time. Took too long to heal, and a hell of a lot longer to remind me why I got it.”

You blink, half in disbelief. “What’s the reminder? That you like getting mangled up?”

That pulls a laugh from him—full and unguarded, rich in a way that sounds like it hasn't been heard in a long, long time. It spills out of him easy, a sound made of heat and breath and something faintly worn down. The kind of laugh that makes your stomach twist, like you’d accidentally stepped too close to the edge of something deep.

You’re not sure why it makes your heart skip, or why that reaction annoys the hell out of you.

“Nah, honey,” he murmurs, shaking his head with a ghost of that smile still tugging at his lips. “Just a reminder that I might’ve been lucky once. Maybe more than I had the right to be.”

You frown, uncertain. “Lucky?”

He hums, like the word’s a secret between him and something you can’t see. “Keeps a man like me humble. Reminds me of somethin’ real sweet, if ya ask me.”

Sweet.

You stare at him, at the mess of scarred skin and old wounds and a voice wrapped in velvet and ash. You try to reconcile the word with the violence he’s described. With the way he touches that scar like it’s a relic, something holy. You try to understand how a man can call pain lucky, how he can describe something torn and bloody and by the looks of it, nearly fatal, as sweet.

For a moment, your gaze drops—almost involuntarily—to your hands. Your fingers, calloused and sure, had been drifting over the pale ridges of old scars on your knuckles without you even noticing. Little ghosts of violence, carved deep into your skin by the life you’ve led and the choices that came with them.

You think back—back to the heat and rage that made those marks, back to the broken jaws and bloodied noses, the sting of split skin and the way adrenaline can feel like power when you’ve got nothing else to hold. You try, genuinely, to find where in all that ruin anything could’ve been called sweet.

Maybe some of it was satisfying. You’re not sorry for most of it. You don’t lose sleep over the men who had it coming—who left your bar or your life with a lesson they should’ve learned long before crossing you. Maybe some of it was just stupid. The kind of stupid born from being young, blood salted and ruined for anyone that looked too close, and too angry to be anything else. You were good at that kind of stupid. Used to wear it like a second skin. Hell, some of it might’ve even been worth it. Fights that changed things. Shifts that needed shifting. A path, as jagged and bloody as it was, that still somehow led you closer to yourself. But sweet? No.

Sweet was a word for warm pie, slow mornings, or kisses to your forehead from a loved one.

Not blood. Not pain. Not even in the deep depths of dreams that have no right to haunt your very being. And certainly not in the kind of scars you carried.

“You’ve got a strange definition of sweet, Remmick.”

Your words hang there, low and dry, tinged with something that might’ve been teasing if it didn’t carry the weight of old bruises behind it, like testing his name on your tongue didn’t make your hands twitch.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, his gaze dips—slow and deliberate—down to your hands. Those same hands you’d just been studying yourself, knuckles worn with time, stained with memory, etched with every lesson life hadn’t asked permission to teach.

And he looks at them like he knows them. Like maybe he’s seen hands like yours before—bloody, bare, defiant. Or maybe he just recognizes the way a body tells its own story when the mouth doesn’t bother.

There’s a flicker across his face then. Something quiet. A pull of thought that drags him far off, deeper into some corner of himself you haven’t been invited to. Whatever he’s thinking, he keeps it tight behind his teeth. Just gives a small nod—slow, almost knowing—like he’s chewing on your words, letting them sink in and settle in the pit of him.

When his eyes finally find yours again, there’s something unreadable there.

And though his mouth curves into that same faint, too-familiar smile, it doesn’t touch his eyes this time. It looks more like muscle memory than emotion—like a man who learned long ago how to grin through ghosts.

“Sweetness don’t come easy to a man like me, but there was a time it did. Even if it looks like this.”

He doesn’t break eye contact when he says it—and somehow, in that slow, loaded pause that follows, it doesn’t feel like he’s talking about the scar carved into his throat at all. Doesn’t feel tethered to the violence you were just circling.

No, it lands heavier. Crooked. Like a stone dropped in still water, rippling out into something else. Like the conversation had shape-shifted without permission—and now you’re both standing in the middle of a different truth entirely. Beneath the weight of his smile, somewhere, under the swell of brine and barlight, the sea outside claws a little closer to shore.

One of Remmick’s earliest memories of his time with you was soaked in bruises, sweat, and the kind of silence that only followed blood. Work that broke the back and bent the soul. Land that didn’t care what your name was—it’d chew it down to bone and spit it back into the dirt like it never mattered. Long nights beneath a sky too beautiful to be real, stars too bright to belong to any man damned as deeply as him.

And salt. Always the salt.

“Salt over bones,” you’d muttered, hands stained red and shoulders steady, burying a man — rifle and all — who’d crossed your fences with bad intent and worse luck. “So the fucker it falls on don’t ever come back.”

You’d said it like scripture, like you were reciting something passed down through bloodlines rather than choosing it in that moment. Then you lit him up without so much as a blink, flame catching fast and hot, like you’d done it a hundred times before and wouldn’t mind a hundred more.

Hellfire, you called it. Said you weren’t sending him to it — just speeding up the process.

That counted for something in his book. Maybe too much. He’d called it luck back then. Dumb luck. Luck he had no right to carry. To still be breathing, to not be the one buried, salted, and burning under your watch even when he’d showed up uninvited.

But deep down, he knew better. Even if he sat here now — barely alive and in the flesh — you’d already burned him once, and never stopped. Already buried and salted his bones long before he ever hit the dirt and his heart stopped beating and just started whispering your name.

And still… All he ever wanted was to live in your fire, let it rip through him the way it always did — like Hell itself — as long as it was your hands feeding the blaze and your mouth carving your name onto his tongue.

But that thought, that devotion… it festered. Turned feral. Gnawed at him slowly in the nights that followed long after you were gone. It clawed at the edges of his skull on every train car, every grimy bunk, every throat he’d ripped through in hopes of any answer, every godforsaken boat he took in some half-crazed hope the shape of you would appear again — standing on the platform, waiting at the docks, or in some far-off field.

The shape of your land lingered too. The land that still stank of you — copper and wildfire, your anger and gunpowder. And something softer he never could shake: the faint sweetness of vanilla and honeysuckle oil you used to smother your pillows with, the kind that clung to your hair, your collar, your skin. He swore he could still smell it sometimes, in the dark. Sweet and dangerous, like you. Like everything that ever mattered.

You left it. And that… that he could never piece together. How the hell could you leave the land that cradled your name long before your mama ever uttered it? Land that fed you, never lied. Never once turned its back on you. Even when it tried to bite you, it was only to keep you alert, sharp. It bled you only when it had to, to keep you honest. The same way you bled him, right there at his throat and at his collarbone. Marks that sang like memory and stung like scripture.

You chose to leave that. Ran from it like it never meant anything.

He tried—God, he tried—to make it just about that. About the land. About betrayal of dirt and fence posts, of something sacred and inherited. But the truth lodged itself deeper, like shrapnel between ribs.

It wasn’t about the land. It was about him. Always was and always will be.

You’d left him on that soil. Left him barely breathing, in your absence like it was a disease. Left him with the ghosts of your bootprints and that quiet kind of fury only you knew how to wield. And he couldn’t stop wondering—wasn’t he worth staying for? Eternity was made for love like yours to last, right?

