#command injection

[jcmarchi]

Exploring the future of IoT: Challenges and opportunities - CyberTalk

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/exploring-the-future-of-iot-challenges-and-opportunities-cybertalk/

Exploring the future of IoT: Challenges and opportunities - CyberTalk

Miri Ofir is the Research and Development Director at Check Point Software.

Gili Yankovitch is a technology leader at Check Point Software, and a former founder and VP of Research and Development at Cimplify (acquired by Check Point).

With billions of connected devices that lack adequate security around them, the Internet of Things (IoT) market represents an extremely promising target in the eyes of cyber criminals. IoT manufacturers are grappling with emerging cyber security regulations and change is happening. However, concerns still abound.

In this dynamic interview, Check Point experts Miri Ofir and Gili Yankovitch discuss what you need to know as we move into 2024. Get insights into IoT exploit techniques, prevention approaches and best practices. Address IoT security issues effectively – starting now.

What does the global threat landscape look like and could you share perspectives around 2024 predictions?

The global threat landscape has been affected by the increasing number of geopolitically motivated cyber attacks. We’re referring to state-sponsored attacks.

Cyber espionage by state-sponsored actors aims to steal intellectual property, gather intelligence, or even lay the groundwork for potential sabotage. Countries like Russia, China, North Korea, and Iran have advanced state-sponsored cyber attack skills, and we can track complicated campaigns affiliated with those countries.

An example of such type of campaign is a supply chain attack. As the name implies, this involves targeting less-secure elements in an organization’s supply chain. The SolarWinds hack from 2020 is a notable example, in which attackers compromised a software update mechanism of a business to infiltrate numerous government and private sector systems across the U.S.

The Internet of Things (IoT) market is highly targeted and prone to supply chain attacks. The rapid proliferation of these devices, often in absence of robust security measures, means a vast expansion of potential vulnerabilities. Malicious actors can exploit IoT weak points to gain unauthorized access, steal data, or launch attacks.

What are IoT device manufacturers’ biggest challenges at the moment?

IoT manufacturers are facing evolving regulation in regards to cyber security obligations. The supply chain concerns and the increasing attacks (41% increase in IoT attacks during Q1 `23 compared to Q1 `22) have led governments to change policies and to better regulate device security. We see two types of programs being rolled out:

1. Mandatory regulations to help manage Software and Hardware Bill of Materials (SBOM) and to verify that products will go to the market with some basic cyber security coverage. SBOMs will help manufacturers get a better understanding of the components inside of their products and maintain them through patches and other mitigations. This will add overhead for manufacturers.

2. Excellent initiatives like the U.S. cyber trust mark and labeling program, which aims to dispel the myth of clarity about privacy and security in the product and to allow educated users to select safer products, among other considerations, like energy efficiency.

While this is an obligation and a burden, it is also a business opportunity for manufacturers. The market is changing in many respects. For example, the U.S. sanctions over China are not only financially motivated; the Americans see China as a national security concern and the new sanctions push major competitors out from the market.

In this vacuum, there is a room for new players. Manufacturers can leverage the changing landscape to gain higher market share by highlighting cyber security in their products as a key differentiator.

What are the most used exploit techniques on IoT devices?

There are several main attack vectors for IoT devices:

1. Weak credentials: Although manufacturers take credentials much more seriously these days than previously (because of knowledge, experience or on account of regulation), weak/leaked credentials still plague the IoT world. This is due to a lot of older devices that are already deployed in the field or due to still easily-cracked passwords. One such example is the famous Mirai botnet that continues to plague the internet in search of devices with known credentials.

2. Command injection: Because IoT devices are usually implemented with a lower-level language (due to performance constraints), developers sometimes take “shortcuts” implementing the devices’ software. These shortcuts are usually commands that interact with system resources such as files, services and utilities that run in parallel to the main application running on the IoT device. An unaware developer can take these shortcuts to provide functionality much faster to the device, while leaving a large security hole that allows attackers to gain complete control. These developer actions can be completed in a “safer” way, but will take longer to implement and change. Command weaknesses can be used as entry points for attackers to exploit vulnerabilities on the device.

3. Vulnerabilities in 3rd party components: Devices aren’t built from scratch by the same vendor. They usually consists of a number of 3rd party libraries, usually open-sourced, that are an integral part of the devices’ software. These software components are actively maintained and researched, therefore new vulnerabilities in them are discovered all the time. However, the rate in which vulnerabilities are discovered is much higher than that of an IoT device software update cycle. This causes devices to remain unpatched for a very long time, even for years; resulting in vulnerable devices with vulnerable components.

Why do IoT devices require prevention and not only detection security controls?

Unlike endpoints and servers, IoT devices are physical devices that can be spread across a large geographical landscape. These are usually fire-and-forget solutions that are monitored live at best or sampled once-a-period, at worst. When attention to these software components is that low, the device needs to be able to protect itself on its own, rather than wait for human interaction. Moreover, attacks on these devices are fairly technical, in contrast to things such as the ransomware that we see on endpoints. Usually, detection security controls will only allow for the operator to reboot the device at best. Instead, prevention takes care of the threat entirely from the system. This way, not only is mitigation immediate, it is also appropriate and reactive, in accordance with each threat and attack it faces.

Why is it important to check the firmware? What are the most common mistakes when it comes to firmware analysis?

The most common security mistakes we find in firmware are usually things that “technically work, so don’t touch them” and so they���ve been left alone for a while. For example, outdated libraries/packages and servers; they all start “growing” CVEs over time. They technically still function, so no one bothers to update them, but many times they’re exposed over the network to a potential attacker, and when the day comes, an outdated server can and will be the point of entry allowing for takeover the machine. A second common thing we see is private keys, exposed in firmware, that are available for download online. Private keys that are supposed to hold some cryptographically strong value – for example, proof that the entity communicating belongs to a certain company. However, they are available for anyone who anonymously downloads the firmware for free. This means they no longer hold a cryptographically strong value.

What are some best practices for automatic firmware analysis?

Best practices for automated assessment – in my opinion, the analysis process is broken into 3 clear steps: Extraction, analysis, report.

A) Extraction: Is a huge, unsolved problem, the elephant in the room. When it comes to extracting firmware, it is not a flawless process. It is important to verify the results, extract any missed items, create custom plugins for unsupported file types, remove duplicates, and to detect failed extractions.

B) Analysis: Proper software design is key. A security expert is often required to assess the risk, impact and likeliness of exploit for a discovered vulnerability. The security posture depends on the setup and working of the IoT device itself.

C) Report: After the analysis completes, you end up with a lot of actionable data. It’s critical to improve the security posture of the device based on action items in the report.

For more insights like this, please sign up for the cybertalk.org newsletter.

[starwarsanthropology]

FOX/FIVES

That'd certainly be one way of fixing it!!!

Oh I had so much fun with this as a lighting study.... thank you so much for the request!

[luvvheartz]

just now realizing how ASS my tartar design is he NEEDS a redesign

[ravonosify]

Look I love Queen Vanessa but all I'm saying is Hoaxe was an abandoned feral bug who needed to learn what royalty is and does and he didn't learn it from the Giant's Lair that's for sure

[sysig]

Kinda in the middle of planning a defense, no flirting pls (Patreon)

Bonus:

[cellarspider]

It's a shame that as a Python interpreter, you probably can't pull a Captain Kirk and talk it to death if it's properly programmed, but there's real chance of locking up that runtime with an infinite while loop.

while True: <some computationally heavy code block>

[beloveds-embrace]

(a low-effort, self-indulgent post about 141 x sunshine reader with a love for flowers <3)

Moving to a military town had been a gamble. You weren’t military, had no family in the service, and you had no real reason to pick this particular place other than the fact that it was safe, stable, and quiet. The houses were affordable, the people were friendly enough, and you figured you could make a home here. Besides, you were far enough from the base to avoid their early morning drills but close enough to still feel secure.

And it was nice. Really, it was.

The town had its charm. It was small, orderly, and filled with people who were either part of the military or had long grown used to living in the shadow of it.

You just hadn’t expected it to be so… plain.

Everything was muted, designed for practicality rather than beauty. Row after row of beige houses, identical porches, yards that were neat but uninspired. It felt more like a barracks than a town, and you knew you wouldn’t last long surrounded by such monotony.

So, you changed it.

Within a week of moving in, your porch was transformed into a floral wonderland. Ivy and jasmine vines trailed along the railings, hanging baskets, overflowed with cascading petunias, swung from the beams, and the front steps were lined with carefully arranged potted blooms. Roses, marigolds, lavender- anything that could inject some color and life into the dull uniformity of the street.

And the town noticed.

It started small- passersby slowing down, lingering in front of your house, knocking to ask if they can take pictures. Then came the comments at the local market.

“Did you see the new house on [] Street? The one covered in flowers?”

“I thought I was dreaming- looked like something out of a storybook!”

“Oh, that’s her place. She’s always out there, tending to them. Such a sweet thing, always smiling.”

And then came the soldiers.

One morning, while you were watering your newest additions- lilies this time- a group of soldiers on their way to base slowed in front of your house. Their conversation died off, replaced by muttered confusion.

“Didn’t know we had a damn botanical garden in town.” One of them said, adjusting the strap of his gear bag.

“Are those-” Another squinted at your newest arrangement. “Does she change them?”

“She does,” a woman in the group confirmed; you had seen her before, you were sure. “Saw her planting new ones last week. Honestly, it’s nice.”

You smiled to yourself, pretending not to notice as they carried on their way.

But it didn’t stop there.

Another soldier stopped during his run, hands on his hips as he took in your porch. “Hell of a setup.” He commented, glancing at you.

“Thank you!” You beamed, wiping your dirt-streaked hands on your shorts. “Wouldn’t want the town looking too drab, now would we?”

His lips twitched. “Well, you’re succeeding.”

More and more soldiers began to take notice. Some just passed by with lingering glances, others stopped to admire the work. A few even asked for gardening advice- one particularly flustered private admitted he wanted to impress his girlfriend with a flower arrangement but had no idea where to start. You happily helped him pick out a selection, even wrote him a little care guide.

It wasn’t just the passing soldiers, either.

Older women in town would stop by just to chat about your arrangements, some even bringing over cuttings from their own gardens. Parents would pause during walks, their children pointing excitedly at the bright flowers and fairy lights you had strung along the porch. The local baker started leaving small bags of cookies at your door with notes like, Your flowers made my morning brighter!

And then there was Task Force 141, as they’d eventually introduce themselves to you.

The first time you caught Captain John Price standing on your sidewalk, arms crossed as he stared at your house, you thought you were in trouble. He had the kind of presence that demanded respect- commanding, observant, the weight of experience in every movement.

“You lost?” you teased anyways, adjusting a pot of marigolds, and hoping he wouldn’t consider you disrespectful.

Price huffed a quiet laugh, eyes flicking between the vines, the flowers, the fairy lights. “No. Just… wasn’t expecting this.” He gestured vaguely at the floral explosion around you.

“Well,” you grinned. “I refuse to live somewhere that looks like a training camp. You are the soldiers, not me.”

That had been the start of it.

Soap was the next to visit. He showed up a few days later, leaning against your railing as he inspected a cluster of bright yellow sunflowers. “Got any of those that’ll survive my terrible luck?”

You hummed, then handed him a small, sturdy succulent. “Try not to kill it.”

Then came Gaz, who always claimed he was “just passing through” but somehow always found himself near your house. He asked questions- what flowers worked best for balconies? His mum has a love for tending to flowers as well. Did you have any recommendations for someone who had never taken care of a plant in his life?

Regardledd, you happily enjoyed chatting with him, and he left with a small potted fern, promising to send updates.

And then there was Ghost.

Ghost never exactly visited, but you saw him. Once, when you were rearranging your display and muttering about getting new soil, you spotted him standing across the street, arms folded as he observed your work. He didn’t say anything- just gave a barely perceptible nod before disappearing back into the shadows.

But the next morning, a heavy bag of high-quality soil rested against your porch steps. No note. No explanation.

But from what the others had told you of him… you knew who it was from.

The townsfolk had opinions about that, too.

“That group’s been sniffing around your place an awful lot,” Mrs. Holloway, the town baker, noted one morning as she handed you a fresh loaf of bread. “You got yourself a security detail, dear?”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I think they just like the flowers.”

The butcher, a gruff man who had lived in the town longer than anyone, grunted in agreement. “Good. Those boys need something nice to look at.”

Even the local barista took notice. “Gaz came in the other day asking if we had any floral-themed drinks,” she giggled, leaning in close to you. “I swear, he’s trying to impress you.”

Ultimately, the town adored what you were doing. Where once there had been dull uniformity, now there was life. People started adding their own touches- small flower pots, window boxes, even a few hanging baskets inspired by yours. The air felt lighter, more welcoming.

And the 141?

They had seen the worst the world had to offer. They had fought in places where beauty was a distant memory, where survival took precedence over everything else.

Yet, somehow, you- sunshine incarnate, with dirt-streaked hands and a smile that could brighten even the darkest day- had managed to burrow into their hardened hearts.

[anantaru]

⚝ DAY 1 — SIZE KINK

kinktober 2024. — masterlist | ao3

— including. — capitano, wriothesley, zhongli, childe

— warnings. — fem! reader, size kink/size difference, dom/sub dynamics, childe is a lil mean and written like a casual fwb relationship, experienced zhongli

⚝ — CAPITANO

capitano's teeth catch your lip as his hips inject a chilling coldness into every rut of his cock pressing into you— in other words, they were calculated and controlled rolls of his length basically breaking your body into two pieces.

rolling your eyes back, you catch a glimpse of the heavy armor that has long since been discarded, practically ripped off his body, revealing the full extent of his massive form and muscles shining of sweat.

yet for some reason, there was no warmth in his gaze, never, even now, you see, with your arms wrapped around his neck and his grip on your waist, his look was devoid of any softness.

"i told you to endure it, take it," he commands sternly, his voice a low growl as he pushes into you again, this time making sure he could get an extra inch buried in you.

you flinch and moan at the same time, you're so fucked out of your mind you just want to cum already, but the size of him alone made you gasp and clench— it burned, yes, it felt stimulating, it felt like you're about to encounter an orgasm that could simply make you unable to walk for days.

but the way he handles you— no hesitation, no gentleness, every thrust sharp and vigorous, bursting like the freezing winter cold, as if the first harbinger was testing your limits without truly caring about them.

although somehow, despite his ruthlessness, he knows when to stop.

capitano knows exactly how far to push your body, as if he's memorized every inch of you, every reaction.

"take a big breath for me, yeah? you can take some more," perhaps he could become relentless when pleasuring you, merciless, but never cruel.

he fills you over and over, watching keenly how your pussy drenches him, and fuck, you can feel his eyes watching you, making you nervous— whether it was your hole gripping him, red and puffy begging for your break or your eyes admiring his stomach, he sees it all.

⚝ — WRIOTHESLEY

without haste, wriothesley wraps his arms around you, indulging in a strong and unyielding love as he presses you against him. right there, you feel it, you notice his breath against your neck— one exhale, the second one coming in shortly— he's hot, shaking, lips curved up in a smile as the gentle praises already began to spill from his lips.

"you"re so amazing, sweetheart, you know that," he groans, his voice a little shaky as you squeeze him into you, deep and gripping him into your cunt, "look at you… taking all of me aah— so easily."

his size was clearly overwhelming you, crushing you in ways you hadn’t thought were even remotely possible— although personally his words make it bearable, pleasurable as he smothers his length against your walls, the swollen flesh squeezing him so tightly— and fuck, the more you took of him the better it felt, the more, the better.

shit, you actually believe you've never been this horny for the duke before.

"you're perfect, so perfect, fuck—" he continues walking you through his clouded praises before one of his hands began tracing the slopes of your trembling body, "so tight, yeah… but handling me like it’s nothing."

he pushes deeper, filling you completely, the creaking of the mattress beneath you both only fueling the desire erupting from your very core as his hands easily guide you, ensure you to take him slowly, little by little.

you can take him, right? that's out of the question, but you find yourself wanting more, wanting to prove yourself to him.

⚝ — ZHONGLI

zhongli moves with the grace of experience fitting his intimidating size as your walls instantly pulsate around him, the torture of it being so full and burning between your legs, yet at the same time utterly fulfilling and euphoric.

truly, his amber eyes flicker with a quiet intensity, his body towering over you like a domineering shadow that you couldn't possibly get away from— and at this time, your mind turns blurry, entirely clouded by him and his pretty face.

"it'll be fine, you don't have to worry," he murmurs, his voice soft, "i know what you can take, always." no rush, no urgency— just the both of you.

well, his experience surely was obvious in everything he did, every slow thrust and your hole gradually getting used to him again.

how come he's so big but his massive form just fits so perfectly in you, every square of his cock filling you? zhongli wonders if you're actually made for him, however in this moment, he was preparing you for just how roughly he was about to ruin every fucking space of your walls.

his hips shift, fast snaps of his hips bouncing off your flesh, then pushing a little deeper— and the man was groaning into your ear because you see, zhongli loves how you squeeze him, how your legs shake against him and how your pussy made the wet, little sounds with every rock of hips.

⚝ — CHILDE

"what’s wrong?" even now, as desperate and fucked out as childe made you sound like, he teases you, his voice low as he inches in deeper, making you swallow another ruthless shove of his cock, "hey now, can’t handle it? want me to play with you a lil' more?" his tone was surprisingly light despite him ignoring his own need to cum and cum all over you.

yet the challenge he saw right before him was unmistakably delicious.

the man knew exactly how big he was, how much it affected you, how you always needed him to properly nudge and rub your clit or lap at your tits, suck and pull at your nipples to make the growing stimulation explode— or well, multiply.

yes, it's evident, his teasing antics were making him all the more attractive and you hated it, despised how ajax knew you got off on him being this way.

he gives another fast snap, the sheer stretch of him feeling like it was about to shut down your body as his hands greedily explored your skin. the torture of being so close to your climax, yet not knowing if childe would take it was driving you into madness.

ultimately, his palm settles above your stomach as he digs into it to not only, keep you right where he needed you to be, but also to make it even more pleasurable, until you're practically begging him to fuck the broad daylight out of your skull.

your legs quake, eyes rolled back and your jaw hanging low, "you can take more,” he says, pushing deeper, "more, huh," he grinds faster, fucking you harder— you can, right? you've been suck a good fuck for him tonight, always actually, never failing to gasp into his chest so sweetly and stick to his core, your pussy red and swollen but so so full.

©2024 anantaru do not repost, copy, translate, modify

[applecaviar]

LADS and their reaction to their firstborn babies getting vaccines.

I saw a video on tik tok about how fathers reacted and it inspired this.

* 2 month old babies

I really suck at fluff so I hope you like it.

The doctor's office is an environment that Rafayel finds particularly unsettling. The white walls seem to close in around him with each passing second, the fluorescent lights flickering overhead. He paces back and forth  in front of the examination table where you sit, cradling your tiny daughter in your arms. His blue and pink eyes are wild, darting from your calm face to the array of syringes and medical tools laid out on the tray beside them. 

He stops his pacing for a moment, leaning over you to brush a strand of hair away from his daughter's tiny face. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, as he traces the curve of her cheek with the pad of his finger. She coos softly and for a moment, Rafayel's worries melt away.

But as he straightens up, the anxiety returns with a vengeance. He starts to pace again, his mind racing with worst case scenarios. What if something goes wrong? What if she has an allergic reaction to the shots? The thought makes his stomach turn, and he feels the urge to scoop her up and run, to take her far away from this place.

As the doctor enters the room, Rafayel feels his heart begin to race. He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, but it's no use. He reaches out and scoops the baby up into his arms, cradling her close to his chest. He can feel her warmth, the softness of her skin, and it calms him in a way that nothing else could. He presses a kiss to the top of her head, breathing in the scent of her hair, before turning to face the doctor.

"I'll hold her," he says, his voice more commanding than he intended. The doctor nods, not seeming to take offense at Rafayel's tone.

As the doctor approaches with the first shot, Rafayel takes a deep breath and holds it, bracing himself for his daughter's cry. But as the needle pierces her skin, she doesn't make a sound. She just blinks up at Rafayel with her big, innocent eyes, trusting and unafraid. He feels a lump form in his throat, and he has to swallow hard to keep himself from breaking down. He can't cry in front of the doctor, can't show any sign of weakness. But inside, he's falling apart, torn between the desire to protect his daughter and the knowledge that he can't shield her from everything.

The doctor reaches for the second injection and Rafayel feels his daughter start to squirm in his arms. He tightens his grip on her, holding her close as he tries to soothe her with soft words and gentle pats on her back. But as the needle touches her skin, she lets out a soft whimper that turns into a full blown pout, her little rosebud mouth twisting as tears start to well up in her eyes. The sight of her distress is like a knife to Rafayel's heart, and he can't help but mirror her expression.

Rafayel's own lips purse into a perfect match of his daughter's pout, his brows furrowing in a mixture of sympathy and shared discomfort. He makes a soft, comforting noise in the back of his throat rocking his daughter gently as he tries to ease her pain.

"Shh, it's okay, cutie. Daddy's here," he murmurs, pressing his cheek against hers. He can feel the dampness of her tears against his skin, and it makes his heart ache in a way that he's never experienced before.

The doctor finishes writing on the chart, snapping it closed with a soft thud. He looks up, noticing the matching pouts on both Rafayel's and his daughter's faces. A small smile plays at the corners of his mouth, amused by the identical expressions.

"All done," the doctor says, setting the chart down on the counter. "You can head out whenever you're ready."

Rafayel just nods, not trusting himself to speak without his voice cracking. He's still focused on soothing his daughter, who has started to sniffle softly.

He stands up, cradling her close to his chest as he turns to face you. His eyes are still locked on his daughter's face, watching as a single tear rolls down her cheek.

"I'll wait for you in the car". With that, he strides out of the room, his footsteps echoing in the quiet hallway. He doesn't wait for your response, knowing that you will understand his urgency. Right now, all that matters is getting his little girl somewhere comfortable and safe, where he can hold her until the pain fades away.

Caleb blinked rapidly, the scent of the doctor's office piercing through the haze of his memories. He clutches his baby boy tighter, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to ground himself in the present. The cry of his little one snapped him out of the dark thoughts that had been consuming him.

"Shh, it's alright, little man," Caleb murmured, his voice low and soothing as he rocked the baby gently in his arms. "Papa's got you."

