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em1i2a3 · 15 days ago

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Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: After a night on the town with your old field ops team, you return to the Watchtower in hopes of making a drunken confession to Bob that will change your friendship forever.

Warnings: Fluff, and Some Angst, Reader and Bob are friends and aren’t dating, Mentions of heavy drinking, reader drinks until they are very drunk/tipsy (it is described), Drunken Confessions (and the embarrassment that comes with it afterwards lol), Mentions of throwing up/Hangovers, Reader is kind of hard on themselves regarding love, Bob takes care of the reader while she is in this drunken stupor and he kind of secretly loves every second of it? We are finally attacking the good old Drunken Confession Trope y’all and I frickin love it!!!!

Author’s Note: Y’all I frickin adore a good old love confession trope, like holy crappppp. This was a request from ‘Book anon’, amazing request, thank you a lot for it, I absolutely loved writing it for ya <3. Hope it’s what you’re lookin for! Also…It’s Rhett Abbott Friday…Y’know what that means…Double updates :p

Word Count: 8,137

The bar was absolute chaos.

It pulsed like a living thing–thick with music, sweaty bodies, and the pungent scent of spilled beer and a cocktail of various colognes mixing together, sharp and heady in the humid air. It clung to your skin, warm and damp, tasting like salt and gin and smoke from the overworked fryer in the back kitchen.

There was a faint haze that clouded the enclosed space from people sharing vapes and sneaking off to the alleyway to have a quick cigarette–but this was all normal for a Friday night at a downtown bar. Normal for a place like this, where you didn’t come to relax, you came to drown something.

The ceiling fans spun lazily overhead, which did nothing to help the heat, it just pushed the warm air in spirals. The walls were exposed brick, cracked in places, and plastered with old concert posters and handwritten signs advertising ‘$6 shots if you tip well’ and ‘No Vaping Inside (We See You)’. Every surface glistened faintly with condensation or sweat or both, and the wood beneath your elbows was sticky with spilled drinks and the ghosts of a thousand stories.

Somewhere to your left, the jukebox warbled the opening chords to a song that had no business being that loud, and someone shouted in recognition, fists raised. Glass clinked, a cheer erupted near the dartboard, and the bartender didn’t look up once–just kept pouring with the efficiency of a soldier who had seen war in shot glass form.

You and your old team took up four stools near the far end of the bar–just close enough to the speakers that conversation came in shouts and fragments, but far enough that you could pretend the chaos wasn’t swallowing you whole. The bar was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with strangers, but around your little carved-out corner, it still felt like them–back when your life was smaller, rougher around the edges, but easier to understand.

Benji, always the loudest and boldest, lifted his beer with exaggerated ceremony, nearly tipping it as he stood one foot on the stool’s lower rung. His cheeks were already flushed, the sleeves of his worn flannel pushed up past his elbows, one of them singed at the cuff from a mission he still refused to talk about. His knuckles were always bruised, and there was a faded tattoo peeking from under his collar that said ‘Viva La Prague’–something that he regretted getting when he woke up the next morning.

“Cheers to Y/N!” He bellowed, beer sloshing over his knuckles. “For finding time in her very demanding, top-secret, super glamorous Avenger-adjacent schedule to come slum it with us mortals for one night.” Calla let out a sharp laugh and clinked her whiskey glass against his. Her laugh was sharp like broken glass but warm beneath it–always had been. She still wore the same dog tags under her tank top, still had that scar across her forearm from the rooftop extraction in Marrakesh. She had this permanent smudge of black eyeliner beneath her eyes like she never fully washed off the field, even now.

“Damn right,” She said. “You realize you’re sitting next to someone who’s brushed shoulders with some of the most dangerous people on this planet?”

“And still somehow manages to answer my texts,” Rye added dryly, raising his own glass with a faint smirk. He was the quiet one, always had been. Broad-shouldered and sharp-eyed, more thoughtful than most gave him credit for. You used to joke that his blood ran cold–until the night he’d broken protocol to drag Benji out of a firefight with nothing but a cracked riot shield and a broken rib. He didn’t speak much, but when he did, it landed.

You flushed at the array of comments, ducking your head with a half-laugh, fingers curling loosely around the rim of your mint mojito. The ice had melted, watered the drink down to something limp and barely sweet–just the faint herbal bitterness of wilted mint and cheap rum. You sipped it anyway. It gave your hands something to do. Something to hold onto in the midst of all this.

“Please, guys,” You started with a tight laugh, trying to wave it all off. “You always make a big deal out of this stuff when it’s really not.”

Calla scoffed, swirling the ice in her glass. “Sure. You’ve got a god on your team. And the Winter So–”

“Bucky Barnes,” You interrupted quickly, not looking up from your drink when you corrected her. She smirked over the rim of her glass.

“Alright…Bucky Barnes. My apologies. Didn’t realize it was so formal.” You sighed and took another sip of your wilted mojito.

“We’re also still in a fight for the rights to the name, technically. So I’m not an Avenger. I’m a Thunderbolt.” Rye gave a low grunt and brushed that off with a lazy wave of his hand.

“Please. You guys saved New York City from that big shadow guy. Don’t tell me you’re not on the same level as them.” You groaned, hand lifting to your temple.

“That big shadow guy is the alter ego of the god you’re referring to,” You muttered, rubbing the thin skin on the side of your head with a sigh, “Just saying…And on top of that he’s out of commission so…Technically we’re down a god.” Calla tilted her head.

”Well that must mess up the team dynamic.” She replied, letting out a huff of a laugh. You didn’t answer–not right away at least. You just stared into the half-melted swirl of your drink and felt something subtle crack open beneath your ribs.

Because from the minute they brought up The Void, or Sentry…Your mind went back to him again…

Bob.

You had done everything you could tonight to keep your thought off of him. You came here to be loud, to get drunk, and to surround yourself with the memory of who you were before he started slipping under your skin like golden light through fractured glass.

But now that his name tiptoed through the caverns of your mind, it was impossible to ignore the ache. That slow-burning, bone-deep, stomach turning pull that never left–because he never left. Because he was always there, buried within the little things that littered your life.

Like the way he’d appear in the observation deck above the training floor when you were running combat drills. You’d feel it first, that prickle at the back of your neck that you got when you knew his eyes were on you. That hush just beneath the noise. When you’d glance up mid-round, panting and flushed, there he would be. Leaning with his forearms braced against the railing, light brown hair tousled, and sleeves pushed up, with his eyes locked on you with the softest kind of focus.

When your eyes would meet his, he’d smile–small and startled, like he hadn’t expected to be caught, and then came the little wave. That dumb little half-wave of his. Fingers lifting slowly, shy and gentle, like he was suddenly shy about the fact he was watching you as if you were under a microscope.

You’d raise your hand in return, trying not to blush, and he’d disappear a minute later–quiet as he came–leaving behind the weight of his presence like the last warmth from a sunbeam that had already moved on.

You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. That he probably watched everyone. That he must have waved at someone else like that, and visited them when they were training too. But still…The moment never left you.

Then sometimes you’d catch him in the kitchen before dawn, getting breakfast ready for you before a whole morning of briefings.

It didn’t matter how early you got up, how quiet you were when you crept into the kitchen, or how late the last mission had run. He was already there. Pajama pants hanging low on his hips, t-shirt wrinkled and inside-out, hair sticking up like he’d rolled out of bed ten minutes ago–because he had. Just for this.

He never said much. Just hummed quietly under his breath, something tuneless and soft, his mug of tea steaming beside the stove as he stirred eggs in a pan like the world wasn’t sitting on his shoulders. There was always a banana sliced with precise, practiced symmetry. Always a small bowl of whatever fruit hadn’t gone soft in the fridge. Always coffee waiting–and not just brewed, but made right. The exact way you liked it.

He never asked how you took it. He just…Knew.

At first you thought it was a coincidence. Then a fluke. Then you thought it was something he specifically did just for you because he was trying to tell you something he couldn’t say with words.

But then you noticed the post-it notes. Little squares of yellow stuck to the fridge door, each one penned in Bob’s unmistakably neat handwriting–slightly slanted, soft around the corners like he hesitated before each letter. A dozen gentle reminders. A dozen invisible kindnesses.

“Leftovers in the container–help yourself :)”

“Made a plain omelette for you Bucky! Check the top shelf!”

”Yelena! I picked up your favourite fruit snacks!”

And you realized…He remembered everyone.

He remembered how Yelena peeled her oranges in one spiral and hated blueberry yogurt. He remembered Bucky’s low tolerance for spice and how he liked his food seasoned well but not with crazy amounts of experimental ingredients. He remembered how Walker took his coffee too sweet and how you once mentioned you liked banana slices with cinnamon–once–and they had shown up on your plate the very next morning. He even remembered specific details about Alexei’s odd meal plan and attempted multiple times to get it right for him.

He was kind to everyone.

Consistent. Gentle. Attentive.

And not just with you.

And that realization sat in your stomach like a stone.

Cold and sinking.

Because all those moments you’d hoarded like firelight–his quiet glances, his shy smiles, his soft waves from the upper deck–they weren’t yours. They weren’t special. You’d just made them feel that way. You had done that. You’d built a shrine to him in your heart based on borrowed things.

And God, did it hurt to realize that.

The ache in your chest twisted, sharp and punishing, because you’d let yourself believe. You’d let yourself hope.

You wanted a sign. Just one. Something undeniable. Something that said:

I see you the way you see me.

But it never came, Instead, you had small waves, and breakfast, and polite, crushing kindness.

He haunted you in the gentlest ways imaginable.

And it killed you every single time.

You inhaled sharply through your nose and blinked hard, forcing your eyes back to the present, back to the bar where Calla was laughing at something Benji said and Rye had his glass tipped back like he was trying to disappear into it. The room swam in noise–booming bass, clinking glass, a woman’s voice singing a chorus in a key she couldn’t quite reach. It all blurred around the edges.

And maybe that was what you needed tonight.

To blur the reality you were facing a bit.

You slapped your palm lightly on the bar, catching the bartender’s eye with practiced ease.

“Shots,” You called out over the music, voice a little too bright, a little too loud. “Four of ‘em. Tequila, preferably please.” Benji whooped. Calla raised her brows. Rye didn’t say a word, but his smirk deepened.

And you smiled. You smiled like it didn’t hurt. Like your heart hadn’t just folded in on itself. Like you weren’t standing knee-deep in the quiet ruins of all the little almosts that Bob had given you without ever meaning to.

You would drink until your body was louder than your thoughts.

You would drink until your head buzzed louder than the ache in your chest.

Until the weight of his quiet love for everyone drowned out the way you had foolishly wanted it to be just for you.

So when the bartender slid the shots across the bar, you didn’t hesitate.

You knocked the first one back with shaking fingers.

Bitter. Clean. Empty.

And you welcomed the burn.

——————————

The city blurred past the window of your Uber, a smear of neon and streetlamp gold, glowing through the raindrops that had started falling sometime after shot number three. Your head lolled slightly against the window, eyes half-lidded, the hum of the tires and your own pulse making everything feel distant–like you were underwater. Or watching your life from outside your body.

By the time the car pulled up in front of the Watchtower–a steel-and-glass monolith that sliced through the dark sky of New York City–you were barely holding onto the thread of consciousness that guided your limbs.

You fumbled with the handle before the driver even came to a full stop, murmured something that was half “thanks” and half “sorry,” and stepped out into the night on legs that didn’t quite feel like yours.

The heels were a mistake. You knew it the moment your ankle gave a soft warning twist on the slick pavement.

You wobbled, caught yourself against the doorframe of the Uber with a slurred curse, and gritted your teeth as you leaned heavily against the side of the building. The clutch in your hands was trembling. Or maybe that was just you. It took three full tries before you got your fingers to actually grip the zipper and tug it open.

Keys. Where the hell were your keys?

You muttered softly to yourself–nothing coherent, just a trail of “come on, come on, come on’s”–until finally your fingers brushed cold metal and closed around it.

You fumbled the key into the reader by the glass security panel. The red light blinked once.

Then again.

Then turned green with a chirp.

“Ha,” You breathed victoriously, stumbling inside, your shoulder knocking against the side of the lobby door as it whooshed shut behind you. The interior lighting was dim and moody, the kind of atmospheric glow designed to look expensive and feel exclusive. Everything in here was marble or glass or brass-accented. Everything screamed quiet money and polished silence.

You certainly did not match that aesthetic, not tonight at least.

Not in your tiny black slip dress, silk clinging to your damp skin like it was reluctant to let go. The hem was hitting high on your thighs, dangerously close to riding up with every step. The plunging neckline had been a power move at the bar–now it just felt…Exposed. The thin straps had slid halfway down your shoulders, and the delicate silver jewelry at your throat glittered faintly under the chandelier lighting–dainty hoops, a little pendant, the layered rings on your fingers clinking faintly against your clutch.

Your heels clicked unevenly against the sleek tile floor, your mascara slightly smudged beneath one eye, lips tinged pink and glossy, though the edges were wearing off. Your hair had frizzed a bit from the humidity, and it was dampened from where sweat and summer air had kissed it. You looked like you barely survived the night.

You stumbled forward, half-dragged by the momentum of your own steps, your shoulder grazing the edge of the marble wall as you made your way toward the elevator tucked at the far end of the lobby. The walls glittered faintly with embedded flecks of quartz, cool and luxurious against the chaos clinging to you like perfume and poor decisions.

You hit the call button with more force than necessary, nearly stabbing it with your thumb. The ring around it lit up in a soft gold halo, and somewhere behind the mirrored doors, gears began to churn.

You closed your eyes and tipped your head back against the cold marble, breathing through your nose. Big mistake.

The room swayed.

Your stomach rolled.

You squeezed your eyes shut tighter.

“Fuck.” You mumbled.

That sickly wave of nausea was curling up your throat now, hot and bitter like it had been distilled straight from regret and tequila. The inside of your skull throbbed, slow and heavy, like the hangover had decided to arrive early and was already unpacking its bags behind your eyes.

The elevator chimed softly.

You pushed off the wall and stumbled in just as the doors slid open, nearly tripping on the threshold as your heel caught on the groove. Your hand slapped against the mirrored wall for balance.

Cool air kissed your bare skin as you stepped into the softly lit interior that reflected your image back at you tenfold. It was quiet thankfully, and you hoped that it would ease the sickly feeling that was brewing beneath the surface.

You exhaled a long, shaky breath.

Then, with a small whimper of relief, you bent to unstrap your heels, one hand bracing on the brass railing that ran along the mirrored back wall. You kicked the shoes off with a graceless thud, the straps tangling around each other as they landed in the corner like discarded evidence of the night you were trying to outrun.

Your bare feet met the cool tile floor, and you sighed as if that alone had peeled away a layer of your exhaustion. It didn’t, really. But it helped enough.

The panel of glowing buttons waited silently beside you. You squinted at it, already swaying as your fingers hovered in hesitation.

You pressed 64.

Then 73.

Then 87, your eyes blinking slowly with a look of concentration like you were solving a puzzle only you understood.

The elevator didn’t move.

“Oh my god,” you muttered under your breath, dragging a hand down your face.

Then, finally, you reached out and pressed 80.

Home.

The right floor.

The correct button glowed back at you, steady and sure, as the elevator gave a soft mechanical sigh and began to rise.

You leaned back against the mirrored wall, shoulders slumping, one hand pressed flat to your stomach as if you could calm the roiling sea inside you by sheer will. The light above your head flickered slightly with each passing floor. The city outside blurred behind the glass wall of the elevator shaft, nothing more than distant, glowing geometry.

Your reflection caught your eye on the polished surface behind you.

You looked…Like a mess.

Not in the beautiful, tragic way either. In the real way. In the mascara-smudged, lipstick-faded, emotionally-gutted way. Your dress clung to your sides, one strap threatening to fall again. Your fingers were still curled loosely around your clutch, your knuckles tight with tension even though you hadn’t realized you were gripping it that hard.

Your eyes–God, your eyes. They looked glassy, like you had put eyedrops in them and they didn’t absorb properly.

You pressed your forehead to the cool mirror, the glass fogging faintly from your breath. You didn’t want to cry. You didn’t have the energy to cry.

So you didn’t.

You just stood there, barefoot and quiet, while the elevator climbed.

And with every passing floor, it felt like you were being carried closer and closer towards the part of yourself you had tried so desperately to drown tonight.

Up.

The elevator gave a soft ding as it arrived at the 80th floor, and the doors slid open with a whisper, spilling warm light and the faint scent of something buttery into the space around you.

You stumbled forward like gravity had suddenly tripled, one hand still braced against the mirrored wall until your foot hit the edge of the elevator threshold. Your clutch slipped from your fingers and hit the floor with a muffled thunk, but you didn’t stop to pick it up.

The living space that unfolded in front of you was dim but alive in the quiet, familiar way that only the Watchtower could be at night. The common room stretched out in soft pools of warm yellow light, lamps scattered strategically along the shelves and corners, casting long shadows over the leather couches and polished floorboards. A movie played on low volume from the TV, some old sci-fi flick that was mostly just flickering blue light across the far wall. Someone had left a blanket thrown over the back of the couch, and the faintest scent of popcorn clung to the air–microwaved, and slightly burnt.

The floor under your bare feet was cool and smooth, and the air here was different–cleaner, quieter. It should have sobered you a bit but it didn’t. If anything, the stillness made the emotional noise inside you ring louder.

You wandered forward like a ghost through the room, mumbling a little laugh to yourself as you navigated around the edge of the coffee table and nearly tripped over the corner of a throw pillow. You caught yourself on the arm of the couch, a breathy giggle escaping your lips.

”O-Oh boy…” Came a soft, familiar voice from the left, and you froze like someone had turned a spotlight onto you, “Someone’s d-drunk.” Your head jerked up, eyes wide, and you found Bob standing just beyond the breakfast bar, halfway between the common room and the kitchen.