It was selfish. He knew that. Foolish and full of manmade ache. But that didn’t stop the question from echoing. Not when hunger was the most loyal ghost he had left—hunger for your voice, your wrath, your hands, your lips, your fire, even if it came with a knife at his throat.

He was dead the moment the teeth — not yours, not human — sank deep into the meat of his neck and stole whatever little life he had left. Dead he was, yes. But you — you — killed him. Because after that, you left. Left without looking back, without mercy, full of rage and the kind of silence that hurt more than any bite. Left him standing in the ruins of himself, blood whispering your name like a prayer and a curse all at once.

But it was love — stubborn, unholy love — that held him together. Kept him human, or what was left of him anyway. Because when he loved you? Well, his hunger loved you too.

Like flood tide breaking every levy he ever built in your absence. And hunger like that… it doesn’t quiet. It doesn’t forgive. No — it grows. It spreads. Wild and untamed, a thing with claws and teeth of its own, gnawing at his insides like it was born to undo him. It kept biting down through decades of calcified breath and brittle hope, through every scar and prayer he thought he’d buried deep enough to forget.

And the cruelest part? It wasn't death. It wasn’t even the leaving. It was knowing that hunger would never, ever, be enough — not until it found you.

But as he watched the lazy sway of your hips to the low, smoky jazz curling out of the jukebox, his chest tightened like a snare. You moved like sin dressed in denim — curves caught in the amber glow, jeans that clung cruel and perfect to every dip and curve he’d already spent hours and years memorizing until it branded itself behind his eyelids, and would spend eternity chasing, if only you’d just let him have it back.

The hunger in him — old and sharp, buried deep in marrow and soul — flared hot then, licking through his ribs, catching fire in every corner of him you’d ever touched. Now this — this was fucking cruelty. Salted, bitten, and chewed up, cruelty.

Because no matter how close you stood — no matter how many decades he’d crawled through the dirt and dark just to get here — he couldn’t reach out and grab you. Couldn’t let his fingers find their rightful place at your hips, or sink his teeth into the soft place where your pulse beat wild. To see you, to hear you — salted and biting, sharp as ever — was a blessing, sure. Maybe the only blessing he’d ever been handed by a God he never put faith in.

But to not reach for you? To sit there, watching, while his own hands stayed clenched at his sides? That was punishment. Worse than chains, worse than any hellfire. That was damnation itself. And it only made his blood run hotter. Like the devil’s own hunger coiled in his veins — gnawing, snarling, begging to consume, to claim what it already knew was his.

He’d spent so long—too long—with nothing but time on his hands. Time you should’ve filled. Time you should’ve burned through like wildfire, devouring every second, every minute, every goddamn year the way only you could. Greedy. Righteous. Yours by design.

Instead, he wandered—silent and starved, hollowed out and hunting. The century peeled away in ribbons, and he let it. Let the decades rot as he chased shadows that looked almost like you, sounded a little like you, burned a fraction as bright.

But he always knew deep down, you didn’t just burn. You scorched.

And he’d cracked it eventually—this cursed, aching truth that if things like him existed, there had to be more. More cursed souls, more damned ones. More creatures that refused to die properly. Refused to disappear. Souls like his, stretched thin and soaked in sin. Souls like yours, too brilliant to extinguish, too stubborn to let go.

If vampires walked the earth, then so did ghosts. Then so did echoes. Then so did you.

He started finding patterns. Whispers. Threads in the tapestry—legends of souls that kept returning, always restless, always reaching. Sometimes human, sometimes not. Always burning. He learned to look for it—that familiar blaze behind borrowed eyes. That grief that had no source. That memory shaped like a scar across the heart. Souls caught mid-promise, mid-love, mid-death.

And yours—God, yours. Of course, it was the cruelest of them all. A soul he knew bound by design to never stay buried. Bound to return with a raging grace. Bound to never return with peace. Bound to claw its way back into the world—teeth bared, heart wild, beautiful and mean and fucking ravenous. Just like the first time you came into this world.

And that meant it took longer. Longer than the universe had any damn right to make him wait.

He’d spent lifetimes chasing it—aching years and nights that bled into each other. Tracking. Hunting. Tearing through bodies, ripping open names in manifest logs and yellowing registries, chasing the wake you left behind on that shore, on that godforsaken ship. The same one you vanished from. The same one you chose to die on instead of letting him touch you again.

It wasn’t his first time in this cursed stretch of coast either. Not by far. He’d been here before, once—barely living, feral, starved for a sliver of your soul, mouth full of your name. He’d come with blood under his nails and nothing left to lose. But you hadn’t been here then. Just the taste of you in the sea air and the ache of something not yet brought into fruition. Something unfinished.

Still, his arrival was ruin made flesh.

The vanishing of half the town wasn’t just the sea’s doing—though the storm they blamed it on came howling like scripture, wrathful and divine. A flood of teeth and thunder, of winds that tore roofs from homes and swallowed ships whole. But storms don’t leave claw marks. Storms don’t snap spines or scatter limbs like driftwood. No, that was him. That was the truth buried beneath all the whispered legends and rewritten history.

It hadn’t been a cleansing, not like the stories liked to tell it. It was merely a lullaby meant to pacify what truly happened. A smearing of blood beneath the tide, the storm sweeping clean the evidence of what he’d done in the grip of hunger that had no language, only pure rage. Dozens torn apart, mauled so thoroughly they barely resembled the people they'd once been. And yet, back then, humanity still held tight to its illusions—still clung to the fantasy that there was a line between myth and man. Still thought that fear could be reasoned with, contained.

That was before they made laws to open this place to the rest of the world. As if more humans and the grueling distance and unforgiving waters could save them from the kind of hunger he carried. As if isolation could stop the inevitable from knocking on their doors with blood-stained hands and a grin full of wrath.

He never came for the town. Never gave a damn about its docks or its drowning men and women, its boarded windows or salt-bitten prayers when that storm came. That was just the noise—the collateral dressed up in chaos, perfectly timed, perfectly expendable.

He came for you.

And when the ancient, merciless laws of this world finally relented—cruel as ever—they brought you back.

Here you were, finally.

And as if the universe hadn’t punished him enough—hadn’t wrung him dry, hadn’t watched him rip through decades and spill blood like wine—this was how it chose to break him further: by giving you back exactly as you'd been.

Not in borrowed skin. Not behind someone else's face. No disguise, no altered fate.

You—just as you were when you left him. Same voice, same heat, same wicked mouth. Same fucking eyes he fell in love with—the kind that looked right through him, sharp as shattered glass and just as beautiful. Same scars, though they’d faded to history. Same bite, same fire, same soul that ruined him.

And all dressed up in the one shape his hollowed heart still beat for. The only shape it ever knew how to chase. The soul that refused to rest. The one that burned too hot, too sharp, too unsettled to leave this world quietly. The kind of soul that stuck around just to haunt it. His soul starved while yours reincarnated.

He used to believe in tides, in pull, in the kind of slow, patient movement that shaped coastlines and broke stone into sand. But you? You were the storm surge. You were thunder at midnight and hands full of fire, the kind of divine wrath that didn’t leave room for repentance. And now that storm lived in him. Set its claws deep. Made a cathedral of his body and painted the walls with every memory you ever left behind.

And when he closed his eyes, when he let himself slip under long enough to stop pretending he was something human—he’d see it. That shoreline again. That godforsaken place where the land met the sea and his world burned. You, standing at the docks, bloodshot eyes pouring tears that stained a face full of the kind of wrath only he brought you, the wind snarling your name like it belonged in psalms carved into bone.