Hospitals always brought back a flood of painful memories, reminders of the trauma he had endured.

The nurse entered, a kind smile on her face as she prepared the vaccines. Caleb's jaw clenched, his grip on his baby boy tightening instinctively. He hated seeing his little one in any kind of distress, and he knew the shots would likely make him cry.

"Alright, sweetheart, look at me," Caleb said softly, tilting his baby's chin up with his finger to meet his gaze. "Papa's right here with you. You're so strong and brave, and this will be over before you know it."

He knew you could see the slight tremor in his hands, the tension coiled in his broad shoulders. But he also knew you could read the unshakable love and determination burning in his eyes, the silent vow to be the best father he could possibly be.

"Alright, sweetheart, here we go," the nurse said softly, her hand outstretched for the first tiny syringe.

Caleb took another deep breath, holding his little one impossibly closer. He watched as the first prick of the needle broke the skin, and his baby boy let out a startled wail.

"It's okay, it's okay," Caleb cooed, rocking and swaying with his son as the first shot was administered. "You're being so good, so brave. Just a little pinch, and then it's all over. You're doing amazing."

He could feel the anger and fear rising up inside him, the urge to lash out at the nurse, at anyone who dared to cause his child pain. But he pushed it down when he felt your hand on his shoulder, your touch a soothing balm to his frayed nerves. 

As the nurse finished administering the last shot, Caleb held his son close, letting the little baby cry into his broad chest. He stroked his back gently, murmuring words of love and comfort until the wails began to subside into shuddering breaths and soft whimpers.

As the nurse stepped out of the room, he turned his attention back to his son, gently wiping away the remnants of tears from his little face. He noticed the slight tremble in his own hands as he reached for the baby's tiny clothes, and his heart clenched. He knew you had seen it too, could feel your gaze on him, filled with understanding and concern.

"Here, let me help," you said softly, "Why don't you go ahead and fill out the paperwork, and I'll finish getting our little guy dressed?"

"Okay," he said, his voice tight. "Are you sure you don't mind? I don't want to leave you with all the work."

You shook your head "It's fine baby, go"

He stood up slowly, carefully transferring your now calmer son into your waiting arms. As he did, he leaned in close, his forehead resting against yours for a brief, stolen moment.

"Thank you," he whispered, pouring all his gratitude and love into those two simple words. "I'll be right back"

With a final, lingering look at his little family, Caleb turned and headed for the door, his heart heavy but also filled with a profound sense of love and belonging. He knew he was lucky to have you by his side, to have someone who understood him in a way that no one else could.

Zayne paced back and forth in the pediatrician's office, his hazel eyes flickering with a mix of nervousness and intensity as he recited the benefits of the upcoming shots for the twins. In his arms, he cradled the tiny, squirming form of the baby girl, while you held your baby boy close to your chest.

He paused, realizing the tension in his shoulders and forcing himself to take a deep breath. This wasn't about Zayne's medical expertise, it was about the fact that the tiny humans in your arms were his children, and the thought of them being in pain, even briefly, made Zayne's stomach churn.

Focus, Zayne, he told himself, pushing down the nervousness threatening to consume him.

Zayne's eyes widened slightly as the nurse entered the room, her hand holding the small needles. Without hesitation, he gently transferred the fussing baby girl into the nurse's arms, his large hands carefully placing the tiny bundle of warmth and soft skin into the woman's arms.

"Here, hold her," Zayne said, his voice only wavering slightly. "I can do this. I'll give them their shots."

The nurse and you both stared at Zayne in stunned disbelief as he reached for the syringe, eyes wide with concern.

"Dr. Zayne, you can't do that!" the nurse exclaimed, her voice rising in pitch. "It's not appropriate for you to administer vaccines to your own family members. I'm a registered nurse, and it's my job to handle this."

Realizing the gravity of his overstep, Zayne quickly but gently took the baby girl from the nurse's arms, cradling her close to his broad chest. He sat down beside you, the warmth of your body a comforting presence as the reality of his actions sank in.

"I... I apologize," Zayne said, his voice uncharacteristically soft and hesitant. "I overstepped. That was not appropriate of me to try and take over like that." Please, continue," he said to the nurse, gesturing for her to continue.

As the nurse gently held the baby girl's thigh, preparing to administer the shot, Zayne blurted out:

"I read that if you do it higher up..."

"Zayne.." you interrupted him, placing a calming hand on Zayne's muscular forearm.

"Please, continue," you said to the nurse, offering her an apologetic smile.

As the first shot was administered and the baby girl let out a heart wrenching cry, Zayne instinctively tightened his grip around her tiny, squirming body. He could feel each hiccup and gasp against his broad chest as he bounced her gently, trying to soothe her.

"It's okay my little jasmine," Zayne murmured, his deep voice rumbling softly in his chest. "You're being so brave. Mommy and Daddy are right here."

He glanced at you "She's okay," he said, more to reassure himself than anything else. "It's just a little pinch, sweetheart."

The second shot was given to the baby girl, and her cries intensified, filling the room with a heart wrenching symphony of pain and distress. Zayne felt his heart clench in his chest, the sound of his daughter's anguish hitting him like a physical blow. He tightened his arms around her, rocking the crying baby gently.

When the nurse turned to administer the shots to the baby boy cradled in your arms, his cries joined, the twins now a duet of distressed wails. Zayne's eyes met yours, and he could see the pain and concern etched on your face.

He leaned in closer to you, his voice low and urgent.

"Swap babies," Zayne said "Let me take him. I can help calm him down, and you can soothe her."

Zayne gently took the crying baby boy from your arms, cradling him close to his broad chest. He began to sway softly, the natural rocking motion seeming to soothe the infant as his cries started to decrease.

"Shhh, it's alright, little man," Zayne murmured, his deep voice a comforting rumble against the baby's ear. "Daddy's got you"

At the same time, you took the now quieter baby girl into your arms, cooing softly to her as you gently bounced her and patted her back.

"You three did so well" Zayne blinked, the nurse's praise only registering once she had left the room. He looked down at the now calm and quiet baby boy nestled in his arms, his hazel eyes widening slightly as the realization dawned on him.

"You know," you said softly, a gentle smile on your face as you cradled the equally settled baby girl, "the nurse is right. We all did well, especially you."

Xavier sat calmly in the doctor's office, cradling his baby girl gently in his muscular arms. She was fast asleep, her tiny face scrunched up slightly as she dreamed. Xavier's eyes were soft as he gazed down at her, a gentle smile playing on his lips.

He had been nervous about bringing her here today, not wanting her to be poked but knowing it was necessary for her health. Xavier had seen countless advances in medicine throughout the centuries, but the thought of his tiny baby getting shots made his heart ache. His heart raced as he heard the doctor enter the room, the sound of the tiny syringes clinking together making his breath catch in his throat. He watched intently as the doctor approached, his arms instinctively tightening protectively around his baby girl.

When the doctor gently cleaned a small area on his daughter's chubby thigh, she remained completely still, her eyelids not even fluttering as she slept on, blissfully unaware of what was about to happen.

Xavier's deep blue eyes flicked up to meet the doctor's gaze, silently conveying his unease. "Please, be gentle..." he murmured under his breath, the plea barely audible.

Your grip on Xavier's shoulder tightened reflexively when you saw the needle prick her soft skin. Xavier couldn't help but wince, his grip on her tightened reflexively. He clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to pull her away from the source of her brief discomfort. As the second needle pierced her tiny thigh and she jumped slightly in her sleep, Xavier's heart ached.

"Shhh, it's okay, my little star. I got you," he cooed softly, rocking her gently. His hand on her back rubbed soothing circles as he pressed a tender kiss to her hair, breathing in her comforting baby scent. 

Despite the small sting she had just experienced, she remained fast asleep in the safety of her father's strong arms.  "She's incredible," he breathed to the doctor, a note of awe and fierce pride in his voice. "Such a brave girl, even at this age."

"And she is beautiful, just like her mother" you heard the doctor say.

Xavier glanced at you, a hint of jealousy flickering in his deep blue eyes as the doctor's words echoed in the room. Beautiful, just like her mother...He cleared his throat, a slight frown tugging at his soft lips.

As the doctor left you both alone in the room Xavier's gaze remained fixed on you, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, he spoke in a low, slightly gruff tone tinged with possessiveness.

"We may need to consider changing pediatricians," he murmured  "A professional, not a admirer." With a soft sigh, he adjusted the baby's blanket, his focus back on his daughter's comfort, even as his thoughts lingered on the doctor's words.

Sylus cradles his baby close to his chest, one large, veiny hand supporting his tiny back while the other gently pats and soothes. The little boy is a miniature version of him, his crimson eyes seem to hold the same enigmatic depth Sylus possesses. The only feature the baby inherited from you is the soft hair that peeks out from beneath the striped knit cap.

The baby squirms slightly in his arms, his tiny lips parting as he lets out a soft coo. Sylus smiles down at him, a rare sight of genuine tenderness softening his sharp features. "Shh, little one," Sylus murmurs, "We'll get through this together. You and me, we're a team now."

The door to the exam room opens, and the nurse enters with a tray of syringes. Sylus' eyes narrow, his instincts screaming at him to protect his son from any pain. But he forces himself to relax, knowing it's a necessary evil.

"Alright, sweetie," the nurse says with a warm smile. "We'll need to give him two shots today. Are you guys ready?"

Sylus nods, he holds himself with his usual air of calm, unflappable composure, his broad shoulders squared and his chin held high. To the outside world, he looks every inch the picture of a confident, even arrogant man who fears nothing.

But you know better. You can see the subtle tension in the line of his jaw, the way his fingers tighten almost imperceptibly around your son's small, warm body. You recognizes the flash of fear that flickers briefly in his eyes before he tamps it down.

Sylus feels his heart lurch as the nurse approaches, her hand outstretched with a small alcohol wipe. He watches, his eyes intense and unwavering, as she gently cleans the top of the baby's thigh, preparing it for the shots. The baby, sensing the unfamiliar touch, pulls his chubby leg back, his face scrunching up as he starts to fuss.

Instinctively, Sylus tightens his hold on the baby, his arms cradling him protectively. He can feel the baby's small body stiffen and squirm against his chest, and it takes every ounce of his self control not to snatch his son away from the nurse's reach.

"Easy, little one" you whisper "It will be over quickly, and then you'll be brave and strong, just like your father" Sylus knows it's not just his son who needs the reassurance. He needs it too.

Sylus feels his heart shatter as he watches his son's face contort in agony, a high pitched, wailing cry tearing from the baby's lungs. He can feel the tiny body in his arms thrashing and shuddering, small fists clenched and tiny feet kicking.

When the second shot is administered Sylus clenches his jaw, a muscle ticking furiously in his cheek as he fights the urge to roar at the nurse to stop, to take the needles away, to make the pain cease. His arms tighten even more around his son, crushing him against his broad chest as if he could absorb the pain into himself, could take it away.

You sign the paperwork with a shaky hand, the pen trembling slightly as you initial each line. As you turn to face Sylus, you take in the sight of him, his normally composed and confident demeanor utterly shattered, replaced by a man consumed by desperation. Your heart clenches at the sight of a single tear tracking down Sylus' cheek. He quickly brushes away the tear, not wanting you to see the raw vulnerability he feels in this moment. 

He stands slowly, the baby's screams now morphing into hiccupping sobs and then into soft, shuddering breaths. He turns to you, his expression softening slightly as he reaches out to take your hand in his. He laces your fingers together, squeezing gently as if seeking comfort and strength from your touch.

You gently take your son from his arms, cradling the baby close to your chest. You can feel the tiny body still trembling slightly, the soft breaths coming in shuddering puffs against your neck. "Let's go home, little guy" you coo softly, rocking the baby gently as you take a step towards the door. "It's all over now. Mommy's got you"

"Come on, let's take him home", you say softly, glancing up at Sylus with a tender smile. You can see the way his eyes soften as he looks at your son, the love and devotion written plainly across his handsome face.

[kryptoknight123]

But how will I cope when reader finds out sexy whisky isn’t real and it’s her moody, caf craving (and sexier) boss?!

Liar Liar (Part 1/?)

🫧 Part One - 79's

🫧 Pairings: Commander Fox X Female Reader.

🫧 word count: 5k.

🫧 Plot: When you meet a so-called clone named Whisky at 79's, you're a bit flustered with the impression he left on you. Little did you know that you were now caught in a web of Commander Fox’s lie.

🫧 Chapter Warnings: Safe for work, alcohol consumption, lying, teasing, flirting, Corrie guard antics, Fox is a little shit, grumpy. AFAB Female reader.

🫧 Authors note: Hi! So this is going to be a short story about reader and Commander Fox. Be prepared for lots of flirting, angst, crying, fun and eventual smutty goodness! Enjoy. I've also posted most parts to my AO3 account (NaHoney).

“You gonna join us tonight?”

You glance up from your work, eyebrows raised. “And that would be…?”

“79’s, of course!” Thire grins, slinging his arm around one of his brothers. “We need a break.”

“He’s right. I can’t remember the last time I had a night just to relax,” Hound chimes in, leaning casually against the wall, his helmet tucked under one arm. 

They look at you expectantly as you mull it over. You rarely went out—especially not with the boys—but the idea of unwinding at 79’s didn’t sound half bad. Besides, your friend Pia was working tonight, and catching up with her had been long overdue.

“Sure,” you say, nodding as you distribute the last of the data files onto the desks for tomorrow’s shift. “I’ll be there.”

The troopers exchange approving smiles. “Should we ask Fox?” Hound wonders aloud, glancing at his brothers before shifting his gaze to you.

“Why bother?” Stone snorts from the doorway. “He always says no.”

You roll your eyes but can’t deny the truth in Stone’s words. You’d overheard Fox turn down countless invitations. 

Anyway, he didn’t seem the type to let loose, especially with how rowdy the boys could get after a few rounds of Corellian ale. 

“I don’t see the harm in asking him again,” you reply, shrugging. “But yeah, he’ll probably say no.”

They leave you with the task. You finish tidying up, making sure everything is prepped for tomorrow. The clock ticks closer to 1900 hours, but Fox still hasn’t returned from the Senate. Deciding you’ve waited long enough, you gather your things and head for the door.

Just as you hit the button to open it, the door hisses apart, and you nearly collide with the broad red armor of Commander Fox.

“Oh!” You step back quickly, almost tripping over your own feet. “There you are.”

Fox enters, his usual confident stride noticeably subdued. He moves to his desk, his back to you, shoulders tense beneath his armor.

“I’ve been waiting for you,” you continue, hovering uncertainly near the doorway.

 A weary and almost impatient sigh filters through his modulator. “And why’s that?”

Something’s off. You’re used to his abrupt tone, but tonight there’s a heaviness to it that makes you hesitate with your answer 

“Everything okay, Commander?” Your tone softens, concerned as you ignore his question.

“Fine,” he replies curtly, glancing over his shoulder. When he sees the worry etched on your face, he sighs again, this time sounding more human than soldier. “It’s just been a long day.”

You offer a small, sympathetic smile. “Yeah, I can imagine. You usually don’t finish this late at the Senate.”

He turns fully to face you, leaning back against his desk. His arms cross over his chest. “I’ve finished later,” he says dryly. “Is everything sorted for the morning?” He then asks, changing topic swiftly.

“Yes, Commander. Everyone has their files, and I put through an order for more supplies.”

“Such as?” He presses.

You hold your tongue and maintain a neutral expression. Back to his grumpy self, it seems.

“Extra medpacs, ammo, and rations. They should arrive by 0900 hours,” you list off, trying to sound efficient and competent, even though his scrutiny makes your blood simmer.

Fox nods absently, his visor fixed on you. Then he starts rattling off a checklist of additional tasks. Everything from inventory updates, personnel reports, security drills. You bite back the urge to roll your eyes, wondering why he insists on making everything harder than it needs to be.

“Like I said, Commander,” you interrupt gently but firmly when he finishes, “I’ve taken care of everything. For you.”

The ‘for you’ slips out sharper than intended, and you can’t help the flicker of satisfaction when you see his posture stiffen slightly. Turning away, you head for the door, masking your irritation with a forced calm. Just before you step out, you hesitate, glancing back.

“I stayed because the boys wanted to see if you’d join us at 79’s tonight. I’ll tell them you’re busy.” 

Because ‘busy’ always sounds better than ‘tired’.

⋅⋅───⊱༺  🦊 ༻⊰───⋅⋅

“There she is!” Stone cheers the moment he spots you, raising his glass in a mock toast.

You grin as you weave through the packed club, the bass of music thudding in your chest, lights flickering in shades of blue and violet. The air is thick with the scent of sweat and alcohol. Typical 79’s.

As you reach the group, a chorus of nods and smiles greet you. Thire, Hound, and a few other Corrie Guards stand clustered together, already a few drinks in.

“Lookin’ good.” Hound nods appreciatively, earning a playful jab from you but accepting the compliment regardless. It’s not often you dress up, after all and the shirt you bought last month was too cute not to wear.

“Surprised to see you all behaving,” you tease, eyeing Thire’s drink before shifting to the man himself. “Especially you. No table dancing tonight?”

Thire groans, rubbing his head like the memory physically pains him. “I thought we all agreed not to bring that up.”

“Too hard to forget.” You smirk. “Especially the part where you fell flat on your face.”

Hound chokes on his drink, while Stone grins over the rim of his own. “I swear, the look on his face right before he went down—priceless.”

Thire mutters something about betrayal under his breath but smirks anyway.

“So, I take it the Commander isn’t coming?” Hound then asks, shifting the conversation as he leans closer.

You bite back a smart remark, still holding a minor grudge from your last interaction with Fox. Instead, you just shake your head. “Nope. He was really busy. Lots of files to go through.”

“Surprise, surprise,” Stone mutters, downing another sip.

You nod along, but despite your irritation, you can’t shake the image of Fox’s slumped posture, the exhaustion practically radiating off him. Still, you push the thought aside and excuse yourself, heading toward the bar.

Sliding onto a stool, you drum your fingers against the bartop, scanning the crowd until a familiar voice breaks through the noise.

“There’s my girl!” Pia grins, practically launching herself over the bar to pull you into a quick hug. “It’s been forever!”

“Oh, I know,” you sigh, grateful for the warmth of her presence. “Work’s been eating up my life. I haven’t had time for anything.”

“Tell me about it,” Pia groans, throwing a rag over her shoulder. “I’ve covered four extra shifts this week. Four! I basically live here.”

“That’s rough.”

“I wouldn’t mind if the pay was half-decent,” she grumbles, before quickly turning to serve an impatient trooper waving a handful of credits. She hands him his drink with a pointed look before spinning back to you. “Anyway, let’s get you a drink.”

As she sets a fruity, colorful concoction in front of you, you instinctively reach for your credits, but Pia swats your hand away with the tiny umbrella meant for your drink.

“Absolutely not.” She tuts, popping the umbrella in your glass for extra flourish.

You arch a brow. “You sure?”

“Of course.” She’s already dashing off to serve someone else before you can protest, so you just shake your head with a laugh.

“Don’t expect a tip, then,” you joke.

“Wouldn’t expect one from you anyway!” Pia calls over her shoulder, grinning.

You take a sip, humming in satisfaction. Perfect, as always. As the straw hangs lazily from your lips, you scan the bar, looking for any more familiar faces—though, ironically, in a room full of clones, everyone looks familiar.

Then you spot him.

Across the bar, a clone sits alone, elbow propped up as he rests his head in his hand. He looks… tired. Maybe bored. Maybe just hoping no one will bother him. But there’s something about him that catches your attention.

Salt-and-pepper curls frame his face, the dim light emphasising the lines along his forehead. He wears his blacks, leaving his battalion unclear. But you can’t shake the feeling that you should know who he is.

Before you can think too hard about it, Pia appears in your line of sight, snapping you back to reality.

“So, how is it?” she asks, wiggling her brows.

You blink. “How’s what?”

“The drink, duh .”

“Oh.” You flush slightly, realising you’d been too busy staring at the mystery trooper. “Yeah, it’s great. Thanks.”

Pia beams at the praise before suddenly flipping off a customer who’s been aggressively clicking his fingers for service. “ I said I’ll be with you in a minute!” she snaps, before turning back to you. “So, who’s your company tonight?”

“The Corrie Guards, of course.”

Pia gives you a skeptical look. “Uh-huh. Well, do me a favor and make sure Thire stays off the tables this time.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Already warned him.”

As Pia busies herself with another round of orders, your gaze naturally drifts back to the clone across the bar. For a split second, you swear he meets your eyes, but Pia keeps unintentionally blocking your view.

“Hey! When am I gonna get my drink?” the same customer whines, earning a spectacular eye-roll from Pia.

“When I’m done talking to my friend .” She smiles sweetly, almost menacingly.

“You’re not even serving her anymore! You’re just chatting!”

Pia glares at him. He promptly shrinks back in his seat.

You take another sip of your drink before nodding toward the lone clone. “Say, do you know who that is?”

Pia grins knowingly. “Obviously. That’s—”

“Listen, lady, I just wanna get a drink and—”

“Kriff, fine ! Fine! ” Pia throws her hands up, stomping over to the persistent patron.

You sigh as she gets pulled away, your curiosity about the mystery trooper left frustratingly unanswered.

You try not to keep stealing glances at him, but there’s just something about him. It’s distracting. 

Maybe it’s the salt-and-pepper streaking through his curls, maybe it’s the way his shoulders hunch, like he’s carrying the weight of an entire day on them. He’s got that whole brooding, don’t-talk-to-me aura, which—ironically—only makes you more curious.

And, apparently, more reckless.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab a napkin from the dispenser and fish a pen out of your purse. You hesitate, pen hovering over the flimsy paper. What do you even write? Something casual? Flirty? Mysterious?

You roll your eyes at yourself—definitely overthinking it. Finally, you scribble down:

You look lonely. I can fix that.

As soon as you read it back, you cringe. Too forward? Too suggestive? Maybe you should—

Nope. No time for second-guessing. You fold the napkin before you can change your mind. Pia is still swamped, barely keeping up with the sea of 212th troopers ordering drinks, but thankfully, a server droid hums by.

Perfect.

“Hey,” you beckon it over, glancing toward the clone across the bar. “Can you take this to him?”

The droid gives a curt beep. “That is not my function.”

“Oh, come on,” you groan. “It’ll take two seconds.”