He looked soft in the low light, like the moment had rounded all his unintentional edges. He was barefoot in flannel sleep pants and a worn navy blue cotton t-shirt, sleeves loose on his biceps, with the collar slightly stretched from multiple washes. His light brown crown of hair was brushed back like he had ran his hands through it to get it that way–it looked neater than normal. He was holding a glass of water, while leaning on his free hand that rested on the counter beside him, and his deep blue eyes glowed faintly, just enough to reflect the soft lamplight that surrounded him.

Your eyes softened the second they landed on him.

Like the sight of Bob in the soft kitchen glow had physically reached inside your chest and flipped the switch that held you together.

“…Bob…” you breathed, barely a whisper, the syllable thick with alcohol and emotion. His name left your lips like a prayer or a spell–like something that lived under your tongue, always waiting to escape.

You stumbled toward him, your steps loose and unsteady, arms swaying slightly as if you couldn’t quite feel your own limbs. He moved the moment your weight pitched too far forward–quick but gentle, setting the glass down and reaching for you.

His arm caught you right before your knees could give, wrapping firmly around your waist as you let out a tiny gasp, hands clinging to the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Woah–got you,” He murmured, voice quiet and careful, like he was speaking to something fragile. His other hand steadied your arm, helping you straighten just enough to stop swaying.

Your eyes drifted up to his face again. Those soft, blinking lashes. That faint glow in his gaze. The concern furrowed across his brow.

“…Bob,” You whispered again, like saying his name might hold your world together

“Y-yes, yes…” He gave a tiny, sheepish smile. “It’s Bob.” His voice carried that gentle stutter, the same one that made your heart ache even harder when it came wrapped in kindness. “Y-you really are drunk, huh? I-I thought you said you were only going to h-have one drink tonight…” He leaned in slightly, breathing in slowly, his nose crinkling at the smell. “Your b-breath smells like you downed a whole bottle of…Tequila? V-vodka?” You tilted your head back in slow motion, neck jelly-soft, eyes glassy as you stared at the ceiling like it might stop the room from spinning.

“I had…A little more than that…” You slurred, the words tumbling out through a hazy grin as you leaned your cheek lazily against his chest. The warmth of him beneath your skin felt grounding–dangerously so. Bob let out a breath, quiet but pointed, and looked at you with the kind of expression that made your heart twist: equal parts amusement and gentle worry.

“Y-yeah, I think a little would be an u-understatement,” He said, voice soft as his fingers shifted carefully at your waist, steadying you again, before picking up his glass of water and offering it to you.

”H-Here…You need this more than I d-do.” You stared at the glass of water in his hand but didn’t take it. Just leaned forward a little, lips parting to put the rim of the glass between them. Your eyes didn’t leave his–not even for a second.

Bob went stiff as a board.

“…O-Okay,” he breathed, blinking rapidly as he adjusted his grip. “I-I guess we’re doing this then…”

He tilted the glass gently, his other arm still holding you steady at the waist, and you drank–loudly. The slurp echoed in the quiet room like a firecracker in a chapel. Your eyes remained fixed on his while you did it.

Bob made a soft, choked noise in the back of his throat.

Then he laughed. Nervously. Tight.

“Y/N,” He mumbled, trying to keep his voice light, but it cracked a little, “S-stop l-looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” You asked, lips still against the rim, your voice playful and fuzzy with alcohol.

He shook his head slightly, exhaling through his nose with that familiar pinched look he got when he was trying not to say something he shouldn’t.

“L-like you’re gonna jump me or something…”

Your giggle came instantly–high and breathless. “W-why? Is it making you blush?”

“I-it’s not–” His voice pitched up, caught between flustered and mortified. “N-no! I just–It just looks…” He didn’t finish the sentence. Because you were still staring at him.

At his mouth. His eyes. The soft dip of his collarbone beneath the worn shirt fabric. The gentle flex in his arm where he held the glass. The way he steadied you with one broad palm against your lower back like it was second nature. Like holding you up was something he’d always be willing to do, whether you noticed it or not.

And that was the problem.

Because your brain was no longer operating with logic. The part of you that normally weighed consequences and considered timing had packed up and left sometime between shot two and shot four. All that was left behind was this awful, soft, unfiltered version of you–the one that looked at Bob like he was a deity.

“…Can I tell you a secret?” You asked, tipping your chin so your face was close–close enough that you could see the way his breath caught in his throat. Bob blinked at you. His mouth opened, hesitated.

Then: “I-I’m gonna assume you’ll tell me e-even if I say no, so…Go ahead.”

You reached up, slow and heavy with exhaustion and feeling, and placed your hand flat against his chest, right over his heart.

It was warm beneath your palm, beating away with a hard and steady rhythm.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy, lip trembling with a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, and said:

“I’m so…So in love with you.”

The words hung there between you.

Soft. Heavy. Unstoppable.

Bob froze.

His lips parted. His brows lifted. His eyes went wide, and for a moment, the whole room felt like it had been dipped in stillness.

“And you have no idea…” You added with a soft, broken giggle, blinking hard as your vision began to shimmer. “None. Like…Zero. Zip.”

His throat bobbed in a swallow. His hand didn’t move. He just stood there, staring at you, as if any sudden shift might cause you to shatter right in front of him.

“Y-You’re s-super drunk,” He said gently, like he was trying to give you an out, an excuse, “Y-you don’t even know what you’re saying right now…”

But you did. You knew exactly what you were saying. You just didn’t have the filter left to keep it in. You shook your head, slow and heavy, your hand still pressed to his chest.

“I know you don’t love me back,” You murmured, voice cracking on the words, “But I just don’t understand why you don’t…” Your eyes welled. You blinked, but the tears didn’t care. They spilled anyway, hot and unwelcome, trembling down your cheeks with no grace at all.

Bob’s face twisted–not in discomfort, but something closer to heartbreak. He set the glass of water down with a soft clink and a sigh.

“L-Let’s get you to bed,” He said, almost too softly. “Y-you have to sleep this off before you say anything else…”

“I’m fine…” You mumbled, but your knees were already giving out again. Bob caught you–easily, without hesitation–his arms scooping under your legs and behind your back as he lifted you like you weighed nothing.

“C’mon,” He whispered, his voice close to your ear now. “I’ll bring you t-to your room…”

You said something incoherent against his chest, your head lolling. The world tilted, then began to fade as the comfort of being in his arms won the battle against everything else.

You passed out somewhere between the hallway and your door.

———————

You woke to the soft hush of morning light slipping through sheer white curtains–just enough to tint the room in a pale, silvery glow. The air felt still, like it didn’t want to disturb you. And for a second, everything was quiet.

Then the pounding in your head started.

You groaned softly, burying your face into the nearest pillow–warm, faintly smelling like linen and something else. Clean soap. Sunlight. A hint of coffee and cedar and… Bob. You froze, nose still pressed to the pillowcase.

This…Wasn’t your room.

You cracked one eye open, letting your vision adjust slowly to the warm light bleeding into the space. The room wasn’t large, but it was lived-in in a way that felt rare in the Watchtower. Not sterile or pre-designed–personal. Lined neatly across the window sill were tiny cactuses in mismatched ceramic pots, each a different shape and size. One had a little pink flower blooming from the top. You blinked at them slowly, as if expecting them to vanish once the dream faded. But they didn’t. They stayed.

There was a navy throw blanket folded at the foot of the bed, textured and heavy-knit. The comforter tucked around you was cloud-soft, pulled neatly to your collarbone, and smelled faintly of detergent and something…Familiar. Like fabric that had been line-dried in sun and wind. You wriggled slightly, groggy, blinking the haze from your lashes–and that’s when you felt it.

Something pressed lightly against your back.

Not a person. No weight or breath or heat–just soft resistance. You shifted again and rolled your head to the side, squinting down to find a long, narrow body pillow pressed up against you. Positioned carefully. Like it had been put there with purpose. To keep you from rolling onto your back. You were slowly starting to piece together that something must’ve happened last night.

You pushed yourself upright slowly, fingers dragging across your cheek. The room spun a little, tilting like it was on a boat, and you winced at the sensation. Your mouth was dry. Your stomach ached with emptiness and leftover nausea. You swallowed hard, blinked a few more times–and then glanced down at yourself.

You weren’t in your dress anymore.

You were in a soft, oversized cotton tee–light gray, threadbare at the hem, with sleeves that hung down past your elbows. You pinched the fabric and brought it closer to your face. It smelled like him. Like sleep and clean skin and the warm edge of something you couldn’t name without your heart stuttering in your chest.

You looked to the bedside table and found a small glass of water waiting for you. The condensation fogged gently on the inside of the glass. Next to it, a bright blue electrolyte packet lay unopened beside a sleeve of dry crackers–still in the plastic. And beneath them…

A sticky note.

“For when you wake up.”

His handwriting was unmistakable–neat, soft-cornered, careful. Your throat tightened as you stared at the little smiley face he’d drawn after the message. It felt like something private. Like a gift left at the edge of a dream you barely remembered having.

You reached for the glass with trembling fingers, lifting it slowly to your mouth to take a long drawn out sip, grateful for the cool taste against your dry tongue.

The door creaked softly on its hinges.

You turned your head, still groggy, expecting maybe a knock–some warning–but instead, Bob slipped quietly into the room with a laundry basket tucked against his hip. His hair was tied up in a small, slightly messy knot to keep it out of his face, a few strands still falling across his brow. He’d changed since last night. Now he wore a deep forest green sweater that was just a little too big on him, sleeves pushed up to the elbows, and a pair of soft gray sweatpants that pooled slightly at the ankles.

His socks didn’t match.

You stared at him for a second too long–there was something about the way the soft light caught on his face, the curve of his jaw, the loose comfort of his frame that made your stomach twist.

Then his eyes landed on yours.

He froze for just a second before his expression melted into something warm and careful.

“O-oh,” He said, voice low and a little shy. “You’re up.” His smile, small and genuine, tugged faintly at the corner of his mouth. He set the basket gently on the floor by the dresser, fingers brushing his knee as he straightened again. You rubbed at one of your eyes with the back of your hand, the oversized sleeve slipping down your arm.

Your voice came out rough with sleep.

“…What happened last night?” Bob let out a quiet sigh, raking a hand through the wisps of hair that had fallen loose. He didn’t look annoyed. He didn’t even look all that flustered. Just…Tired. Gentle.

“W-well…” He started carefully, shifting his weight a little. “I’m assuming you d-don’t remember much, ‘cause I brought you to your room and… As I was putting you o-on your bed you threw up all over your duvet…”

You groaned instantly, a soft and mortified sound, setting the glass back down on the nightstand so you could bury your face into your hands.

“Oh my God.”

Bob’s voice was soothing, almost amused. “A-and so I had to change you b-because it got on your dress, and I, um…Put you in my bed.”

He motioned toward the room with a tilt of his head, voice still soft.

“I s-slept on the couch.”

You peeked through your fingers, eyes wide and already heating with embarrassment.

“I–you–oh God, Bob.”

“I washed your sheets and stuff,” He added quickly, pointing down to the laundry basket near his feet. “T-they’re clean. I-I used the good detergent, the one that has the stain remover in it…T-They’re good as new.” Your hands slid down your face, palms dragging slowly as you stared at him in horror, remembering that you were wearing his shirt.

”And you changed me?” You questioned, your brows pulling together.

”Y-Yeah? I mean…You had vomit on your dress, and I-I wasn’t going to leave you on the floor of your bedroom…B-But I also didn’t want to get vomit on m-my sheets so…” You dropped your head back against the pillow, groaning louder this time as you brought your arm across your eyes. “I-If it makes you feel any better I-I didn’t see much, I had the lights off and my eyes closed p-pretty much.” You couldn’t help it–you let out a small, pained laugh behind your forearm.

“God, that makes it so much better,” You muttered sarcastically, your voice reverberating through your arm. You heard a quiet shuffle–soft socks brushing across the floor, fabric shifting–and then the distinct dip of the mattress beside you.

It was subtle, the weight of him settling, careful not to shift you too much.

“S-So I’m assuming you don’t w-want to hear what you said to me l-last night either then?” Bob’s voice was quiet–gentle, almost like he was giving you a way out if you wanted it. But it trembled at the edges. You froze in your spot, as your arm dropped from your eyes.

He was sitting beside you with his legs crossed at the ankles, sweater bunched a little around his hip, hair still loosely tied but not it was truly falling out of the knot completely. His brows were pulled together in that way they always were when he was bracing himself for something.

“…What did I say?” You asked, barely above a whisper.

Your voice cracked halfway through, stretched thin with dread. You already knew. Somewhere in the back of your brain–behind the fog of tequila and the undeniable ache–you knew exactly what you’d done.

Bob didn’t answer right away.

He let out a breath through his nose and reached up, fingers tugging the hair tie loose. His hair spilled out with a slow tumble, strands falling across his face before he swept them back with one hand and began fidgeting with the elastic between his fingers.

“Y-You told me you’re in love with me,” He said finally, voice low and uncertain–softer than you expected. He gave a faint, shaky little laugh at the end, like he was still trying to convince himself it had really happened, “Said i-it was a secret, actually…” Your blood ran hot in your veins. Not from the warmth of the blanket, not from the sunlight–but from the kind of shame that makes your throat tighten like it’s trying to hold in everything that’s already spilled.

Bob kept fiddling with the tie, eyes fixed on his hands.

”A-And then…You told me that you know I d-don’t love you back, and you…Y-You said you didn’t understand why.” The silence that followed was devastating, as you let the moment–that sentence in itself–stretch and breathe. You could hear him picking at the fabric that surrounded the hair tie, not wanting to make eye contact with you, knowing that you would probably recoil into yourself if he did.

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The words were there–lodged just behind your teeth, crowding your throat–but they all fought for space at once. A breath left your lips instead. Just a small one. Shaky. Barely a sound.

Bob kept his eyes on the elastic band in his fingers, stretching it between his knuckles. Pulling. Twisting. Letting it snap softly back into place like it helped him stay focused.

Then, he said it–quietly, gently, and without accusation, “Y-You don’t have to explain yourself…I know you were d-drunk, and…It doesn’t have to mean anything…I-I just–“ He hesitated, his voice cracking faintly around the edges, “I thought you should know that you told m-me. I didn’t want to pretend like you didn’t s-say it.” His profile was soft in the morning light, jaw faintly stubbled, hair falling messily around his temple. But it was the expression on his face that held you in place–something pulled tight beneath the surface, something raw. Not pity. Not awkwardness. No, it looked almost like…

Disappointment.

A quiet kind, the kind he wasn’t even aware he was showing.

Your pulse quickened.

Your fingers curled in the fabric of the blanket as you slowly sat up, the shift of weight creaking faintly beneath you. You swallowed hard, tasting the nerves on your tongue like they might choke you.

“…It did mean something,” You whispered, almost like you were afraid saying it out loud would break the spell–or him.

Bob’s fingers froze around the hair tie.

His eyes flicked to you instantly. Wide. Searching. He didn’t speak at first, just watched you, his chest rising slowly with each breath like he was trying not to exhale too hard and blow everything away.

“W-Why do you think I don’t love you back?” He asked. Your heart stopped and stuttered in your chest.

You looked down, unable to hold that gaze for long. Your voice came out uneven, quiet.

“…Because you’ve never…”

You hesitated. Licked your lips and tried again.

“Because you’ve never said anything to me about it. Ever. And everything you do for me–”

You swallowed.

“It’s what you do for everyone else. You remember things for them. You cook for them. You leave notes for them. You watch their training too, don’t you?” Your voice got smaller, softer. “There are no concrete signs, Bob. Not ones I can trust. And I didn’t want to impose…I didn’t want to make something out of things that weren’t meant for me.”

Silence.

A beat passed.

Then two.

And when you finally glanced up through your lashes to meet his gaze again, you found him looking at you like you’d just said something he didn’t know how to answer. Not because he didn’t want to–but because something in your words had hurt him, more than you expected.

His voice was quieter than ever when he spoke again, “And what if it was meant for you?” You blinked slowly, taken aback by his hidden admission. Your lips parted to say something but nothing came.

Bob’s fingers loosened around the hair tie, and he dropped it on the bed beside him without a sound. His hands now sat quietly in his lap, thumb brushing the inside of his palm before he began picking at the dry skin there.

”What if…I did all those things b-because I felt different when I was doing them for y-you?” Bob turned toward you slowly–deliberately–until his whole body faced yours, knees brushing against the edge of the blanket you still had tucked around you.

His hands remained in his lap, fingers twitching as if resisting the urge to fidget again. But his eyes… his eyes didn’t move from yours. They held steady. Gentle. Glowing faintly with something fragile and unspoken, like a lantern shielding its flame against the wind.

“I d-do those things for everyone, y-you’re right,” he said, voice soft and trembling–but certain, too, like each word had been sitting on his tongue for months. “I-I take care of people. It’s how I… show I care. Because I’m not always good at s-saying the things I want to.”

You didn’t speak. You didn’t dare. You were too afraid that the moment might fracture if you breathed wrong.

Bob swallowed, his eyes never leaving yours. “But when I do those things for you…” His voice dipped lower. “It is different.”

You blinked slowly, breath caught in your throat.

“I watch y-you train because I want to see you be strong,” He continued, his voice gaining weight, trembling with emotion even as he tried to keep it steady. “Because it’s the only time I-I get to admire you without getting caught. And sometimes I want to feel like I’m supporting you, even if it’s just…Just b-being there.”

Your stomach twisted, curling tighter and tighter with each quiet admission.