He dreamt of it every time. That moment. The crowds of desperate bodies, the screaming, the blood that soaked the sand the minute that ship left with only you on it. His first massacre.

The ache didn’t come as pain. It came as devotion. Ritual. A holy ache—scripture etched into his ribs, one syllable at a time, and all of them yours. He’d wear that gospel like armor, recite it in the dark when no one could hear, offer it up like tithe and sacrifice to the memory of you that lived behind his teeth.

Because it wasn’t just want anymore. It was love, sure, twisted and obsessive, but it morphed into more as the years passed. It was worship. And worship, he’d come to learn, was just hunger wearing devotion like a disguise—feral need dressed up in reverence, blood hidden behind prayer.

But damn it all—himself, God, and Hell thrown in—if his cock didn’t twitch behind the seam of his jeans every time your hips swayed like that. Slow. Unbothered. Like sin dressed in skin, dragging him to hell one step at a time and making him thank you for the descent.

You moved like you knew exactly what you were doing to him. And maybe you did. Maybe that was the point. Because with every shift of denim pulled tight over those curves, he felt himself thicken—hard and aching in a way that bordered on agony, his pulse loud behind his zipper, begging for friction, for release, for you. And he’d suffer for it.

Because wanting you hurt in the most sacred, ruinous way.

And still—he will wait.

Not because the ache wasn’t splitting him open from the inside out. Not because he lacked the hunger. Not because he was suddenly a man of restraint. No—he waited because he knew better now. Because love like his that spans centuries learns patience the way a butcher learns anatomy—slow, brutal, and by necessity. It’s not mercy that kept his hands off you. It was painstaking strategy.

There had been other lives—years stacked on years like brittle pages in a waterlogged book—and each one taught him that need alone wasn’t enough. He had clawed through them all, hands bloodied, hope worn thin, always chasing. Fate, he’d learned, played dice with broken hearts and unfinished business.

So he sat on the barstool like it wasn’t killing him. Like the wood beneath him wasn’t cracking with every second he didn’t reach out and touch you just to be sure you were real. Like he wasn’t one wrong glance away from falling to his knees and begging for you like a prayer, again and again. He could’ve whispered mine against the back of your hand like a vow torn from the bones of another life.

Because timing was everything. And you weren’t ready. Not yet. You poured him drinks like you didn’t remember. Walked past him like your soul didn’t flinch. But he saw it—how your fingers twitched when they brushed his. How your breath hitched for half a second when his voice scraped the air.

It was there. Faint. But real.

You hadn’t remembered—but you felt. And Remmick, despite all the sharpness and savagery he carried like breath, could be patient when it came to you.

He waits because this was the first time the cards were close to falling his way. The first time your soul hadn’t been too far to reach. That the skin you wore now, a century later, was the same one that still haunted his every waking hour.

He waits because he had to earn it. Not your love—he had that already, somewhere buried beneath your ribcage—but your recognition. Your belief.

So he let you tease him. Let you flirt like it meant nothing. Let you brush past him like he wasn’t coming apart at the seams. Let you look through him while his whole body screamed for your touch, his fangs aching under his gums behind clenched teeth, his hands digging crescent moons into the wood just to feel something else.

He watched you—watched you move, watched you work, watched you live.

Because if there was one thing immortality had taught him, it was how to wait for the moment. The exact moment your guard would slip. When your soul would remember before your brain could catch up. When you’d look, and truly see, not a man that haunts this godforsaken bar, not a stranger, not even a man with salt-wrecked eyes—but Remmick.

Yours.

That’s when he’d strike. Not cruel, not quick. But with purpose. With the kind of hunger that had festered so long it’d grown something entirely separate from teeth and blood stained claws. And maybe then, you’d let him touch you again.

Maybe then, you’d call him by the name you used to moan through clenched teeth, maybe then, he could stop pretending. And start taking back what always belonged to him.

You.

All while your hips moved like memory. All while your voice echoed with the warmth of a hundred nights he thought he imagined. All while his cock pulsed with a longing that had waited so long it felt like mourning. He let the fire crawl up his spine and sit behind his teeth. Let it burn there—quiet, seething, divine.

Because timing was everything. And if he waited just long enough, you’d come to him.

You always did.

And God help you if you didn’t. Because the universe wouldn’t forgive it twice. It would be a broken vow carved into the marrow of fate—a final, fateful trespass.

And if you dared to walk away again, then blood would answer where silence failed. Then chaos would follow in your footsteps like a shadow that couldn’t be outrun. It wouldn’t just be heartbreak. It would be reckoning.

And nothing—no god, no sea, no second chance—would spare you from the kind of carnage only your husband knew how to conjure. The kind born not of wrath, but of devotion twisted too tight, too deep. The kind that didn’t just follow ruin—it was ruin. And he wore it like every promise he ever swore to you—each one etched into him, carved into bone and blood, and every single one kept.

“Hey, Boss… Boss!”

The voice cut through the fog like a blade, snapping you back. Your eyes shot up, startled, the heavy silence you’d been sinking in shattering all at once as the world rushed back in around you.

“Shit,” you muttered, grinding the borrowed cigarette out on the cracked pavement. You turned toward him, jaw tense. “Yeah, Carm?”

“Y’okay? You look out of it…” Concern laced his words as his eyes flitted over your crouched frame worriedly.

“Yeah—yes, I’m good,” you stammer, too quick to sound convincing, the words tumbling over each other like you had to catch them before they cracked open.

But your fingers twitch at your sides, and your throat feels lined with static—like the air before lightning strikes, all hum and no release. Truth be told, you’re not good. Not even close.

Admittedly, you were shaken up—though you’d never say it out loud. Not here. Not with Carmen watching you from the corner of his eye, his smirk faltering just enough to let concern slip through the cracks. You can feel it in the way his voice holds back, the way his footsteps shuffle closer, but not too close. He’s seen you unraveled before, but this? This is something else.

You keep your eyes down, fixed too long on the puddle at your feet—rainwater pooled just outside the back entrance, rippling in slow motion like something breathed beneath it.

It glows a sick kind of blue, the neon from the bar sign staining the water like a wound. It shifts with every gust of wind, every flick of motion, swirling with a darkness that doesn’t reflect right—too deep for the shallow dip it sits in, too still for something that should move. You swear, for a second, it pulses.

Like it knows.

Questions claw at your spine—unspoken ones, old ones. Ones with teeth. You feel them coil low in your back, where the ache has started again from standing too long, or maybe from carrying too much that isn’t yours.

The puddle glows, unnatural and holy in a way that only cursed things ever manage.

And in that moment, with Carmen’s voice distant and the silence pressing back in like hands to your throat, you realize the worst part isn’t the fear.

It’s the recognition. You’ve seen something like this before. You just don’t remember when. Or what it cost you.

“Okay, well,” Carmen clears his throat, voice rough around the edges like he can feel how thick the air’s gotten, “you’re needed up there. Jaime says someone’s askin’ for you.”

You blink, like the words have to wade through fog before they register. “Yeah, got it,” you mutter, dragging your fingers across your jeans, smearing ash and nerves in equal measure. “Help me up?”

Carmen’s already reaching for you, calloused hand sliding into yours without hesitation. He tugs, gentle but firm, steadying you like he has before—more times than you like to admit.