“Then do it yourself.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ll tell Pia you need rewiring.”

The droid snatches the napkin without another word, wheeling off toward the clone.

Your stomach knots as you watch it place the note in front of him, then—completely unhelpfully—point directly at you. Great. You quickly avert your eyes, suddenly regretting everything.

But you still sneak a glance from the corner of your eye.

The clone straightens slightly, unfolds the napkin. Reads it. Pauses. Then, without a flicker of reaction, folds it back up and finishes his drink.

And then… he stands.

Your stomach drops. Oh. That’s it, then. He doesn’t even look your way as he walks off, disappearing into the crowd.

You exhale, a mix of relief and secondhand embarrassment washing over you. You swirl the ice in your glass and mutter to yourself, “Well. Won’t be doing that again.”

A voice speaks up behind you.

“It worked, didn’t it?”

You turn on your stool, and—oh.

The clone from across the bar is now standing right in front of you. Tall. Broad. Close.

Heat creeps up your neck. Your mouth suddenly dry.

“…Yeah,” you manage, a little breathless. “Kind of surprised, actually.”

“How come?” He gestures to the empty stool beside you, waiting for your nod before he sits.

“You looked like a man who didn’t want to be bothered.” You take a sip of your drink, hoping it steadies you.

“And yet, you were bold enough to send a note,” he muses, lips curving just slightly. “Very sweet.”

You giggle, shrugging as you set your glass down with a soft clink. “You don’t know if you don’t try.”

His amusement lingers. “Looks like it paid off.” He chuckles, then tilts his head. “Can I get you another drink?”

“I’d like that, thank you.”

He signals for another round, ordering one for himself, too.

“So,” you begin, tilting your head, “I haven’t seen you around before. What battalion are you with?”

The clone pauses just a fraction too long before answering, “Coruscant Guard.”

Your brows lift. “Oh? Me too! I feel like I would’ve noticed you… what’s your name?”

Another brief hesitation. Then: “Whisky.”

You arch a brow. “Whisky?”

“That’s right.” He nods, taking a deeper sip of his drink. There’s a flicker of nerves in his expression, but you don’t press. “Big whisky fan.”

You chuckle. “Fair enough. Cool name.”

“And yours?”

You offer your name along with your hand, flashing a bright, playful grin.

For a moment, he just looks at you. Then, he places his hand in yours. His palm is warm, his grip firm but careful.

“Lovely name,” he murmurs.

His voice is smooth, just a little too low, and it sends a surprising shiver up your spine. There’s something about the way he holds your hand—like he’s not sure if he should, but doesn’t want to let go, either. The earlier nervousness is gone, replaced by a small, amused smirk.

And you?

You’re intrigued.

Still, you release his hand before yours can get clammy. “So, the Corrie Guard?” You lean back slightly, studying him. “I still feel like I should’ve seen you around.”

He clears his throat, taking another long sip. “I’m not exactly frontline.”

That explains it. “What department?”

“Mechanic.”

That really explains it. You nod, feeling a little sheepish. “Ah, that’s probably why. I love working with my boys in red, though. They’re good to me.”

“Good,” he says, then hesitates. “So, uh… what’s the Commander like?”

You blink. “Fox?”

He nods.

You smirk, turning away slightly as you consider your answer. A hundred words come to mind—moody, buzzkill, abrasive, miserable, exhausted…

“Grumpy,” you settle on, swirling your drink. “Big grump.”

He chuckles. “Can’t be that bad.”

“Oh, but he is.” You huff, thinking back to earlier that night. “But… he works hard, so sometimes the grumpiness is excused.”

“Sure,” Whisky nods, idly swiping at the condensation on his glass. He hesitates again. “He… does he treat you okay?”

You arch a brow, amused. “Why? You planning to put in a word for me?”

The teasing is lighthearted, but Whisky seems oddly stiff about it. You wave it off before he can dwell. “He’s okay,” you say simply. “He just gets under my skin sometimes. I don’t think he means to.” You sigh, taking another sip before turning back to him. “You know him?”

He shakes his head, then drinks. “Nah. Just heard he can be a little hard on people.”

You hum. “You got that right.”

You don’t notice the way Whisky shifts in his seat, rubbing a hand through his hair, his eyes dropping into his glass. He’s quiet, thoughtful—until you break the silence again.

“Actually,” you say, warmth from the alcohol making you bolder, “I know a secret about him.”

He raises a brow. “You do?”

You giggle and scoot closer, lowering your voice. “I’ll tell you but you have to keep it between us.” You hold up your hand, pinky extended. “And all my promises have to be pinky sweared.”

Whisky stares at you for a second, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. Then, with a small smirk, he hooks his pinky around yours. “Alright. Spill.”

“So, about a year ago, I was in the office, sorting files or whatever. I came across one of his, and being the amazing worker I am, I marched right up to him at his desk and dropped it in front of him.” You start grinning, the memory as vivid as if it happened yesterday.

“And you know what he said?”

Whisky watches you closely, his gaze flickering to your lips as you lean in, your voice dropping secretively. 

Closer, closer, closer…

“No,” he murmurs.

“Nothing.”

His brows draw together. “Nothing?”

“Nothing,” you repeat, eyes alight with mischief. “Because he was snoring under his bucket.”

There’s a moment of silence followed by laughter. You tip your head back, giggling as you wipe a tear from your eye, and Whisky laughs along with you, shaking his head. It’s not even that funny, but the irony of it is too good.

“He always tells us to work harder, no time for rest,” you say, rolling your eyes. “And there he was, sleeping on the job. And it wasn’t even the first time! He sleeps upright, so it looks like he’s just watching us. But nope. Out cold.”

“So he’s a slacker?” Whisky smirks.

You shake your head. “No, not a slacker. He works hard. Really hard.”

“But you didn’t wake him?” He eyes you curiously.

“Nah. He barely gets any rest as it is, so I let him sleep.” You glance at Whisky, smirking. “Besides… it’s kinda cute.”

Whisky watches you closely, his lips twitching at your laughter, but his eyes seem to linger on you a moment longer than necessary. He swirls his drink idly, then asks, “You think he’d be mad if he knew you caught him slacking?”

You shrug, still grinning. “Maybe. But what’s he gonna do? Fire me? I know he’s my boss but those lot won’t function without me.” You laugh. “Besides, I doubt he gets much rest, so I let him sleep. Figured he needed it.”

There’s something in Whisky’s expression that shifts—just slightly. His fingers drum against his glass, his posture relaxing, but you catch a flicker of something you can’t quite place. It’s gone as soon as it appears, replaced by that same amused smirk.

“Didn’t take you for the sentimental type,” he muses.

You roll your eyes but smile.“It’s not sentimental. Just… practical.”

“You like him,” he says. It’s not quite a question, more of an observation.

You hum, tilting your head. “I admire him,” you correct, swirling your drink. “Fox works harder than anyone I know. He doesn’t just give orders—he takes the weight of everything on his shoulders. Every mission, every casualty, every prisoner, every mistake. And I don’t think anyone really sees that.”

Whisky watches you carefully, listening.

You sigh, resting your elbow on the bar. “I just wish he was… a little nicer, sometimes. He’s got a good squad. I mean, the guys look up to him. I think if he let himself relax, let himself be one of them instead of always keeping himself separate, they’d follow him even harder. But he never does.” You exhale, shaking your head. “I dunno. It’s not my business, really. Just somethin’ I think about.”

Whisky is quiet for a second, “Maybe he doesn’t know how,” he says finally.

You pause. “Yeah,” you murmur. “Maybe.”

A small smirk tugs at his lips, but it’s softer this time. “You’re a bit of a softie, huh?”

You scoff, playfully nudging him with your elbow “Shut up.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s not a bad thing.” He takes a sip of his nearly empty drink, eyes flicking over you. “You care about your squad.”

“Of course I do,” you say, as if it’s obvious. “I spend all my time with them. They’re like family.”

Whisky hums, contemplative. He watches you for a moment longer before he shifts in his seat, leaning a little closer, his arm brushing against yours.

“So,” he says, voice dipping lower, more conspiratorial, “if Fox is the grumpiest, who’s your favourite?”

You huff a laugh. “Oh, come on, I can’t answer that.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I pick one, I’ll have to deal with the rest of them whining about it for the next month.” You shake your head. “I’m not walking into that trap.”

Whisky grins. “Smart.”

You take a sip of your drink, then tilt your head at him. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You’re in the Guard, too. You’ve gotta have a favourite.”

He hesitates for a fraction of a second—so quick you almost miss it. Then, he smirks. “Can’t say I’ve thought about it.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Liar.”

He chuckles, but doesn’t argue. Instead, he taps the side of his glass. “Alright, fine. Who gives you the most trouble?”

You groan dramatically. “Thorn . Hands down.”

Whisky raises a brow. “That bad?”

“He’s so smug,” you complain, exasperated. “He knows he can get away with murder because he’s one of Fox’s best. And he loves rubbing it in my face. I’d also argue Stone because he’s cheeky but Thorn can be devious if he wants to be.”

Whisky chuckles. “Sounds like a menace.”

“Oh, he is ,” you confirm. “But I can’t even be mad about it, because he’s also stupidly good at his job. So I just have to suffer .”

He leans in close. “Poor thing.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Don’t patronise me.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” His voice is smooth, teasing, and— Maker , his eyes are intense when they settle on you like that.

Your breath catches slightly, but you mask it with another sip of your drink. The air between you has shifted—still playful, but heavier now, charged with something unspoken.

You clear your throat. “So, Whisky,” you say, changing the subject. “Tell me something about you .”

His smirk lingers, but there’s a flicker of something else behind it. “What do you wanna know?”

You tap your fingers against the bar, pretending to think. “Mmm… what’s the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever done while on duty?”

Whisky chuckles, shaking his head. “Now that’s a dangerous question.”

“Oh, come on,” you nudge him. “I won’t tell.”

He eyes you for a moment, considering. Then, he leans in slightly, voice lowering just enough to send a shiver up your spine.

“Alright,” he murmurs, “but if I tell you… you owe me another secret in return.”

You grin. “Deal.”

And just like that, the night stretches on and the hours slip away without either of you noticing.

⋅───⊱༺ 🦊 ༻⊰───⋅

It starts with secrets, little things at first. Just small confessions that wouldn’t ruin you if they got out. 

You tell him about the time you ‘accidentally’ shredded a report you were supposed to file, and how you spent half the day trying to piece it back together before finally giving up and blaming it on a faulty data pad. Or how you once snuck into the supply room after hours because Thorn had been too busy to eat, and you stole rations for both of you under the pretense of ‘inventory control.’

Whisky listens with quiet amusement, the occasional smile flickering across his lips as he watches you talk. He’s not a big sharer. His own stories are vague and kind of always deflecting back to you. But when you mention your upbringing, your life before the Republic and the war, he leans in slightly, genuinely intrigued.

“You ever think about what comes after?” you ask at one point.

His brow furrows slightly. “After?”

You nod. “Yeah. Like… what happens when the war ends? What do you want to do?”

For the first time, Whisky hesitates—not the way he had before, when he seemed like he was choosing his words carefully, but like he’s genuinely never considered it. 

“You don’t have to answer,” you say quickly, suddenly feeling bad for asking as he stares into his drink.

“No, it’s not that.” His voice is quiet. “I just… don’t know.”

The admission sits heavy between you, and before you can say anything else, he shifts the conversation.

“What about you?”

You exhale, leaning back against the bar. “Dunno.” You smile a little, but it’s laced with something soft and wistful. “I’d love to travel. See what’s out there, you know? Maybe settle somewhere quiet. Own a little shop or something.”

He studies you. “You’d leave Coruscant?”

You huff a small laugh. “Wouldn’t you?”

He doesn’t answer.

The music has quieted now, the heavy bass that once thrummed beneath your feet nothing more than a distant pulse. The strobe lights have stopped their restless dance, leaving the room bathed in the softer glow of overhead fixtures. It’s only then that you realise most of the patrons have left.

You turn back to Whisky, surprised to find him watching you. There’s something unreadable in his expression, something quiet and intense.

“What?” you ask, tilting your head.

“You’re really beautiful.”

The words catch you off guard. You blink, lips parting slightly before you shake your head, laughing softly. “You don’t know me.”

“Do I have to?”

You frown slightly, not in offense but in confusion. “How can you find a person beautiful if you don’t know them?”

Whisky exhales a small laugh, looking down briefly before meeting your gaze again. “I… you look beautiful,” he says, voice steady but soft. “And the way you talk about your family, about your squad… it’s nice.”

You watch him before smirking a touch. “You’re not too bad yourself, handsome.” Your voice is teasing, but there’s warmth beneath it, something genuine that makes his grip on his glass tighten.

He smirks however, trying to play off your compliment. “That means you think all my brothers are handsome.”

You hum in mock consideration, swirling the last of your drink. “Maybe so…” You take a slow sip, then let your eyes meet his again. “But maybe I find you the most attractive.”

There’s a shift between you, a flicker of something deeper in the way he looks at you—like he’s memorising the moment, the words, the way you say them. His lips part slightly, a breath drawn in like he’s about to say something, but then—

“Kriff.” You sit up straighter, suddenly glancing at the time. “I’ve gotta get going! If I don’t sleep tonight, I’ll be late, and the last thing I need is to miss one of Fox’s drills.”

He reacts almost instantly, standing when you do, setting his drink down. “S-sure, no problem. Do you want me to walk you home?”

“I’m taking a cab, but thank you.”

Still, he follows you out, insists on making sure you get into one safely. Outside, the night air is crisp, cool enough to make you shiver. You wrap your arms around yourself, exhaling. “Knew I should’ve brought a jacket.”

Whisky chuckles, stepping a little closer. “I could warm you up.”

The words hang between you, charged, almost daring. You tilt your head at him, amused. “Bold offer.”

He grins. “It’s there if you want it.”

A cab hovers down in front of you, and he opens the door, but you hesitate. Looking up at him, you smile softly. “It was really nice meeting you, Whisky. I hope to see you again sometime.”

There’s a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze, but he nods. “I’m sure we will. Sooner than you think.”

You don’t quite understand what he means, but there’s a thrill in the mystery of it. He holds out his hand, and you roll your eyes playfully, swatting it away. “I’m not shaking your hand goodbye.”

Before he can ask what you mean, you step closer, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his cheek. You linger for just a second, enough to feel the way he tenses, the way he barely exhales.

When you pull back, you smirk. “Goodnight, handsome.”

He inhales sharply, watching as you step into the cab. His voice is quiet, soft.

“Goodnight… beautiful.”

He stays there as your cab lifts off, watching until it’s out of sight. Then, with a deep breath, he turns—only to hear someone calling his name.

His real name.

“Fox? Fox! We didn’t know you came out tonight! Where have you been?”

Thire stumbles toward him, voice slurred, movements a little too loose. Fox rubs the back of his neck, shrugging. “I’ve been busy.”

Thire squints at him, blinking blearily. “Busy, huh?” He lets out a slow, knowing grin. “Didn’t take you for the social type, Commander .”

Fox huffs, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m not.”

His brother wobbles slightly, throwing an arm around Fox’s shoulders. “Right. So where were you?”

Fox debates answering honestly for all of two seconds before shaking his head. “None of your business.”

Thire gasps dramatically, pointing at him. “ Oh. So it’s like that ? You sneak off, disappear for hours, come back looking all—” he waves his hand at him vaguely, “— not miserable… You met someone, didn’t you?”

Fox sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Go back to the barracks, Thire.”

But his brother is relentless. “ You did! ” He stumbles back a step, laughing. “Oh, I gotta know. Who is it?”

Fox shakes his head, a rare smirk tugging at his lips. “Go. Now.”

Thire groans, rubbing his face. “Fine, fine. But I swear , if I see you all giddy at work tomorrow, I will find out.”

Fox rolls his eyes. “Go sleep it off.”

As he stumbles away, still muttering about Fox meeting someone , the Commander exhales slowly. He turns back toward the sky where your cab had disappeared, rubbing his jaw where your lips had touched his skin.

He should feel guilty. He should feel stupid for going along with it, for making up a name, for listening to you talk about him without you even knowing.

But he doesn’t. Not yet, anyway. 

Instead, he just wonders what he’ll do when he sees you again.

Part One - 79’s

Part Two - Reflection

Part Three - Sniffed Out

Part Four - Dreams

Or read on AO3 here for more parts ♥️

please reblog to support your content creators ♥️

Tags: (if you want tagging in this series updates, let me know <3):

@littlefeatherr @kaitou2417 @eyecandyeoz @jesseeka a @theroguesully y @ladykatakuri @arctrooper69 @padawancat97 @staycalmandhugaclone @ko-neko-san @echos-girlfriend @fiveshelmet @dangraccoon @plushymiku-blog @pb-jellybeans @nunanuggets @sleepycreativewriter r @erellenora @zippingstars87 @ezras-left-thumb @the-rain-on-kamino @tentakelspektakel @stellarbit @tech-aficionado @grizabellasolo @therealnekomari @tech-depression-inventory @brynhildrmimi i @greaser-wolf @kaminocasey @marvel-starwars-nerd @ladytano420 @ladyzirkonia @thesith @raevulsix @cw80831 @knightprincess @crosshairlovebot @the-bad-batch-baroness @the-bad-batch-baroness

[digitalcreationsllc]

IZ1H9 Campaign Enhances Its Arsenal with Scores of Exploits

The campaign leverages multiple vulnerabilities, including command injection, remote code execution, and arbitrary command execution, to gain control of targeted devices and incorporate them into the botnet.

[seat-safety-switch]

When you go to school for computer science, one of the things they try to teach you is that a computer can be anything. It doesn't have to be a bleepity-bloopity thing, stimulating rocks with canned lightning. It doesn't have to be a room-filling automaton made entirely out of fancy light bulbs. And it sure as fuck doesn't need to be some rocks that you move along on a piece of wood to count things. No, a computer can be anything, as long as it follows some basic rules. A dog can be a computer.

Recently, as part of my court-ordered requirement not to touch electronic computers and mobilized smart telephones, I've been training the neighbour's dog to access the internet. You might think that this is difficult, or impossible, but again: computer science theory says that the dog can do it. Rufus can be a computational device. At the very least, I can train him to run over to the neighbour's computer and read my newsgroups for me.

You might think that this is difficult work, but time is on my side. Without the cruel bonds of "productive employment," I can spend all day leaning out of my kitchen window and yelling random words at the dog. Eventually, I seem to hit on what I assume is some kind of command-injection fault. Rufus stands shock-straight, looks at the sky for a moment, and immediately bolts inside the house. Minutes pass, and then he emerges with a print-out of alt.autos.plymouth-volare, which has not seen any posts since the last time I checked. It's almost as if nobody else is posting there, but I feel relieved having reconnected to my people.

There's just one problem: Rufus, it turns out, is a narc. He has made more than one printout. In the time he was gone, he was delivering the other one to my parole officer. The judge doesn't appreciate my clever application of theory to practice. It wouldn't be so bad, except that from my prison cell, I can look out the window. It's there that see and hear the dog receive a medal from the Mayor Himself for valour. This is bullshit. He's no hero. He was just following orders.

[robboyblunder]

As promised I went ahead and continued my "ghoul guide" with a part 2 (part one linked in replies)! This one covers stuff specifically with a made up lore guide of in-world ghoul stuff as if they were a sort of unique magic entity.

This one wound up way longer and had to be split so expect a third final one eventually lmao. for now though... I'm gonna take a break and yell. Bonus extra info plus the transcript under the cut!

ID in ALT text!

Bonus note: While not portrayed in the guide, it’s important to know a detail about ghouls’ origin called “memory echoes”. While ghouls are formed from humans past who lose all memory of their previous self while maintaining an assumed personality from before, at times certain instances of events, actions, items, and otherwise can trigger these “echoes”. Echoes are very rare, but a valued treasure to ghouls; they make them feel more connected to their past and more “human”. Upon triggering an echo, a ghoul will become completely listless, unable to respond or react until the echo has completed, usually within seconds.

“Memory echoes” are described as blurry faded memories that often show featureless shapes and colors, but a very strong “feeling” of a Deja-vu of the moment. They feel viscerally real and can have a mix of the senses i.e. touch and smell, but produce no recognizable faces or imagery of the self. No ghoul has ever reported fully remembering one, nor any semblance of their true past beyond the haunting leftovers.

Begin Transcript:

A Compendium of Hell’s Derivates

While there are many theories on the demonic nature of ghouls,

The true source is surprisingly Human.

Souls cannot be recreated; rather, they’re Recycled and Reborn

The cycle of ghoul creation started for unknown reasons…

But one thing is Certain:

Natural forces do not change easily.

Raw elements collide with the fuel of life itself until one connects

by His command

A violent injection of pure elemental magic

Rewrites and erases all memory and one’s past, drastically altering the soul…

These new powers lend to the powerful allies of the ministry,

However….

… new powers are a dangerous toy.

While coined as “Feral”, new ghouls would better be designated “Raw”, “Unbound”, and “Lawlessly Dangerous”

First formed, they are still elements;

Torrential, Aimless,

Incapable of coherent thought or rules

-but with time, coherence returns to the individual

Who grows much like a life cycle’s stages without necessarily aging.

The overall cycle is the same per ghoul, yet varied enough each rises differently…

First form: “Raw” – Second form (1): “Feral” – Second form (2) – Third form: “Stabilized”

Catalyst, violent, poor formation – Unaware, wild, chaotic – Conscious; can act like oneself; less raw – fully formed and recognizable

The first form, “Raw”, is notably so violent the devil himself does not release them until stage two.

The second form in stage one of a “Feral” ghoul is much like the forces of nature; free willed and wild, understanding minimal speech.

Take caution: they can be mischievous and cause decent damage.

In the second stage of a “Feral” ghoul, they behave like typical people; however, they’re still very free and may choose to never fully stabilize.

Note: you can tell they’ve reached this stage by presence of a tail and civil habits.

If desired, a ghoul reaches the final form: “Stabilized”. They’re transformed into a stable humanoid body, a form less powerful but safer.

Note: Talented ghouls can change form at will in this stage between secondary Feral and Stable.

When it comes to location, each form is most likely to be found:

Raw: Hell, contained

Feral (Stage 1): wilds/natural areas

Feral (Stage 2): wilds and civil areas

Stabilized: anywhere people go

Seeing feral ghouls is not uncommon, and can even be considered lucky!