“I get up early to make breakfast for everyone, s-sure,” He said, his mouth curling faintly at the corners like he was almost shy about it. “But when I’m m-making yours? I’m not thinking about calories or b-balance or what’s healthy. I’m thinking about you.” His hand lifted, hovering in the space between you like it might touch you–but didn’t. Not yet. “I’m thinking about whether your eyes will go wide when you s-see what I made. Or if you’ll laugh and roll your eyes b-because I cut the banana slices too thin. I think about what you’ll say. I think about if maybe…Y-You’ll know that I made it with all the care in the world…”

Your breath hitched in your chest.

“I leave notes for the others because I-I want them to feel looked after,” He said softly. “But yours? I write them slowly. I-I sit there with the pen in my hand and w-wonder if I should sign my name with a smiley face or not. I wonder if it’ll m-make you smile if I write something dumb or sweet, and I-I wonder if you’ll read it twice.” You stared at him, stunned, lips parted. The weight of his words pressed into your ribcage like a tidal swell, heavy and full of warmth, of longing, of something you hadn’t dared to name before now.

“B-but if you’ve been waiting for a concrete s-sign…”

He trailed off softly, like the rest of the sentence was afraid to come out. And then he moved–slowly, gently, like he was approaching something sacred. His hand lifted from his lap with an almost reverent caution, like he didn’t want to startle you, like you might vanish if he rushed this moment.

You felt it before it landed.

The warmth of his palm hovered for a heartbeat near your cheek–close enough that your skin prickled with anticipation, with want, with fear–and then he touched you. His fingers trembled ever so slightly, calloused but tender as they curled to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing delicately across the high point of your cheekbone.

Your breath hitched–caught and held like a secret between you.

His gaze was steady now. Deep. Quietly ablaze.

“I-It’s this,” He whispered, before leaning in, without hesitation. Just quiet, deliberate affection–like this was something he had pictured in a hundred different dreams but never dared to reach for while awake because he thought he couldn’t execute it as well. He moved close enough that his forehead nearly brushed yours, his breath warm and sweet between you, tinged faintly with mint and something soft like cinnamon–probably from his morning tea. His fingers shifted slightly at your jaw, tilting you just enough, guiding without pressure, coaxing without assumption.

Then he kissed you.

Just the faintest pressure of his lips brushing yours, the kind of kiss that barely registered as physical. It felt like something else entirely–like a promise passed from his mouth to yours. His other hand came up slowly to frame your face, fingertips pressing slightly into your hairline, as he deepened the kiss with such mindfulness it made your whole body shiver.

He kissed you like he was learning you, like he’d waited long enough that now every second had to be savored. And when he pulled back for just a breath–just to look at you, his eyes wide and dark and brimming with emotion–you were already chasing the kiss back.

And this time, when his mouth returned to yours, he took your bottom lip between his.

It was deliberate, careful, and full of devotion.

His lips were plush and warm, and then gently–so gently–he sucked on it, slow and sweet, like he was trying to taste all the years he’d spent not saying what he felt. A quiet sound left your throat, something between a gasp and a sigh, your fingers clutching the edge of the blanket like it might anchor you to the moment.

His thumb was still brushing your cheek in soothing arcs, even as his mouth lingered, coaxing yours open with nothing but affection. Not hunger. Not need.

Just love.

There was no question in the way he kissed you.

No doubt.

He kissed you like this was the answer to every secret you’d both ever buried. Like it had always been building toward this.

When he finally–reluctantly–pulled back, his forehead came to rest against yours, his breath mingling with yours in soft, trembling puffs. His hands stayed cupped to your face, thumbs still caressing your skin like he couldn’t stop touching you now that he’d started.

You barely opened your eyes, afraid to break the spell, but when you did… There he was. Glowing faintly in the morning light, cheeks flushed, lashes low over sea-blue eyes that brimmed with something so open it made your chest ache.

“I love you too.” He said.

660 notes · View notes

shouyuus · 3 months ago

Text

direct continuation of this; part of the apt neighbor!vi au

apartment neighbor!vi who disappears, or at least tries to -- no more weekend visits, no more tuesday night movie dates -- you still see her, or rather, catch glimpses of her here and there, but she's always ducking away or off somewhere before you can catch her, and for a someone who's so conspicuous, she's more slippery than you could've ever imagined. and at first, you're angry -- hurt, confused -- but the pain dulls after a week, two, and soon enough, there's only the barest flinch whenever you see her silhouette slipping down the hallway when you catch her coming back from the gym, or in the mail room --

once, you catch the bright chime of powder's voice as vi opens her door, and you could've sworn you heard your name, but the next second, the door's slamming closed behind her, and powder's voice cuts off like an old record.

apartment neighbor!vi who still goes to the gym, and it's the only real place you see her, but she's always got her headphones banded over her bright red hair, her eyes narrowed -- the bandages around her knuckles are tattered, stained with what looks like blood. there are new cuts and bruises scattered along her arm and what looks like a fresh scab at the corner of her lip.

you don't ask; you figure that if she'd wanted you to know, she would've told you by now.

apartment neighbor!vi who is not there the first time you let curiosity get the better of you and maps the way to her family's pub -- it's a divey kind of place, but spacious and well-kept, with dartboards lining the walls and an old fashioned jukebox in the corner. the man behind the counter glances up with a grin, a slight dip between his brows, an old pipe between his lips.

"bit early for a girl like you to come wanderin' in here," he says, with a voice that rumbles through you, even from a distance. you clear your throat and check your watch -- yeah, 2pm on a wednesday isn't peak hours for a bar like this but it's what you were hoping for.

"oh -- sorry, are you guys not open yet?" you glance back at the door, afraid that you'd missed some sort of signage but the man just laughs and shakes his head.

"nah, we're open. c'mon in," he gestures to the empty bar top, and sets down a glass with a heavy hand.

you eye it for a second before skittering over and sliding up onto one of the barstools, glancing around to take in the scene.

"lookin' for vi, i assume?"

you jump at the sound of vi's name, your eyes slingshotting back to the man, who breaks out into a loud bark of laughter, pouring you a full glass of water.

"h-how did -- has vi said something?"

the man shrugs, pushing the water towards you; you grab it for lack of anything better to do, taking a tentative sip as he eyes you with beady, beatle-black eyes, shining with mirth.

"you pour people drinks for long enough and you start to get a knack for puzzlin' out what they want when they walk in -- kinda person they might be, why they're comin' in -- gets to be a kinda game if you get good enough at it," he leans in with a conspiratorial wink that sets you at ease. you feel your own shoulders drop a bit as you set the glass back down on the counter and lick your lips.

"so you must be vander," you say, the name ringing back through your sifted memories -- vi on a tuesday night, after a movie about race cars or something, chattering about the bar and how her stepdad always gets on her about flirting with the customers too much.

vander nods, taking a soft puff of his pipe and leaning back.

"and you must be the neighbor girl that vi's not been able to shut up about," he muses, making you gag on your next sip of water. he lets out another booming laugh and reaches behind the counter to hand you a stack of napkins. you mop at the water dripping down your chin, feeling your cheeks burn.

"sorry, sorry -- forgive an old man his good time," he says with another good-natured wink before his jovial expression flattens, "but if you're here wonderin' what she's been doin'... then you're fresh outta luck, darlin'."

you frown, cupping your fingers around your half-drunk glass of water.

"i'm just... worried about her."

vander grunts, shrugging up a single, massive shoulder.

"standing room only on that bus, i'm afraid."

you let out a soft scoff of laughter, nodding.

"it's sweet of you to come knockin', but... she's a stubborn one, and if she doesn't wanna tell us then..." another shrug, another sigh, "no one's gonna be able to force it outta her."

you nod again, feeling rather wilted as vander reaches over to pat your shoulder with a large hand. he chuckles.

"tell ya what, here -- have a drink -- on the house."

he grabs a wine glass and sets it in front of you with a tiny flourish. as second later, a deep red liquid fills your glass and you stare up at him as he grins.

"i figured you were a cab sav kind of girl -- but tell me if i'm wrong, and i'll swap it out for anything else you might like."

you shake your head, laughing as you tug the wine glass closer, "nope. you're spot on."

apartment neighbor!vi who shows up hammered, with no preamble, banging down your door a on friday night (though it really is late enough to be called saturday morning) -- you answer with a frying pan clutched in one hand, a hissing sigh whistling through you the second you see who's on the other side. the pan drops and you're about to be angry, but your eyes catch on the fresh bruises blooming across the high of her cheeks, a bump the side of a golf ball swelling up above her right eye.

"o-oh my god, vi! what happened?!" you jump back as she nearly collapses into your doorway, barely catching herself against your shoe-rack.

"jus... missed you, sugar! can't a girl... miss... someone she likes?" she slurs, shaking her head as she pushes herself up; you blink rapidly at her, your chest a tight whirlwind of questions and concerns. it's all eclipsed, however, by alarm, as she lurches into your apartment and nearly smashes into your hallway wall, looping an arm around your shoulder -- you stumble beneath her weight, struggling to keep her upright.

"vi? vi -- you're drunk --"

"nah this ain't nothin' -- just wanted a few after -- after getting beat up, ain't that normal? damn -- got so fucked in the ring -- that match was fixed -- shoulda known smeech couldn't be trusted -- that slimy, money-hungry bastard --"

you somehow manage to half-drag vi into your living room and dump her on the couch, fluttering around for a large glass of water and a first aid kit.

"what -- what're you saying?" you ask, even as you force her to take a large gulp of water (she makes a face as if it's vodka before downing the rest in a few long gulps -- a few beads of water trickle passed her chin and into the collar of her stained tanktop). but in between the fragments and incoherent mumbles, a slow realization starts to coalesce inside you as you inch closer to her and convince her to sit still.

"vi...?"

"mm." she hiccups, flinching slightly as you dab at a cut on her cheek with an antibacterial wipe.

"are you... in some sort of... fight club, or something?"

vi makes a grumbling noise, her eyes fluttering closed; she sways a little as you continue to gently clean out her wounds. her breath carries the sharp, turpenic smell of cheap alcohol as she lets out a long sigh.

"somethin' like that... kinda like a boxing ring -- i'm pretty damn good at it, most nights," she adds, hissing again even as you jerk back, pursing your lips. she crinkles her nose before wiping a hand across her mouth, staring blankly down at the fresh blood smeared onto her skin.

"and... i'm gonna go out on a limb and guess that this boxing ring thing... isn't legal, right?"

vi tries her best at one of her usual, charming, lopsided grins, but it just ends up looking something like a grimace instead.

"legal's not where the money is, sweetness."

you lean forward with a fresh sanitary wipe and motion for her to hold still again. she does, offering you her other cheek, her eyes now startlingly clear as they flicker over the planes of your face. you wonder how drunk she really is, or if she's just gotten terribly good at hiding it.

"but... i thought that you guys were in a rent-controlled unit? what'dyou need all this money for?"

vi scoffs, her eyes lowering.

"pow's university tuition isn't gonna pay for itself."

her voice is soft, low, her words steady. you pause, frowning slightly at her as she sighs and leans back to cast you a sad little grin.

"ah... now that i've told you, 'fraid i'm gonna have to killa ya," she winks. you don't smile, only turning to discard the dirty wipe for another fresh one.

"i thought the bar --"

"it doesn't make enough -- and powder -- she --" vi sucks in a long breath, her eyes fluttering closed. when she opens them again, it's the eyes you remember, the eyes you'd spent so many afternoons and evenings staring into -- there's light and laughter, a fire that can't be extinguished, a light that can't be dimmed, a hard-lined conviction that makes them shine even on the darkest of moonless nights.

"she deserves every opportunity. that girl --" vi lets out a helpless little scoff, "she's gonna change the world one day, i just know it. if we can only --" she makes an abortive gesture with her hand.

you nod, reaching out to wipe away a small smudge of eyeliner beneath her eye. she stills beneath your touch, the cool of your skin against her burning cheek makes her shiver.

a thin tendril of tired, incredulous laughter slithers up your chest; vi's eyebrows kick up as you let out a giggle -- the only warning she gets -- before you're toppling into a fit of truly stomach-clenching laughter, leaning back into your sofa cushions, clutching your belly.

"a-are you alright?" vi asks, blinking at you with mild alarm as you shake your head, flapping your hands at her, unable to form any kind of coherent thought. you wipe at the tears forming at the corner of your eyes, and somewhere between one breath and the next, your laughs turn into frustrated sobs, and you shove vi reproachfully as she stares at you, totally nonplussed by this strange turn of events.

"y-you're such an idiot!" you say between heaving breaths, rubbing at your eyes. you feel lightheaded; the clock on the microwave blinks a bleary 4:42AM at the pair of you.

vi stares, completely nonplussed as you sniffled and reach over to snag a few tissues, daubing at your eyes.

"there're so many things you can do to get money -- you don't have to --" you gesture at her, "get yourself killed in an illegal fighting ring -- and you don't --" you jab a single finger into her chest, hard enough for her to flinch back, "have to try to do it alone."

she blinks, once, twice --

"uh..."

you sigh, rolling your eyes, "god, you're so stupid -- for someone with a genius sister --"

vi makes a slightly affronted noise, "i got good grades in school!"

you tear open a packet of neosporin with perhaps more savagery than necessary, nearly dropping it. you glare at the tiny packet before squeezing a large dollop onto your finger and motioning for vi to lean in. she eyes you for a solid three seconds before slowly leaning forward.

you lave the gel onto the cut on her cheek before peeling open a bandaid to cover it up.

"there. that's waterproof, so it won't come off when you take a shower."

"when i take a shower?" vi asks, her head cocking to one side.

you cast her a sharp look, "you're so gross right now, of course you've gotta shower."

vi hiccups into her fist before shooting you a sheepish grin.

"i could just shower at home."

you narrow your eyes, "it's 5am -- and i'm pretty sure powder's got a massive midterm tomorrow. you're staying here tonight."

"ah. yes. of... course," vi says, biting back an amused chuckle before looking around at the couch beneath her.

"well, i've always liked this couch."

you close the first-aid kit with a sharp snap.

"if you shower within the next --" you glance back at the clock on the microwave, "10 minutes or so, you can sleep in the bedroom. but if i'm asleep when you're done then you're gonna have to sleep out here -- i don't like being woken up." you try to sound stern, though it might have just come out sounding petulant.

vi grins, the expression so familiar to you it singes a line of heat down the center of your spine.

"oop -- guess i'd better shower quick then!" she pushes off the sofa and jogs for the bathroom, swiveling around by the door to give you a soft smile and a -- "hey... thanks."

you roll your eyes at her and flap your hand, "go. shower!"

you slip into bed, listening to the shower water run, a twist of something collecting in your gut as you hear the sounds of the water turn off and the unmistakable noises of vi toweling off. you burrow further into your blankets as her footsteps thump through the apartment, the slight creak of your bedroom door swinging open as she slips in, the shape of her limned in moonlight as she slowly makes her way to the other side of the bed.

"hey sugar... you still awake?"

you crinkle your nose, and for a second, consider feigning sleep. but the next second, she's slipping into the blankets next to you, her skin warm to the touch as she shuffles closer.

"yeah," you answer, a second later.

she shuffles just a bit closer; you flip around to face her, gasping as you realize how close she is -- your noses almost touching. her eyes widen as they meet yours, and you could swear that even in the pre-dawn dark, you can see her cheeks rioting with color.

she clears her throat but doesn't make to pull away.

"y'know, usually when i get invited into someone's bed... it's a lot sexier than this."

you puff out a breathy laugh, "yeah? i'm sure. why don't you tell me about it tomorrow, when we're compiling all the scholarships that we're gonna help powder apply to?"

vi falls quiet, her gaze going startlingly liquid, and for a second, you wonder if she's going to cry too. but then, she's leaning in, pressing her forehead to yours --

"god... sweets... what the fuck did i do to deserve you?"

you snuggle in closer, your heartbeat a livewire thrum at the back of your throat.

"nothing... you were just... you."

vi lets out a shaky breath, her eyes falling shut.

"shit, sugar... what the hell, man... it wasn't supposed to be like this."

you laugh as she sniffles, tugging you closer, her palm warm along your waist, her fingers pressing into your skin.

"yeah? did you have it all planned out? help the new girl move in? watch movies and make food with her on the weekends till she falls in love with you?"

vi's breath hitches. you bite your tongue.

still, she doesn't refute you. finally, she manages --

"i just... never thought it'd... get this bad..."

you sigh, leaning in to press a soft kiss to her forehead.

"y'know, for a smart girl, you're really dumb sometimes."

vi pulls back, sighing, "yeah... i -- i know. and i know that powder and vander probably know too -- they just -- they just... knew me too well to try and --"

"force it out of you?" you supply. vi nods, her hair tickling your skin as she burrow in against you, her body curling in till she's in a fetal position, her face pressed into your chest, her breath fanning hot against your collarbones.

"well, lucky for me --" you say, reaching up to run a hand through her hair, caressing at the still-damp ends, "i didn't have to -- you came knocking all on your own."

vi's quiet for another few beats before --

"i wasn't lying y'know... i really did... miss you." her voice catches, the words cracking over one another like river stones.

you graze your lips along her hairline, nodding, "yeah, i know... i missed you too, vi."

she wraps her arms around you and pulls you in, pressing you to her so completely your chest almost starts to sting with the pressure.

a few minutes later, she relents, releasing you just enough for you to suck in a long, steadying breath.

"did you really mean it? that thing about... the scholarships for powder?"

you nod, "course i did. and we can look up loans too! i had to take one out when i went to college too, so i'm pretty familiar with them. it's alright -- we'll figure it out -- together."

vi nods, chuckling softly against you.

"mm... before all that though..." she tugs back just far enough to look at you, her voice husky as she leans in to brush her nose to yours --

"d'you think... you might allow me the honor of making you breakfast?"