“You know, lady,” he grunts, guiding you up from your makeshift seat on the overturned liquor crate, “I can handle this by myself. If your highness isn’t feeling up to it, that is.”

You shoot him a dry look, one brow cocked as your legs catch beneath you. “Wow, Carmen. Such gallantry. You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

He snorts, hand landing between your shoulder blades in that familiar way—steadying, grounding, maybe even protective if you were the type to let yourself admit to needing that sort of thing.

“I try not to make a habit of kissin’ anyone while they’re havin’ a full-blown existential crisis next to haunted puddles and a crate of Crown Royal.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s weaker than usual. “It wasn’t an existential crisis.”

He quirks a brow. “Right. You were just starin’ into that water like it whispered your sins back to you.”

You let out a huff of laughter—small, but real. “Yeah, right”

“Christ,” Carmen mutters, rubbing the back of his neck. “This whole town’s goin’ weird. Good thing there’s business tonight, going through some kind of dry spell these last couple days”

You don’t say it, but you think it—It was weird long before you got here. And something tells you it’s about to get a whole lot worse. You opt to just nod at his words instead of voicing your thoughts.

Still, the warmth of his hand doesn’t leave your back. And when you finally push the door open and step into the bar, you do it with your head held high and something cold curling in your gut.

Someone was asking for you. You already knew who.

Your favorite stray.

He sat alone at a table near the back—still as a shadow, just barely touched by the amber glow bleeding from the overhead lights. The bar was packed, bodies shoulder-to-shoulder, pressed like waves against stone. But not around him. No, around him was space. Absence. Like the air itself had sense enough to bend away.

Despite the crowd, no one dared sit near him.

It was like something in his very being repelled the living—an unspoken warning woven into the curve of his spine, the stillness of his hands, the way his eyes cut through the haze like ship lights searching through fog. You’d seen men with dangerous auras before, but this was different. This wasn’t danger. This was something else.

And yet, you were already walking toward him. Like you always would. Like you always had.

“I’m getting real tired of you bothering me, Remmick,” you said dryly, though your smirk betrayed any real heat behind it. That same annoyance—sharp and biting once—had been softening night by night, melting slow like ice left out too long.

“Oh darlin’, not me this time,” he replied, raising his glass in mock surrender. “Though once this drink’s dry, I might consider botherin’ you just for the hell of it.”

You cocked your head, caught off guard by the strange glint in his eyes—different from his usual haunt. There was something almost amused in it, like he was holding back a joke just for his own damn pleasure.

Then his gaze flicked to the far end of the bar, toward the entrance. His smirk twitched, less amused now. “Someone else beat me to it.”

Your brows furrowed, then followed the tilt of his chin toward the man standing just inside the threshold. Tall, cocky, every inch of him exuding that slick, magnetic charm that always seemed to get him into more trouble than it was worth.

Boots scuffed, shirt half-unbuttoned like he rolled in straight from a fight—or a bed—and a grin that hadn’t changed in years.

Your breath caught, just a little.

“You recognize that stranger, honey?” Remmick asked, voice lower, laced with something unreadable.

A huff of disbelief—equal parts annoyance and reluctant amusement—slipped from your lips.

“Wishing I didn’t right now.”

“Yeah? Why’s that?”

But you didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. Not when your legs were already moving, weaving you through the tide of drunken bodies like instinct. You moved through the crowd the way a sailor returns to sea—like it never left your bones.

The man spotted you before you reached him. Of course he did.

“Well I’ll be damned. Still storming through rooms like you own ‘em,” he drawled, that voice just as low, just as infuriatingly smooth as you remembered. He spread his arms wide, cocky as ever. “You look good, baby.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

Rhett Bishop. A name you hadn’t heard in years, but a body you remembered far too well. You’d known him in a different life—or at least a different version of this one. He was a ranch hand turned traveling musician, too much charm, too little follow-through, and an expert in leaving right before the sun came up. The two of you had a rhythm back then: whiskey, reckless flirting, the kind of nights that ended with bruised knees and tangled sheets. Always messy. Always temporary.

“Well shit, that’s the greeting I get? After all we’ve been through?” he teased, stepping in closer, gaze flicking down your frame like he still had a right to it. “Y’still taste like Crown and regret?”

You rolled your eyes, but the laugh that cracked out of you was real—unwanted, but real.

“You still talk like a bad fucking country song.”

“Damn right. That’s where the money is, sweetheart.”

Before you could slap him or kiss him—because it was always a coin toss—he reached for your hand and tugged you gently, naturally, into the sea of people. The music had picked up again, something gritty and slow and full of bass.

“What are you doing?” you asked, tone flat, but your hand didn’t pull away.

“Dancin',” he said simply, spinning you once like he used to, as if time hadn’t dared change him. “Unless you forgot how.”

“Please,” you muttered, falling into the sway of it in spite of yourself. “I taught you everything you know.”

He leaned in, real close, breath warm against your temple.

“And you have ruined every other woman since.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. The scent of him—whiskey and salt and that infuriating cologne—pulled old memories from places you’d tried to bury.

From across the bar, Remmick watched, jaw tight, eyes unreadable. Fingers tapping a slow rhythm on the glass now empty in his hand.

You couldn’t see it—but he was counting. Not the seconds. The heartbeats.

Yours. And his.

taglist : @lunaleah @idiotsatan @arquiiva @bleedingsunlight @kaelizl @nefertiti2003 @damnzelsoul @latebean @creamqvvn @likecherriesinthespring

@yepitsmesendhelp @bitter-post-millennial @barnes21cz @qyukko

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coolfireguy73 · 1 day ago

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does spamton call him [teen]a because his voice quirk won't let him say anything other than trash heap unless he's in his speaking seriously mode?

I like to think Spamton struggles with proper nouns.

His language quirk seems to use phrases he saw/heard, expressions, insults and random words but not names.

(I guess he could only use really common names ?)

Tenna is such a unique name the closest he can get to it is [teen]A.

We already saw him add a letter to a word in bracket before, when he tried saying "rich" in the description of the watch in the Spamton sweepstakes, he said "R[itch]".

In short, in my mind he could either call him [antenna] or [teen]A

Yeah I know he could just cut the word "antenna" to make "tenna" but I like the fact he never pronounced his name correctly, even back then. (I don't think I need to say it but it would be pronounces like the word teen... tina, if you will.)

Also doing things that way allows me to indirectly say something about their relationship.

Tenna never reacts to it. In the time they spent together he learned Spamton's speech is unique and that he can't really do otherwise.

To me, it got worse over the years but Spamton always used brackets... that's what spams do !

And yeah "serious mode" removes everything, no restrictions. It's like his inner voice ! You might have seen when I wrote him thinking it wasn't even in all caps.

Sorry it's a long reply but I had have a lot to say about those things 😅

#ag replies #ag talks #ag ramble even #sorry about that #anyway #spamton #spamton g spamton #headcannon #spamton headcanon

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sharieb · 12 hours ago

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This has been an idea I had in my head for a while and I'd be honored if you would write it: Hurt/comfort fic of Non-MC learning about the LIs' past/relationship with MC. For whatever reason, Non-MC wants to know what MC is to the LI and he chooses to be honest. Cue feelings of inadequency because what's our love compared to one that's spread throughout lifetimes? And then the LI assures us that we are the love they chose this time/a different kind of love/something like that

The Love I Chose Is The Love That Stays

Setup: You didn’t mean to ask. But some silences demand to be broken. One quiet evening, after weeks of unspoken distance, you finally look him in the eye and ask what she meant to him—MC, the girl who lingers in his story like an echo.