They tend to provide free protection to keep their home

Ghouls can only stabilize via ministry ritual;

One can assume they’re ministry members if stable, even off duty.

Ghouls are uncommon, but found most places if looked for;

This seems especially true near ministry placements.

Ghouls only form from adults and don’t “age” traditionally, yet they’re still mortal

Deceased ghouls do not seem to return or recycle.

Summoning intentionally pulls only second stage feral ghouls or stable ghouls from anywhere,

They don’t always like this however (see other guide).

The cycle of ghouls serves a main purpose – as forces for the Dark One, in return for rebirth

However, there are two channels through which they serve.

1) Natural defense against corrupted holy magic

Non-stable ghouls defend at will naturally where they live

2) training to fight, protect, and uphold the ministry’s efforts in the name of the Devil.

Contrary to belief, summonings cannot grab from “nothing”;

Like the creation of a ghoul,

Their element, once developed, is what becomes pulled by nature

The force of such pull is incredible,

A disorientating test of will so great…

…it can render even the most sound minds rather violent.

This is why while some choose to stabilize, others may not;

But should a mind change, they can be freed or re-summoned.

Alternative to wild summoning, one can summon from trained ghouls over feral;

Many ghouls are trained for ministry positions all over, but any can be summoned if unassigned.

Though stabilized, unassigned ghouls are not contractually bound to anyone until assigned.

They’re great for extra work hands and being able to know what kind of team mates you’ll get without leaving it to chance.

Summoning any ghoul however reverts them to feral form, and the challenge to tame them remains the same.

Just because you know a ghoul does not mean an easy summon.

Finally, be warned: forcing unwanted breaking or upholding of a summoning contract

Will have dire consequences.

Aside from rarity of an element, there are “power classes” within each element.

Tiers:

Rarity of an element does not equal strength.

The break down is as follows:

Rare – extreme and dangerous power. These ghouls earn a specialized title.

Quite strong, stand out in their class and very sought after.

Most common tier; average and decent powers that are expectable.

Weak powers, but some uses are applicable.

Uncommon – ghouls who possess little to no powers. Ghouls in this tier may at times suddenly change power tier without warning to any other category.

S-Tier ghouls are quite rare and a sight to behold- truly, they embody nature’s power.

End transcript.

[stilinskiandthebanshee]

I’m OBSESSED with fratboy!nat! I need more injected straight into my veins stat. The voice, Natalie’s cockiness, the scene. Aaugjjbh

(Can I be 🦦 anon?)

For you 🦦. Your wish is my command. I wrote this all in one night. I fear this is getting away from me. They’ve grown lives of their own.

a/n: this is a continuation of this fic but I think it could stand on its own.

wc: 6.7k (I told you it got out of hand)

Warnings: NSFW! 18+

Semi-public sex, underage drinking, Lottie x reader and Lottienat x reader if you squintttttttt really hard.

Fratboy!Natalie who disappeared off the face of the earth after your… encounter. She hadn’t shown up to a single class in two weeks. Not that you’d been counting. Not like she had haunted every dream you’d had since that night.

Nope. You didn’t care at all.

You especially didn’t care when you got back to your dorm the next morning, hickeys littering your throat like a trail of evidence, and Jackie and Lottie had cornered you the second your foot crossed the threshold.

Apparently, word traveled fast when little Miss Principal’s Scholar and the biggest fuckboy on campus suddenly made nice at a party.

You spent the better part of an hour enduring Jackie’s rant about girls like Natalie (with occasional side-eyes and apologies to Lottie), and how you “should’ve known better.” Eventually, you pacified her with a tight-lipped claim that all you did was smoke a little weed and kiss.

The lie tasted thin even as you said it, but it seemed to satiate her—for now.

Lottie lingered once Jackie stormed off to class, still muttering under her breath about “frat rats.” She reached out gently, catching your elbow before you could bolt to your room and die of embarrassment.

“Look, I’m not Jackie. I’m not gonna lecture you. Just… be careful, okay? Nat is… Nat,” Lottie said, voice softer, steadier. There was something about the way she said it—like someone who knew exactly what she was talking about. Someone who’d lived it.

“Lot, seriously. There’s nothing going on,” you said quickly, too quickly. Defensive. Which was dumb—because it was the truth. Mostly. You’d only done what any girl your age would’ve done in the face of someone like Natalie.

“No, yeah. I totally believe you,” Lottie deadpanned, rolling her eyes. “Look, you can let her rail you six ways to Sunday. I don’t care. Just… I’m pretty sure your heart lives in your vagina. And the only language Natalie speaks fluently is sex.”

You nearly choked, color rushing to your cheeks as you gaped at her. “Did you just quote Grey’s Anatomy at me?”

“Yes. You deserved it,” she said, easily. She didn’t give you a chance to respond, leaving you there sputtering as she slipped out of the door.

The weeks passed in a haze of half-finished assignments and stretched-out silences. Class felt quieter, or maybe you just noticed the silence more now that no one was kicking their boots up next to you or passing little folded-up notes with crude smiley faces. Not that you were looking for her. You weren’t.

Mostly, you kept to yourself. Head down. Pen moving, even if you weren’t really writing anything worth remembering. Lottie kept giving you looks—those knowing, nosy-best-friend stares that said more than words—but to her credit, she didn’t push.

Until one Friday night.

“Alright, get up,” she said, leaning against your doorframe, already wearing a leather jacket and her “don’t talk to me unless you’re hot” eyeliner. “We’re going out.”

You blinked at her from your bed, still in the oversized t-shirt you hadn’t changed out of all day. “I have an essay due Monday.”

“You’re typing the heading. You’ve been typing the heading for an hour and a half.”

“…Fair.”

Jackie appeared behind her, holding up two black tops like she was staging a fashion intervention. “You don’t even have to have fun. You just have to exist in a room that isn’t this one. Preferably in something tight.”

Lottie grinned. “Club’s already packed. We’re meeting Van and Shauna there. And I’m not above dragging your ass by your ponytail.”

It was easier to say yes than to argue. And if your stomach twisted a little on the walk over, if your eyes flicked across every room you passed, it didn’t mean anything. You were just trying to have a good time. Just like everyone else.

That was all.

Except, you weren’t exactly having a good time.

Parties were already a stretch for you—clubs were worse. The music was too loud, the drinks too strong, and the air thick with sweat and smoke. You shifted your weight from foot to foot, nursing something pink and overpriced just for something to do with your hands.

And it definitely didn’t help that she was here. Across the club, half-shrouded in neon light, a girl draped over her like she belonged there. Her lips were at Natalie’s neck, and Natalie—well, Natalie looked like she couldn’t care less. Like she hadn’t shattered your entire nervous system a month ago and vanished without a trace.

You weren’t staring.

You weren’t.

Except, yeah, you were. Every time you tried to focus on what Lottie was saying, your eyes found their way back across the room. Her laugh—fuck, was that her laugh?—cut through the bass like it was wired directly to your chest. And it was stupid. You knew it was stupid. But that didn’t stop your drink from suddenly tasting too sweet, too bitter, too much.

And still, you stood there. Like an idiot. Not staring.

Just… looking. Casually. Occasionally. Every two seconds.

Lottie’s voice finally cut through the fog of your thoughts, one hand circling your wrist to get your attention. “Okay. You’ve been staring into that drink like it insulted your mom. What’s going on?”

You blinked, startled, then forced a smile. “Nothing. Just… strong.”

She raised a brow, unimpressed. “Right. And I’m a virgin.”

You huffed a laugh, barely.

Lottie leaned in, her voice softer now, more careful. “You know you don’t have to prove anything by being here, right? I told Jackie this was a bad idea, dragging you out tonight. But she swore you needed to 'shake off the post-midterm blues' or whatever bullshit she called it.”

You tried to protest, but she squeezed your arm. “Just… look, if you wanna go home, say the word. I’ll make something up. Tell Jackie you got explosive diarrhea or something.”

That made you laugh for real, and Lottie smiled, pleased with herself.

But before you could decide whether to take the lifeline or not, Jackie reappeared, waving Lottie toward the dance floor with a look that said now or never. Lottie hesitated, looked between you and the crowd, then gave you one last squeeze.

“Don’t do anything reckless,” she warned, then grinned, teasing. “Unless it’s hot. In that case, tell me everything tomorrow.”

And just like that, they were gone. Swallowed by the lights and bodies and bass, leaving you standing there—alone, drink in hand, stomach twisted in knots as your gaze drifted right back across the room.

Back to her.

With your emotional support system officially gone, you turned your attention to burning holes into the melting ice in your glass.

By the time the song shifted, twice, there was still no sign of Lottie or Jackie. And worse, no sign of her. The crowd pulsed around you in waves of sequins and sweat, but the bar remained frustratingly out of reach. You’d been trying,and failing, to get the bartender’s attention for what felt like forever, elbow tucked in, voice swallowed by the bass thudding in your chest.

Your throat was dry. Your skin felt too warm. And your thoughts were a loop of why did she leave, why did she come back, and why now?

Just as you were about to raise your voice and wave dramatically across the bar like a desperate loser, you felt it.

A presence at your back, heat sliding in like it had always belonged there. Arms on either side of you, caging you in against the sticky bar top. The familiar warmth of her, so close you could feel the brush of her breath against your neck. Your whole body went rigid before you even saw her face.

And then—clink—a glass was slid in front of you.

The exact drink you’d been trying to order.

You didn’t have to turn around. You already knew.

She was right there, leaning in like no time had passed at all. Like she hadn’t disappeared off the face of the earth. Her eyes were darker under the strobing club lights, a curl of smugness already playing at her lips.

“Miss me, princess?”

Her voice was lower than you remembered—syrup-thick, smug and slow, like a secret sliding into your ear. You hated how fast your stomach dropped. Hated even more how your pulse kicked up in response.

She smelled like cigarettes and expensive perfume and trouble. The kind of trouble you’d already tasted.

And clearly weren’t finished craving.

You huffed, aiming for annoyed but landing somewhere closer to breathless. It came out as a shaky exhale, barely holding weight.

“Didn’t even notice you were gone,” you said, too fast and too soft.

It was meant to be casual, dismissive. But the words caught at the edges, stuttering out at the end like a half-truth you couldn’t commit to. You could feel her smirk without even looking, pressed right against your neck like she already knew the game was over.

“Mmhmm. Let’s go with that,” she murmured, lips brushing lightly against your skin. Her voice was teasing, lazy, so confident it almost made you dizzy.

And then her hands moved—subtle and slow—from the bar to your thighs, fingertips skimming just beneath the hem of your skirt like she had all the time in the world. Your back straightened instinctively, your breath catching as the heat of her touch climbed higher.

She didn’t rush. Didn’t have to. She already had you unraveling, and she knew it.

“Missed these,” she whispered, fingers ghosting upward in a maddening path, “All warm and jumpy for me already?”

God, she was infuriating. And terrifying. And unfairly good at this.

And you were completely, hopelessly screwed.

“You gonna say thank you for the drink,” Natalie murmured, lips ghosting over your jaw, “or keep pretending you’re mad at me?”

Her mouth was hot and sloppy, trailing kisses that had no business being that good. One of her hands slipped beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers dragging slow and deliberate along the inside of your thigh. Each brush was maddening, electric, and with every second that passed, it got harder to remember why you were supposed to be angry. Harder to remember that this was a very public place.

“Christ,” you hissed, breath catching as your fingers wrapped around her wrist just before she could reach your underwear. “Natalie,” you warned, trying—failing—to inject some authority into your voice.

She only laughed, low and satisfied, and pressed one last sweltering kiss against your jaw before pulling back like nothing had happened. Like she hadn’t just turned you inside out in the span of thirty seconds.

She leaned beside you, elbows propped on the bar, eyes glinting with mischief and something else. Something softer, quieter. Dangerous in a different way.

“Come on, baby,” she said, voice teasing, but gentler now. “Forgive me.”

You stared at her, heart racing, thighs pressed together like it could stop the way your body responded to her. And God, that look in her eyes��it was unfair. Open, almost sweet, like she meant it. Like she wasn’t the same girl who vanished for weeks without a word.

What had Jackie said?

You’re smarter than this.

Yeah. Right.

You couldn’t help the dumb smile that crept across your face at her words, no matter how hard you tried to fight it. You twirled the straw in the drink she’d gotten you, pretending to be casual—cool, unbothered—as you took a sip to distract yourself from the way your heart was pounding.

“Fine,” you muttered, quieter than you should have with the bass pulsing through the room. “There’s nothing to forgive you for anyway.”

“Atta girl,” Natalie smirked, all teeth and trouble as she leaned in close again, her shoulder brushing against yours. Her voice was velvet-slick when she added, “Now that that’s out of the way… do I get a kiss?”

Your eyes scanned the crowd on instinct, searching for any glimpse of Lottie or, God forbid, Jackie. The last thing you needed was your emotional support blonde launching herself across the bar to punch Natalie square in the face.

When the coast came up clear, you let out a slow breath and turned back toward her. Natalie was already watching you with that look—that lazy, smug, painfully attractive one that made your brain short-circuit.

You hesitated. Just for a second.

But then you leaned up on your tiptoes, and she was already there, meeting you halfway like she’d been waiting for it. Her hands found your waist with a practiced ease, tugging you closer like she knew she could.

And you let her.

Because of course you did.

Natalie kissed you like she’d missed you. Like she hadn’t ghosted you and let the rumors run wild while you lay awake at night wondering what the hell any of it meant.

Her lips were warm and coaxing, her hands still firm on your waist, thumbs brushing just beneath the hem of your top like she couldn’t help herself. And you hated how easily you melted into it. How easily you forgot your own name when her mouth was on yours.

The kiss didn’t last long—probably less than a few seconds—but it knocked the breath clean out of your lungs.

When you pulled back, your lips were tingling and your heart was somewhere near your throat. You blinked up at her, dazed, maybe a little drunk on the moment.

Natalie just grinned like she hadn’t done anything at all. Like she hadn’t just unraveled you in front of half the club.

“Still mad at me?” she asked, teasing, brushing a thumb over your bottom lip in a way that made your stomach twist.

You opened your mouth to respond, but your voice caught in your throat.

Because over Natalie’s shoulder, across the club and half-lit by the rotating strobe, stood Jackie.

Arms crossed. Jaw clenched. Eyes locked directly on you.

Your stomach dropped.

Natalie didn’t seem to notice right away. She was still watching you, still trailing lazy circles against your waist like she owned you. But you had frozen completely, your gaze rooted to Jackie’s, who was already elbowing Lottie and muttering something into her ear.

Lottie’s brows furrowed as she looked up—and then her face dropped too.

You took a sharp breath, already stepping back, the weight of reality crashing back over you like a cold drink down the spine.

Natalie’s hands slipped from your waist, and she finally followed your stare across the club. You watched her expression shift, only slightly, only for a flicker, and then that same smirk returned.

“Oops,” she murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face as you downed the rest of your drink in one go. That was starting to get a little too easy.

Natalie’s laughter curled around you, low and pleased. She made no effort to move away—if anything, she leaned in closer, her shoulder brushing yours, the heat of her body grounding and infuriating all at once.

You spotted Jackie across the club, still pushing her way through the crowd like a woman on a mission. Her glare was laser-focused on you, and if looks could kill, Natalie would’ve been six feet under.

“I think she might actually punch you,” you muttered under your breath, eyes flicking back to Natalie.

She just smiled—crooked and unhinged, but somehow still maddeningly genuine—before grabbing your hand without warning and tugging you toward the back of the club. “Don’t worry,” she said, glancing over her shoulder with a wink. “I know the owner.”

Of course she did.

Natalie had that air about her. The kind that turned heads, parted crowds, and demanded space without asking for it. She didn’t move through the world so much as she made it bend to her.

You followed her through the chaos—less a decision and more a gravitational pull—ducking around bodies and dodging the heavy bass that rattled through your chest. Jackie and Lottie disappeared behind you, swallowed by the crowd before either could intervene.

Natalie pulled you up a narrow staircase and into a surprisingly clean bathroom, far too nice for a bar like this, with tile that wasn’t sticky and a mirror that didn’t have someone’s number scrawled in eyeliner. You barely had time to catch your breath before the lock clicked shut behind you.

Natalie was still giggling somewhere behind you as you gripped the edge of the sink, the cold porcelain grounding you in a way nothing else could. You were so going to hear an earful about this later—from Jackie, from Lottie, from your own common sense. Not that Natalie seemed to care. Her giggles died out around you like smoke in the air.

You swatted at her, more reflex than retaliation. There was no real heat in it. Mostly, it was just an excuse to reach for her. To touch her.

Her eyes tracked the movement, lingering on your fingers like they were something delicate. Then they rose, slowly, until they landed on your face. There was always something in her gaze when she looked at you—something too intense, too focused. That was what had drawn you to her in the first place. That look. Like you were a puzzle she intended to solve. Or a meal she hadn’t quite finished.

"Y'know, you never called me," she said, circling you slowly. Her voice was light, teasing, but her eyes didn’t match. There was a pout to her mouth, lips still kiss-flushed from earlier, and an edge to the softness that made your breath catch.

"You didn’t exactly stick around long enough for me to know if I should,” you muttered, doing your best to keep your voice even.

She hummed at that—low, almost thoughtful—and stepped in close. So close the toes of your shoes touched. Her hand came up slowly, almost tender, but when her fingers caught your chin, there was nothing soft in the grip. Just control.

“Didn’t realize you expected me to,” she murmured, head tilting slightly, eyes scanning your face like they could read the things you didn’t dare say.

If she hadn’t been holding your chin, you might’ve turned away. Might’ve tried to hide the blush creeping up your neck. You hadn’t expected her to stay.

You just didn’t know what to do when she didn’t.

You cleared your throat, the moment threatening to swallow you whole. “Who was the girl earlier?” you asked, aiming for casual, even though it came out more like a deflection. A lifeline.

Natalie just smiled, slow and amused—like she knew exactly what you were doing.

She stared at you for a moment, in that infuriating way, like she could see straight through you, before her hands dropped from your chin to your waist, like they belonged there. Like she had the right to touch you however she pleased.

She leaned in close, her breath brushing over your lips, thick with hunger. “Nobody important,” she murmured. “Just a way to… pass the time.”

A quiet inhale left you as she bumped your nose with hers. So close, you could feel the shape of her smirk on your mouth.

“She seemed pretty interested in you,” you said, trying to sound unaffected.

Natalie hummed again. It felt mocking, like she could smell the lie on your breath. Her lips grazed yours, soft and fleeting, pulling back before it became a real kiss.

“Yeah, well,” she drawled, her fingers sliding down your hips and curling around your thighs. “I was a little too busy imagining these,” her hands squeezed lightly for emphasis, “wrapped around my face.”

You swallowed hard.

“I think she got the hint after that.”

She shrugged, nonchalant—like she hadn’t just set your entire nervous system on fire.

You hated the way your knees nearly gave out at her words. Hated more that she noticed, because of course she did. Her grin deepened, cocky and slow, like she could see every thought running wild in your head.

“Don’t,” you managed, voice barely above a whisper. You didn’t even know what you were asking. Don’t touch me like that. Don’t look at me like you want to ruin me. Don’t make this harder than it already is.

But she didn’t stop.

Instead, she stepped in closer, closing the tiny sliver of space left between you, her thigh slipping between yours like it had every right to be there. “You sure?” she asked, low, almost tender—like she was giving you an out she knew you wouldn’t take.

Your breath caught. You wanted to be strong. You wanted to pretend like you weren’t already leaning into her warmth, chasing that familiar scent of smoke and peppermint on her collar. But your body betrayed you before your mouth even could.

“Natalie…” It was meant to be a warning, but it sounded a lot more like a plea.

She tilted her head. “What?” she asked, all faux innocence. “I’m not doing anything.”

Her hands settled on your hips again, thumbs brushing over the skin just beneath your shirt. “You’re the one letting me,” she murmured, voice silk-wrapped sin.

And she wasn’t wrong. God, she wasn’t wrong.

You could feel it building—the part of you that still wanted to care, wanted to be mad. But it was no match for the heat curling low in your belly, the way she was looking at you like she already knew she’d won.

Maybe she had.

Because when she leaned in again—lips brushing just barely against your jaw, breath warm against your ear—you didn’t stop her.

You didn’t even try.

Her lips dragged along your jaw, slow and unhurried, like she had all the time in the world. Like she enjoyed the way your breath hitched every time her mouth skimmed your skin.

“You don’t even sound mad,” she whispered, tongue darting out to trace just beneath your earlobe. “You just sound…” her teeth grazed the sensitive spot under your ear, “…needy.”

A whimper slipped from your lips before you could bite it back. She grinned against your skin, and her hands roamed lower again, finding the hem of your skirt and slipping underneath with practiced ease.

Your fingers clutched the edge of the sink behind you like a lifeline. This was insane. You were in a bar bathroom. Your best friend wanted to commit a felony on Natalie’s face. And yet…

You didn’t move.

Her fingers found the soft skin of your inner thigh and paused, just barely brushing against the edge of your underwear. “Still pretending you’re mad?” she murmured, voice thick and low as her mouth finally met yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was hot and heavy and desperate, the kind of kiss that knocked thoughts out of your head and left nothing but feeling behind. Her hand gripped your waist while the other pushed higher between your thighs, teasing the edge of your underwear like a question she already knew the answer to.

You gasped into her mouth, your hips betraying you, rocking into her touch without thinking.

“There she is,” Natalie growled, her voice smug and hungry. “Knew you missed me.”

You could’ve cursed her. You should’ve. But the only sound that came out of your mouth was a needy whimper as her fingers slipped beneath the fabric, finally touching you like she owned you. Like she’d never left.

And honestly? In that moment?

You didn’t want her to.

Her fingers were relentless, certain, like she already knew every inch of you. Her mouth was on your neck, dragging sloppy, open-mouthed kisses across skin that felt like it was burning alive under her touch. You gasped when she bit down, the sting sharp, needy—before her tongue soothed over the mark with practiced ease. All of it felt like a distraction, like she was trying to keep you from noticing what her hands were doing until it was too late.

And then it was.

One finger slipped inside you, and your whole body went rigid. The air left your lungs in a shaky exhale, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto. She stilled immediately, her body going tense against yours, as if the weight of the moment hit her all at once. That this was… new. That it meant something.

Her breath tickled your ear as she whispered, gentler than you'd ever heard her, “Is this okay?”