676 notes · View notes

dazevi · 4 months ago

Text

CHAPTER THREE: CAN WE PRETEND?

heart to heart series | vi x fem!reader

synopsis: you're not sure what comes over you tonight, but caught up in the moment, you make a reckless choice—one that could change everything.

content warnings: MDNI. nsfw (18+ content), angst, fluff if you squint idk, rockstar!vi, bookshop owner/writer!reader, exes to lovers, friends with benefits (kinda), sexual tension, again—vi is down bad, smut; needy sex, oral (r rec.), vi cums untouched, little bit of overstimulation, idk what else !!!

wc: 12,183

notes: happy late late late valentine’s day! (i was supposed to post it on friday but got busy) and sorry for the wait on this chapter! here it is—glorious smut lmfao,, kind of ashamed to say that the next chapter is way more smutty—but ofc with feelings!!!) fanart by bunimint_ on ig !!

navigation | series masterlist | previous chapter

The cold bites at your skin, but you barely even notice it. Not with the way your heart is hammering. Not with the way your nerves are tangled in your stomach. You stand outside Vander’s bar holding a small birthday gift in your hands, staring at the entrance like you haven’t walked through those doors countless times before.

But it’s been years. A lifetime ago, it feels like.

And standing here now, dressed in a pretty black dress you spent way too long debating over—god, what the hell were you thinking?

You tug your jacket tighter around you, like that will somehow make you feel less exposed, less like you’re making a mistake by being here. The leather is warm, but it doesn’t do much to muffle the voice in your head telling you that this was a bad idea.

That coming here, looking like this, feeling like this—it means something.

You used to love this place. Loved the way it always smelled of whiskey and smoke, of cheap beer but distinctly of home.

It’s different now.

Or maybe you’re the one that’s different.

Vi is probably already in there. Maybe she’s backstage, laughing with the band, tuning her guitar, oblivious to the fact that you’re standing out here like a fool, trying to gather the courage to step inside. Maybe she’s already seen you through the window, watching like she always used to—like she could read every thought in your head without you saying a word.

You close your eyes for a second, exhaling slowly. You could still turn around. You don’t have to go in. But then again, you didn’t have to dress up either, and yet… here you are.

The second you step inside, the warmth surrounds you. You hadn’t expected this many people, but clearly, word must have spread that Vi’s band was playing tonight.

Your eyes take a moment to adjust to the dim lighting over the packed room. It’s overwhelming at first—the volume of voices overlapping, the clinking of glasses, the scrape of barstools against worn wooden floors. But then, beneath all of it, you hear Benzo’s boisterous voice cutting through the noise, followed by Vander’s throaty laughter.

It’s been years since you’ve been here, but nothing has really changed. The same old neon signs flicker against the brick walls, the dartboard near Vander’s glowing jukebox is still crooked, the pool table in the corner still missing a chunk from one of its legs, and behind the bar, bottles of liquor line the shelves, arranged in the same way Vander has always kept them.

And Vi is somewhere in here.

Your stomach twists at the thought, your heartbeat quickening as you scan the crowd.

Just as you’re about to turn toward the small stage, the sound of your name cuts through the noise.

“Is that really you?”

You barely have a second to react before a blur of blue rushes toward you, and suddenly, Powder is there, beaming up at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.

She looks different—older, maybe a tad bit taller—but the same excitement, the same energy, radiates off of her like it always has. Her hair is longer now, pulled back into two twin buns with trimmed bangs covering her forehead.

She doesn’t wait for confirmation before throwing her arms around you, pulling you into a tight hug that nearly knocks the breath from your lungs.

“Oh my god, it is you!” she laughs against your shoulder, squeezing you tighter. “I can’t believe it! When Vi said you might come tonight, I didn’t think—I mean, I hoped—but holy shit!”

You let out a breathy laugh, arms instinctively wrapping around her. It’s been years since you’ve seen her—since she left for college, since everything with Vi fell apart—but somehow, it feels like no time has passed at all.

When she finally pulls back, she holds you at arm’s length, her hands gripping your shoulders as she looks you over, like she’s trying to make sure you’re actually standing there in front of her and not some trick of the lighting.

“You look amazing,” she gushes, her eyes shining, before huffing playfully, shaking her head. “I mean, seriously—wow. Vi didn’t tell me you still looked like this. She’s soooooo in trouble.”

You blink at her words, your breath hitching slightly, but before you can even begin to unpack what that means, Powder grabs your hand, tugging you towards the bar.

“Come on, you have to catch me up,” she insists, grinning ear to ear. “How have you been? What are you doing back here? Wait, how did Vi even convince you to show up tonight?”

Your lips part, but you hesitate, glancing toward the stage. You still haven’t seen Vi yet, but now, with Powder in front of you, talking a mile a minute, you realize just how much you’ve missed this—her.

“Powder, slow down,” you laugh, grinning from ear to ear as you shake your head. “It’s really good to see you too.”

She beams, squeezing your hand once before looping her arm through yours like she used to when you were all younger.

“Dad, look who’s here!” Powder calls out, cutting through the music and chatter as she drags you toward the bar.

Vander stands behind the counter, just like he always used to, one large hand resting on the counter, the other holding a glass he’s in the middle of drying. He looks up at Powder’s voice, eyes darting toward the two of you.

His lips curve into something between a smile and a look of pure surprise. He sets the glass down, wiping his hands on a bar towel as he steps around the counter.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Vander murmurs, taking you in. His voice is just as you remember it—gruff but warm. “Look who finally decided to show her face.”

“Hi, Vander,” you say, your voice softer than you mean it to be.

He huffs out a chuckle, shaking his head before pulling you into a firm hug.

“You don’t gotta be shy, kid,” he says, patting your back like he used to when you were just a teenager sitting at this very bar, waiting for Vi to finish whatever dumb stunt she was getting up to. “Hell, it’s good to see you.”

“It’s good to see you too,” you murmur.

When he pulls back, he looks you over, eyes full of something fond.

“You look good,” he says, before glancing at Powder with a smirk. “She givin’ you trouble yet?”

You laugh, shaking your head as Powder scoffs, crossing her arms. “Me? Trouble? Never.”

Vander chuckles, ruffling her hair before looking back at you with that same fatherly warmth that makes your chest ache.

“Vi’s gonna lose her damn mind when she sees you.”

And just like that, your heart flutters all over again.

Vander studies you for a moment, his gaze settling on yours like he can hear every thought running through your head. But he doesn’t push, doesn’t pry. Instead, he gives you one last reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before nodding toward the bar.

“Well, since you’re here, let me get you a drink,” he says. “On the house. Benzo!”

Powder grins, practically bouncing on her boots as she gestures to the small, neatly wrapped gift in your hands.

“Come on, I’ll put that gift over with the others!” she chirps, already reaching for it before you can protest.

The chatter dies down slightly as movement stirs toward the stage, conversations dipping into hushed murmurs. People turn their attention forward, waiting patiently as the band gets into place.

Vi stands in the center of the stage, tuning her guitar beside an amp, fingers practiced as she twists the tuning pegs, testing each note. She’s glowing, that pink of her bright against the light, also outlining the sharp angles of her jaw, the curve of her cheekbones, the ink that winds down her arms and up the side of her neck.

She looks really fucking good. Dressed in a snug black shirt that clings just right, showing off the sculpted muscle in her arms, the broad set of her shoulders. The sleeves are pushed up slightly, just enough to expose the edge of her tattoos. Paired with a pair of baggy jeans that sit low on her hips, the waistband of her boxers showing every time her shirt shifts upward slightly as she moves—

—God, you have got to get yourself together.

But even despite how cool she looks up there, there’s a pout pressed against her lips, so slight that most people wouldn’t even notice.

But you do.

Because you’ve seen that pout before.

It’s the same one she used to wear when she was waiting for you after class and you took too long saying goodbye to your friends. The same one she had when you were late to meet her for a movie, arms crossed as she huffed dramatically before breaking into a grin the second she saw you. The same one she’d wear when you teased her by refusing to kiss her.

And now, up on stage, she’s wearing it again.

Because she hasn’t seen you yet.

You swallow, suddenly hyper-aware of yourself. Of how you look, of how this dress looks on you, of the way your heartbeat has picked up.

You shouldn’t be this affected—you shouldn’t.

And then—just as she adjusts the strap of her guitar, rolling her shoulders back, her eyes sweeping slowly over the room, over the crowd, then towards the bar—

She finds you.

Her fingers still against the strings, her whole body tensing just slightly. Her lips part, eyes locking onto yours.

And then, just like that, her pout is gone, smoothed over with the faintest, laziest smirk.

You feel your stomach flutter.

Before you can fully process it, Ekko steps up to the mic, patting Vi on the shoulder, grinning out at the crowd.

Behind them, Steb is adjusting his drum stool and Loris, stands off to the side, his bass slung low, a cigarette tucked behind his ear as he watches the crowd with that same unreadable look he always has, like none of this phases him in the slightest.

Ekko leans into the mic, flashing a charming smirk towards the crowd smirk.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” he teases, though he’s clearly reveling in the attention, in the love the crowd is throwing at them. He lets the cheers die down just a little before continuing, “First off, gotta give a huge shoutout to the man who means the absolute world to me. Happy birthday, old man!”

The bar erupts into another round of cheers, laughter echoing through the room as Benzo raises his glass.

“I love you, Benzo!” Ekko adds, placing a hand over his chest in mock sincerity.

Vi chuckles beside him, shaking her head as she ducks slightly, her pink hair falling forward as she looks down for a second.

Your stomach twists as you watch her, taking in the way her fingers flex against the neck of her guitar, the way she glances at Ekko with that lopsided smirk before finally lifting her head again, pink strands shifting as she looks back out at the crowd.

And just for a second—so brief you almost miss it—her eyes fall back to you.

Ekko claps his hands together. “Alright, enough of the mushy shit. Let’s get this started, yeah?”

And the crowd cheers again.

The music begins, the first chords ringing out as Vi’s fingers find the strings of her guitar. The sound of the crowd fades into the background as she leans into the mic.

Every time her gaze sweeps over the bar, her heart skips a beat when she catches sight of you. You’re there, standing at the edge of the crowd, watching. Watching her. And god, it makes her feel alive. She can feel the heat rising in her chest, spreading down her arms, making her fingertips tingle as she strums the next chord. She can’t stop glancing at you, her smile widening every time your gaze meets hers.

She wants to impress.

She really fucking does.

And every time Vi steals a glance your way, her heart beats faster. It’s almost like the music fades and the room shrinks down until all she can focus on is you.

You look so damn good. Your dress is simple but it fits you perfectly, so prettily. The soft glow of the stage lights catches the curve of your neck, the way your hair falls just perfectly, and god—god—she’s getting distracted.

The thought crosses her mind before she can stop it—did you dress up for her? It’s silly, of course, but it flares in her chest anyway.

But then, before she can let herself spiral too far into that thought, she sees you again.

You came. You actually came.

I mean, you told her you would, but right now, she can’t stop smiling. She’s so fucking happy you’re here.

The set ends after an hour.

It wasn’t too long, but the crowd erupts into applause anyway, cheers and shouts and whistles echoing throughout room, although Vi didn’t really think much of it. She’s still buzzing, the tips of her fingers still tingling from the friction of the strings, but she didn’t care about it.

She doesn’t wait for the others. Ekko and Loris are already heading backstage, Steb cracking his knuckles as he follows, but Vi’s eyes are locked on you.

She doesn’t even care about the after show rituals—the sweaty gear, the backroom chatter—because right now, all she can think about is how badly she wants to get to you.

It doesn’t take long to find you. You’re sitting with Powder, a bright smile on your face, talking to Vander and Benzo at the counter.

And then, when she’s just a few feet away, you look up.

She opens her mouth, trying to say something—anything—but the words won’t come. She’s not sure why she’s so nervous now.

“Hey,” she says softly as she looks down at the counter, then back up at you. “You made it.”

Her smile is soft, almost shy, and she watches you carefully, her heart is pounding in her chest.

“I told you I would,” you reply warmly.

Vi nods softly and just stands there, her heart pounding in her chest, suddenly unsure of herself, the words slipping out of her mouth before she can fully think them through.

“You look… you look really good.”

It’s quieter than she meant it to be, but it’s honest. She can’t help it. She’s been trying not to let herself be completely consumed by the way you look tonight, but there’s really no stopping it. You do look amazing.

And she watches you closely, trying not to let her nervousness show too much, but it’s hard to hide the slight tremor in her voice.

Before you can even respond, Powder bursts in, her voice high and teasing as she slides up beside Vi and throws an arm around her shoulders, nearly knocking her off balance.

“Vi!” she says, her grin practically splitting her face, as she begins to tease her in hushed whispers, something about you coming tonight, maybe how nervous she was.

But Vi doesn’t flinch, doesn’t break her gaze from you. Her attention stays completely on you, even as Powder hugs her excitedly, laughing. Her focus is elsewhere. It’s on you. It’s always been on you.

For a moment, she almost wishes it was just the two of you in this room—no distractions, no people, no laughter, no teasing from an overly excited litle sister, just you and her.

Before either of you can speak, Powder pulls away from Vi, spinning on her heel as she looks around the bar.

“Say, where’s Ekko?” she asks. “I’ve got to go give him a talk about giving Isha the wrong cat food earlier.”

Without waiting for anyone to respond, she darts off into the crowd, running on pure energy that never seems to run out. You watch her blue hair disappear into the mix of people, the playful laugh she lets out fading as she vanishes.

Vi stands there, staring at you. There’s so much she wants to say, so much she’s been holding back for what feels like forever, but the words just don’t come.

“You guys sounded really great up there,” you say gently.

Her heart skips. She blinks, almost startled, and before she can stop herself, her lips curve into a wide, genuine grin, the pride swelling in her chest. She straightens slightly, shoulders relaxing just a little as her eyes soften.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, eyes glued to the way your tongue smooths over your bottom lip. “It, uh… feels good to be playing again… Here, I mean. At home.”

You smile again, and for a second, Vi forgets how to breathe.

“I bet it does,” you say, keeping your voice light. “I mean, I would have been disappointed if you weren’t any good.”

Vi chuckles at that. “Well, I couldn’t let you down. I’ve got a reputation to maintain, after all.”

“You’re being cocky,” you raise an eyebrow at her.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she says quietly.

Vi swallows hard, trying her best to stay calm, but being with you like this, well, it catches her off guard.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” she smiles softly. “I really am.”

And she’s grateful. Very grateful that she gets to see you, to be with you like this, even though you weren’t really hers anymore.

She spent the rest of the night glued to your side like she’s afraid to let you slip away, her body leaning just a little too close whenever you’re talking to someone else.

It’s a subtle thing, the way she gravitates toward you, like there’s an invisible thread pulling her in, towards you each and every time.

Vander, Benzo, Powder, and the rest of the band surround you, laughing and teasing, recounting old stories from their countless gigs, but Vi isn’t really paying attention to any of that. Not when you’re sitting next to her, not when you’re wearing that dress.

The fabric fits your curves so perfectly, but it’s your legs that keep pulling her attention.

Every time you move slightly, every time you cross or uncross them, the way your thighs peek out, just enough to tease—Vi can’t tear her eyes away. It feels almost too much—like she’s seeing you in a way she hasn’t allowed herself to in a long time. She tries to focus on the conversations, on the laughter and the jokes being tossed around, but it’s impossible to ignore the way her body reacts every time you move right next to her, every time she catches a glimpse of your skin.

Her gaze moves back to you again, almost instinctively, and her breath catches just for a second when your eyes meet hers, that soft smile of yours playing at your lips.

“Vi,” Powder says, nudging her with an elbow. “Earth to Vi? You’ve been dozing out over there for a while.”

Vi blinks, shaking her head and forcing herself to focus on the others. She smiles, though, a little embarrassed, and laughs it off, trying to shrug it off as a joke.

“Sorry, just got distracted for a second,” she says, but her eyes dart back to you before the words are even fully out.

She can’t help it. You’ve always had that effect on her—always able to pull her in, even when you don’t mean to.

And when you laugh, when you lean forward to talk to Powder, it sends a shiver down her spine. She can’t stop herself from thinking about how much she’s missed this. How much she’s missed being with her family. How much she’s missed being with you.

Her heart beats faster in her chest.

She wants to reach out and touch you. To kiss you. To touch you in places people aren’t allowed to see. She wants to say something, but every word gets stuck in her throat.

And throughout the rest of the night, you could feel her eyes on you.

It’s not just her glances you notice, but the way her posture shifts when you move, the tension in her shoulders when she’s close to you, like she’s trying to keep herself in check, but her body betrays her every time.

It makes your heart race. You can feel her eyes on you, even when you’re not looking at her. It’s impossible to ignore. The way her attention feels so intense, the way she’s so obviously drawn to you, despite all the people around you.

And you start to wonder if coming here tonight was a good idea after all.

It’s silly, isn’t it? You came because Vi had asked you to. Because you couldn’t say no to her.

You force yourself to look away, focusing on Powder and Vander’s laughter, on Benzo’s loud voice cutting through the noise, but you can still feel it. And every time your eyes meet, she looks away just a little too quickly, like she’s afraid of being caught.

You glance at her again, and this time, she doesn’t look away quickly enough. Her eyes catch yours, and you see it clearly. Vi hasn’t really changed that much. She was still Vi. Still the girl you once loved, and maybe, in some strange way, still the girl you might love again—

God, what are you talking about?

Is that what this is?

Is that what she wants too?

You force yourself to look away, focusing back on the chatter around you.

Was this a mistake? You didn’t know that answer to that.

All you knew was that it was clear Vi wanted you.

And you’d be lying to yourself if you said you didn’t want her, too.

It gets pretty late into the night when the drinks, as light as they were, started to settle in, a warm flush spreading across your cheeks.

It’s not enough to make you drunk—nothing like that—but enough to make your limbs feel a little heavier, your eyelids a little more droopy than they were earlier in the evening.

You glance around the table, taking in the chatter of old friends, the lighthearted teasing and laughter, the way Powder is leaning into Ekko’s side while Benzo and Vander talk shop at the counter. It was soothing to be here and spending time with them.