You already know she mattered. What you don’t know is if you’ve ever stood in her place.

Pairing: LADs X Non-MC reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

You ask while seated beside him in his home office, a soft blanket draped around your shoulders. The room is dimly lit, filled with quiet warmth and the faint scent of brewed herbal tea. He’s reviewing medical reports on a tablet, his expression unreadable in the glow of the screen. You’ve watched him like this before—composed, clinical, detached. The Zayne everyone else sees. But not the one who closes his office door when you’re cold. Not the one who adjusts the lights for your comfort. Not the one who sets aside everything when you cry in his arms.

Did you love her?" He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t need to. "Yes." It’s a scalpel-sharp honesty. You flinch. Zayne finally sets the chart aside. Turns toward you. "She was the first person I tried to save. And the first one I lost." He pauses. His brow creases. "Not just once. Every time. Every lifetime. She died in my arms more times than I want to remember. Different faces. Different wounds. Same end." You can barely breathe. "And I spent years," he continues, quieter now. "Making decisions as if she might still be here. As if every moment was just another attempt to fix what fate refused to let me undo. I defied fate more times than I can count—rewriting timelines, breaking sacred laws, gambling everything for a different ending. And every time, I paid the price. In blood. In memory. In silence." Your throat tightens. You nod. "And me? What am I?" Zayne leans in, taking your hand. His fingers are cold. But his grip is sure. "You are the reason I stopped counting how many I couldn’t save. The reason I remembered how to hope. You brought me back to myself." He brushes his thumb across your knuckles. "You reminded me that love doesn’t always have to end in loss. That I don’t have to lose you to prove I loved her." Your lips tremble. "But what if she returned? What if fate asked you to choose again?" He exhales. The kind of breath that sounds like letting go. "I'd still walk toward you. Even if she stood in the way. Because I don't want a ghost. I want a future." His voice drops lower, more tender. "With you, I don’t feel like a surgeon trying to hold back death. I feel like a man who gets to live." And you believe him. Because Zayne does not say what he does not mean.

The Onchinus base hums low in the distance, underground machinery echoing in the walls. You and Sylus stand in the quiet alcove of his private quarters, lit only by a flickering terminal and the low burn of wall-mounted lights. The tension between you has nothing to do with the mission reports spread across his desk. Not really. It was already there, a heavy silence trailing both of you for days. A silence that had everything to do with her. But she came up anyway. "You loved her," you whisper, arms wrapped around yourself. "Didn’t you?" His back is to you. The war table glows faintly beneath his fingers. He says nothing for a long time. Then, slowly: "I loved what she meant. What she gave me permission to believe in. That I could be more than this." He pauses. The machinery behind him groans like a warning. "We weren’t just a moment. We were a loop. Again and again. And each time, I reached for her. And each time, I lost her. Sometimes to war. Sometimes to betrayal. Sometimes... to me." Your breath catches. "And I let it happen," he murmurs. "I let fate shape me into something that could never hold her long enough to keep her alive. Even though she carried half my soul. Literally. We were made of the same fire." You swallow. "And me? What do I mean?" He turns, eyes dark. Not angry. But stripped bare. You are not a myth. Not a prophecy. You are the reality I wake up for. The reason I no longer beg the stars for answers. The reason I look in the mirror and see someone worth saving.

You shake your head. "But I wasn’t fate." He closes the space between you. Each step deliberate. Measured. "Exactly. You weren’t written into the story. You disrupted it. You made me question it." His voice lowers. "She was the cycle. You are the change. Even with half my soul still tethered to her memory, I chose you. I choose you still. Because fate never asked me what I wanted. You did. And you stayed." His hand finds yours. Tight. Real. "I broke the loop when I loved you. And I’m never going back." And maybe that kind of love is fiercer. The kind that doesn’t dazzle—it endures

It happens in the quiet of his apartment, the light from the window slanting just right across the cover of an old poetry book left on the coffee table. One you’ve never touched, but always noticed. The kind of book that smells like memory, like a version of him that you never got to meet. He hums faintly as he waters a small plant near the window, his fingers gentle with the leaves. The same gentleness he uses with you. But tonight, it feels distant. Absent. Like something is missing. "What is she to you?" you ask. Your voice is steady. But only just. He freezes. Slowly, he turns, his hand still cupped around the stem of the plant. His eyes search your face. You can see him preparing to lie. But he doesn’t. He never does. "She was a beginning," he says softly. "In this life. In every life. The same song with different chords. Always the same ending. Always... gone." He sits beside you, gaze distant. "She was once my queen, and I her cursed king—a mad king, they called me, and maybe they weren’t wrong." "We sat at the end of a great battle in the middle of the wastelands, and I held her as we both died in each other's arms more times than I have pages left in my journals." You nod, gaze drifting to the book. The poetry she once quoted to him is written in the margins, ink faded but never erased. "And me?" Xavier walks over, kneels beside the couch you’re curled on, and rests his forehead against your knee. "You are the peace that longing led me to. The life that followed the story. The light that came not from stars... but from staying." You let out a shaky breath. "It doesn’t feel like enough." He looks up, expression fierce in its tenderness. "It is. Because you are the one I would still choose, with or without fate's hand. Even if I never knew your name, I would find you again." He presses a kiss to your hand, then your cheek. "She was a chapter. But you are the home I returned to after the book closed." And somehow, that becomes the line that tethers you back together.

It comes late on Skyhaven, wind whispering through the grass near the launch pad. Caleb lies beside you on the deck, staring up at the constellations. You’ve traced them with him countless times. Tonight, they feel heavier. You’ve both been quiet. Until you ask, "Were they brighter with her?" He exhales slowly. You feel his hand twitch against yours. "She made me want to chase them. To fly so far I forgot what it felt like to land." His voice is quiet. "They made us together, you know. Me and her. Test subjects. Enforcers in training." "We were never supposed to love, only obey. But we did. In every loop. Every life. We fought back. And at the end of each rebellion, we died in the wreckage we tried to stop." You close your eyes. "Sometimes, I caught her," he continues. "We'd escape together for a moment. But I always lost her. Not once did we get to the end of the story together." Your chest aches. You look up at the same sky, feeling smaller than ever. "And me?" He doesn’t speak right away. Just takes your hand. "You made me want to stop running." You blink, but tears come anyway. "But you were in love with her." He turns to face you. "I was in love with what we used to be. With the war, with the resistance, with the burn of hope that always cost us everything. But I love you for who you are, not who we were." He brushes your hair behind your ear, his thumb trailing the shell of it like it matters. "She was the sky I chased. You are the earth I came home to. And for the first time, I want to build a life that doesn’t require wings to be meaningful." His hand tightens around yours. "You are my gravity. And I’m not afraid of staying grounded anymore." And you realize he stopped flying because he wanted to build something here. With you.