Her free hand came up to cradle the back of your head, grounding you with a tenderness that made your chest ache. You nodded into the crook of her neck—small, uncertain—but the shift of your hips spoke louder, chasing the friction, chasing her.

She took the cue, resuming her movements, slow and deliberate. Her thumb pressed firm circles that had you clenching around her. When she slipped in a second finger, a moan tumbled from your lips before you could even try to hold it back.

Your thoughts were static. Your body buzzing.

And through the haze, that quiet voice inside you asked the same thing over and over again:

How did I end up here again?

Another fucked-up hookup with Natalie. Another semi-sketchy public place. Another moment of spiraling just barely masked by how good she made you feel.

Only this time, it didn’t feel like just a hookup. Not when she looked at you like that. Not when she touched you like you were more than just a way to pass the time.

And that was the part that scared you the most.

Her hands tangled in your hair, tugging just enough to tilt your head back, exposing your flushed face and blown pupils to her hungry gaze. Just enough to press your mouths together again—hot, deep, messy—her tongue slipping inside like she already owned every part of you.

“You always taste so sweet,” she murmured against your lips, her voice thick with desire. “You gonna let me get a real taste?”

A full-body shiver ran through you, the words caught somewhere in your throat. But the way you clenched around her fingers—desperate, involuntary—told her everything she needed to know. And if the way her mouth crashed back against yours was any indication, she understood exactly what that meant.

Without warning, her arm slid around your waist, and in one fluid motion, she hoisted you up onto the bathroom sink. The cold porcelain under your thighs made you jolt, but Natalie was already crowding in, her lips dragging a hot, open-mouthed trail down the line of your throat, over your collarbone, down the center of your chest.

She moved lower, hands firm on your hips as she knelt between your legs—knelt for you, like she was worshiping at the altar of your body. Her breath ghosted across your inner thighs, her lips pressing soft, searing kisses to skin that had never felt so exposed.

The sight of her there—Natalie, all smug confidence and bad intentions, on her knees in front of you—was enough to make you press your legs together on instinct. It was too much. Too real.

She smiled at that, hands smoothing up your thighs like she had all the time in the world. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reached up and hooked her fingers under your underwear, tugging them down with agonizing slowness.

And when they hit the floor, she just grinned—and slipped them into her jacket pocket like a prize she fully intended to keep.

She placed featherlight kisses along your legs, coaxing them back open with a kind of gentleness that betrayed everything else about her. Like she wasn’t the devil incarnate wrapped in a leather jacket and blonde hair. Each kiss she pressed to the inside of your thigh was maddening—slow, deliberate, infuriating. And she knew it. That smug grin was practically stamped into your skin, pressed into every inch she touched.

“One day,” she murmured, lips brushing against the soft skin just above your knee, “I’m going to fuck you properly.” Another kiss, higher this time, the warmth of her breath trailing after. “But for now…” A final kiss at the crux of your thigh. “This’ll have to do.”

And then—her mouth was on you.

Your breath left you in a gasp, hands scrambling, desperate for something to hold onto. You found her hair, soft between your fingers, and gripped it like a lifeline as her tongue moved against you with devastating precision. She didn’t rush, didn’t tease—she devoured, like she had nowhere else to be but between your thighs, like she had every intention of burning your name into the floor of that grimy bathroom.

When her fingers slid back inside, curling just right, your head snapped back and hit the mirror with a dull thunk. You barely registered the sting. Not when every nerve in your body was alight, your thighs trembling around her.

“F—fuck, Natalie, oh my god—”

You could feel her smirk even with her face buried between your legs. She pulled back slightly, just enough to let her breath ghost across your core, her lips brushing you in the barest hint of a kiss.

“Tsk, tsk,” she drawled, all fake disappointment and dark amusement. “Who knew you had such a dirty mouth, princess?”

Your fingers tightened in her hair, a broken whimper escaping before you could swallow it back. Her laugh was muffled against you, more of a smug vibration than a sound, but it sent another wave of heat spiraling down your spine. She was relentless now—tongue moving in rhythm with her fingers, curling inside you like she already knew exactly what you needed.

Your thighs trembled, but she didn’t let up. One arm wrapped securely around your waist to keep you from slipping off the counter, grounding you even as she tore you apart.

“Natalie—” Her name left your mouth again, this time more like a prayer, strangled and high. “I can’t—fuck, I’m gonna—”

She groaned in response, low and hungry, and the sound vibrated straight through you. Her fingers sped up just a fraction, hitting that spot inside you again and again, her tongue working you over until the pressure building in your stomach snapped tight—so tight it was almost unbearable.

And then it broke.

You came with a cry that echoed off the tile walls, body jolting as your muscles locked and your vision whitewashed behind your eyelids. Natalie didn’t stop. She worked you through it, slowing only when your thighs started to twitch with oversensitivity. Her grip eased, but her lips stayed pressed to your skin, her tongue soft now, soothing in the aftermath.

Your whole body went slack, boneless against the mirror behind you, chest heaving as you struggled to catch your breath. Natalie stood slowly, her chin glistening, eyes dark with satisfaction and just a hint of something softer.

She brushed a damp strand of hair from your forehead and leaned in like she was going to kiss you again—but stopped just short, smirking.

“You always come so sweet for me,” she whispered.

Your only answer was another soft moan and a shaky exhale, still too wrecked to manage anything else.

She helped you down off the sink and onto trembling legs, smoothing out your skirt like she was merely fixing your outfit—not like she’d just had her mouth on you, making you come undone in a bathroom that definitely didn’t deserve the memory. Your chest was still heaving, heart pounding in your ears as the reality of what had just happened settled deep into your bones. You’d given yourself up to Natalie again.

And God, you didn’t regret it.

Not when the post-orgasm haze was still wrapping around your limbs like silk.

Not when Natalie was looking at you like you were still something she hadn’t figured out yet.

She leaned in, this time unprompted. Her lips found yours in a kiss that was hurried and messy—completely Natalie in every way that mattered. When she pulled back, her fingers brushed over your cheek like she didn’t want to break the contact too fast.

“I should probably get you back before Jackie sends the cops. Or worse—her gang of, like, cheerleaders.”

You let out a breathy giggle, still dazed. “Yeah, I’d probably steer clear of her for a while. Honestly, you going off the grid for a month might’ve saved you a black eye.”

Natalie paused with her hand on the door, her grip on the knob tightening for a second before she turned back around. She didn’t look at you right away—just reached out and laced your fingers together. It was simple, easy. But it was also her, and it made your pulse jump.

“For the record,” she said, voice lower now, “I had some family stuff going on. I wasn’t avoiding you.”

Your spine went stiff at the sincerity in her tone. It was the most genuine thing she’d ever said to you. Maybe the most genuine you’d ever heard from her, period. You opened your mouth to respond—something, anything—but the words got stuck behind your tongue.

And just like that, the moment was gone.

Her trademark smirk slid back into place like a mask she was used to wearing.

“Don’t worry, princess. I was definitely thinking about you. Mostly the way you sound moaning in m—”

You cut her off with a shove, your face burning as you reached around her to yank open the door, doing your best to pretend you weren’t blushing down to your toes.

Her laughter followed you out like smoke—warm and smug and so very Natalie.

The music swelled around you again as you pushed through the thinning crowd, the bass vibrating in your chest. The club had emptied just enough to make the space feel less suffocating, but the energy was still pulsing, hot and heavy in the air.

You spotted Lottie first. Her gaze locked onto yours across the floor, expression unreadable—until her eyes dropped. First to Natalie’s hands, still planted firmly on your waist, then to the fresh hickey blooming high on your neck like a signature she’d been expecting. Her brows lifted, unimpressed, as you approached.

Two shots slid across the bar toward you the moment you reached her. “Natalie,” she said coolly, her voice clipped. But the hint of a smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth gave her away.

Natalie didn’t bother hiding hers. She leaned in closer behind you, palm spreading confidently across your stomach like she was staking a claim. A tension flickered in the air as she returned Lottie’s stare without blinking.

“Lottie,” she greeted, her voice all swagger. “Got your girl back in one piece. Tell Blondie not to send in the frat rat haters club.”

A beat passed, the three of you suspended in that strange moment—Lottie clearly trying not to roll her eyes, Natalie practically glowing with satisfaction, and you stuck between them, cheeks burning.

You grabbed the shot and threw it back in one go. Probably safer that way.

That broke their staring contest. Both of them turned to you with matching raised brows, like you were the punchline to a joke they hadn’t let you in on. But at least it did the trick—no more posturing, just the sharp clink of both shots disappearing down their throats.

Natalie stepped in close again, all heat and intent, ignoring Lottie entirely as she leaned forward, smile widening like a dare. There was something in her eyes. Mischief, hunger—but also expectation. She was waiting. For you.

Waiting to see if you’d meet her halfway.

Your eyes flicked toward Lottie, who was cool as ever, but the subtle lift of her lip wasn’t passive—it was a challenge. A reminder that she knew this game too well. It was easy to forget that she and Natalie were friends. That they ran in the same circles, played the same kind of games, and maybe had even kissed the same girls.

You rolled your eyes, but you gave in. Let Natalie pull you closer, lips brushing, then parting—open, eager—as her tongue slid into your mouth like she owned the right to be there. And when she finally pulled away, you were breathless, dazed, blinking up at her like she’d stolen something.

She just winked.

Then her gaze shifted past you, catching something behind your shoulder. Her eyes widened for a split second, barely, but her grin only deepened. She pressed one last kiss to your lips, fast and fleeting.

“Gotta run, baby,” she murmured, already stepping back. “I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

And then she was gone.

You didn’t even have a full second to catch your breath before Jackie materialized like a storm front.

“Are you kidding me right now?”

Jackie’s voice cut through the bass like a whip, sharp and instant. You turned just in time to catch her weaving through the crowd with singular purpose, her eyes locked on you like you were the enemy. Her expression was somewhere between disbelief and disappointment, like she couldn’t decide if she wanted to yell at you or stage an intervention.

You opened your mouth, some half-formed excuse already on your tongue, but Jackie was already in front of you.

“Please tell me that wasn’t Natalie you were just making out with in front of everyone.”

Lottie snorted from beside you, clearly not planning to play peacekeeper. She leaned one elbow on the bar, sipping from your forgotten drink like she lived for moments like this.

“Oh, it was her,” she said airily, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Tongue and everything. Very handsy.”

You groaned, covering your face with both hands as Jackie’s mouth dropped open.

Lottie leaned toward you conspiratorially. “I’d give it a seven out of ten, honestly. Could’ve used more neck grabbing.”

“Lottie,” Jackie snapped, “you’re not helping.”

“I’m not trying to,” she grinned.

You lowered your hands just enough to glare at her, heat crawling up your neck. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“Oh, completely,” Lottie said with zero shame. “Natalie’s playing the long game, and you are so not ready for it.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue, especially not with the ghost of Natalie’s mouth still tingling against yours and your heart doing somersaults in your chest like a traitor. Jackie folded her arms, clearly waiting for an explanation, but you just shrugged helplessly.

“She found me at the bar.”

“She always finds you at the bar.”

“And she brought me a drink,” you added lamely, as if that somehow justified the very public display of affection that had followed.

Jackie looked like she wanted to scream.

Lottie leaned over again. “Just admit you’re in love with her and let us all go home.”

“I am not—” you started, too fast, too defensive.

Lottie raised a brow.

Jackie rolled her eyes.

You sighed, defeated. “It’s... complicated.”

Jackie muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, It’s always complicated with her, before grabbing one of the shots Lottie had left and downing it without so much as a toast.

You turned back to your drink and tried to get your pulse back under control, but Lottie was already nudging your side with a smug grin.

“She’s got you so bad.”

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t have to.

You let Jackie’s frat rat rant fill the space between you, her voice rising and falling like waves crashing over the pulsing bass of the club. You weren’t really listening—not with your body still humming from the aftermath of Natalie, and the burn of the shot now curling warm in your veins.

Lottie sidled closer, her presence subtle but unmistakably amused. She didn’t say anything at first, just let her hand drift along your thigh, fingers ghosting beneath the hem of your skirt, far enough out of Jackie’s line of sight to stay unnoticed.

Your body tensed, nerves still fried and suddenly very aware of the fact that Natalie hadn’t given your underwear back. Before you could even react, Lottie’s finger pressed directly against the angry bloom of a hickey you hadn’t even realized Natalie had left.

You winced, swatting her hand away with a glare.

She just laughed, completely unbothered, dragging her finger across her lips like she was sealing a secret.

“Yeah,” she smirked, eyes glittering. “You’re so screwed.”

Understatement of the century.

[mocharyc]

Invincible variants x reader ✩ ‧ ₊ ˚

They watched you succumb to death in every twisted, agonizing way in their universes. Unable to prevent it, in this universe... ♡ It would be different ♡ Parts Available: The series is completed - 10 parts

☆ characters: MoHawk Invincible, Omni Invincible, Sinister Invincible, Viltrumite Invincible, Prisoner Invincible, No Mask Invincible, Phantom Invincible(Full masked), and Emperor Invincible.

☆ TW: Reader is manmade 'Viltrumite'

☆ WC: 5k+ [Part 1-]

☆ Author's Note: I'm truly sad I can’t find much Invincible variants x reader stuff, so I decided to make a story myself! This is going to be a long story with many parts, and I mean lonnggggg. If writer's block doesn't succumb me :P I also plan to include sexual content as well in later chapters. First time posting on tumblr, kinda nervous (ᵕ ´ ∇ ˋ ˶) ––––––––––––––––––

☆

The ice cracked, a shudder running through my suspended form, the cryopreservation ending once again. It was a sensation I'd grown intimately familiar with – the cold, the forced awakening, the metallic taste of the seemingly invincible shock collar tightening around my neck. The small sparks of electricity traveling to the wet muscle trapped inside my head. 

My dull eyes flickered open, adjusting to the harsh glare of the white lights of the GDA facility.

"Experiment 1-01, designated Y/N, reactivation complete," a cold, clinical voice echoed from the speakers. Cecil's voice. Always Cecil. The weak, old white man.

"What is it this time?" I growled, my voice rough from disuse. 

My body felt heavy, a dull ache permeating every muscle. Slunking down on the platform I hiss. The heaters appearing from each side of the enclosure wall to warm my aching body back into submission. 

"A… situation," Cecil replied, his tone unusually strained, "Multiple hostile entities, Invincible variants… Viltrumites in origin, are causing widespread destruction. We require your… assistance."

Hostile Viltrumites? My mind struggled to process the information. They were sending me, me, the weapon they kept locked away, against Viltrumite variants of Invincible? This had to be bad.

The ice finally fully melted away, and I was lowered onto the transportation platform. The shock collar pulsed, a constant reminder of my captivity.

I flexed my fingers, feeling the raw power thrumming beneath my skin. My wet hair sticking to the skin of my back. The tight suit clamped to my skin.

They'd honed me, pushed me beyond any natural limit. I was an experiment seemingly born in this dreadful prison. A test tube for them to fill with anything they dreamed of, and use needlssy. Dissecting my body apart to inject with the results of false experiments. Viltrumite blood, from the one Omni-man himself… I was their ultimate weapon in the face of no return. Crafted as the last stand in the face of no return, even if they were terrified to use it.

"What's the mission?" I asked, my voice flat. My eyes glued to the one sided glass wall, where I could sense the heat Signatures of multiple scientists and Cecil standing behind.

"Eliminate all hostile Invincible variants. No collateral damage," Cecil instructed, his voice laced with a thin veneer of control through the speaker.

No collateral damage? They were asking the impossible.

The transport platform hissed, lifting me from the cold, sterile chamber throught the many levels of the base. Finally to the surface of the GDA's hidden base. 

My eyes widen, as I see the sky for the first time in so many long years. The soft blue sky, the cool chill crisp of fresh air, beautifully painted clouds strengthening across the blue canvas stretched above me. I raised my arms spinning softly with a laugh. Fuck it feels good to be out again! The shock collar suddenly pulsed, a cold, insistent command that made me freeze. "Eliminate all hostile Invincible variants," Cecil's voice echoed in my mind.

With a grumble, I launched myself into the air, a surge of raw power propelling me upwards. The world shrank below, the GDA facility becoming a mere speck in the distance. 

I spread my arms, feeling the wind whip through my damp hair, as it instantly dried in the strong breeze of fresh air. The raw energy of flight coursing through my veins. This was what I was made for.

Zooming through the sky I break the sound barrier, flying into New York. 

The city was a chaotic tapestry of destruction, plumes of black smoke rising like grotesque fingers, the skeletal remains of skyscrapers reaching towards the sky. Building Collapsing.

Once again I break the sound barrier with a thunderous boom, the air around me shimmering with heat. The raw, untamed power of flight, the sheer speed, it was soooo intoxicating.

The scents of the city assaulted my senses – burning metal, acrid smoke, the coppery tang of blood, and the faint, terrified screams of the dying citizens trying to hide and running. It was a symphony of chaos, a macabre orchestra conducted by the Invincible variant in New York. 

And I, the weapon, was here to silence it.

A jolt of electricity from the collar snapped me back to the mission. "Focus girl. Eliminate target in New York. Identification, Mohawk Invincible."

My eyes scanned the ruined cityscape, looking onto a scene of imminent destruction for any sign of the killing machine.

A child, no more than a few years old, stood frozen in terror beneath a crumbling building, its foundations groaning ominously. I felt a flicker of something, a faint echo of… what? It was quickly extinguished by the collar's control. A child...weak...protect? No, mission.

With a burst of speed, I was there. I braced myself, catching the falling building with my bare hands, the concrete groaning under the strain as I held the collapsing building up.

I glanced at the child between my legs, its face a mask of terror streaked with tears and mucus. With one arm still bracing the collapsing structure, I scooped the small body against my chest. Its warmth was shocking—so different from the cold sterility of my existence. The tiny heart hammered against my suit, a frantic rhythm that stirred something protective within me.

Releasing my hold on the building, I launched us both skyward as tons of concrete and steel crashed to the street below. Dust and debris erupted in a massive cloud, consuming everything in its path as I carried the child to relative safety, landing on a section of street that wasn't actively burning.

The asphalt cracked beneath my feet, blackened and weakened by the heat of nearby fires. The child in my arms whimpered, one limb bent at an angle that spoke of fracture and pain. I placed the small form on the ground, studying it with clinical detachment as its eyes—wide with terror—stared up at me. Unintelligible words tumbled from its lips, a litany of fear I couldn't process.

"Stay," I commanded, my voice devoid of warmth or reassurance. Yet as I reached down to brush a speck of blood from its cheek, a spark of something undefinable flared within me as tiny fingers clutched desperately at my hand. Why? Why do I feel this?

"Saving citizens is important, but defeating the threat is top priority." Cecil's voice intruded into my moment of connection, the implant in my head ensuring his control remained absolute.

I turned away, the mission reasserting its primacy in my consciousness. But a blur of motion caught my peripheral vision—a figure streaking across the sky on an intercept course.

"Finally, another fucking hero for me to fucking obliterate!!" A voice laced with manic glee echoed through the ruined streets as the figure—Mohawk Mark—accelerated toward me.

There was barely time to react. I pivoted sharply, using my body as a shield for the child, intercepting the charge with my shoulder. The impact was cataclysmic—like colliding with a runaway train. The force sent us both hurtling through the concrete wall of a nearby building, pulverizing it instantly. The shockwave rippled outward, shattering windows for blocks in every direction.

My body shot through the other side of the building, into the street where people were running. 

The bodies of fleeing civilians exploded like fleshy water balloons as I crashed through them, the force of the impact turning them into a spray of blood and bone. I spat, the coppery taste of blood filling my mouth as I picked the strand of intestines off my shoulder, flicking it away. The child I'd tried to protect was now unrecognizable, I was clumsy and squeezed the child so tightly against me it exploded. reduced to a pulped mass of tissue in my arms, its blood staining the front of my suit. A flash of anger and envy flickered through me—this child's suffering was over while mine continued indefinitely—I felt a flash of anger and envy, before the emotions quickly dismissed within me. 

"Insignificant," I hissed, dropping the remains with a wet splat onto the blood-slicked sidewalk.

Rising to my full height, I ignored the pain radiating through my system. Pain was merely information, and information could be disregarded. The mission remained paramount: eliminate the target. And now, the target had revealed himself.

Debris from the shattered building continued to rain down around me as I steadied my stance. My eyes—cold, calculating, devoid of mercy—locked onto the figure hovering above the rubble. Mohawk Mark. His blue and black suit hugged a physique identical to the original, but the spiky mohawk and the arrogant smirk set him apart. It was a face I had been programmed to destroy.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, his voice dripping with cruel amusement that barely masked something deeper, "What do we have here? Another hero comes to play?—" His expression shifted, eyes widening slightly as he studied me more carefully. Recognition dawned in his gaze, followed by confusion that seemed genuine. "Wait... Y/N?"

The name struck me like a physical blow. Something flickered in the recesses of my mind—a half-remembered dream, perhaps, or an echo of a life that had been systematically erased. I groaned, clutching my head as fractured images threatened to coalesce into meaning. The collar responded instantly, electricity searing through my neural pathways, burning away the nascent memories before they could fully form.

My mission remained untainted by sentiment: eliminate the target.

I launched myself at him. My fist aimed for his jaw with enough force to shatter concrete, but he reacted with equal speed, blocking the blow and retaliating with a devastating kick to my ribs. Blood erupted from my mouth as the impact sent me crashing through yet another wall. The concrete disintegrated around me, offering no more resistance than tissue paper.

I rose from the wreckage without hesitation, the pain relegated to some distant corner of my consciousness as I assessed my opponent with newfound respect. It had been a long time since anyone had landed a blow with such force.

Mohawk Mark landed before me, his expression a mix of confusion and something else I couldn't name. He was hesitating, holding back his attacks. Why?

"Y/N, what are you doing?" he asked, his voice tight with emotion. "Don't you remember me? Or did the fucking Mark of this universe not meet you?! Love you!" he hissed, frustration clear in every word.

"Target identified," I responded, my voice empty and cold. I ignored his words completely - they meant nothing to a weapon. "Elimination protocol engaged."

I lunged forward with everything I had, throwing punches that could level buildings. Each blow carried enough force to shatter concrete, aimed to destroy rather than just hurt. But he was good - too good - dodging and blocking with growing desperation in his movements.