But your body is tired, and as much as you don’t want to leave, you know it’s probably time.

You stand up slowly, feeling the slight unsteadiness in your legs, the gentle sway of the room, but you brush it off. You pull your jacket on, the cool leather against your skin reminding you of the chilly air waiting for you outside. You catch Powder’s eye, giving her a soft smile as she looks over at you, but she’s too wrapped up in a conversation with Ekko to notice how tired you’ve become.

“I should probably get going,” you say softly.

Your words are met with a series of warm and friendly goodbyes, but there’s something in the air now that you can’t ignore.

Maybe it’s the way you’ve been trying not to meet Vi’s eyes, the way you’ve felt her gaze on you all night.

But you turn to her finally and say, “Bye, Vi.”

She freezes. She doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, her lips parting as if she wants to say something—anything—but the words get stuck somewhere inside her all over again.

She doesn’t get anything out before you turn on your heel to walk out of the door.

Then, out of nowhere, Ekko elbows Vi lightly.

“Seriously?” he murmurs under his breath, though it’s loud enough for her to hear.

Vi blinks rapidly, snapping out of her trance, and before she can even register what’s happening, she looks up. She turns to the rest of the group, and to her surprise, the entire crew is watching her. Powder, Benzo, Vander—they’re all grinning, urging her with their eyes.

“Go!” Powder mouths.

And just like that, she just moves.

She grabs her jacket and practically runs, pushing past the tables and chairs, her heart pounding louder and louder.

But just as she reaches the door, her foot catches awkwardly on the edge something, and soon, she’s stumbling, the world tipping sideways before she crashes forward. Her head hits the doorframe with a sharp thud, and for a second, everything is disorienting.

And you hear it—the sound of Vi groaning behind you. You freeze, your heart leaping into your throat.

“Violet?!” you call out.

Vi’s still on the ground, her hand pressed against her forehead, trying to push herself up. Her face scrunches in mild discomfort, but as her eyes meet yours, she lets out a small, breathy laugh, shaking her head.

“I’m fine,” she says softly as she rubs her forehead where it collided with the doorframe.

Her eyes dart up to you, and she offers a sheepish smile. You can’t stop the small laugh that bubbles up in your throat. Your heart is still racing as you move toward her.

“Are you sure—”

“I’m okay, really,” she says again.

She reaches up, brushing her hair from her face, trying to play off the moment. You offer her your hand, your fingers brushing hers as you help her to her feet. She doesn’t let go immediately, her fingers lingering against yours for a moment longer than necessary.

“I… I wanted to catch you before you left,” Vi catches her breath. “Are you walking home?”

“Y-Yeah,” you finally say quietly. “It’s not too far.”

You motion vaguely toward the street, but it’s clear that the idea of walking back alone, in the late hour, with the chill creeping in, doesn’t sit quite right with you either.

“My truck’s at the back,” she says. “I’ll drive you.”

You blink, caught off guard for a moment. And before you can stop yourself, you start to protest, a gentle laugh slipping from your lips as you take a small step back.

“Oh, it’s fine, Vi. I don’t mind the walk. It’s not that far, really.” You try to brush it off, not wanting to be any more of a burden than you already feel like you are.

But she doesn’t let you get far.

“I’m driving you,” she repeats.

It’s not a suggestion. It’s not a question. It’s just fact.

You could argue, but there’s something about the way she looks at you, the way her eyes are so steady, so intent, that makes your inner protests feel futile.

So for once, you don’t argue.

“Fine,” you say softly, a smile tugging at the edges of your words.

Vi leads you toward the back lot where her old truck is parked, the cool night air settling over your skin as you follow a few steps behind her.

When you reach the truck, she moves ahead without hesitation, reaching for the handle and pulling the door open for you. It’s a small thing, but it catches you off guard—she does it like it’s second nature, like she’s done it a million times before. Well, she probably has.

You hesitate for a second, looking at her. Her pink hair is a little messy, strands falling over her forehead, but she doesn’t push them back. She just stands there, her hand still on the door, waiting for you.

“Thanks,” you murmur softly.

Vi just nods, not saying anything as you step up into the seat. She closes the door gently behind you, and a second later, she’s rounding the front of the truck, pulling herself into the driver’s side.

The engine stars, and Vi adjusts the rearview mirror before glancing over at you. You can tell that she has more that she wants to say, but instead, she just puts the truck into drive, her fingers flexing around the wheel before she finally pulls out of the lot.

The drive is quiet.

Not awkward, not tense—just quiet.

The road stretches ahead, the glow of streetlights passing in a blur, fleeting shadows across Vi’s face. Her jaw is set, a hand steady on the wheel, but inside the truck, everything feels so quiet.

You watch her from the corner of your eye, the way her fingers tap lightly against the wheel, the way she lets out a slow breath, like she’s thinking about something she won’t say out loud.

You shift slightly in your seat, your hands resting in your lap, feeling the warmth of the heater kicking in against your legs. You should say something—maybe thank her again, maybe fill the silence with small talk, maybe ask her again how long she’s staying in town, how long her break is, when she’s leaving again—but for some reason, you don’t.

You just sit there.

Eventually, the truck slows to a stop in front of your apartment building, the engine humming for a moment before Vi shifts into park and shutting the engine off. The street is quiet at this hour, the street lamps casting long shadows across the sidewalk, everything outside the window felt frozen.

She doesn’t say anything at first, just grips the wheel, her fingers flexing slightly before she finally moves, unbuckling her seatbelt.

Before you can protest—before you can even tell her that she doesn’t have to—she’s already stepping out, rounding the front of the truck with long strides. She opens your door for you again, and when you step down, you can feel how warm she is, close enough that you have to force yourself not to lean into it.

Then, she walks you up to your apartment door, taking the elevator, her steps slower now, like she’s drawing out the last few moments before she has to leave.

You fish your keys out of your bag, fingers brushing over the familiar metal as you try to ignore the way your heart is beating too fast.

But Vi… she just watches.

She’s standing a step behind you, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket, her body tense like she’s holding herself back from something.

And she is.

Because she doesn’t want to leave.

Not when she’s spent the entire night thinking about you, stealing glances at you across the bar, admiring how the lighting made your skin glow, how your lips curled into that gorgeous smile she fell in love with—that she’s still in love with. Not when you looked so damn good in that dress, when all she’s wanted, since the second she saw you tonight, was to touch you, to press her lips against yours and see if you’d melt into her the way you used to.

Not when she still wants you.

But she doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move.

She just stares, her jaw clenched slightly, her pink hair falling into her face as she tilts her head down, eyes darting between your face and your hands as you struggle with the keys.

She should say something. She should tell you goodnight, make some stupid joke to break the tension, turn and walk away before she does something reckless. Because every single part of her is screaming at her to stay, to close the space between you, to reach out and touch you the way she’s been dying to all night. To press you against that door and kiss you until she forgets where she ends and you begin.

She just bites the inside of her cheek, waiting—hoping—you’ll give her a reason not to go.

You finally find the right key, fingers brushing over the familiar grooves, you slot it into the door but you don’t turn it just yet.

Vi hasn’t moved, hasn’t said anything, and when you glance up at her, she’s still staring—not in an absentminded way… No, she’s simply watching you, like she’s trying to memorize every single detail.

Your throat feels tight, but you push through it, offering her a soft smile, one that feels a little shy.

“Thank you for inviting me out tonight,” you say quietly.

“You don’t have to thank me for that,” she murmurs, almost hushed. “I—”

She stops, exhales through her nose, rubs a hand against the back of her neck before shaking her head, like she’s sorting through whatever thoughts are running wild in her head.

“I wanted you to come.”

You don’t know what to say to that, not when she’s looking at you like this, like she means it, like tonight actually mattered to her.

You swallow, gripping your keys a little tighter, trying to ignore the way your fingers tremble slightly.

“Still,” you say softly, meeting her gaze. “It was… nice.”

She looks at you like she wants to say more, like there’s so much more left to be said between you two, but she doesn’t say it.

Instead, she just nods, stepping just a fraction closer, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off her, close enough that if you tilted your chin just slightly, you’d be right there—right within reach.

And for the first time tonight, you realize you don’t want to step away.

Vi moves slightly, her hands still buried in the pockets of her jacket, like she’s physically stopping herself from reaching out. But her eyes tell a different story. They flicker over your face, down to your lips for the briefest second before settling back on yours.

“I… I wanna see you again,” she says quietly, almost desperately.

You freeze, the key still in your hand, but now the door feels so far away. Vi’s voice rings in your ears, and as you stand there, your mind spins.

You know what she means by those words.

You’ve already been seeing her as the weeks go by. As a friend—she came in to help with your bookshop, invited you out tonight. And now—now she’s expecting something more with you.

And you’re scared of that. Terrified, actually.

You can’t do this again. You won’t survive it.

You’ve lived through her absence, through the silence, through the distance. You’ve been holding your breath for years. You’ll expect her to leave the same way she did, promising you she’ll never forget you, that she’ll come home soon, she’ll call. You’ve already lived through it.

And soon, she’ll be leaving again. Once her break is over, she’ll be gone.

And whatever she wanted build with you now, you expect all of that to be gone the moment she is.

“Vi… I’ve been thinking about it for a while now… and I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” you say, almost as if you’re talking to yourself, trying to convince yourself that this is the right decision. “I’m sorry.”

You don’t look at her as you speak, afraid that if you do, you’ll see the hope in her eyes, and it will break you.

Vi’s heart sinks at your words. But she doesn’t look away. She doesn’t argue.

Instead, she stands there, eyes locked onto the side of your face, refusing to let the space between you become any bigger than it already is.

She wants to say something—wants to convince you, to make you see that this time could be different, that she can be different.

But the words won’t come. They’re stuck somewhere inside her, tangled up with the fear of losing you again, with the ache of wanting you close, even knowing that you might not feel the same.

So instead of speaking, she just stands there, her hands still in her pockets, her chest rising and falling with every shallow breath she takes. Her gaze never wavers from yours, even as it breaks her inside to see the hesitation in your eyes. She doesn’t want to push. She doesn’t want to make it harder for you.

But god, she wants to be near you.

She wants you so fucking bad.

She wants you to say yes.

The lump in your throat feels like it’s made of stone as you swallow. Your hands tremble slightly as you stand there, staring at the door, tears already threatening to roll down your cheeks.

You can feel her eyes on you, searching, waiting for something, and you know—you know that she’s holding onto the edge of whatever this is.

But you can’t do this.

So, you say it quickly, almost too quickly.

“Goodnight, Vi.”

You can hear the hesitation in your own voice, the way it cracks just a little, as if you’re trying to make the decision for both of you.

You don’t wait for her to reply. You don’t give her the chance to stop you, to pull you back into her. You push the door open just a little more and step inside, slamming it behind you.

On the other side of the door, Vi stands completely still. She doesn’t move, doesn’t say anything, just stares at the space where you were. Her heart is pounding, your words still burning in her chest, but she doesn’t turn away. She doesn’t walk away. She stays in place, her eyes glued to the spot where you had been standing, as if she’s waiting for you to come back.

The sound of your footsteps on the other side of the door is faint, but it might as well be a symphony in her ears. Her hand reaches up slowly to knock, almost without thinking, like she’s trying to hold onto the last of the warmth that came from being so close to you, from having you near her again.

But it’s only cold now.

She doesn’t know how long she stands there, doesn’t know how much time passes as she waits, hoping—just for a moment—that you might open the door again, that you might step back out and say that it wasn’t over, that it was just a misunderstanding.

But the longer she stands there, the more she realizes how hopeless that hope is, how much she’s already lost.

She almost turns on her heel to leave, the cold night air pressing in on her, but then—then—the sound of the door opening again stops her in her tracks.

You’re standing in the doorway.

For a split second, she doesn’t know what to expect. Her heart skips, and the breath she was holding catches in her throat.

“H-Hey,” Vi breathes out, her eyes widening. “Are you—”

Then, you move quickly, almost. You step up to her, and before Vi can make sense of it all, your hands are on her shoulders, and you’re standing on your tiptoes, and before she can breathe, before she can even think, your lips are on hers.

And holy fuck. Holy. Fuck. Holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck holy fuck holy— Is she dreaming? Are you really kissing her right now? Or did she really hit her head that hard?

Vi’s whole body freezes at first. It’s quick, but it’s enough to make her world tilt on its axis. She’s barely aware of what’s happening, of how she instinctively wraps her arms around you, pulling you closer. Her hands find their way to your waist, holding you gently.

She doesn’t want to pull away. She doesn’t want to let go of of you, not when it feels like you’ve come back to her. Her arms tighten around you, and she groans into your mouth, feeling the warmth of your body press against hers like she’s trying to make sure you’re really here.

Vi doesn’t think—she doesn’t have time to.

The second your lips press back into hers, everything else fades and she cant see anything else but you. She deepens the kiss, her hands squeezing roughly at your waist, pulling you impossibly close like she’s afraid you might slip through her fingers again if she lets even an inch of space come between you.

You respond just as eagerly, softly moaning into against her lips, your fingers fisting into the fabric of her jacket, pulling her forward like you can’t stand the distance either. Your body presses into hers, soft where she’s firm, delicate where she’s rough, and it only makes her want you more.

The kiss turns messy—more tongue, more teeth, like neither of you can get enough.

Vi doesn’t realize she’s walking forward until she feels you stumble slightly, your hands gripping onto her arms for balance. She guides you backwards, step by step, her lips never leaving yours as she pushes you back into your apartment. And with one firm kick of her foot, the door swings shut behind you both.

The moment the door clicks into place, she moves quickly—gripping your hips as she turns you, pressing you firmly against the solid wood making you gasp against her mouth, a quiet, breathless sound that sends a rush of heat straight through her.

Vi exhales sharply, pulling away from your lips only slightly to breathe, pressing her palms flat against the door on either side of your head, caging you in without a single inch of space between you. She can feel your breath against her lips, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you both try to catch up with what’s happening.

But then, as she leans in again, ready to kiss you breathless, she sees you.

Your eyes, wide and glistening, your lips swollen from the kiss, your breaths coming out in soft little gasps. And the trail of tears… still visible on your cheeks.

Vi’s stomach clenches.

Her chest tightens as she reaches up without thinking, brushing the pad of her thumb against your cheek, just beneath where the tears had dried. You don’t pull away, but you don’t meet her gaze either. You just stand there, still breathing hard, your hands still clinging to her jacket like you need something to hold onto.

Vi swallows hard, her fingers still lingering on your cheek, and she lets herself look at you—really look at you.

And it feels like a fucking punch to her stomach, a hard one, because you are still so beautiful, even like this.

And, she doesn’t know if she’s supposed to be here. If she’s supposed to be kissing you like this, touching you like this.

But when your eyes finally meet hers again, she knows one thing for sure.

She doesn’t want to let you go.

Vi opens her mouth, barely forming the words before you beat her to it.

“Vi,” you whisper softly. “I-If we do this… if we do this, we can’t commit.”

She blinks, once, twice, her breath still uneven from the way she’d just had you pressed against the door, her lips still tingling from kissing you like she had been starving for it. Her hands are still on you, one hand against your cheek, and another on your waist, her thumb ghosting over the curve of your hip.

“What?” Vi’s voice is barely more than breath.

You look up at her and she sees the hesitation in your eyes, the way you swallow thickly before you even attempt to explain.

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. Because out of everything she expected you to say, this wasn’t it.

No commitment.

The words press into Vi’s chest like something sharp, something cruel, something that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does—but god, it does.

Her mind races, trying to make sense of what you mean, of why you’d say that after everything. After the way you kissed her, after the way you ran back out that door.

No commitment.

Did you think she’d leave again? Did you really think she’d break your heart a second time?

Vi swallows, her throat tight, her fingers twitching against you.

“What do you mean?” she whispers, careful, like she’s afraid if she says it too loud, you’ll pull away completely.

But she already knows.

She knows what you mean. She knows exactly what you’re saying without even having to hear the rest of it.

You don’t trust her. Not with your heart.

And fuck, she wants to argue again, she wants to tell you she’s different, that she wouldn’t leave you alone this time, that she would stay, that she wants to stay.

But you’re looking at her like you’re waiting for her to fight it, and she suddenly realizes—maybe you need this.

Maybe you need to believe that thi won’t be anything more than what it is tonight.

Maybe you need to protect yourself from what loving her again might do to you.

Vi’s jaw clenches, her hands tightening ever so slightly where they rest against your waist. She should say something. She wants to fucking say something.

You hold Vi’s gaze, your breath still uneven, your heart pounding so loudly it feels like it might drown out your own words. You don’t want to say it—you really don’t—but you force yourself to. Because if you don’t, if you let her look at you like that for a second longer, you might break.

“We just… we can’t do it,” you say, barely above a whisper. “We can’t pretend like we can just pick up where we left off, Vi. You’re still you—you have your whole life out there that you have to get back to, your career, your band, and I…”

You pause, exhaling slowly, pressing yourself back against the door.

“I can’t go through it again.”

Vi’s breath hitches in her throat.

But you see it—the way your words hit her, the way her fingers tighten slightly at your waist before she forces them to loosen, like she’s reminding herself to be gentle with you. Like she’s reminding herself that she did this.

That she gave you a reason not to trust her.

She wets her lips, blinking once, twice, all over again as if she was trying to process what you’re saying. But you can see the protest in her eyes. You can see how much she wants to protest, to tell you that you’re wrong.

“So… what?” she asks roughly. “You just want this to be… casual?”

You hesitate. You don’t want to call it that. It feels wrong, too small, too insignificant to name what’s happening between you.

Because it’s not insignificant. It never has been.

But you can’t give her what she wants.

So you force yourself to nod.

“Yeah,” you whisper.