The question escapes in his studio, between unfinished canvases and scattered sketches. The scent of linseed oil clings to the air. You see her in the curve of a shoulder he just painted. In the way light kisses the imaginary cheekbones on a half-done portrait. "She was your muse, wasn’t she?" He doesn’t flinch. Just sets down his brush. "She was the tragedy I painted over and over again. The kind of beauty that only lives in sorrow." He glances at a drawer he always keeps locked. "There are canvases I've painted with her face in every life that I've lived. In firelight, moonlight, and starlight." "She was meant to be my bride, a sacrifice to the sea. A binding written in myth and blood. I carried her to the edge of every ending. And each time, I lost her before I could sign the final stroke." You step back. Arms crossed. Voice quieter now. "And what am I?" Rafayel walks toward you slowly, as if you're something holy. His hands still smell of turpentine, and his eyes carry too much light. "You're the relief. The stillness. The breath between lines. You're the art I never thought I’d deserve. The one painting I don’t fear finishing." You bite your lip. "But I’m not as bright. I don’t make you chase the stars." He smiles. Not like an artist. Like a man. "No," he says. "You make me want to wake up in the morning. You make me want to stay." He takes your hand and presses it against his chest. "She was a masterpiece I never finished. But you are the one I hang in my gallery." " "Because you are complete. You are here. You are real. And despite the gods and the sea and all the weight of stories, I chose you." "I choose you still." And you realize maybe you always were. Maybe he sees you not in brushstrokes, but in the colour he finally allows himself to live in.

Because sometimes the loudest love is not the one that echoes across lifetimes.

Sometimes, it's the one that remains when no one is watching.

The love that stays.

The love they chose.

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iamquiantrelle · 23 hours ago

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The Greatest of All Time • iamquaintrelle

# tags: @everythingblaesthtic, @mauvecherie-writes, @szariahwroteit, @greedyjudge2, @irishmanwhore, @jessnotwiththemess, @peyiswriting, @palefacestudentlove, @queenshikongo3, @saintwrld @brownsugarcoffy @iamryanl @amirawrah @muglermami @scorpiobleue @blowmymbackout @purplelewlew @pickingupmymercedes # summary: lewis' "controversially young" girlfriend knows that he'll forever be the GOAT. # warnings: porn with light plot, cursing, age gap relationship

The roar of the custom red and white Ducati echoed through the Spa-Francorchamps paddock as Lewis guided the bike through the narrow lanes, the number 44 on the handlebars catching the afternoon sunlight. You pressed closer against his back, arms wrapped tightly around his waist as fans pressed against the barriers, phones raised and voices screaming.

"Lewis! Lewis! Over here!"

The noise was deafening, a wall of sound that followed you both as he navigated toward the Ferrari motorhome. Some fans held signs, others wore his merchandise, but you caught the occasional comment that made your stomach tighten.

"She's too young for him!" "Gold digger!" "He could do better!"

Lewis must have heard it too because his free hand briefly squeezed your thigh – a silent reassurance that you'd both learned to navigate over the months.

He pulled to a stop near the Ferrari motorhome, the bike settling with a final rumble. You climbed off first, smoothing down your fitted black jeans and oversized Ferrari team shirt, trying to ignore the cameras that were already trained on you both.

"Alright, beautiful?" Lewis asked as he pulled off his helmet, that familiar warmth in his voice that always made everything else fade away.

"Always better when I'm with you," you replied, earning one of those soft smiles he reserved just for you.

The weekend so far had been a disaster. Sprint qualifying yesterday had been a nightmare – Lewis had spun in the final sector during SQ1, something he'd never done in his entire career. The first time in seventeen years, he'd said afterward, visibly shaken. P18 on the sprint grid had been humiliating for a seven-time world champion, especially with Charles managing P4.

The sprint race itself hadn't been much better. He'd fought his way up to P16, but the car felt wrong, disconnected. The new upgrades Ferrari had brought were supposed to be their salvation, but instead they'd seemed to make everything worse. Lewis had been frustrated all weekend, that familiar tension in his shoulders that meant he was trying not to lose his shit entirely.

Now, walking into the paddock for qualifying, you could feel that same tension radiating from him.

"Lewis! How are you feeling about qualifying after yesterday's struggles?" A reporter appeared seemingly from nowhere, microphone thrust forward.

Lewis's jaw tightened, that tell-tale hand finding his hip as he paused. "We'll see, won't we? Car's been... challenging this weekend. But that's why we race, yeah?"

"There's been some criticism about Ferrari's development direction this season—"

"Look, bruv," Lewis cut him off, voice edged with barely controlled frustration. "Everyone's working their arses off. Sometimes things don't go to plan. That's motorsport."

You slipped your hand into his free one, squeezing gently. His fingers immediately intertwined with yours, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

"Any comment on the ongoing media attention regarding your personal life?"

Lewis stopped walking entirely, his expression shifting to something dangerous. "My personal life is personal? Y'all need to find something else to write about." He guided you away before the reporter could ask another question, muttering under his breath. "Fucking vultures."

"Ignore them," you said softly as you entered the Ferrari hospitality area. "They're just trying to get a reaction."

"I know, I know." He rubbed his face with his free hand. "Just sick of them acting like us being together is some kind of scandal. Like thirteen years matters when you're an adult."

You found a quiet corner in the hospitality suite, away from the prying eyes and cameras. Lewis slumped into one of the chairs, pulling you down onto his lap without ceremony.

"Mmm." You leaned into him, enjoying the solid warmth of his chest against your back. "How are you feeling about quali? Really?"

Lewis was quiet for a moment, his arms tightening around you. "Car's been shit all weekend, not gonna lie. But maybe we'll find something in the session. Have to, don't we?"

"You always do."

"Yeah?" He turned you slightly so he could see your face. "Still got faith in your old man?"

"You're not old," you said firmly. "And yes, I've got faith. Always."

He kissed you properly then, slow and sweet, tasting like the energy drink he'd been nursing all morning. When you broke apart, his eyes were clearer, more focused.

"Right then," he said, gently shifting you off his lap. "Time to go show these fuckers what I can do."

The confidence in his voice was infectious, and you found yourself believing that maybe, just maybe, qualifying would be different.

You should have known better.

Qualifying was supposed to be the redemption story. Lewis had spent the morning working with his engineers, going over every bit of data from the sprint weekend, trying to find something – anything – that could explain why the car had been so uncooperative. You'd watched him in the garage, animated as he gestured, explaining what the Ferrari was doing wrong.

"It's like the rear just... gives up," he was saying to his race engineer. "No warning, no buildup. Just gone."

You stood at the back of the garage, headphones around your neck, watching the man you loved try to solve a puzzle that seemed determined to remain unsolved. The session started promisingly enough. Lewis made it through Q1, not comfortably, but he was safe. You felt yourself exhale as his name moved up the timing sheets, out of the danger zone.

"That's P11, Lewis," came the radio message. "You're through to Q2."

"Copy that. Car's feeling a bit better, but still not where we need it."

Q2 was where everything went sideways.

You watched the timing screens religiously, heart in your throat every time Lewis set a sector time. He was pushing, you could tell – probably too hard, but what choice did he have? The car wasn't giving him anything easy.

His first flying lap looked promising. Purple first sector, green second sector, and then—

"Track limits violation, car 44."

Your heart sank as you watched the timing screen update. Lewis's lap time disappeared, deleted for exceeding track limits at Turn 19. Just like that, his best time was gone.

"Fuck," you whispered, watching as his position on the timing sheet dropped like a stone.

Lewis had one more chance. One more flying lap to make it through to Q3, to salvage something from this disaster of a weekend.

You held your breath as he started his final attempt. The first sector was clean, the second sector was decent, and then—

The radio crackled. "That's another track limits, Lewis. Lap deleted."