Something was wrong. He wasn't fighting back with full strength. He was holding back, his eyes fixed on me with an expression I couldn't understand.

"Fucking stop, Y/N!" he yelled, his voice cracking with desperation. "You don't have to do this y-you bitc–!"

I ignored him completely, focused only on my mission. Finally, an opening! My uppercut connected with his jaw, sending him flying skyward. I followed immediately, delivering another crushing blow to his chest that sent him crashing through the roof of a nearby building.

I zoomed to where he landed, pulling my fist back for what should be a finishing blow. But he caught my punch, his eyes wide and filled with emotion that made me hesitate.

"Y/N... please," he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. When I saw he wasn't defending himself anymore, I delivered a savage kick to his ribs that sent him smashing into a burning bus. The metal folded around his body like it was made of paper.

"Shut up," I growled, feeling nothing as I approached. "You're a target. Nothing more."

He struggled to his feet, his mohawk now crooked, his blue and black suit torn and stained with blood and dirt. Despite the beating, his eyes never left mine.

"But... it's me, Mark! Don't you fucking remember?!" The pain in his voice wasn't just physical.

Remember? The word bounced around inside my empty mind. Remember what? My life was the cold lab, the endless tests, the collar's constant shocks. There was nothing before that. Nothing to remember.

I charged at him again, aiming for his throat this time. He dodged, grabbing my arm as he pulled me down for a punch and suddenly freezing as his eyes locked onto the collar around my neck. Something changed in his expression - understanding dawned.

"Shit, I mean it, stop!" he yelled, his voice mixing anger and desperation. "You don't have to do this! Are they fucking controlling you?!"

The collar sent a massive shock through my body, making my vision blur and my muscles spasm. I stumbled backward, momentarily stunned. He used the chance to grab my head, his fingers pressing against my skull as he pulled my head back to look at him directly. My eyes drazed against his fierce ones.

"Fucking listen to me!" he pleaded, his grip gentler than it should be. "I know who you are! I... loved you in my universe! B-before you—" His voice caught in his throat, and I watched, strangely fascinated, as tears formed in his brown eyes. His hands loosened, now almost cradling my head instead of restraining me.

Loved? The word was strange, meaningless to me. What did it mean to be loved? I shook my head, trying to clear the fog from the collar's shock. For a brief moment, I felt the control slipping, something else trying to surface. But it passed quickly, and I snapped back to my purpose. Kill.

"Fucking listen to me, Y/N," he begged, his voice rough with emotion. "They're controlling you! That collar... it's controlling your damn mind!"

I answered with my elbow, smashing it into his face with all my strength. I felt his nose shatter under the impact. Blood sprayed as he staggered backward, yet he looked unharmed. I didn't hesitate, unleashing a storm of punches that would crush a normal human to paste, but he wasn’t normal, he was a variant, of Invincible. He easily blocked, dodged, but I was relentless.

"Eliminate... target," I mumbled, my voice sounding strange even to my own ears.

As I paused to gather strength for another attack, he lunged forward and grabbed me by the shoulders. Despite everything I'd done to him, his grip was surprisingly gentle.

"SHIT, you have to fight it, Y/N!" he urged, his eyes burning with intensity. "You're stronger than this! Tell me who's controlling you! I will fucking murder them!"

I struggled against his grip, my body fighting like a puppet on strings as the collar shocked me repeatedly. But something about his words, his voice - they were cutting through the fog in my mind, stirring something buried deep inside me. Fight? How could I fight what I was?

"She's not listening," a new voice called out, calm but commanding, making both of us freeze. "She simply can't.. She wasn't made for you, she was made for me."

A new figure landed beside Mohawk Mark - another Mark variant, but this one wore a red and gray suit. A mask with black eyesless goggles. Omni Invincible. His mask couldn't hide his grim expression as he studied me. "Plus, the collar has her completely under their control."

"We have to stop her," another voice hissed as a figure in dark blue and black landed heavily on the rooftop. Phantom Mark. His voice carried deep pain and barely controlled rage. "She's being used... I can't bear to see her again... not like this..."

Used? Why did they care what happened to me?

"Used?" A mocking voice cut through as another Mark variant landed directly in front of me and Mohawk. This one wore black and yellow - Sinister Mark. His smile was cruel as he stared at me with open interest. "She's a weapon. A god damn killing machine. And we're her targets." His grin widened, predatory and cold. "She's perfect, so much better than the fucking pathetic Y/N of my universe."

Perfect? What did he mean? Another… me? 

More Mark variants began to arrive, surrounding me on the rooftop. Each one showed recognition when they saw me, their faces displaying a mix of shock, grief, and something that looked like desperate hope. Viltrumite Mark, Emperor Mark, Prisoner Mark, and No Masked Mark all landed around me. Every threat I was supposed to eliminate was gathering in one place.

"Y/N," Viltrumite Mark said softly, his voice almost tender, his brown eyes wide with disbelief. A stark contrast to his white suit. "Wow... you look just like her. Just like my Y/N. Your face, that beautiful face... and your—" He stopped suddenly, his gaze fixing on the collar around my neck. His expression shifted from wonder to anger.

They all knew me? How was that possible when I didn't know any of them?

I felt something touch my back - warm, gentle - and it broke my frozen state. I lashed out blindly, my fist connecting with No Masked Mark who had tried to hug me. The impact sent him flying across the rooftop. Warmth? No. Target.

The electricity from the collar intensified, becoming nearly unbearable. I staggered under the pain, blood dripping from my nose as my vision blurred. My arm froze mid-swing as my muscles began to lock up. My strength was fading. But I must keep fighting.

"I believe she's too far gone," Emperor Mark said grimly, resignation heavy in his voice. "We have to disable her..."

"Are you fucking insane?! Hell no!" Mohawk Mark shouted, stepping between me and the others. His voice shook with fierce protectiveness. "I watched her die in my universe and I will not let it fucking happen again!"

Die? What did that mean?

The Marks surrounded me, their expressions complex mixtures of determination, sorrow, and fear. They weren't attacking to kill - they were trying to subdue me, to break the collar's hold. But every hit made the collar shock me harder.

Phantom Mark attacked first, moving faster than I could track in my weakened state. His fist aimed for my shoulder, and I managed to catch his arm, but the force still sent me staggering backward. I wasn't prepared for this coordinated attack, especially since they seemed to be holding back.

Omni Mark followed with a precise kick to my ribs. I twisted my body to block, but the impact still sent shockwaves of pain through me, launching me into the sky.

Viltrumite Mark and Emperor Mark moved together with perfect coordination, their attacks aimed to disable, not kill. They fought with ruthless efficiency, their movements showing years of combat experience. I blocked and countered as best I could, but their combined assault was overwhelming.

Prisoner Mark and No Masked Mark fought with less precision but equal power. Their attacks were wild and unpredictable, making them hard to counter. I dodged a powerful swing from Prisoner Mark only to be caught by a kick from No Masked Mark.

Mohawk Mark moved differently from the others. His eyes never left mine, filled with desperate pleading. His attacks lacked killing intent - he was trying to restrain me rather than hurt me. He repeatedly tried to grab me, to hold me still, but I was too quick.

And then there was Sinister Mark. He moved like a predator stalking prey, his attacks brutal and precise. His eyes gleamed with cruel enjoyment, fixed on me with disturbing intensity. He wasn't just fighting - he was enjoying every moment.

He feinted high before kicking my knee with savage force. Pain shot through my leg as I stumbled. He immediately followed with a vicious uppercut to my jaw that made my vision go white for a moment. I spat blood, the metallic taste filling my mouth as I nearly bit through my tongue.

"Come on, Y/N," he taunted, his voice low and excited. "Show me what you've got."

Unlike the others, Sinister Mark wasn't holding back. He reveled in the violence, moving with brutal efficiency. A predatory grin never left his face as he aimed to cripple me. His fist connected with my jaw again, sending another shockwave through my skull. I managed to retaliate with a kick to his chest that sent him crashing through a skyscraper.

New York was completely destroyed around us. I couldn't handle all eight of them at once. It was too many... but I had to fight. Must focus.

"Enough!" Omni Mark shouted, his voice echoing through the ruined city. His face was set with grim determination. "We have to end this!"

He launched himself at me with perfect control and precision. Before I could dodge, he grabbed me in a powerful bear hug, pinning my arms to my sides, his chin pressing to the top of my head. I struggled against his grip, trying desperately to break free, but he was too strong, and I was weakening by the second.

The other Marks surrounded me, their combined strength impossible to overcome. Their expressions mixed pain and resolve as they held me tight. I hissed and fought, biting Sinister's hand when he tried to touch my face. He pulled back, laughing as he licked the drop of blood from his hand.

"She's so feisty, I love it~" he purred, eyes gleaming.

"Enough! Come on guys, we have to get this fucking collar off," Phantom Mark said, his voice strained with sorrow. "That's the only way to free her."

Mohawk Mark reached for the collar, his fingers trembling. Fear and determination battled in his eyes as he hesitated.

"If we remove it, she could lose control," Omni Mark warned gravely. "She could destroy everything, or worse... we could lose her."

"It's the only chance we have," Mohawk Mark replied firmly, his fierce eyes locked with mine. For a moment, they softened with an emotion I couldn't name. "We have to trust her."

He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and gripped the collar around my neck.

"AHHHHHHH-!" A scream of pure agony tore from my throat as he tried to break the collar. The device unleashed its final defense - a massive electrical current that ripped through my entire body and into anyone touching me. The pain was beyond anything I'd ever felt, beyond what any human could survive.

The world around me faded to white as electricity consumed everything.

The air crackled with raw energy, the shockwaves from the collar's defense system rippling outwards like violent tsunamis across the already devastated rooftop. Y/N's screams tore through the ruined city—a primal, guttural sound that sliced through the hearts of the gathered Marks like a heated blade. Her body convulsed violently in their grip, crimson streams of blood trickling from her ears as her eyes rolled back, revealing only whites.

Omni Mark's muscles strained beneath his crimson and slate-gray suit, veins bulging like ropes under his skin as he maintained his vise-like grip on Y/N. Despite the electrical current surging through him, his face remained a mask of controlled determination—only the slight twitch at the corner of his right eye betraying his agony.

"Hold steady," he commanded, voice unwavering despite the pain. His analytical gaze never left Y/N's face, studying every microexpression with obsessive intensity. "The collar's defense system is activating exactly as anticipated. Maintain your positions." Behind his disciplined exterior, a possessive gleam flickered in his eyes—the calculated look of a general who had just discovered his most valuable weapon.

"FUCK! This hurts like a motherfucking BITCH!" Mohawk Mark roared, spittle flying from his mouth as he yanked at the collar with manic desperation. His once-proud mohawk now drooped pathetically to one side, plastered to his scalp with sweat that poured down his face in rivulets. His wild, bloodshot eyes darted frantically between Y/N's contorted face and the other Marks. "Back the FUCK off, assholes! This is MY moment with her!" he snarled when Emperor Mark moved closer, his voice cracking with equal parts pain and possessiveness.

Viltrumite Mark held Y/N's thrashing legs with unwavering strength, his pristine white uniform now marred with smoking char marks. Unlike the others who grimaced and cursed through their pain, he maintained an almost regal posture—back ramrod straight, chin lifted imperiously even as electricity danced across his skin.

"Such primitive technology," he remarked coldly, his voice carrying the smooth, cultured tones of someone accustomed to absolute obedience. His steely gaze traced the contours of Y/N's face with unmistakable ownership. "In my empire, she would have been conditioned properly. My Y/N required no such crude devices to ensure compliance." His fingers tightened possessively around her ankles, leaving white imprints on her skin.

No Masked Mark hovered anxiously at the periphery, bouncing on his heels like an impatient child. His unmasked face—so similar yet different from the others—contorted with a peculiar mixture of eagerness and uncertainty.

"Will she remember me when she wakes up?" he asked, voice tinged with childlike hope that seemed bizarrely out of place amid the destruction. His eyes never left Y/N's face, a hungry desperation evident in his gaze. "I won't let you suffer like William and my Y/N did," he murmured, the words tumbling out in a rushed whisper before his expression hardened again with determination.

Phantom Mark's grip on Y/N's arm was white-knuckled, his midnight blue and obsidian suit smoking where electrical feedback scorched the material. Unlike the others whose focus remained entirely on Y/N, his haunted gaze occasionally darted to the ruined cityscape surrounding them, as if seeing ghosts in the debris.

"We're going to lose her!" he cried out, voice thick with an emotion he couldn't fully suppress. The perpetual fury that typically blazed in his eyes momentarily gave way to raw grief—a glimpse into the trauma that drove him. "She looks just like my Y/N when they took her from me." His grip tightened, unwilling to let go even as the pain intensified, a guttural yell tearing from his throat as another surge of electricity pulsed through them all.

Emperor Mark strode forward with the confident swagger of royalty despite the crisis unfolding before him. His uniform, adorned with subtle gold embellishments, smoldered at the edges as he moved to assist despite Mohawk's furious objections.

"This primitive technology is beneath us," he declared, his voice carrying the practiced resonance of one accustomed to addressing multitudes. His movements were precise, efficient—a ruler accustomed to servants handling menial tasks now forced to act himself. "In my empire, she would have been treated with the respect befitting her connection to me." His eyes tracked possessively over Y/N's convulsing form as he grasped part of the collar, a barely audible hiss escaping through clenched teeth as electricity surged through his fingertips.

Through it all, Sinister Mark prowled the perimeter of the group like a predator assessing wounded prey. Unlike the others who betrayed their pain through grimaces and curses, his lips curled into a twisted smile that never quite reached his cold eyes. The black and yellow of his suit seemed to absorb the shadows around them, making him appear more demon than man as he circled the struggling group.

"Look at you pathetic fuckers," he sneered, voice dropping to a dangerous purr that somehow cut through the cacophony of pain and destruction. "All of you, burnt and crying over her like she's the last woman in the multiverse." His eyes gleamed with cruel delight as they raked over Y/N's suffering form, lingering on the places where her suit had torn during the battle. "Mine was weak, useless when it mattered," he continued, tongue darting out to wet his lower lip. "But this one..." His voice trailed off into an appreciative growl. "This one has real potential."

He continued circling them with predatory grace, each step deliberate and measured, like a lion stalking gazelles. The others, too focused on Y/N and their own pain, barely registered his calculating assessment until he suddenly stepped forward with decisive purpose.

"We'll do it my way," he declared, voice slicing through their collective agony with the precision of a surgeon's scalpel. "Otherwise she's fried, and none of us gets what we want." There was no benevolence in his offer—only ruthless pragmatism and thinly veiled desire.

Sinister Mark moved into position with fluid grace, eyes locking with each Mark in turn. His gaze was sharp and challenging, daring them to defy him while simultaneously asserting dominance. "We're going to rip that collar off her neck, all at the same time. Understand that, you pussies?"

"But the shock—" Omni Mark began, his typically calculated façade cracking slightly as another surge of pain tore through his body.

"The shock is killing her!" Sinister Mark snapped, genuine anger flashing in his eyes like lightning. For the briefest moment, something almost like concern flickered across his features before being submerged beneath his usual cruel demeanor. "We either pull it off now, together, or she dies. Are you all going to be useless now?"

Despite their differences, despite the simmering tensions and individual desires to claim Y/N for themselves, the Marks exchanged glances of reluctant agreement. In this moment, keeping her alive took priority over their competition.

Sinister Mark positioned himself beside Omni and Mohawk, placing his hands on the collar with surprising gentleness. A low, unsettling laugh escaped his lips as electricity coursed through him—the pain seemingly pleasurable to his twisted mind. Prisoner and No Masked Mark grabbed the other side, their faces twisting into grimaces of determination. Phantom and Viltrumite followed suit, hissing breaths escaping through clenched teeth.

"On my mark," Sinister commanded, voice cutting through the chaos with sharp authority. "One..." His fingers tightened around the collar. "Two..." His eyes locked onto Y/N's face with possessive intensity. "THREE!"

With a collective roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of what remained of New York City, the Marks pulled. Omni Mark and Mohawk Mark yanked with such force that tendons stood out like steel cables in their necks, while Viltrumite and Phantom used their strength to counter Y/N's violent convulsions. The air around them crackled and sparked with deadly energy, the building beneath them crumbling further as a deafening SNAP echoed through the ruins.

The collar broke free.

The electrical storm ceased instantly, energy dispersing into the air with a final concussive shockwave that sent debris flying in all directions. Y/N's body went limp between them, her screams fading to an eerie silence that felt more ominous than her previous agony. The Marks, exhausted and scorched, collapsed around her on the rooftop, their breath coming in ragged gasps that disturbed the settling dust.

Sinister Mark recovered first, shoving Mohawk aside with unnecessary force to kneel beside Y/N's still form. His eyes traveled over her with unmasked hunger as he reached out to trace the line of her jaw with surprising gentleness—a predator admiring his prize. "She's still alive," he announced, voice unexpectedly soft, almost reverent. "But barely..."

"Get your fucking hands off her," Mohawk Mark growled, struggling to his knees despite his injuries. His normally arrogant demeanor was stripped away, leaving raw desperation in its place as his eyes never left Y/N's face. "I found her first, you sick piece of shit."

"In your juvenile fantasies perhaps," Emperor Mark countered icily, moving closer to Y/N's limp form despite his weakened state. His regal bearing remained intact even while injured, chin lifted with imperial disdain as he regarded Mohawk. "She requires proper care and guidance, which only I am qualified to provide."

Omni Mark silenced them with a sharply raised hand, his authoritative presence reasserting itself even while injured. "Enough," he commanded, voice brooking no argument. "She needs time to recover before any of us make claims." His eyes, however, told a different story—calculating grey depths already mapping out strategies to separate Y/N from the others when the moment was right.

The Marks exchanged wary glances, temporarily united by their shared goal but irrevocably divided by their desire for the same prize. They had saved Y/N from the collar's control, but the battle for her had only just begun—a new war brewing beneath the surface of their temporary alliance.

"We need to get her out of here," Omni Mark said, his voice low and urgent as his eyes methodically scanned the horizon. His brow furrowed in a deep, concerned frown that belied his typically impassive demeanor. "Angstrom won't wait forever. We still have a mission to complete."

A tense silence fell over the group, heavy with unspoken implications. The mission. The destruction of this universe. It was their objective, their reason for being here. But now, with Y/N lying before them, their priorities had irreversibly shifted.

"What now?" No Masked Mark asked, his voice barely a whisper. His eyes, wide and filled with an almost childlike worry, never left Y/N's face. His features drawn and pale, he anxiously gnawed at his lower lip—a nervous habit that revealed the youth beneath his power.

The original mission, Angstrom Levy's directive to destroy the mainstream universe, loomed over them like a shadow. They were here to wreak havoc, to dismantle this reality and claim it for themselves. But the discovery of Y/N had thrown their carefully orchestrated plans into beautiful disarray.

"Well we can't just fucking leave her here, dipshit," Mohawk Mark snapped, his voice cracking with emotion despite his attempt at his usual abrasiveness. His jaw set in a determined line, eyes blazing with fierce protectiveness as he hovered over Y/N's still form. "Not like this anyway. We need to find somewhere safe—" He trailed off, gaze darting around the ruined cityscape as if a solution might materialize from the rubble.

"A safe place?" Prisoner Mark scoffed, voice dripping with bitter cynicism. The scarred tissue of his face twisted into a mocking grimace as he gestured at the devastation surrounding them. "In this ruined world? We destroyed everything worth saving." Despite his harsh words, his eyes betrayed a flicker of concern as they drifted to Y/N's unconscious form.

"We'll find one," Viltrumite Mark stated with cold certainty, voice carrying the weight of imperial decree. His eyes, usually hard as flint, softened imperceptibly when they fell upon Y/N. "There must be somewhere untouched by our... activities." The slight hesitation in his typically smooth delivery revealed an unusual uncertainty.

"We can't abandon Angstrom's mission either," Omni Mark countered pragmatically, crossing muscular arms over his broad chest. His analytical mind was already formulating contingencies, weighing variables with machine-like efficiency. "He'll notice something is wrong if we deviate too significantly from the plan."

Sinister Mark rose to his full height, rolling his shoulders as if shedding a burden. His eyes—cold and calculating—swept across the ruined cityscape with predatory assessment. His features hardened into a mask of ruthless determination as he reached a decision.

"We'll do both," he declared, voice a low growl that somehow carried more authority than Omni Mark's reasoned commands. "We continue the destruction," he elaborated with a careless shrug that belied the intensity of his gaze, "but first, we take her somewhere safe."

He sighed—an oddly human gesture from such a monstrous figure—and pointed toward the outskirts of the city, where the skeletal remains of skyscrapers gradually gave way to the dense, seemingly untouched wilderness beyond. "There," he stated with absolute certainty. "We'll find a secluded spot, somewhere Angstrom won't think to look. Somewhere we can... protect her."

The way he lingered over the word "protect" sent an involuntary shiver through the group, but none dared contradict him. With a collective nod of reluctant agreement, the Marks carefully lifted Y/N's limp form, each positioning themselves to maintain contact with her—their movements gentle despite their immense strength. Viltrumite Mark delicately wiped a droplet of blood from her cheek with a tenderness that seemed entirely at odds with his imperial bearing.

They rose into the air in tight formation, carrying their precious cargo through the smoke-filled sky, leaving behind the ravaged husk of what had once been New York City.

Eventually, they found a secluded cabin nestled deep within the dense forest, a small, unassuming structure that seemed miraculously untouched by the chaos they had unleashed upon the world. Inside, they discovered a lone occupant—an elderly man whose rheumy eyes widened with terror at the sight of eight identical men, each bearing the face of destruction that had dominated emergency broadcasts before they failed.

A swift, brutal act silenced his frightened cries, leaving the cabin empty and waiting for its new occupant—a practical necessity that none of the Marks questioned or regretted.

They laid Y/N on the worn wooden floor of the small cabin with surprising gentleness. Her body remained still and pale against the rough-hewn planks, face tear-stained and peaceful despite the violence of her liberation. Tendrils of her hair fanned out around her head like a dark halo, slightly frizzed from the electrical assault she had endured. The Marks gathered around her in a protective circle, their expressions a complex mixture of concern, determination, and barely concealed desire as they gazed upon the woman who mirrored the one they had each lost in their respective universes.