Vi stares at you, and it’s hard to read her face now, but you know her well enough to see the way her jaw tenses, the way she presses her tongue against the inside of her cheek like she’s trying to hold something back.

She looks down for a second, her hands still resting at your waist, and when she speaks again, her voice is quieter.

“You… you want me to pretend that this—” she exhales, shaking her head just slightly, like she can’t believe she’s even saying it, “—that you don’t mean anything to me?”

Your chest tightens, and for a second, you almost cave.

“Vi…” You say her name softly, and it’s enough to make her close her eyes, her head tipping forward like she’s bracing herself for impact.

You bite your lip, shifting under her gaze, but you don’t deny it.

“I want something safe,” you say instead.

Vi stares at you longingly.

She runs a hand through her hair, exhaling a bitter laugh, shaking her head as she looks at you.

“Safe,” she echoes, like she’s tasting the word on her tongue, trying to decide how it makes her feel.

She knows exactly how it makes her feel.

It fucking hurts.

Because when it comes to you, Vi has never wanted safe.

She’s only ever wanted everything.

But she looks at you now and she can see the hesitation in your eyes, the way you’re holding yourself like you’re waiting for her to fight you, to push, to promise something she might not be able to keep.

And, Vi realizes that you probably need this boundary.

That this is the only way you know how to let her in without risking losing yourself in her all over again.

So she takes a slow breath, lets it settle in her chest before she speaks.

“Okay.”

You blink, like you weren’t expecting her to agree so easily.

“Okay?”

Vi nods, keeping her face straight and stoic.

“Okay,” she repeats, quieter this time.

She watches the way your lips part slightly, the way your breath catches, and fuck, she could kiss you again right now. Could prove to you that whatever this is—whatever it’s turning into—isn’t just something temporary for her.

That it never was.

But instead, she just looks at you, nods once more, and says, “I can do that.”

And she knows for sure if it’s a lie.

You can feel her breathing against you, warm and uneven, her body still so close. Your breath shudders, your fingers twitching at your sides.

You don’t know how to tell her that you’re just as scared, that this—whatever it is—is already starting to feel like something dangerous, something that might swallow you whole.

So instead, you do the only thing you can do.

You lift your hands, slowly, hesitantly, and brush your fingers over the sides of her face, over the sharp line of her jaw, feeling the warmth of her skin beneath your touch. Vi lets out a breath, and when you tilt your head slightly, your lips barely a breath away from hers, she doesn’t pull back.

She doesn’t run.

Neither do you.

And before she can say another word, before she can question it, you kiss her again.

Vi doesn’t hesitate this time.

The moment your lips crash against hers, she melts into it, melts into you. Her fingers tighten at your waist, pulling you impossibly close, like she needs to feel every inch of you against her. She’s warm, burning, her body radiating heat as she kisses you deeper, rougher, her teeth grazing your bottom lip before she soothes the sting with her tongue. A quiet moan escapes your throat, and that’s all it takes for Vi to lose whatever restraint she had left.

She cages you in again, her palms flat against the wood on either side of your head, her breath uneven as she pulls back just slightly. Not enough to create distance—just enough to look at you again.

She studies you, the way your fingers clutch at her jacket like you don’t want her to go anywhere, and for a brief moment, she wonders—is this what you need?

Because Vi doesn’t think she can just pretend.

She doesn’t think she can hold you like this, kiss you like this, and not want all of you.

But maybe… maybe right now, this is enough.

So instead of saying something that will ruin it, instead of pushing for something you aren’t ready to give, Vi does what she knows best.

She leans in again, slower this time, her lips brushing. Her hands move to your waist, then up your sides, fingers ghosting over your ribs before sliding down the the hem of your dress, slipping under the fabric to grasp at your thighs. She doesn’t rush—she takes her time, savoring the way your body reacts to her touch, how you shiver slightly beneath her hands.

“You sure about this?” she asks.

You nod, barely a whisper of movement, your hands sliding up her chest, over her strong shoulders, fingers curling into the soft fabric of her shirt.

“Yeah,” you whisper back.

One moment, you’re standing there, breathless, and the next, Vi is crashing into you, her lips slanting against yours.

You gasp against her mouth, and Vi grips you tighter, her strong hands sliding down, catching the backs of your thighs before lifting you up. You gasp, but your body reacts on instinct, your legs wrapping around her waist, arms winding around her shoulders as she holds you up with ease.

And, the way she holds you—firm, steady, possessive—makes the heat coil in your stomach.

She doesn’t stop kissing you, not even for a second, her tongue your mouth, tasting you. Vi carries you through deeper into your apartment, like she knows exactly where she’s going even though she’s only ever been here once for several minutes.

Your fingers slide into her hair, tugging slightly, and she groans against your lips, low and needy, sending a shiver down your spine. You can feel the tension in her muscles, the way her grip tightens around your waist.

She stumbles slightly as she reaches your bedroom door, blindly pushing it open with her foot before stepping inside. The moment she steps in, she presses you against the nearest wall, just for a second, just to feel you pinned against something, her body flush against yours, her breath hot against your lips.

“Fuck,” Vi mutters, her forehead pressing against yours.

Her breath is uneven, chest rising and falling rapidly, and when she looks at you—lips swollen, eyes dark with want—you swear you’ve never seen her like this.

You don’t give yourself time to overthink. You don’t want to think.

You just pull her back into you, your lips crashing into hers once more, and she groans against your mouth as she finally moves again, finally carries you those last few steps toward the bed.

And when she lays you down—Vi stares.

Her body hovers over yours, her hands braced on either side of your head, her breath still uneven as she takes you in—really takes you in. And fuck, you look so pretty like this, sprawled out beneath her, lips swollen and your lipstick smudged slightly from kissing her. Your chest rises and falls with each breath, the thin fabric of your dress shifting slightly, and Vi can’t stop staring, can’t stop drinking you in like she’s trying to memorize every inch of you.

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, and she exhales sharply through her nose, her hands curling into fists against the mattress as she forces herself to pause, to breathe. She feels like she’s standing at the edge of something dangerous, something she’s wanted for so long but never let herself have, and now that you’re here—now that you’re letting her have you—she feels like she might lose her fucking mind.

Her gaze trails down your body, heat pooling low in her stomach as she watches the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers twitch against the sheets, waiting for her to do something.

She wants you. Wants to make you forget everything except the way she touches you, the way she makes you feel, the way she’s about to have you.

Vi exhales again, slower this time, and when her eyes flicker back up to yours, she smiles bitterly—low, lazy, cocky.

“Oh, fuck,” she murmurs, shaking her head slightly, her pink hair falling into her eyes as she licks her lips.

She leans in then, pressing her lips against the soft skin of your neck, her teeth grazing just slightly as she whispers against you teasingly.

“Vi, hurry, please—”

“I’m on it, baby,” she says.

Vi doesn’t waste another second.

She shrugs off her jacket in a rush, the leather hitting the floor, and her fingers already working at the hem of her shirt. She pulls her shirt over her head, leaving her in her jeans and her sports bra, barely noticing where it lands—because you’re right there.

Vi moves above you, her body pressing closer, and that’s when you see it.

The small glint of silver catches your eye, swaying gently as she hovers over you, her breath warm against your skin. Your lips part slightly, because you know that necklace—

And now, it’s still there.

Vi doesn’t seem to notice at first. She’s too lost in you, in the way your body moves beneath hers, in the way she’s been desperate to have you again. But when she feels you stiffen slightly beneath her, when she pulls back just enough to really look at you, she follows your gaze—and freezes.

Her breath falters, chest rising and falling just a little too quickly, her entire body suddenly too still.

She realizes what you’re looking at.

You don’t say anything, but you don’t have to.

And Vi—Vi feels like she’s been caught.

The necklace still rests against her skin every single day, always hidden beneath layers of fabric, unseen by anyone else.

But now, you see it. You know.

She doesn’t just want you tonight.

She wants you always.

Right in front of her, staring up with wide eyes, breath coming in soft, uneven gasps, your lips still swollen, and your dress still clinging to you.

And holy fuck, she needs you out of it.

Her hands find the fabric at your sides, her fingertips pressing into your skin as she tugs, as she urges your dress higher, bunching it up until she can pull it over your head.

You lift your arms for her, letting her take it off, letting her strip you down just like she wants, and Vi swears her brain short circuits the second she sees you like this.

Her breath catches, her pupils blown wide as her gaze drags down, raking over every inch of your skin exposed to her.

She groans softly, deeply and almost pained, before she lunges forward, her lips finding the soft skin of your collarbone, your shoulder, anywhere she can reach. She kisses you so messily, open-mouthed and desperate, her tongue flicking out between kisses, her teeth grazing just enough to make you moan.

She wants to taste every inch of you, mark you up so that you remember exactly where she’s been.

“V-Violet—”

Your voice—soft, breathy, breaking just slightly on her name—hits Vi harder than anything else has tonight. It goes straight to her chest, down to the part of her that remembers, that aches for every time you used to say her name like that, every time you used to fall apart for her.

And fuck, she’s missed it. She’s missed you.

A soft whimper rumbles from Vi’s throat, her teeth scraping gently along the delicate skin of your chest before she pulls back just enough to look at you. Your bra is pushed up, her hands eagerly roaming your tits, swueezing and pulling just like she always did whenever she was in a rush to make you feel good. Its not long before she reaches behind you, one hand undoing your bra and throwing it on the floor with the rest of your clothes.

And you’re already so wrecked, your lips parted, your breaths uneven, your body arching beneath her as she touched you.

God, she wants you—wants to ruin you, wants to hear you beg, wants to make you forget everything but the way she feels against you, around you… inside you.

Vi’s hands tremble slightly as she hooks her fingers into the waistband of your panties, tugging at the fabric slowly down your legs. She watches the way you react—the way your breath catches, the way your thighs tense, the way your fingers clutch at the sheets like you’re bracing yourself. Like you’re nervous.

She pauses, her thumbs rubbing small, absentminded circles against your hips, trying to soothe the tension in your body.

She’s thought about this.

Fuck, she’s thought about this almost every night—about you, about having you like this again, spread out beneath her, breathless and wanting an be needing her.

It’s been so long. Too long.

And as much as Vi wants to devour you as soon as possible—she also wants to savor this. She wants to feel it.

You make a small noise—soft, hesitant—and when Vi finally drags the last piece of clothing down your thighs, when she finally sees you, all of you, she lets out a breath she didnt even know she was holding.

You shift slightly, instinctively moving to close your legs, to hide yourself, but Vi is already there—her hands gripping your thighs, spreading you open for her.

And then she sees the hesitation in your eyes. The way you bite your lip and glance away. Shy.

Something in Vi’s chest tightens.

She knows.

You haven’t done this in a long time.

She wants to say something, but can’t find the right words. So instead, she does the only thing she can—she leans in, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the inside of your thigh, her lips soft and wet.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” she murmurs against your skin. “Always been so pretty, baby.”

She kisses you again, this time closer.

But when your breath hitches, when you finally look at her, when your fingers twitch like you want to reach for her but don’t know if you should—Vi knows.

She knows you want this.

You need her.

So Vi immediately gets to work.

The second she spreads you open, the second she sees how wet you are, she groans low in her throat, the sound vibrating against your skin as she leans in without hesitation, before finally dragging her tongue through your wet folds.

Your body jerks as get tongue presses flat and firm against your clit, and your fingers immediately reach for her, tangling into her hair—longer now than it used to be, your fingertips curling around the strands, gripping on it, pulling on it.

Vi feels you everywhere—the way your thighs twitch slightly against her hands, the way your hips shift up as if you were chasing the warmth of her mouth, the way your fingers tighten in her hair the second she flicks her tongue just right.

She hums against you, reveling in the way you respond to her so easily, like no time has passed at all, like your body still remembers her, still wants her just as much as she’s always wanted you.

She licks into you again, her tongue delving deeper into your pussy, messily and slurping loudly while her hands grip your thighs as she pulls you closer, like she can’t get enough—like she wants to devour you whole.

“Fuck,” Vi breathes against you. “You taste so good. Missed this pretty pussy so much.”

You let out a soft, broken sound as your hips buck slightly, your fingers still tangled in her hair.

Vi whimpers against your cunt, at the way your body gives to her so naturally, so easily. She tightens her grip, pressing you down into the mattress as she speeds up, her tongue dragging through your folds with faster strokes before circling your clit.

And when you whimper, Vi fucking smirks against you, because this is what she’s missed. The taste of you. The sound of you. The way you fall apart so easily for her, like you were made for this, like you were made for her.

“Hah, mmph—F-Fuck, Violet—”

Vi rolls her eyes back in bliss, moaning into your messy cunt as she slurps and sucks on your swollen clit. She loves hearing you moan her name like that—absolutely lives for it. Craves it. And god, she could fuck you all day just so that she could hear the heavenly sounds that fall from your lips.

She feels it before you even say anything—the way your thighs tremble beneath her palms, the way you close her in between your legs, the way you pant quicker and wuicker by the second, the way your body starts to tighten.

She knows you’re close already.

She knew you would be—knew from the second she laid you out in front of her, from the moment she tasted you, from the way you gasped and clung to her, fingers tangled in her hair, pulling, tugging, harder and harder, your body arching.

And that only makes her hungrier.

Vi doesn’t let up.

If anything, she doubles down, her grip tightening on your thighs, her tongue moving faster, more precise, lapping up everything you give her like she needs it, like she’s starving for it. She slurps at your wetness desperately, her tongue flicking, curling, pressing your pussy just right—just perfectly—and it sends you spiraling.

You don’t stand a chance.

Your entire body tenses as the orgasm crashes into you, ripping through you so fast, so hard, that your back arches off the bed, your thighs squeezing around Vi’s head as your fingers pull at her hair, and you cry out.

“V-Violet!”

Vi doesn’t stop.

She doesn’t slow down, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even pause—she just keeps going, her tongue still moving against you, inside you, her hands still gripping you tight, holding you down, keeping you there, like she’s refusing to let you come down from it, like she wants to drag you through it again and again and again.

And it’s too much.

Your breath stutters, your body twitching beneath her, overstimulated and shaking, but she’s relentless.

She moans against you, the vibration making you shudder, her tongue never stopping, pulling another wave of pleasure out of you before you can even recover from the first.

“V-Vi—” you gasp, broken and trembling.

But Vi just groans in response, like she loves how fucked out you sound, like it only spurs her on. She presses herself closer, tongue flicking faster, sucking have on got clit, drinking you down, devouring you, like she doesn’t plan on stopping until she’s satisfied—until you’re a mess beneath her, until you can’t think of anything else but her.

And fuck, with the way she’s going, you’re not sure she ever plans to stop.

Vi growls against you. Your body twitches beneath her, still trembling from your other orgasms, your breath ragged, uneven, and yet she doesn’t stop. Her tongue is still working you over and over, her hands still holding you down, still keeping you open for her, like she needs this just as much as she needs to breathe.

You gasp, your fingers tightening in her hair, tugging, pulling, trying to push her away, but Vi just moans at the feeling, her nails digging into your thighs as she keeps going, trying to drown you in the pleasure she’s giving you.

“V-Vi, I can’t—”

But Vi only smiles against you. Her fingers squeeze at your thighs, firm, steady, keeping you right there. And then, she finally pulls back—just barely, just enough to let her breath kiss over your wet, sensitive cunt as she tilts her head up to look at you.

Her lips are glossy with you, her pink hair disheveled from where your fingers have been pulling, and her pupils are blown, dark and hungry, her mouth curling into something dangerously smug, something so unbearably cocky.

“Can’t?” she echoes, raspy, teasing.

She presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss against the inside of your thigh, her teeth scraping just slightly before she smirks up at you.

And then she’s right back on you, tongue slipping inside, sucking at your clit, pulling another moan from your lips before you can even think to stop it.

You don’t know how many more times you came on her tongue.

It was so much.

And soon, you could hear Vi whimpering, louder and louder, her hands gripping your thighs tighter as she grinds her hips down onto your bed while she ate you out.

Vi was close. Untouched.

“V-Vi…” you breathe, your body trembling.

“Just a little more, baby, please…”

And you couldn’t say no to her. She always asked so nicely, even before—you loved it when she’d beg.

So she kept going and going and going.

Her whimpers grow louder, turning into moans, as she continuted to work her tongue against you. Fuck, she was so close. So fucking close. She could feel it tight in her cunt, waiting. All she needed was one more out of you. Just one.

She could feel you, almost there.

And when you jerk, trying to pull away from her mouth only for just a moment, Vi pulls you against her, wrapping her mouth around your clit and sucking. Hard.

You scream, the sound sending a wave over Vi’s body and that just about does it for her.

“M-Mmmph—Nn-ah, f-fuuuuck—” Vi whispers, gasping for air, her face still against your cunt.

She rests there for a moment, her cheek pressed againdt your inner thigh as she tries to catch her breath, her body shivering from cumming hard. She could feel her boxers, wet and sticky, and she swears you just sent her to heaven.

It doesnt take long for her to regain her energy, before crawling back up, leaving gentle kisses over your skin, before claiming your mouth with hers once more. You could taste yourself on her tongue, in her mouth. And you knew for a fact that Vi was cocky about it. She smiles against your lips before trailing back down to your jaw and neck, kissing the small bruises she left on them earlier.

Her hands are still resting lightly on your body, her fingers gentle now, as if she’s afraid you might shatter if she’s not careful. She pulls away a moment later, just enough to look at you.

She stares at you for a while, like she’s trying to memorize every inch of you—your flushed face, your lips swollen from the kiss, your eyes still half-lidded.

There’s a flutter in her chest. Vi can’t explain it—not really—not when every part of her is overwhelmed with the need to keep you close, to have you.

But she doesn’t say anything.

She just looks at you, her thumb gently brushing along the side of your cheek, her eyes soft as they lock onto yours. Her mind is running a mile a minute, every thought tangled up in the same three words that she wants to say but knows she can’t.