The silence in the garage was deafening. P16. Lewis Hamilton, seven-time world champion, knocked out in Q2 for the second weekend running.

When he climbed out of the car, you could see the frustration radiating from every line of his body. He yanked off his helmet with more force than necessary, running his hands through his hair as he tried to process what had just happened.

"Lewis, what happened out there?" The media were already circling, sensing blood in the water.

"Track limits," he said shortly, jaw clenched. "Twice. Car's on a knife edge, and I'm having to push beyond what it wants to give."

"Charles managed P4. What's the difference between your cars?"

Lewis's hand found his hip, that defensive posture you knew meant he was about to say something he might regret. "Charles is doing a better job than me. Simple as that."

You winced at the self-deprecation in his voice. This wasn't the Lewis you knew – the confident, unshakeable champion. This was a man who was starting to doubt himself, and it broke your heart to see.

You found him later in his driver's room, slumped on the small couch with his head in his hands. The Ferrari suit was unzipped to his waist, and you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was holding himself like he was trying not to fall apart.

"Hey," you said softly, closing the door behind you.

He looked up, and the defeat in his eyes nearly undid you. "Two track limits violations," he said, voice rough. "Two fucking times I put a wheel wrong. That's not me. That's not who I am."

You moved to sit beside him, close enough that your thigh pressed against his. "The car's difficult—"

"The car's the same one Charles is driving," he interrupted. "He's P4, I'm P16. What does that tell you?"

"It tells me you're driving a car that doesn't suit your style," you replied firmly. "It tells me you're being too hard on yourself."

Lewis was quiet for a moment, staring at his hands. Then, without warning, he reached for you, pulling you onto his lap in one smooth movement.

"Come 'ere to daddy," he said, trying for his usual playful tone but not quite managing it.

You rolled your eyes despite the situation, some of the tension breaking. "You're such an idiot."

"Your idiot though," he said, arms wrapping around your waist. He pressed his face into your neck, breathing you in like you were his anchor. "What would I do without you?"

"Probably qualify better," you said, trying to lighten the mood.

He pulled back to look at you, mock offense written across his features. "That was uncalled for."

"But accurate. And someone has to keep your ego in check."

"My ego's been thoroughly checked this weekend, thanks very much." But he was smiling now, that soft smile he saved just for you. His hands settled on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles through your shirt.

You leaned into him, enjoying the familiar warmth and strength of his body. Even frustrated and disappointed, Lewis still made you feel safe, still made everything else fade away.

"How are you really feeling?" you asked quietly.

Lewis was silent for a long moment, his arms tightening around you. "Like I'm letting everyone down," he admitted finally. "Ferrari, the fans, myself. Like maybe I should've stayed at Mercedes and accepted being a midfielder instead of coming here and proving I can't cut it anymore."

"Hey." You cupped his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. "Don't you dare. You're Lewis fucking Hamilton. You've forgotten more about racing than most drivers will ever know."

"Then why can't I make this car work?"

"Because it's not ready yet. But it will be. And when it is, you're gonna remind everyone why you're the greatest of all time."

He studied your face for a moment, searching for something. Whatever he found there seemed to satisfy him, because some of the tension left his shoulders.

"You really believe that?"

"I really believe that." You leaned forward to press a soft kiss to his lips. "Besides, remember Hungary 2020? You were nowhere in qualifying and ended up winning. This is just another chapter in the Lewis Hamilton comeback story."

"Comeback story, eh?" He was really smiling now, that cocky grin that meant trouble. "I like the sound of that."

"Good. Because tomorrow's race day, and I have a feeling you're about to remind everyone why they call you the GOAT."

You had no idea how right you were going to be.

******************************************************

Race morning brought news that somehow made everything worse and better at the same time. You were having breakfast in the hotel when Lewis's phone buzzed with a call from Ferrari.

"What now?" he muttered, answering on speaker.

"Lewis, we need to talk about the car," Fred's voice came through, tight with frustration. "The data from yesterday... we found some issues with the setup. We want to make some changes."

"What kind of changes?"

"Big ones. Gearbox, rear wing, suspension geometry. But it means starting from the pit lane."

You watched Lewis's face as he processed this. Starting 16th was bad enough, but the pit lane? That was a whole different level of disaster.

"Fuck," he said quietly, then louder, "How big are we talking, Fred?"

"Big enough that it might actually help us. We think we've been chasing the wrong setup direction all weekend."

Lewis was quiet for a long moment, his jaw working as he thought. Finally: "Do it."

"Lewis—"

"Do it," he repeated, more firmly. "If we're gonna be shit, might as well be shit with a car that actually works."

After he hung up, you reached across the table to take his hand. "You okay with this?"

He shrugged, but you could see the wheels turning. "Can't get much worse, right? Besides, if the car's actually drivable, I can work with that."

"Pit lane to points?"

"Pit lane to podium," he corrected with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Go big or go home, right?"

The paddock was buzzing with the news by the time you arrived. Lewis Hamilton starting from the pit lane – it was either going to be a complete disaster or one of those legendary drives that people talked about for years.

You found your spot in the Ferrari garage as the formation lap began, watching the screens as the field circled without Lewis. He'd start 20 seconds after everyone else, alone, with nothing to lose and everything to prove.

"Come on, baby," you whispered as the lights went out and chaos erupted at the front of the field.

The radio crackled to life as Lewis finally got going. "Okay Lewis, you're free to race. Let's see what this car can do."

What followed was vintage Lewis Hamilton.

Within five laps, he'd picked off the back markers. Within ten, he was up to 15th. The car – finally, fucking finally – seemed to be working. You could hear it in his voice over the radio, the confidence creeping back in.

"This is more like it," he said after overtaking two cars in one move around the outside of Pouhon. "Car's got pace now."

By the halfway point, he was 10th. By lap 30, he was 8th and hunting down the McLaren ahead of him. The garage was electric, everyone suddenly believing in the impossible.

"Lewis, you're flying out there," came the radio call. "Gap to P7 is 1.2 seconds."

"I can see him," Lewis replied, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "This one's mine."

The overtake, when it came, was pure poetry. Around the outside of Blanchimont, using the slipstream and pure balls to pull alongside and edge ahead before Les Combes. The garage erupted in cheers, and you found yourself jumping up and down like a teenager.

"P7, Lewis! P7! Incredible drive!"

As the checkered flag fell, you felt tears pricking your eyes. From the pit lane to seventh place – it was the kind of drive that reminded everyone why Lewis Hamilton was considered one of the greatest of all time.

The radio crackled one final time: "Lewis, that was absolutely mega. Pit lane to P7. What a drive!"

"Yeah!" Lewis's voice was pure joy now, all the frustration of the weekend melting away. "That's what I'm talking about! Car felt amazing once we got it right. Thank you, everyone. That's why we never give up!"

When he climbed out of the car in parc fermé, his smile was brighter than you'd seen all season. He pulled off his helmet and balaclava, revealing hair damp with sweat and an expression of pure satisfaction. The diamonds in his nose caught the late afternoon sunlight as he hugged his mechanics, the tattoos on his arms visible as he raised his hands in celebration.

You were waiting for him when he finally made it through the media pen, and the look on his face when he saw you was worth every difficult moment of the weekend.

"Did you see that?" he asked, pulling you into his arms and spinning you around. "Did you fucking see that?"

"I saw it," you laughed, holding onto him tightly. "That was incredible, babe. I'm so proud of you."