"We'll take shifts," Omni Mark announced, instantly assuming command with practiced ease. His calculating eyes scanned the modest room with meticulous attention to detail, mentally cataloging potential threats and escape routes. "Someone will stay with her at all times. The rest will continue the destruction, maintaining our cover while we monitor her condition."

"And the mission?" No Masked Mark questioned anxiously, raising his arms in a helpless gesture. His youthful features contorted with uncertainty, clearly torn between their original destructive purpose and this unexpected development.

"We'll continue," Omni Mark replied with firm assurance, locking eyes with No Masked Mark. He placed a steadying hand on the younger variant's shoulder, grip firm but not unkind. "But we'll approach it strategically. Create diversions, spread out our forces, minimize unnecessary collateral damage. We'll maintain the appearance of following Angstrom's directives, but our true priority remains here." His eyes flickered meaningfully toward Y/N's unconscious form.

"She'll wake up," Mohawk Mark insisted with desperate conviction, roughly wiping at his reddened eyes with the back of his hand. The vulnerability in his voice was startling, stripping away his carefully constructed arrogance to reveal raw emotion beneath. "She fucking has to. She can't leave me again... not after I just found her."

Sinister Mark observed Mohawk's naked emotion with evident disgust, a contemptuous sneer curling his lip. Yet when he moved forward to kneel beside Y/N, his movements possessed an unexpected grace, almost reverent in their precision. His fingers—capable of crushing steel and ending lives without effort—traced the delicate lines of her face with obsessive gentleness, exploring every curve and hollow as if committing them to memory.

"She will," he said, his voice a low, rumbling growl that seemed to vibrate through the cabin's wooden bones. Unlike the desperate hope in Mohawk's tone, Sinister's words carried the weight of absolute certainty—a predator's confidence in claiming what he considered already his. His eyes—typically cold and calculating—burned with an intensity that made the other Marks shift uncomfortably. "And when she does, we'll be ready; waiting for those beautiful eyes to reopen to us."

The possessive emphasis he placed on "us" fooled no one—least of all himself. His fingers lingered a moment too long on the pulse point at her throat, his expression momentarily softening into something almost tender before the mask of cruelty slammed back into place.

The Marks had a new mission now. The destruction of the mainstream universe still bound them by obligation and necessity, but they were now equally bound by a newfound sense of purpose—a desperate, collective desire to protect the woman they had found. She was both stranger and intimately familiar, a phantom made flesh, the woman they had each lost in their respective universes, and now, the woman they were collectively determined to save—from others, from the world, and perhaps from themselves.

They began dividing their forces with military precision, Omni Mark drafting plans with Emperor Mark's input while Viltrumite offered cold, tactical suggestions. They would spread across different continents, maintaining the façade of random destruction that Angstrom expected, while rotating shifts to ensure Y/N was never left unguarded. Paris would fall next, then Moscow, Tokyo, and beyond—a symphony of calculated chaos designed to mask their true priority.

The first day of their war against this universe was far from over, but the discovery of Y/N had fundamentally altered its purpose. What had begun as simple conquest—the destruction of one universe among infinite possibilities—had transformed into something far more complex and personal. Each Mark now fought with renewed purpose, their actions guided not merely by Angstrom's directives but by the silent promise they had made to the unconscious woman in the cabin.

The mission was no longer just about conquest; it was about salvation—about reclaiming a lost love, about rewriting a tragic fate that had played out eight different ways across eight different realities. In their own universes, they had failed her, each in their own way. Too weak, too late, too cruel, too blind—their regrets took different forms but shared the same bitter taste. This Y/N offered something none of them had dared hope for: a second chance.

They would keep this Y/N safe at any cost, jealously guarded even from each other. None spoke this truth aloud, but it hung in the air between them, a silent agreement underscored by watchful gazes and lingering touches.

"Mohawk stays with her first," Omni Mark announced, his tone making it clear this was not a suggestion but a command. His eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly at the flash of rebellion on Sinister's face. "He found her first. We'll rotate every six hours. No exceptions."

The others nodded with varying degrees of reluctance, Viltrumite's jaw tightening with barely contained objection while Emperor Mark's fingers drummed an impatient rhythm against his thigh. Only Sinister Mark seemed truly at ease, a knowing smile playing at the corners of his mouth as if he already saw moves ahead in a game the others didn't realize they were playing.

As the Marks departed one by one to continue their orchestrated destruction across the globe, Mohawk Mark settled beside Y/N's still form. Alone at last, his carefully maintained façade of arrogance and anger crumbled like the buildings they had destroyed. With shaking fingers, he gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch feather-light against her skin.

"I found you again," he whispered, voice cracking with emotion he would never show the others. "And this time, I won't fucking lose you. I swear it."

Outside the cabin, a gentle breeze stirred the trees, nature continuing its rhythms oblivious to the schemes of gods and monsters. Inside, a different kind of war was just beginning—one fought not with fists and fury, but with patience and possession. Eight versions of the same man, each determined to claim what they believed was rightfully theirs alone.

And at the center of it all, still and silent, lay Y/N—oblivious to the tempest her very existence had unleashed, unaware that she had become the eye of a storm that would reshape this universe and perhaps beyond.

–––––––––––––––––– ☆ TBC!! ☆

Hope ya'll liked it ♡ Leave a comment on whatya think!! next chapter will be from Mohawk's p.o.v Please keep reading, lovely!(｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ Pt.2 ☆ 10 parts total! - The series is completed

Smut included with Sinister and Mohawk -

Fluff/Smut series following main one!! (𝙰𝚣𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝙷𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚜) pt.1-2-3

[aliyahwritings]

THE CONTRACTED HEART — Rafe Cameron (07)

MASTERLIST | Basketball Player & Model!Female Reader

Summary: Rafe Cameron, a basketball star, needs a marriage to fix his image, while Model!Reader needs one for citizenship. They may be the perfect solution for each other.

Warnings: smut, descriptions of violence, jealousy, usage of drugs, talks about body image/ed, angst, and lots of bickering. Reader is confident, a people-pleaser, has a traumatic past, and is a sunshine with an attitude. Rafe is a whore, possessive, cocky, and secretive about his past.

Word Count: 8.1k

Aliyah's Notes: the way i wanted this chapter to be around 5k... but anyw, the ending to that chapter is pretty good so y'all can rest in peace lmaoo but problems are coming hehehehehe

The sound of her heels clicking on the pavement cut through the evening air, each step echoing louder than the last. You barely registered the chill of the evening as her figure came into view—Chiara Romano, arms folded over her chest, her expression a delicate balance of innocence and something unmistakably venomous. A small, mocking smile played at the corners of her lips, her gaze roaming over you with the kind of appraisal that felt like a slap.

Beside you, Rafe tensed, his gaze hardening as he straightened, clearly prepared for whatever barbs she had in store. You forced yourself to stand taller, meeting her gaze with a coolness you could barely muster.

“Chiara,” you said, injecting a polite edge into your voice that you knew was as fake as her smile. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

She tilted her head, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, I just felt like things ended a bit... strange at the party,” she replied, her tone sugary sweet yet laced with something bitter. “Especially after seeing the headlines about you.” She let out a small sigh, as though feigning concern. “I couldn’t help but worry.”

A sharp laugh almost slipped from your lips. The headlines. She was talking about the recent media talking about your “potential” relapse… which were true. News of your recent struggles had been going viral, and she was here to dangle them in front of you. The reality of your relapse was raw, but admitting it—especially to Chiara—was out of the question.

“Did you, now?” You kept your voice light, your smile tight as you watched her closely.

“Of course,” she nodded, her eyes darting pointedly between you and Rafe, her expression softening with feigned empathy. “Us girls have to look out for each other,” she added, a hint of mock sincerity weaving through her words. “I just hope Rafe’s taking excellent care of you. I mean, if he’s able to.”

You fought the urge to roll your eyes or worse—to let your anger slip through. Instead, you returned her smile with a casual shrug. “He is, thank you,” you replied, forcing your tone to stay neutral. “And I’m doing just fine. I haven’t relapsed—.”

“You sure?” she pressed, her voice a touch too innocent. “You look... thinner than I remember.”

You felt a twisted sort of satisfaction creeping in, an internal smile that you kept hidden. It was strange—almost absurd—but her attempt to make you feel small, to jab at your insecurities, did the opposite. She said it to be cruel; she thought her words would cut you deeply. But instead, they landed somewhere softer, failing to sting the way she intended.

Rafe’s voice cut through the tension, his tone sharp and commanding, filled with an authority that even you hadn’t heard from him before. “Alright, that’s enough,” he warned, his words laced with a chill that could silence a room. “Keep talking like that, and you’ll be the one making headlines.”

Chiara’s gaze flicked to Rafe, her lips curling into a sly smile, undeterred by his warning. “Oh, Rafe, always so protective,” she cooed, her tone dripping with mock innocence. “I thought we were past all that. After all, we did come here together.”

You blinked, the words sinking in like a stone dropping into still water, each ripple spreading through you. “You… came here with him?” you asked, keeping your voice steady, though your heart was pounding.

Chiara’s smile widened, a hint of triumph in her expression. “Of course. We just thought it’d be convenient, didn’t we, Rafe?”

Your eyes shifted to him, searching his face for any denial, some sign that this was just another one of her games. But Rafe stayed silent, his expression tinged with guilt, lips pressed together as if he didn’t trust himself to speak.

He had, in fact, come with her.

The air thick, with Chiara’s truth and Rafe’s guilty silence. Every moment he said nothing, the disappointment pooled deeper in your chest, twisting painfully.

You crossed your arms, your gaze hardening as you looked at him. “Convenient?” The word slipped from your mouth, laced with bitter disbelief. “Convenient for who, exactly?”

Rafe opened his mouth, struggling to find the right words, but nothing came out. His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he looked like he might deny it, try to explain. But his shoulders sagged slightly, defeated, as he glanced away.

Chiara’s voice broke the silence, her tone feigning sympathy. “Oh, don’t be upset. It’s not like you’re the only woman in his life, right?” She leaned back with a satisfied smile, clearly relishing the wedge she’d managed to drive between you.

“Alright, you know what?” you said, forcing a calm into your voice that belied the anger bubbling beneath the surface. “I don’t really care what arrangement you two have. But what I’d like to know, Chiara, is why you’re actually here. What do you want?”

Chiara’s smile faltered, just for a fraction of a second, before she recovered, her expression shifting to a mischievous glint. “I’m here to support my father’s event, naturally,” she replied smoothly. “But I couldn’t resist the chance to catch up with Rafe and see how… everything’s going with you two.”

You felt the anger begin to surge again, but you reined it in, straightening and lifting your chin. “Then let’s hope tonight’s as memorable as you’re expecting.” You threw a final look at Rafe, disappointment flickering in your gaze.

With that, you walked toward the car and sat in the passenger seat, forcing yourself to ignore the ache in your chest as you disappeared into the throng of people.

From the corner of your eye, you watched Rafe and Chiara exchange a few heated words. His jaw clenched as he spoke, his eyes narrowed in a way that told you he was holding back the anger simmering just beneath the surface. Chiara, on the other hand, looked anything but apologetic, her expression smug as she responded with an air of indifference. You couldn't hear what they were saying, but every movement, every flash of irritation in Rafe’s eyes only deepened the tight knot of frustration in your chest.

Before long, they finally turned, heading toward the car, and you forced yourself to look away and just focus on the city lights ahead of you. The silence that filled the car was thick, unbearably tense. The engine hummed beneath you, but the weight of everything unsaid made each passing second feel longer. You kept your eyes on the window, refusing to break the silence, even as your exhaustion began to creep in, your eyelids growing heavy.

Just as you started to drift, you felt him lean forward, his breath warm against your ear as he broke the silence, his voice low and soft. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, the apology laced with a vulnerability that caught you off guard.

You exhaled sharply, holding back the initial pang of anger. “You’re sorry?” you replied, your tone dripping with sarcasm as you finally turned to face him, one eyebrow raised. “For what, exactly? For keeping me in the dark? For thinking I wouldn’t notice you driving here with her?”

Rafe’s expression softened, his guilt evident as he held your gaze, searching for the right words. “It wasn’t like that. She… she just showed up. I didn’t think—”

You scoffed, cutting him off. “That’s the problem. You didn’t think. Or maybe you did, and just didn’t care to clue me in.” As his apology hung in the air, you couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. “Unbelievable,” you muttered, refusing to look at him. “So what, Cameron? You thought I’d just sit there and take it?”

He shifted closer, his voice strained. “I told you, it wasn’t like that. I didn’t invite her. She just… she knew I was coming here, and it felt easier to—”

“Easier?” You turned in your seat to face him, disbelief and frustration clear in your eyes. “Easier for who, exactly? Because it sure as hell wasn’t easier for me.”

Rafe’s gaze dropped, his fingers tapping nervously on the steering wheel. “Look, I know how it looks, but… she was already in the car before I could even think about it. I didn’t want to make a scene.”

You narrowed your eyes, unimpressed. “So, you thought the best plan was to just go along with her? To let her be seen with you, knowing exactly how that would make me look?”

“Y/N, I know I messed up, okay?” He leaned closer, the regret in his eyes almost palpable. “I was just trying to keep things calm. I didn’t want it to turn into something it didn’t have to be.”

“Oh, so you didn’t want to ‘make a scene’ with her, but now you’re perfectly fine with making me feel like an idiot?” you shot back, folding your arms. “How considerate of you.”

Rafe let out a sigh, rubbing his temples. “Can’t you just trust that I was doing what I thought was right?”

You rolled your eyes, the bitterness evident in your tone. “I don’t trust you.” You turned away, staring at the passing lights outside. "And you’re only apologizing now because you got caught."

He was silent for a moment, the weight of your words settling in. “I don’t want to keep doing this, Y/N,” he said quietly. “I don’t want you to feel like this… like I don’t care.”

You laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Then stop giving me reasons to feel this way.”

You leaned against the window, arms crossed, eyes fixed on the passing city lights. During the car ride, Chiara, for once, seemed to get the hint and kept her mouth shut, though every so often you caught her glancing at Rafe through the rearview mirror. Rafe, on the other hand, drove with a steady determination, occasionally glancing at you as though he was waiting for you to say something—anything—that might break the unbearable quiet. But you refused to give him that satisfaction, and instead, kept your focus outward, on anything but the two people in the car with you.

As the car rolled to a stop in front of the charity venue, Chiara was quick to jump out, immediately making a beeline for her father, who was waiting near the entrance. The flash of photographers’ cameras lit up the scene, and she threw a gleeful smile their way, basking in the attention as she reached her father’s side.

You took a steady breath and turned to Rafe, letting out a sigh that seemed to carry every ounce of frustration you’d been holding onto. He was watching you, his expression caught somewhere between apology and uncertainty.

“Alright, Cameron,” you began, forcing a professional tone. “Let’s get this over with. We need a story to tell about how we met, so listen to me; we met through a mutual friend at some rooftop party in the city. You were immediately smitten.”

“Smitten?” he repeated, arching an eyebrow. His mouth curved into a playful grin. “Strong word there. Don’t know if I’ve ever been ‘smitten.’”

“Well, you have now,” you said without missing a beat. “We sat at the same table, and you told me some fake, but charming story about how you don’t like crowds and would rather be anywhere else.”

“So, I’m just a liar?” he said with a grin.

“Yes, apparently,” you said, your voice flat as you rolled your eyes.

“That’s deserved, alright,” he shrugged, and leaned closer. “But, let’s make this fun. How about we tweak the story a bit? Let’s say you chased me down after that rooftop party, practically begging for my number.”

“You must be high,” you scoffed, looking at him like he’d just suggested the earth was flat. “No one would believe I’d chase after you. Besides, I’d rather walk across hot coals than let people think I was desperate for you.”

Rafe gave a lighthearted shrug, clearly entertained by your reaction. “Alright, but if anyone asks, I’ll just say I was the reluctant charmer who had to be convinced.”

You couldn’t help the sarcastic laugh that slipped out. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘charm’ like ghosting someone for two weeks.”

He winced but quickly recovered, that easy smirk slipping back into place. “Ouch. Alright, I deserved that one too. But admit it, you’d be impressed if I played hard-to-get. It’d add some mystery to our ‘relationship.’”

You deadpanned, “It’d add some credibility if you remembered the actual story. Try to keep up with the backstory, Cameron. We’re supposed to be in love, remember?”

Rafe placed a hand on his heart, feigning a wounded expression. “So cruel. Here I am, pouring my heart out, and you’re just brushing me off like I’m nothing.”

You stared at him, unimpressed. “How does that feel, huh? To be brushed off?”

His smile dropped immediately. “I’ll stick to the script. Mutual friends, a little bit of rooftop magic, and me falling head over heels. Got it.”

“Good. And try to remember: we’ve been dating long enough that you’d know basic things, like my favorite color and the fact that I don’t like seafood.”

“Got it,” he said with a nod, giving you a mock salute. Then, with a sly grin, he added, “Anything else I should know? Like, if you’ve got a celebrity crush, maybe?”

You rolled your eyes, fighting the urge to smile despite yourself. “This is a charity event, Cameron, not a middle school dance. Stick to the basics, and we’ll be fine.”

He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, boss. Just wanted to know if I’ve got any competition out there.”

You couldn’t help but scoff. “Trust me, you’d know if there was competition.”

The banter fell into a comfortable silence, the tension lifting slightly as you both prepared for the performance ahead. But as you glanced out the window, watching Chiara drape herself over her father’s arm like she owned the place, the humor faded, and a steely resolve settled over you.

Rafe must have noticed, because he leaned forward, his expression growing more serious. “Hey, I know tonight’s going to be… less than ideal,” he said, his tone softening. “But we’ve got this. Just follow my lead if things get tricky, alright?”

You looked at him, skepticism still lingering, but his sincerity caught you off guard. “Let’s just keep this professional,” you replied, but your tone was gentler, almost reluctant.

“Deal,” he said, giving you a small, genuine smile. “Let’s make ‘em believe it.”

With that, he opened his door and walked around to your side, offering you his hand as you stepped out. You hesitated, then took it, maintaining a cool composure as camera flashes went off around you. The crowd erupted in a flurry of clicks and flashes, and you could already hear the low hum of voices speculating about the two of you.

Rafe leaned down slightly, his hand resting lightly on your back as he guided you forward. “Smile like you’re the happiest you’ve ever been,” he whispered, his tone playful but warm. “And maybe… just pretend you don’t want to strangle me for a few minutes.”

You tilted your head, flashing him a fake, overly-sweet smile. “Oh, trust me, that’ll be the hardest part.”

He chuckled, giving the reporters a charming wave as he leaned in, whispering back, “Keep smiling like that, and people might actually believe you like me.”

You leaned in closer, maintaining the smile for the cameras. “Don’t get too comfortable. This is just for show.”

“Right,” he whispered, a teasing glint in his eye. “But if we happen to have a little fun, is that so bad?”

Before you could answer, Chiara’s voice rang out over the crowd, all fake sweetness as she greeted her father, loudly proclaiming her excitement for the event. You caught Rafe’s eye, sharing a look of silent exasperation.

“Stick to the story. Don’t slip up.”

“Got it, boss,” he whispered back, his tone lighthearted as he gave you a quick wink. “Let’s go give them a show.”

You sipped your champagne, feigning interest in the event as your gaze flickered over the crowd, hoping to find something—anything—to break up the monotony. Conversations about Rafe’s latest matches, your recent shoot for Vogue, and even the upcoming Chanel campaign rolled through the evening like clockwork, the same pleasantries exchanged over and over. Rafe played his part perfectly, always flashing that magnetic smile, leaning in as if every word you said was his world. You kept a poised expression, smiling when necessary, but each compliment and question blended into the next, leaving you restless.

Just as you managed to suppress a yawn, a commanding voice sounded from behind. “Y/N Y/L/N, the woman of the hour.” You turned, and there stood Charles Kensington, a CEO of one of the event’s largest sponsors, known as much for his relentless pursuit of younger models as for his cutthroat business strategies. He extended a hand with a smirk that was more predatory than friendly, his gaze sweeping over you with an appreciation that lingered far too long. “I’m Charles Kesington. It’s a pleasure.”

“Likewise,” you replied politely, giving him a polite smile as you shook his hand. “And congratulations on your company’s recent acquisition. Impressive move.”

Charles smiled, clearly pleased. “Ah, you’ve been keeping up, I see. You’re as sharp as they say.” His gaze lingered, a touch too intense, and his hand remained over yours a second longer than necessary. “And I must say, even more beautiful in person. Your upcoming campaign with Chanel is already causing quite a buzz.”

Rafe’s arm tightened around your waist as he turned to face Charles, his smile polite but lacking warmth. “Nice to see you, Charles.”

Charles nodded at Rafe, though his attention stayed firmly on you. “I’ve seen your work everywhere recently,” he said, his voice dropping into an intimate tone. “Chanel made a wise choice—although I’d argue that any brand would be lucky to have you representing them.”

“Thank you,” you replied coolly, catching the faint annoyance in Rafe’s jaw as it clenched. But Charles either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

“You’re too kind, Mr. Kensington,” you replied, ignoring the way his eyes drifted over you. “And thank you. I’m honored to be working with such a renowned brand.”

“Oh, please,” he said, dismissing the formality with a wave of his hand. “Call me Charles. You know, I’d love to see you star in one of our campaigns someday. I’d love to discuss a potential collaboration over dinner,” he added, his voice lowering just enough to feel like a private invitation, despite Rafe’s presence.

You forced a polite laugh, though you felt Rafe’s grip tighten again. “Thank you, Charles. That’s very generous but—”

Rafe cleared his throat, the sound deliberate. “Actually, Y/N’s schedule is pretty packed for the next few months,” he said, his tone friendly but laced with an unmistakable edge. “With the Chanel campaign, her other upcoming works, and our time together, I’m not sure there’s room for much else.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, glancing at Rafe with an amused smile, as if he’d only just noticed him standing there. “Ah, Mr. Cameron. Quite a lucky man, aren’t you?”

Rafe’s jaw tightened, but he managed a tight smile. “I’d say so.”

Charles leaned a bit closer, his attention fixed back on you. “Well, if you ever find a free moment, I’d be more than happy to take you on a tour of our headquarters. You know, just to chat about future opportunities.”

The thinly veiled invitation hung in the air, and you felt a slight discomfort, but you kept your smile in place. “Thank you for the offer, Charles. But as my boyfriend mentioned, I’m quite busy these days.”