She says them to herself over and over.

I love you.

She says it in her head, again and again, her lips barely moving with the words as she stares at you. She wants to say them aloud, wants to let you know how much she means it, how deeply those words run for her, how she’s only ever felt like this for you.

But she holds herself back. She’s afraid of what might happen if she does.

Vi’s not sure if you feel the same way—if you even could, after everything that’s happened.

So instead of saying the words, she just leans down again, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, letting her lips linger there for a moment, breathing you in. She pulls away slowly and moves to lay down next to you, her gaze still locked onto yours.

The room is quiet now. Vi watches you closely, her eyes tracing the rise and fall of your chest, the way your face softens as you drift off to sleep beside her. You’re curled against her, one of your hands still resting lightly on her chest.

The soft glow of the light outside the window makes your skin glow. She can’t stop staring.

Her fingers, still warm from where they rested on your skin, twitch at her sides, but she doesn’t dare move. She can’t tear herself away from you, from the way your hair spills across the pillow, the way your lips are still parted slightly. She reaches out slowlyc just to brush a few strands of hair from your face, her fingertips grazing your cheek gently.

You stir slightly, your lips parting in a soft sigh, and Vi feels her heart lurch again. She knows she should sleep—knows she should rest too, but the thought of closing her eyes and missing even a second of you like this seems impossible.

Vi can feel herself drawn to you, drawn to every subtle movement, every breath you take. Her mind spins with thoughts—of the past, of what could’ve been, of what might still be. She thinks of the way you kissed her earlier, the way you touched her, the way she was so sure of you before, and then everything fell apart. The distance between you both became something too big to cross, and now, after everything, she’s here again, watching you as you sleep beside her.

It’s not just being close to you—though, fuck, she wants to hold you, wants to feel you pressed against her until there’s no space left between you. But it’s the fact that she’s here with you. After all the years apart from you, she finally has you again. Right next to her. And she doesn’t know what it means or where it’s going, but right now, she feels whole in a way she hasn’t in years.

Her hand hovers for a moment, just over yours, but she doesn’t touch you. She just watches you, watches the way your chest rises and falls, the way your face looks so relaxed, so safe, like you’ve finally found peace in her presence.

Vi stays there all night, her eyes never leaving you. She watches the clock tick by, watches the light change, watches you sleep, and for the first time in so long, she doesn’t feel so alone.

series masterlist | next chapter

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going-to-ikea-for-the-fries · 1 year ago

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It's a Match! || 141 x Reader

[ Chapter 9 ] || [ Chapter 11 ]

Pairing: Ghost x gn!Reader || 141 x gn!Reader Words: 1.7K~ Tags: NO SMUT, simon is a flirt, first kiss, simon has a PIERCING, simon needed to be held okay? Summary: While overcoming recent heartbreak, you decide to join Tinder in search of a rebound. Your friends advise to just Swipe Right indiscriminately... What happens when 4 soldiers from the same squad match with you? a/n: ghost HAS MADE THE MOVE.

Chapter 10: SIMON?!

You had entered the pub looking for someone who you didn’t know. Unlike with John, you didn’t even have a picture of Simon’s face to go off of.

Not that you had needed one. Going inside and scanning the room, you immediately spotted a tall, blond man with a black mask holding a tumbler of whiskey. He was leaning against a back wall by the dartboard, one foot propped up on the wall behind him.

Tall, blond, and a fan of Bourbon. Check, check and check.

You had made your way over almost immediately, being greeted with a squinting of his eyes and a dipping of his head off to the side.

“You look good.” He had said before raising a finger in the air and spinning it, beckoning you to give a little spin. Which you did.

“You don’t look so bad yourself.” You had retorted as he pulled away from the wall and guided you to the bar, one hand on your shoulder, so he could pay you for the drink, as you had so salaciously demanded on Tinder.

After that, he took you outside, to a table in the corner of the outdoor area of the pub. He parked himself on a lone armchair, legs spread and his position relaxed, spine curled ever so slightly, to make him take up less space. As if that’s somehow possible.

Then, Simon tapped his palm on his lap, beckoning you to sit, which you did without question. His hand circled around your waist, pulling your back to press against his chest.

He felt you press your ass back against his bulge, which earned you a dark rumble of a chuckle right into your ear. “Not as shy as I expected you’d be.” He had whispered.

“You’re the one who made me sit on your lap.” You had retorted as you looked back at him, only to get your head swiveled forward once more by his firm hand on your jaw.

“Eyes forward.” He had demanded. “I wanna drink in peace.” He had told you. He was bossy, but not exactly in a bad way.

“I guess that answers my question.” You had told him as you sipped from your own glass. Behind you, Simon did the same. You could hear the ice clinking against the glass as he dipped the tumbler back to sip from.

“Which one?” He had asked after a wet swallow of his drink and smacking his lips lightly.

“If you were going to wear the mask.” You had answered.

“It’s for your own benefit.” He had retorted.

“How’s that?” You had asked, daring to turn back to look at him, only to be stopped by his firm hand on your jaw, correcting your gaze away again, wordlessly.

“I’m not exactly a pretty sight under this.” He had told you. “Would rather not scare you off.”

“I’m sure it’s not that bad.” You had retorted. “And I doubt you could scare me off.” You added. “Though…” You had trailed off, thinking for a moment. “I won’t deny that if you’re like… super disfigured I might have a bit of a reaction to it at first.” You had told him sincerely.

That had earned you another rumble of a laugh behind you as he leaned in, pressing his chest a bit more against your back.

“Tell you what.” He had said softly in your ear. “I’ll let you have a glimpse soon enough, if the night ends up going the way I wish for it to.”

After a few hours getting to know each other, in which Simon kept up his promise of being honest within reason, you ended up at a McDonald’s parking lot, eating greasy food in the front seat and talking some more about all sorts of things.

You told him about your ex, about your family, about work, about your current obsessions in a certain TV show, a certain videogame, a certain actor… And he returned with his own. Who would’ve thought that this mysterious, sort of strange, guy would like Pedro Pascal?

He made you laugh, his sense of humour extremely morbid and sarcastic and his deliveries deadpan, but just smart enough to draw laughter out of you… And whenever you retorted with a smartass comment of your own, you swore you saw him smiling… Even if the mask was in the way, the corners of his eyes crinkled.

And you made sure to dutifully look away when he loosened his neck gaiter at the bottom, in order to stick fries and nuggets and his drink straw under it…

At midnight, you found yourself being dropped off at home… And just like it happened with John, you found yourself not quite wanting the night to end…

So you invited him upstairs.

It’s 5 A.M. when you find yourself waking up in his arms, stirring awake ever so slightly by his movement.

The sun is starting to rise, lighting the room ever so slightly, and making it so you can kind of see a few shadows of your furniture around the room.

Bleary-eyed and groggy, you rub your eyelids, finding Simon’s silhouette still next to you and looking at you.

“You alright?” You ask him softly, receiving a soft ‘Mhm’ in return. You pull yourself away from his arms, leaning up on one of your elbows to look at him.

“Had fun last night.” He tells you as he stretches a bit. “Should probably be heading back to base in a minute, though.”

Your bare leg rubbed lightly against his thigh which was still clad in denim, a consequence of the two of you having had some sort of… sleepover. That’s the best way of putting it.

“I’m glad. I had fun too… Weirdly enough.” You reply as you start to sit up in bed as well. “Never did think I’d end up getting… laid but… not. ‘Laid together in bed’, I guess?” You joke a bit, still too groggy to really make a joke.

“Can just call it cuddling.” He replies as he pulls the covers back a bit in order to sit up and turns on your bedside table lamp, lighting the room in a warm-toned orange-y light and casting shadows further toward the door and the hall.

He still has that neck gaiter of his on over his features, or… maybe he took it off and put it back on? You can’t be sure, you were asleep.

After coming home, you talked some more, played Mario Kart on your switch, watched a horror movie, during which he complained way too much about the realism of the blood splatter and the injuries… And then you kind of… cuddled to sleep.

“I think we both needed this.” You tell him as he nods his head. “Haven’t gotten a good cuddle in… well, ages… And you’re surprisingly comfortable.” You add.

“Definitely.” He tells you, his eyes squinting a bit again. “I… like you.” He admits.

“I… Thank you?” You reply as you sit up in bed next to him, eyebrows raised in surprise.

“That felt wrong to say aloud. Felt a little bit like a little boy in the playground.” He admits and chuckles at himself.

“Yeah… Well… I like you too.” You reply and chuckle as well at how silly it feels to say it so openly.

“Of course you do.” Simon retorts, his tone still flat and deadpan even as he spoke himself up and acted cocky.

“Oh piss off, Simon… It’s too early to deal with your shit right now.” You grumble and nudge at him with your elbow.

“Oh, c’mon… You dealt with it all night last night.” He tells you as he leans over, getting his face close to yours, the neck gaiter just softly grazing against your shoulder.

“Shut up.” You reply, a smirk on your lips. His eyes crinkle into a smile as well, which makes your smirk soften into a little smile.

You gently grab his face with his hand which makes his eyes widen and, as a reflex, he grabs your wrist and stops you from pulling down/up his untucked neck gaiter and show you his face.

This had happened a couple times last night. One of which was you trying to tuck a corner of his mask into his neck had earned you a grab from him, that only relaxed when you explained your intentions.

He’s a deeply mistrusting person, you’ve noticed… And you are strangely intrigued by it.

“Relax.” You tell him. “I’m not going to pull it off.” You assure him once more, which makes him relax.

Instead, you lean forward and press a kiss to his cheek, right on the edge where the mask meets his cheek, your lips softly brushing the stitching of the top of the gaiter.

His breath hitches and his eyes close for a moment, seemingly basking in the warmth of your little kiss.

As you pull back, his eyes snap open again and he rushes forward, grabbing your whole jaw with his large, rough hand before pulling your whole face toward him once more.

His other hand moves the gaiter up just enough to capture your mouth in his, but not enough to earn you a glimpse of his features.

His mouth is warm, his lips chapped and dry to shit, and his tongue is… Is that a piercing? Your eyes double in size when your tongue rubs against the cold metal nubs of his barbell piecing.

Simon’s eyes are open too, the corners crinkled in amusement at your shocked reaction. He keeps his grip on your jaw as your eyes slowly fall closed, giving into the kiss.

It’s completely different compared to John’s kisses, or Ethan’s back when you were together. Simon kisses like he wants to take your breath away.

After a moment, he pulls back, the neck gaiter quickly falls back down to cover his face and when your eyes open, it’s as if nothing happened. Simon is up on his feet, putting on his boots and leather jacket.

“We should do this again.” Simon tells you. “I’ll text you.” He adds and winks at you before turning and walking out of your room.

After a moment, you hear the front door of your apartment close and there you are, left sitting in bed, blinking away the shock.

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w3haw3ll · 2 months ago

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Five Summers Gone- Oscar Piastri OP81

Enemies to Lovers × Second Chance × Small Town 5.6K Words (Masterlist) Five years ago, Y/N L/N left Melbourne without saying goodbye—no calls, no letters, nothing. To the town, she disappeared. To Oscar Piastri, her best friend and childhood crush, she shattered everything they’d built.

Now she’s back. Temporarily. And Oscar? He isn’t exactly welcoming her with open arms. Not when he’s spent years pretending he doesn’t care.

TW: Smut but its not essential to the story and can be skipped. 18+

The door to 'The Melbourne Tavern' creaked open, a gust of warm, dry air pushing in with the sound of cicadas buzzing outside. It smelled like dust and sunshine, a hint of salt from the nearby coast mingling with the earthy aroma of wood and old leather. The tavern wasn’t much to look at from the outside—a simple building of peeling white paint and rusty corrugated iron that blended with the small-town landscape. But inside, it had a kind of rustic charm that only decades of local history could create.

The walls were a patchwork of weathered timber and exposed brick, with old beer advertisements and faded photographs hanging crookedly. Some of the frames were cracked, but no one had bothered to replace them; they were part of the place’s charm. The soft golden glow of hanging lamps cast long shadows across the wooden floors, which were scuffed from years of boots and bare feet dancing to the sound of country tunes.

At the far end of the room polished oak with brass handles glowed under the light. Behind the bar, shelves lined with bottles of gin, rum, whiskey, and every kind of beer imaginable caught the light, the labels faded from the sun’s harsh glare that filtered in through the half-open windows. The taps hissed and gurgled, sending chilled streams of amber liquid into glasses that clinked softly against each other.

Near the window, the jukebox sputtered, blasting out the familiar hum of country music, though the volume was low enough to let the conversations around the bar flow freely. The sound of laughter and murmured gossip drifted over the buzz of cicadas from the porch outside, where a couple of men leaned against the rails, pints in hand, talking about everything and nothing.

The air inside felt thick with the heat of late afternoon, the sun casting a deep golden glow across everything—spilling in through the long windows, illuminating the wooden tables with their mismatched chairs. The long, worn bar counter had a few stools scattered in front of it, some occupied, some empty. A couple of regulars lounged by the dartboard, a few more tucked away in the booths by the back corner, whispering quietly, the flicker of dim candles lighting the space between them.

There was a smell in the air, a blend of fried fish and roasted meats from the small kitchen in the back. The place was both familiar and a little overwhelming, like stepping back into a dream she hadn’t quite realized she was in. Every detail—from the scratches in the tables to the old ceiling fan that lazily stirred the air above—felt like it had been here for a hundred years, holding memories of the people who’d come and gone.

The low hum of chatter from the handful of locals drinking in the dimly lit room died down as soon as she stepped through the door. And now, standing here in the doorway, she felt the weight of time—five long years of distance of lost memories, and of unfinished business.

Y/N froze at the threshold, her heart doing an awkward, painful little skip. It had been five years since she last stood in this place—five summers spent in the faraway noise of the city, with the distant hum of life and everything that wasn’t here. But now, the familiar smell of spilled beer, fried food, and wood smoke hit her like a wave, dragging her back to a time she hadn’t wanted to revisit.

Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag, her gaze scanning the bar. The worn wooden floors creaked beneath her boots as she took a step further in, half-hoping someone would jump out and shout a cheerful welcome, but everyone was strangely quiet. Eyes flicked toward her, some curious, others with that mix of recognition and judgment that could only come from small-town gossip.

On a stool infront of the bar, Oscar Piastri sat with his back to her. His broad shoulders were tense, the back of his black T-shirt clinging to his frame. The man who had once been a small-town kid chasing dreams now stood in the glow of Formula 1 stardom. He was no longer just the boy she’d left behind—he was a racing icon, the kind of person whose name was known across the globe.

But in this pub, to the people who knew him as a child, he was still Oscar—still the young man who had once dreamed of getting out of this town. The same man who had watched her walk away without a word five summers ago.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she stepped further into the tavern, her boots echoing softly on the worn wooden floors. The sound seemed to cut through the room, catching the attention of the few locals scattered around. She felt their eyes on her, a mix of curiosity, judgment, and old gossip filling the space. But her gaze remained fixed on Oscar.

His back was still to her, but the moment he sensed her presence, he paused. The glass in his hand was set down slowly, as if he had suddenly forgotten the motion.

The years hadn’t softened him. If anything, they had made him harder—his shoulders broader, the scruff of his jaw more pronounced, his eyes darker, like he'd been worn down by something deep inside.

Her heart thudded in her chest. The space between them felt like a chasm, but the pull was the same. That magnetic tug she had always felt, the one that was impossible to ignore.

His expression was unreadable at first—until it softened just the tiniest bit, just enough to show that the years hadn’t erased everything. His lips tightened into a hard line.

But what struck her the most was the distance in his eyes. The same eyes that had once held nothing but warmth and admiration for her now seemed cold, distant, almost like she was a stranger.

“Y/N,” he said, his voice low and distant, as though her name was a question he didn’t want to ask. “Didn’t expect you to come back.”

Y/N swallowed, the weight of his words sinking into her chest. She had imagined this moment in her mind for so long, rehearsing her apologies, wondering how she would explain everything. But standing here, now, with the entire tavern waiting for something—anything—from her—it felt too real, too raw.

His words hung in the air, thick with the tension of everything unsaid. Five years. She’d thought about this moment more times than she cared to admit, playing it out in her mind over and over again. She had imagined the words, the apology, the explanation. But now that she was standing here, with the dusty warmth of the tavern wrapping around them, everything she had planned to say felt inadequate.

“I didn’t plan on it either,” Y/N replied, her voice quieter than she meant it to be. She glanced around the bar, a few familiar faces still scattered around. “My aunt... she left me the house.”

Oscar didn’t respond to that, his brow furrowing. He didn’t need to. They both knew what that meant. She wasn’t here just to visit. She was here to close a chapter. The kind of chapter that had ended in a storm, the kind of chapter that had never really been finished.

She shifted uncomfortably, noticing his intense gaze on her, like he was weighing every word. Her fingers fidgeted at her sides. She hadn’t realized how much she had missed this place—the familiarity, the feel of being home. But it also hit her like a ton of bricks, the reality of what she’d left behind.

Oscar set the glass down, his hand brushing the countertop with a soft scrape. His gaze never left hers, studying her like a puzzle he couldn’t quite solve.

“You just show up, after five years, and that’s it?” he asked, his voice sharp, his eyes cold. “No explanation? No... nothing?” The anger in his voice made her flinch.

She swallowed, guilt creeping into her chest. “I—I didn’t know how to explain, Oscar. I didn’t think you’d understand.”

His chuckle was low, bitter. “And you thought running away was easier?”

Y/N's stomach twisted. She hadn’t expected to hear that in his voice—the years of hurt, the bitterness. It stung more than she’d anticipated.

She took a small step forward, but the distance between them felt monumental. “I didn’t want to leave. But I had to.” Her voice faltered, but she pushed on. “It was personal... Too personal that I couldn't even tell you about it.”