He set you down but kept his arms around you, and you could feel the adrenaline still coursing through him. "From the fucking pit lane," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Car was a rocket once we got it sorted."

"That's my champion," you said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "Never doubt yourself again, okay?"

"Yes ma'am," he grinned, and then he was kissing you, right there in front of everyone, not caring who saw or what pictures they took. It was desperate and relieved and full of all the emotion of the weekend, and you melted into it completely.

When you finally broke apart, his eyes were dark with something that had nothing to do with racing.

"Hotel," he said, voice low. "Now."

You felt heat pool in your stomach at the look on his face. "Lewis..."

"Now," he repeated, and the authority in his voice made your knees weak. "We're celebrating properly tonight."

********************************************

The hotel room door barely closed before Lewis had you pressed against it, his mouth on yours with a hunger that stole your breath. His hands were everywhere – threading through your hair, skimming down your sides, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you.

"Fucking hell," he muttered into your mouth, voice dark and ragged with lust. His lips moved hungrily over yours, his tongue sweeping in to tangle with yours as his grip tightened on your waist. "You have no idea what you do to me."

You gasped as he ground into you, the hard line of his dick pressing against your thigh, already thick and straining behind his jeans. The scent of him—cologne laced with sweat, rubber, and engine heat—wrapped around you like smoke. His adrenaline was still simmering beneath the surface, the high of the race still riding him, sharp and wild. It clung to his skin like the sheen of sweat along his neck, the glint in his eye when he pulled back just enough to look at you.

"Lewis," you breathed as he moved to your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot that made you arch against him.

"What, baby?" His hands found the hem of your shirt, fingers ghosting over your skin. "Tell me what you want."

The honest answer was everything. You wanted his hands on you, his mouth on you, wanted to feel the power and control that had gotten him from the pit lane to seventh place turned on you instead.

"You," you said simply. "Just you."

Something shifted in his expression, the playful hunger giving way to something deeper. His hands came up to cup your face, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones as he studied you with those dark eyes.

"You're so fucking beautiful," he said quietly, like it was a secret. "Been thinking about this all day. Getting my hands on you, hearing you say my name."

He kissed you again, slower this time but no less intense. His tongue swept into your mouth as his hands began working at your clothes, peeling away layers with practiced ease. Your shirt hit the floor, followed by his, and you ran your hands over the familiar landscape of his chest and shoulders, tracing the tattoos that told the story of his life.

"Bed," you managed to say when his mouth found that spot on your neck again.

"Mm-mm." His hands were at your jeans now, fingers working the button free. "Right here first. Been wanting to taste you since you walked into the garage this morning."

He dropped to his knees before you could respond, making quick work of sliding your jeans down your thighs. He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, then another higher up, and another, trailing heat up your leg with every slow, deliberate press of his lips.

"These too," he said, fingers hooking in the waistband of your underwear. "Want to see all of you."

You lifted your hips, letting him strip you bare. The air hit your skin, cool and unforgiving, but then his hands were back—warm, worshipful—and everything else faded.

“Fuck,” he breathed, staring up at you like you were a work of art. “You’re so goddamn perfect.”

Then his mouth was on you.

Your back slammed against the door as you cried out, your fingers immediately finding his hair and tangling hard as he dragged his tongue through your folds. The heat of his mouth, the way he sucked your clit into his mouth with a slow, focused rhythm—it was devastating. Every stroke of his tongue had you clenching around nothing, your thighs trembling where they rested on his shoulders.

“Lewis,” you whimpered, hips bucking involuntarily.

He didn’t stop. Just grunted low in his throat and pressed his mouth harder against you. He licked you like he was starved, like you were the only thing in the world that could satisfy him. When he added a finger, slow and deep, curling up into you with unerring precision, your breath hitched.

“Please—fuck, Lewis—please,” you gasped, rolling your hips against his face.

"Please what?" He pulled back just enough to speak, his breath hot against your skin. "Tell me what you need, love."

"More," you gasped. "I need more."

“You’re gonna come for me first.” His mouth was back on you before you could argue, and then another finger joined the first, stretching you open, hitting every nerve-ending with maddening accuracy. It was too much and not enough, his beard scraping deliciously against your thighs as he devoured you like a man obsessed.

Your orgasm hit you fast and hard, ripping a scream from your throat as you came on his tongue, hips grinding against his face, nails digging into his scalp.

He worked you through it, murmuring praises into your skin between kisses to your trembling thighs. “That’s it, baby… so fucking pretty when you come… That’s my girl…”

When he finally stood, his hands dragging up your sides, your legs felt like jelly. He caught your mouth in a kiss again, slow and filthy, and you could taste yourself on his tongue.

"Bed," you said again, more firmly this time. "Now."

That crooked grin curved his lips. “Bossy tonight, huh?”

You shoved him toward the bed. “Move, Lewis.”

He obeyed, stripping quickly as you stumbled backward onto the mattress, watching him in awe. His body was flawless—smooth brown skin, lean muscle, abs cut like marble, and the thick length of him curving toward his stomach, already flushed and leaking at the tip. Your mouth watered.

“Come here.”

Lewis crawled over you, kissing his way up your body. He took his time, brushing his lips over your hips, your ribs, the undersides of your breasts, until you were writhing and begging for him.

"You're incredible," you said softly. "Today, the way you drove... I've never been more attracted to you."

Something flickered in his eyes at that, and his touch became more possessive. "Yeah? You like watching me work?"

"I love watching you work. Love watching you take control."

When he settled between your thighs, the weight of him was perfect, grounding. His hands braced on either side of your head as he looked down at you, and you could see everything in his expression – the love, the want, the need to be close to you after the emotional rollercoaster of the weekend.

"I love you," he said quietly, and then he was pushing into you, slow and steady until you were completely joined.

The feeling was overwhelming – not just the physical sensation, but the emotional weight of it. This was Lewis in his element, taking control, setting the pace, reading your body like he read a racetrack.

"God, you feel amazing," he groaned, beginning to move. "So perfect for me."

His rhythm was measured at first, deep strokes that had you arching beneath him. But as your breathing picked up, as your hands found purchase on his shoulders, he began to move faster, harder, chasing the high that racing had started and only you could finish.

"That's it," he murmured when you cried out. "Let me hear you, baby. Want to know how good I'm making you feel."

His hand slipped between you, thumb finding your clit, and the dual sensation had you climbing toward another peak embarrassingly fast.

"Lewis, I'm—"

"I know," he said, voice strained with his own approaching release. "Come for me, sugar. Come on my dick."

The orgasm crashed over you, and you clung to him as he followed you over the edge, his face buried in your neck as he came with a groan that you felt as much as heard.

Afterward, you lay tangled together in the hotel sheets, your head on his chest as his fingers traced lazy patterns on your back.

"That was some celebration," you said softly, pressing a kiss to his collarbone.

He laughed, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Just getting started, love. Season's not over yet."

"No," you agreed, tilting your head to look at him. "It's not."

The Lewis looking back at you was different from the one who'd been doubting himself that morning. This was the Lewis who'd dragged a difficult car from the pit lane to seventh place through sheer force of will. This was the Lewis who'd reminded everyone – including himself – why he was a seven-time world champion.

"Next weekend?" you asked.

His grin was pure confidence. "Next weekend, we fucking fly."

You believed him. After what you'd witnessed today, you'd believe him if he said he could walk on water.

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