Charles’ gaze flicked between the two of you, his smile widening slightly, clearly enjoying the tension he’d stirred up. “Of course. I understand entirely,” he replied smoothly, offering you a final lingering look before excusing himself.

The moment he was out of earshot, Rafe turned to you, his expression thunderous. “What the hell was that?”

You blinked, feigning innocence. “What was what?”

“That guy was practically undressing you with his eyes,” he muttered, his tone low and irritated. “And you didn’t seem too bothered by it.”

You raised an eyebrow, unfazed. “Maybe because I don’t see the point in making a scene over a harmless conversation.”

Rafe scoffed, his hand still firmly around your waist. “Harmless? That guy was two seconds away from asking for your number.”

You rolled your eyes, barely managing to hide your smirk. “Jealous, Cameron?”

Rafe’s gaze hardened, and he leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “If you think I’m just going to stand there while some old fucker tries to flirt with you, you’re wrong.”

The intensity in his voice sent a flicker of satisfaction through you, though you kept your expression neutral. “Relax, Mike Tyson. It was just a conversation. It’s not like he’s the first man to ever show interest in me.”

“Yeah, well,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing, “he should know you’re off-limits.”

You shot him a sidelong glance, amused by his possessiveness. “Is that right? I don’t recall signing any contract that says I’m ‘off-limits.’”

His grip tightened, his face a mixture of frustration and something else—something deeper, something he was clearly trying to suppress. “You’re my girlfriend and about to become my wife, consider it an unspoken rule, then.”

You felt a thrill at his words, but you kept your tone casual. “If that’s the case, maybe you should make it more convincing.”

He leaned closer, his hand brushed against your cheek, fingers lingering just enough to send a spark through you. “Convincing?”

His eyes never left yours, flickering briefly to your lips, and you could feel the heat building between you, a tension that seemed to stretch out endlessly. The hum of the event around you began to fade, and suddenly, it was as if there was no one else in the room—just the two of you, drawn together by something that felt far more complicated than a simple arrangement.

His breath, warm and steady against your skin, made your pulse quicken. You found yourself instinctively closing your eyes as his face came even closer, the space between you narrowing with every passing second. The moment was electric, charged with an undeniable pull that you could no longer ignore.

For the briefest moment, you forgot all the reasons you’d been upset with him in the first place. His proximity, the way he looked at you, the way his lips seemed so close—it was almost impossible to think about anything else. You ached to feel him again, to taste his lips, to feel the weight of his body against yours. All that mattered was the way your skin burned for him, how every nerve in you seemed to come alive at the thought of him touching you again. You wanted him. 

Desperately.

But just before his lips touched yours, a familiar voice cut through the quiet intensity.

"Y/N! There you are!” Aisha’s voice was bright and unapologetic, carrying her trademark liveliness that filled any room. Startled, you and Rafe pulled apart just in time to see her approach, her arms outstretched and a radiant smile on her face.

You could only laugh as she practically tackled you with a hug, pulling you in tightly. Standing just a few inches taller than you, her warm brown skin glowed against the dark emerald of her satin dress, a color that complemented her deeply curly hair that cascaded freely around her shoulders. Her high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes sparkled with joy, her makeup accentuating her features with a natural, dewy look and a bold cat-eye makeup.

"Oh my God!" you managed through your laughter. "I had no idea you’d arrived already."

She finally released you from the hug but kept her hands on your shoulders, looking you over with a proud, glowing smile. “As if I’d miss this! You look absolutely breathtaking, girl—that dress was made for you. No one else could do it justice.”

You spun around, letting the fabric fan out as you struck a playful pose. “You really like it?”

“Like it? I am in-freaking-love, are you serious?” she squealed, and the two of you burst into laughter, clapping your hands together with giddy excitement. “I’ve missed you so much.”

You pressed a hand to your forehead, sighing dramatically. “I’ve missed you way more—can you believe it’s only been a year and I’m already involved with a white man? Truly, how crazy is that?”

Aisha’s gaze snapped to Rafe, who stood a little behind you, clearly surprised to be noticed so suddenly. You stifled a laugh as he shifted, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. Aisha's eyes narrowed slightly as she took him in, her gaze appraising and unblinking, as if she was assessing him for every possible flaw.

“Rafe Cameron, meet Aisha Patel—my best friend,” you said, tugging Aisha closer. “Aisha, this is Rafe, my... boyfriend.”

She didn’t say a word, just let her eyes scan him from head to toe with a critical intensity. You recognized this familiar expression—it was her way of warning anyone interested in you that hurting you would come with consequences. She always put your partners through this silent scrutiny, hoping to rattle them and make it clear they had to earn her approval.

Rafe, though clearly aware of her intent, extended his hand, maintaining an uneasy but polite smile. “Nice to meet you, Aisha.”

For a split second, she didn’t budge, letting the moment stretch just long enough to make him shift uncomfortably. You quickly grabbed her hand, easing it into his before she could escalate the standoff. “She’s usually much friendlier, I swe—”

“My dad has a gun,” she said quietly, her tone so flat it made the tension in the air sharpen. “And he taught me how to use it.”

You laughed a little, trying to ease the weight of her words. “She’s just kidding… right?”

But she didn’t break. Her gaze stayed fixed on Rafe, unwavering. “Only one way to find out, Rafe Cameron,” she replied coldly.

Rafe’s eyes flickered, and after a long moment, he dropped his gaze with a tight nod. “Guess I know where Y/N got her threatening techniques from,” he said with a small grin, the usual smugness back in his voice.

His expression, so casual and light, cut deeper than you expected. It felt like he knew exactly what he was doing, toying with a conversation he’d read from a distance and kept deliberately unanswered. He’d seen your texts, read every one of them, and left them cold and untouched. You felt the hurt creeping up in a way that left you exposed, vulnerable in a way you swore you wouldn’t be around him.

You pulled in a slow breath, forcing your face back to neutral, hoping Aisha wouldn’t notice the flicker of pain in your eyes. She turned to say something to Rafe, and you straightened, pulling your walls up as fast as you could, sealing the hurt beneath a calm you’d mastered. Just one more second, and no one would ever know.

Aisha leaned forward, curious but amused. “So… how’d you two meet?”

You shot Rafe a quick look, and he gave a subtle nod, leaving you to tell the story. “We met a few months back at this party,” you started.

“Rooftop party,” Rafe corrected, unable to resist chiming in.

“Right, a rooftop party,” you agreed, giving him a playful look. “And the second he laid eyes on me, he was enchanted—absolutely down bad,” you teased, letting a smirk cross your face.

Rafe raised an eyebrow, giving a mock-serious nod. “Completely leveled me. Could barely walk straight after that.”

“Completely down bad,” you agreed, tilting your head with a smile. “Apparently, my beauty was just too blinding. He had no choice but to come talk to me, and once he did? Well, he realized I was so much more than a pretty face. He was hooked on how charming, funny, and—”

“And how sassy she was,” Rafe finished, his gaze lingering on you for a beat longer than necessary.

Aisha looked between the two of you, raising an eyebrow. “Sassy with you? Really?”

Rafe laughed, running a hand through his hair. “That mouth of hers—I swear, there’s not a single day where she’s not giving me that attitude,” he added with a soft smile in your direction.

“Interesting… Very interesting.” Aisha looked between you two with a grin, shaking her head. “And, what happened after that?”

Rafe leaned back, crossing his arms as he tried to act casual. "Well, after that, I pretty much chased her down just to get a date," he said with a smirk. "The rest is history."

You rolled your eyes, waving a dismissive hand. "Oh, he’s underselling it. He spent weeks trying to get my number, asking me out every day on Instagram, but I wasn’t having it. I kept hearing all these things about him…"

"Like what?" Aisha leaned in, eyes widening in anticipation.

"That he was a total player," you said, pausing for effect, earning a gasp from Aisha that you matched with a knowing nod. Meanwhile, Rafe just chuckled, shaking his head at your theatrics. "I know, girl!" you went on, shooting Rafe a playful look. "But he finally convinced me to go on a date… and he actually wasn’t so bad. So I gave him another shot, and, well…" You shrugged, glancing over at him with a smile. "Here we are."

Aisha took it all in, folding her arms and tapping her fingers thoughtfully.

“Wow,” she said, eyeing him with newfound curiosity. “I didn’t peg you for the persistent type, Rafe. Especially not with someone like my girl.”

Rafe shot her a confident smile, though there was a quiet warmth in his expression that didn’t quite match the usual cocky bravado. “Yeah, she’s special. Knew it from the moment I saw her.”

You couldn’t help the warmth that rushed through you at his words, a sudden rush of affection you hadn’t expected, especially not in front of Aisha. There was something in the way he looked at you that made the air feel thicker, charged with something unspoken. It sent an unexpected flutter through your chest, a reminder that underneath all the tension, the public facade, and the expectations, there was still something raw between you—something that felt real in a way you hadn’t quite anticipated. 

“Smooth talker, huh?” you teased, nudging Rafe lightly with your elbow. “You’re really laying it on thick tonight, aren’t you?”

Aisha’s sharp eyes flicked between you both, her protective instincts clearly on high alert. “Yeah, I’m picking up on that. But just so you know, Rafe, I’ve got my eye on you. You hurt her, and you won’t just be dealing with me, you’ll be dealing with my dad, too.”

Rafe’s lips curved into a smile, but there was something more guarded behind his eyes now, as though he recognized the weight of her words. “I get it,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Aisha seemed to size him up for a moment longer, letting the silence stretch just enough to make the air thick with tension. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she gave a slow nod, her stance softening just a little. “Alright, I’ll take your word for it,” she said, her tone easing. “But I’m still watching.”

You felt a strange sense of pride at that. Aisha had always been fiercely protective of you, and while it sometimes grated on your nerves, you knew deep down it was just because she cared. No one had ever had your back the way she did. You weren’t sure if Rafe fully understood that yet, but from the way he glanced at her—slightly uncertain, but respectful—you could tell he was beginning to get the message.

“Enough of the heavy shit,” Aisha said, breaking the tension with a clap of her hands and a sudden bright smile. “This is supposed to be fun, right? I’m here to celebrate, and I’m done with the interrogation. So, let’s have some fucking fun!”

You laughed, the sound light and genuine as you clinked your glass with hers. The champagne sparkled in your hand, and for the first time that evening, you felt a sense of relief. The weight of the conversation had shifted from uncomfortable to just... amusing. Aisha was nothing if not relentless in her approach, but you appreciated the way she could lighten any situation, especially when it felt like the pressure of your fake engagement was hanging over your head like a storm cloud.

“To my best friend and her very determined boyfriend,” Aisha toasted, her grin widening. “May you both drive each other crazy for a long, long time!”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks, Aish’. Really. A long, long time,” you echoed, sipping from your glass as she gave you a knowing look.

As the evening wore on, the atmosphere began to shift. The crowd mingled, voices rose and fell in an endless tide of conversation, and the hum of background music seemed to fade into the distance. It felt like the world was in motion, but you and Rafe were standing still, caught in some kind of unspoken orbit that neither of you could quite navigate. 

People came and went, exchanging pleasantries, business deals, and compliments, but you and Rafe couldn’t seem to look away from each other. Even when he was speaking with someone else or laughing at a joke Aisha made, you felt his presence, heavy and undeniable.

You’d told yourself that tonight was about putting on a show for the cameras, about playing the part of the perfect couple, and you had every intention of sticking to the script. But as the night wore on, you realized how hard it was to keep pretending when Rafe’s touch lingered just a little longer than necessary, when his eyes followed you across the room with that possessive intensity you couldn’t quite ignore. There were moments when you caught him looking at you like no one else mattered, and for a brief second, the walls you’d so carefully constructed between the two of you threatened to crumble.

It wasn’t just the way he touched you when no one was looking, or the way he’d half-smiled at you in the middle of a crowd, as if sharing some private joke. It was the small things—the subtle ways he’d let you know he cared, even when he was keeping his distance. How his arm would brush against yours when you stood next to each other, how he’d glance at you in the middle of a conversation, as if checking to make sure you were still there, still paying attention. How he’d subtly reposition his hand on your waist, or how his thumb would brush against your back when you’d lean in close to hear something better.

And then, there were the moments when it seemed like neither of you knew how to deal with the chemistry that crackled between you. You’d both been avoiding it for so long, keeping your emotions buried under layers of professionalism and convenience, but tonight, it was becoming harder to ignore. The closer you got, the more the lines between what was real and what was fabricated began to blur.

A sudden vibration in your pocket startled you, pulling you out of your reverie. You slid your phone out, heart still racing from the interaction with Rafe, and your eyes immediately landed on the name that made your stomach drop: Mom.

Your heart skipped a beat as you unlocked the screen, only to see a simple message that made your blood run cold:

“Y/N, we’ve heard the news. This is a disgrace. This is not how we raised you. You’re nothing but a joke.”

You blinked at the message, trying to process it. News? What news? You hadn’t even talked to them in years. 

Before you could think further, the sickening feeling in your stomach intensified. Without even realizing it, you clicked over to the news app, and the headline that greeted you nearly stopped your heart:

“Rafe Cameron Engaged to Model Y/N Y/L/N: A Surprise Announcement”

Your pulse spiked, your fingers trembling as you scrolled down. The article was filled with blurry images from earlier in the evening, showing you and Rafe sharing moments too intimate for the cameras, your faces filled with a mix of affection and tension. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. It wasn’t supposed to be this fast.

How could this have leaked?

Your chest tightened as a suffocating wave of panic hit you. You could feel your breath quicken, the world around you suddenly feeling too small, too fast, and you couldn’t catch your breath. You looked around the room, your vision blurring as the walls seemed to close in. The voices around you grew muffled, the lights too bright, too harsh.

“Y/N?”

Rafe’s voice pulled you back to reality, but it was distant, like it came from a far-off place. You tried to focus on him, on his familiar blue eyes, but everything felt off, like you couldn’t quite make sense of what was happening.

The phone dropped from your hand, and before you knew it, your vision went dark. Your breath hitched in your chest as your body trembled with the onset of a panic attack. It felt like everything was spiraling out of control, and you couldn’t do anything to stop it.

And then, in the midst of it all, you felt it—something slipping from your bag pocket, a small metallic sound against the floor. But you couldn’t focus on it. Not now. Not with everything else overwhelming you. Your heart pounded in your ears, drowning out the noise around you as you tried to steady yourself, hands trembling at your sides.

You heard the faint clink again, but you were too far gone, too panicked, to care.

Rafe’s arms were around you before you even realized he was there, his voice low and urgent. “Hey, hey, it’s okay. You’re okay.” His hand was on your back, guiding you gently but firmly as he led you outside, away from the noise and chaos of the event.

“I—I—” Your words faltered, and you gasped for air, trying to calm your breathing, but it was like your lungs had stopped working.

“Shh, just breathe, baby, okay?” Rafe’s voice was steady, guiding you through it like he’d done this before. His hand was pressing into your back in rhythmic motions, trying to ground you. “You’re okay, I promise.”

You leaned against him, trying to steady your frantic breathing, but it was hard. Everything felt so chaotic, too fast. The news. The message from your parents. Rafe. Your relapse. The engagement. The shame. The eyes on you.

“I… I got a message from my parents,” you managed to gasp between breaths. “They already know... the news... I wasn’t ready for this. I wasn’t ready for any of this, Rafe.”

His face softened, but there was confusion in his eyes. He looked like he didn’t fully understand, but he didn’t push it. Instead, he just nodded and gave you a reassuring squeeze, his arms enveloping you in warmth. “Hey, it’s alright. We’ll figure this out. I’ve got you, okay?”

You buried your face in his chest, as if you’ve been doing forever, the tears finally coming, and you didn’t even try to hold them back. Your body shook as the sobs wracked through you. Everything felt like it was falling apart, all the control you’d tried so hard to maintain slipping through your fingers. The fake engagement, the pressure to live up to everyone’s expectations, the constant balancing act—it was too much.

“Shhh,” Rafe murmured again, his voice a steady, comforting presence against the storm inside you. “You’re okay, baby. We’re gonna get through this.”

Still shaking, you pulled away slightly, wiping your face with the back of your hand as you tried to steady yourself. Rafe didn’t push you away. He just stayed close, his hands hovering near you, ready to catch you if you needed him.

“I can’t… I can’t do this. Not like this,” you whispered, your voice breaking as you spoke. “Everything’s happening too fast. I didn’t expect it to go like this, Rafe. I didn’t plan for my parents to know about this. It’s not supposed to be like this.”

He seemed to register the panic in your voice, though he still didn’t fully understand why it was affecting you like this. Still, he didn’t question you further. He just nodded again, that protective instinct rising in him. “Alright, we’ll get you home, okay?”

You nodded quietly as he draped his jacket over your shoulders, the fabric warm against your skin. If you weren’t so caught up in your emotions, you might have found the gesture cute. “Yes, please…” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Just relax, okay? I’m right here.”

Before you knew it, he was guiding you toward his car, his hand firmly but gently around your arm as he helped you get inside. The drive home was a blur, your mind a chaotic mess of racing thoughts. You tried to fight the exhaustion pulling at you, but it was useless. As soon as you buckled your seatbelt, your body seemed to give up the fight.

You curled up against the seat, closing your eyes, and within minutes, you were asleep. The quiet hum of the car as Rafe drove was the only thing that kept you tethered to reality.

Rafe glanced over at you every few moments as he drove, the concern never leaving his face. He couldn’t take his eyes off of you tonight, not since the moment the tension between you had grown so palpable. He could feel it in his chest—the fear that something would go wrong, that something would happen to make everything fall apart.

As he looked at you now, sleeping peacefully, he couldn’t shake the worry gnawing at him. He didn’t understand it—didn’t fully understand what was happening between the two of you—but the depth of concern he felt for you surprised him. He couldn’t stop thinking about how he’d wanted to protect you, how he’d wanted to be there for you when you needed it the most.

But now, as you slept, he realized something he hadn’t allowed himself to admit before: he didn’t want to lose you. The idea of seeing you hurt, seeing you break down, sent a pang of guilt through him. He hadn’t planned on this feeling, hadn’t planned on the way he’d come to care about you, but it was undeniable now.

Being away from you for two weeks made him come to a few undeniable realizations. He missed you—more than he’d like to admit. He missed the way your smile lit up the room whenever you looked at him, the playful roll of your eyes when you thought he was being ridiculous. He missed the banter, the little jabs you’d throw his way, always keeping him on his toes. Most of all, he missed hearing your voice, the way it grounded him in ways he never expected.

He regretted everything—the distance, the silence, the mess he’d made—and he couldn’t stop thinking about how much he wanted to make it right.

The car approached your apartment building, Rafe slowed down, glancing over at you one last time. You hadn’t stirred for a while, and he didn’t want to wake you up too abruptly, but he knew you needed to get out. He gently reached over and brushed your shoulder, speaking softly.

“Y/N,” he murmured, his voice careful as if not wanting to startle you. “We’re here.”

You blinked a few times, slowly coming to, the remnants of sleep fading from your face as you sat up straight. For a moment, you looked around, trying to get your bearings, and then your eyes landed on him. You offered him a small, grateful smile, and his heart skipped a beat.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said softly, your voice still hoarse with exhaustion. “I really appreciate it.”

Rafe nodded, watching you with a mixture of concern and admiration. “No problem. You okay now?” His voice was gentle, but there was an undertone of worry that you couldn’t miss.

You gave a quiet sigh, nodding. “Yeah… I think I just needed some air.”

He stayed still for a second, waiting, as you unbuckled your seatbelt and started to gather your things. The quiet moment lingered before you stepped out of the car and made your way to the front door of your building. Rafe stayed in the car, just watching you, his gaze never leaving you. His chest felt tight again, but this time, it was different. It wasn’t fear of something going wrong—it was the simple concern of wanting you to be safe, wanting you to be okay.

As you reached the door, you fumbled through your bag, checking the contents. You muttered to yourself, growing more frantic as you checked again. A few seconds later, you pulled your head up in alarm.

“Shit…” you whispered under your breath.

Rafe’s gaze sharpened as he watched you struggle, a sense of urgency in your movements. He opened the car door slightly, ready to ask if something was wrong.

“Everything okay?” he called, his voice laced with concern.

You turned back, your eyes wide with panic. “I—I can’t find my keys.”

His brow furrowed. “You sure you didn’t leave them in the car?”

You shook your head, feeling your heart pound in your chest. “I’m sure I brought them with me. I always check for them before leaving... but I can’t find them. Oh god…” Your voice trailed off as the panic began to rise again, a wave of dread settling in your stomach.

Rafe’s gaze softened. He could see the distress building in you, and for a split second, he wished he could take that weight off your shoulders.

“Hey,” he called, getting out of the car now, taking a few steps toward you. “Maybe you dropped them inside, or—”

“No,” you interrupted, your voice shaking. “I’m sure I had them when we left the event… Oh my god…” You froze, your hands hovering over your bag again as realization hit you like a ton of bricks. “I dropped them,” you whispered, more to yourself than to Rafe, but he heard you clearly. “When I… when I freaked out. I must’ve dropped them at the event. Damn it.”

You turned around, scanning the ground as if your keys might miraculously appear, but you knew deep down they were long gone. You quickly pivoted and rushed back toward Rafe’s car, your anxiety spiking with each step. Rafe watched you for a moment before following closely behind, his own mind racing as he processed the situation.

“Shit,” you muttered again, coming up to his car and looking inside like you could find your keys by some miracle. Rafe sat there, waiting for you to catch your breath before he spoke. “I’m sorry… I know this is a mess. I just—everything’s falling apart tonight. I didn’t expect any of this, and now… now I’ve lost my damn keys. I don’t know what to do.”

Rafe could see the exhaustion on your face, the mental and emotional toll of the evening weighing heavily on you. The last thing he wanted was for you to feel more alone in this.

“It’s alright,” he said, trying to calm you, his voice soft but firm. “We’ll figure this out. Don’t worry.” He thought for a second, his eyes narrowing in contemplation. “I can call a locksmith, or we can check inside the building for a spare key. Maybe someone can help.”

You were already shaking your head, your eyes glossy with unshed tears. “I… I don’t want to bother anyone. And I don’t want to stay out here all night.”

Rafe saw how visibly shaken you were, how overwhelmed you seemed by everything. The night had gone completely sideways for you, and he couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone, stuck in your apartment, still frazzled.

“You could stay at my place tonight…”

chapter eight