Oscar’s jaw clenched, and his gaze flickered briefly to the floor. “You could’ve told me, Y/N. You didn’t even give me a chance to understand.” The words were raw, exposed, the kind of words that could break a person if they weren’t careful.

Oscar’s expression shifted then—anger flaring briefly in his eyes before it was quickly masked by something colder, more distant. "You think I wouldn’t have understood?" he asked, his voice tight. "You think I wouldn’t have been there for you?"

She quickly shook her head, feeling the weight of his accusation in her chest. “I thought I was protecting you,” she whispered. “But I was wrong.”

"I didn’t want to drag you into it," she whispered. "I didn’t want you to feel responsible."

Oscar’s lips twisted into something that could have been a smirk, but it was empty. "I’m not a little kid anymore, Y/N. I’m Oscar Piastri now. You think I don’t have my own burdens to carry?"

She could hear the echo of his Formula 1 fame in his words—the pressure, the expectations, the weight of a career that had taken him far from this dusty town. But beneath it, beneath the success, there was still a man who had loved her and still carried the scars of her leaving.

The bartender's voice broke the silence, offering them both drinks, but neither moved to take one. The tension in the air was thick, heavier than the summer heat outside, and all Y/N could do was stand there, staring at the man she had once loved, wondering if there was any way to undo the damage.

The silence between them was heavy, thick with everything they hadn’t said in years. Then, without warning, Oscar turned his back to her, grabbing his empty glass and beginning to inspect it.

“Do you want a drink?” he asked, his tone colder now, guarded.

Y/N hesitated, unsure of what she wanted. Everything felt wrong, like stepping into a dream she couldn’t wake up from. The man she thought she’d never see again. The town she thought she’d forgotten. And yet, standing here now, she realized she hadn’t been able to move on, not fully.

She nodded, her voice soft. “A gin and tonic.”

Oscar didn’t reply as he requested the drink from the bartender, his back still turned to her. But the tension in the room had shifted. She could feel it in the air. The unsaid things were heavier now, waiting for the moment when they would finally have to confront everything.

He handed her the glass without a word, their fingers brushing just for a second. The warmth of the gin mingled with the warmth of the evening as the first crack in the wall between them began to show.

---

The tavern was nearly empty now. Outside, nighttime had fully settled over the countryside, a velvet sky scattered with stars, cool wind sweeping in through the open windows. Crickets chirped steadily in the distance, and the scent of dry grass and old smoke hung in the air.

Inside, only a soft, flickering pendant light remained above the bar, casting a honeyed glow across the polished wood. Y/N sat alone on a stool, her fingers tracing circles in the condensation of her untouched drink. The glass had gone warm.

Oscar sat by the bar, pretending to count the bottles on the back shelf. He hadn’t said a word in ten minutes. Neither had she.

Finally, she broke the silence. “You’re quieter than I remember.”

He didn’t turn around. “You’re not.”

She let out a small, humorless laugh. “Right. I’m still the mouthy girl who left.”

Oscar turned then, slowly, a bitter smile ghosting across his lips. “You don’t get to make jokes about it.”

Y/N’s chest tightened. “I’m not trying to.”

“Could’ve fooled me.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “One minute we’re planning a future, the next you vanish. Gone. No note, no message. Just—nothing. Like I never existed.”

She stared at him, jaw clenched. “You think I wanted to leave like that?”

“You didn’t stop yourself.”

“Because you made it impossible to stay, Oscar.” Her voice cracked. “You made everything about racing. Everything was about the next circuit, the next win, the next interview. There was never room for me.”

He scoffed. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” she said, her voice rising. “I came second to your career every day for two years, and I was supposed to be okay with that.”

“I was doing it for us,” he snapped. “To give us a better life.”

“No,” she said. “You were doing it for you. And maybe that’s okay. Maybe I was stupid to think I’d ever matter as much as the next podium.”

Oscar stared at her, and for a moment, she thought he might yell. Instead, his voice dropped low, tight with something darker. “I used to imagine you in the crowd. Every time I got behind the wheel. I used to look for your face.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

“I used to tell myself that if I just won enough, if I just kept going, maybe you’d see me on TV and… I don’t know. Remember you loved me once.”

“I never forgot,” she whispered.

“Then why didn’t you come back?”

“Because I was scared,” she snapped. “Because every time I thought about you, I felt like I was being tortured from the inside out. Because I couldn’t remind myself that I was just someone who once mattered to you.”

Oscar’s face shifted, something soft cracking through his carefully held anger. “You never stopped mattering.”

There it was again — that unbearable ache. The one that settled into her bones the moment she saw him next to the bar.

She looked down at her hands. “I thought if I left, it would hurt less than staying and watching you drift further away.”

“You should’ve stayed.”

“You should’ve asked me to.”

That silenced him.

The air between them buzzed with the weight of everything they hadn’t said in five long years. It was too much. Not enough. Something in between.

He stood and walked slowly, each footstep with purpose until he stood in front of her.

“You think I didn’t feel abandoned?” he said, quieter now. “You think I didn’t sit in that empty apartment and wonder what I did wrong?”

Y/N’s voice was trembling. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I just couldn’t stand it anymore. I was being suffocated by how overwhelmed it made me”

“I would’ve made space for you.”

“You didn’t see me, Oscar,” she said, eyes glassy. “You saw a girl who was supposed to wait. Who was supposed to clap from the sidelines and smile while you chased everything we dreamed about together — but you did it on your own.”

He looked stricken. And more than anything else, he looked like a boy who had lost something he hadn’t realized was irreplaceable until it was already gone.

“I hated you for leaving,” he whispered. “And I hated myself for not stopping you.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I hated that I had to leave to save myself.”

Oscar exhaled like he’d been punched. He stepped back slightly, pacing a few steps away, running a hand through his hair. The silence returned, but now it was shaking, fragile, raw.

Then, the faint hum of a song they both knew too well began playing over the radio. He began to tap his fingers on the bar along with the melody.

Y/N froze.

Their song.

He still remembered every note.

She walked over slowly, standing beside him. “I haven’t listened to this since…”

“After you left,” he finished. “Yeah. I couldn’t. Felt like it hurt too much.”

“It still does.”

“Yeah,” he said, glancing at her. “But maybe some things are meant to hurt. If they didn’t, it’d mean they never mattered.”

She didn’t answer. She just watched him tap his fingers, the pain in his movements, the years stitched into each tap on the wooden bar top.

When he finished, she stepped forward, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “You’ve changed, Oscar.”

“So have you.”

“But I think part of me still knows you.”

His voice dropped, almost a whisper. “Then don’t go again.”

She swallowed. “I can’t promise I won’t. But I can promise I’ll try.”

He stood, close now—so close the tension between them was electric.

“I hate that I still want to kiss you,” he said, breath warm.

“I hate that I want you to.”

They didn’t kiss—not yet. The moment lingered like a breath not yet taken.

A door creaked in the distance. A chair scraped. Someone was still here.

The moment passed.

Oscar stepped back, eyes burning. “You should go.”

Y/N hesitated, heart pounding. “Yeah. I should.”

But neither of them moved.

---

The sun bore down mercilessly on Albert Park, casting a shimmer over the track and painting the race paddock in hues of black and red. The smell of gasoline and scorched rubber clung to the air, thick and sharp. Crowds pressed at the fences, their excitement electric, a kind of collective heartbeat that pulsed louder than the engines in the distance.

Y/N stood on the edge of it all, fingers curled tightly around the lanyard that bore Oscar Piastri’s name.

She hadn't planned on coming. She’d told herself over and over she wouldn’t. That she couldn’t.

But when she’d found the VIP pass slipped under her door, attached to a single note — “If you come, I’ll know” — something in her cracked.

Now she was here, at the very place she’d sworn never to return to. The world she’d tried to leave behind. The life she'd tried to untangle from her heart. But it never really left her. And neither did he.

Oscar stood by his car in the garage, helmet under one arm, race suit hugging his form like a second skin. He wasn’t looking at her. But he didn’t need to. He knew.

She didn’t know what they were now. But she knew she couldn’t walk away this time.

Not again.

Now she stood in the shade of the garage awning, watching the man she’d once loved — maybe still loved — suit up, visor down, the sun glinting off his helmet as he prepared for the race.

Oscar didn’t look at her, but she knew he knew she was there.

He always knew.

The race began with the scream of engines and a blur of motion.

Oscar took the first few corners clean, locking into P2 by Lap 3, breathing down the neck of the Ferrari in front. His movements were precise, razor-sharp. But there was something underneath — something Y/N could feel more than see.

He wasn’t just racing. He was pushing.

Too hard. Too fast. Too much.

And she recognized it. That desperate, reckless edge. He was driving like he had something to prove — or something to lose.

The commentary praised him. "He's on fire today—like a man possessed."

Y/N’s stomach twisted.

The commentators said it was brilliant. Ruthless. But Y/N’s chest tightened with every lap.

By Lap 20, Oscar was still in second but gaining, corners carved with fury, tyres crying against the asphalt. The engineers were calm, but Y/N could hear the tension in their voices as they radioed him.

“Oscar, box in five.”

No response.

“Oscar, do you copy?”

Still nothing.

Her heart climbed into her throat.

She knew this Oscar — the one who didn’t hear anything but the roar in his own head. The one who couldn’t stop until the fire inside him burned out everything around him.

Then, Lap 41.

He went wide into Turn 10, trying to force a move where there wasn’t one. The Ferrari twitched. Oscar overcorrected.

The car clipped the curb.

Sparks exploded from under the chassis. The rear end snapped.

And then it happened.

A sickening spin, tyres lifting momentarily before the car slammed sideways into the barrier with a thunderous crack that silenced the crowd. The halo held strong. But the front wing had completely disintegrated. Smoke poured into the sky.

The screen froze on the impact.

The screen showed the wreck: smoke pouring out, marshals racing toward the scene. The safety car was deployed instantly. Mechanics scrambled.

Gasps rippled through the paddock.

Y/N couldn’t move.

She didn’t breathe.

Her mouth was dry. Her body ice-cold. She felt everything and nothing all at once. Around her, the team was in motion, alarms blaring, radios crackling.

But all she could hear was the silence in her chest.

Then—movement. Oscar’s head, helmet still on, shifting.

He was alive.

But she was already running.

She didn’t wait.

She ran.

The medical center was a blur. She pushed through crowds, security, yelling voices — she didn’t care. Not when she could still see the image of his car mangled against the wall. Not when every second that passed without seeing his face felt like a countdown to collapse.

"Miss, you can't be here—"

“I have to be,” she snapped. “He left me a pass. He wants me here.”

The nurse gave her a cautious look, then sighed, stepping aside.

“Y/N?”

And there he was.

Sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, shirtless, bruised, a long scrape down his ribs, and his arm cradled in a sling. He looked up at the sound of the door.

And everything in her broke.

“You complete idiot,” she whispered.

His lips curled into the faintest smile, worn and pained. “Hi.”

She crossed the room in two steps and shoved him.

“You reckless, stupid, arrogant—” her voice broke as she hit him again, this time open-palmed to his chest, and he winced. “You could’ve died, Oscar! What the hell were you thinking?!”

“Y/N—”

“You could’ve died!” repeating as she sobbed. “I saw it. I saw your car hit that wall and I thought—god, I thought that was it. I thought I’d lost you again.”

He grabbed her wrists, gently, holding them between them. “I’m here.”

“Why were you pushing so hard?” she asked, shaking. “You were leading! You had it.”

He flinched. “I just thought that maybe if I won, you’d see I’m not the same guy you left.”

“I never needed you to win anything!” she shouted. “I needed you to fight for me. For us. Not throw yourself into a wall just to prove some twisted point!”

Tears spilled freely down her cheeks now. “You were always enough. It was never about the trophies.”

“I missed you,” he said, voice raw. “Every single day. Even when I hated you. Especially then.”

She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “You don’t get to say that.”

“Why not?”

“Because you didn’t come after me. Because you let me go.”

“I thought I was giving you what you wanted,” he said, looking at her like the truth might kill him. “You left without a word.”

“Because I was falling apart!” she cried. “Because I didn’t know who I was outside of you, and I was terrified you wouldn’t love the version of me that didn’t orbit your world.”

Oscar swallowed hard. “I loved all of you. Even the parts you tried to hide from me.”

Y/N moved closer. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Then why did it feel like I was always chasing you?”

“Because I didn’t know how to slow down.” He met her gaze, broken and honest. “Until now.”

The silence between them was thick — loaded with pain, regret, and everything they'd never said.

He looked at her then — really looked — like he was seeing every version of her he’d ever loved, ever hated, ever mourned.

“You came back.”

“I couldn’t stay away this time,” she said, voice shaking.

There was a pause, the kind that holds all the weight of things finally understood.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn’t soft.

It was desperate.

A collision of grief, guilt, love and longing, five years in the making. Her fingers threaded into his curls as his hands slid to her waist, pulling her between his knees. The kiss deepened, their breath mingling, hungry and terrified and real.

His hands pulled her in, even with the pain in his arm. Her fingers gripped the back of his neck, their mouths crashing, devouring, pleading.

She pulled back first, breathing heavily. Her forehead rested against his. “Don’t do that again.”

“I won’t,” he whispered. “Unless you leave again.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Oscar’s fingers brushed down her cheek. “Promise?”

“I promise,” she said. “But you need to promise something, too.”

“What?”

“That next time you want to prove something to me… just tell me. Don’t nearly die over it.”

A breathy laugh escaped him. “Deal.”

Y/N smiled through her tears and gently, slowly, leaned into him again. This time the kiss was softer. Tender. Like the feeling of forgiveness.

And outside the walls of the medical center, the race raged on.

But here, time finally slowed.

---

Outside, the city pulsed with celebration. A dull roar of nightlife drifted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but up here, the world had narrowed into something quiet. Almost sacred.

The suite smelled faintly of rain on pavement and clean cotton sheets. The lamps cast a warm, amber glow, softening the sleek modern lines of the room. A forgotten bottle of sparkling water sat half-finished on the nightstand. The television playing the news on mute, replaying the crash over and over — the same brutal spin, the same moment Oscar’s car hit the barrier.

Y/N had turned her back to it. She couldn’t watch it again.

Instead, she watched him.

Oscar stood by the window, one arm braced on the glass, the other resting in a black sling across his torso. The light haloed around him, outlining the sharp lines of his shoulders and jaw, the mess of his dark curls slightly damp from a rushed post-hospital shower. His T-shirt was wrinkled from the day but still clung in the right places. Bruising peeked from beneath the collar, dark and angry against his otherwise golden skin.

She hadn’t been able to stop touching him since they returned. Just little things — her hand on his arm, her fingers brushing his ribs to make sure he was real.

Oscar hadn’t stopped looking at her either.

“You don’t have to hover,” he said quietly, not turning around. “I’m not going to spontaneously combust.”

She sat on the edge of the bed, heart a clenched fist in her chest. “You kind of already did.”

He finally turned.

There was something showing in his eyes emotionally stripped raw. His defenses were down, fractured open by the impact and her lips hours ago in the medical centre. The heat in his gaze wasn’t just desire. It was regret. Longing. Need.

“I’m sorry,” he said simply.

“For crashing?” she asked.

“For everything.”

Y/N stood and crossed the room slowly, until she was inches from him. The city lights outside cast fractured reflections across his face — half in shadow, half in gold.

She raised a hand to his chest, letting her fingers splay over his heartbeat. “Don’t be sorry right now” she whispered. “None of that is important now.”

A beat passed.

Then she added, softer, “I missed you. I hated how much, but I still did.”

He exhaled slowly. “Every time I thought I was over you… it would blindside me again. In the shower. In the car. Walking past someone who smelled like your perfume.” His hand lifted to brush a strand of hair from her cheek. “Tonight, when I saw you in the garage, I thought I was hallucinating.”

“You weren’t,” she murmured. “You pulled me back.”

Oscar leaned in, breath ghosting her cheek. “I’m tired of pretending it didn’t miss you.”

“So, stop pretending.”

He kissed her gently; he put so much emotion into such a simple and delicate kiss. The kiss was telling Y/N all the words she needed to hear from Oscar. She gently lifted his shirt taking a glance at his bruises and cuts.

“I should be the one taking care of you,” she whispered.

“You are.”

She kissed the line of his jaw, breath stuttering. “You feel like home.”

He smiled against her mouth. “Then stay.”

And when they collapsed into the sheets the world outside faded. No engines. No lights. No press. Just the aftershock of something deeply real.

Oscar pulled her into his chest, his voice barely a rumble against her hair.

“This time,” he said, “I’m not letting you go.”

And Y/N, wrapped in his heat, whispered back, “Good. Because I’m done running.”

--- 18+ (CAN BE SKIPPED)

The city below them had long been quiet, but inside the hotel room, the air still burned.

Y/N lay stretched across the sheets, chest rising and falling in quiet waves, her fingers tracing idle patterns over Oscar’s bruised skin. He watched her from where he sat, propped against the headboard, eyes heavy-lidded and unreadable. His sling was off now, set aside like every other barrier between them.

Her fingers moved lower. Across the sharp dip of his hipbone. The waistband of his boxers.

She felt the shift in him immediately — the way his stomach tightened beneath her touch, the soft hitch of breath.

But he didn’t stop her.

Instead, he caught her wrist. “Don’t tease me.”

The heat in his voice made her clench around nothing.

“I’m not,” she whispered, crawling over his lap, straddling him slowly. “Unless you want me to.”

His hands gripped her hips. Firm. Possessive.

“I’ve wanted you,” he murmured, voice wrecked, “since the second I saw you again. And it’s fucking killing me how good you still feel in my arms.”

Y/N leaned in, brushing her lips over his ear. “Then take me like you’ve been needing to.”

Something in him broke.

He surged up, flipping her onto her back with a sharp exhale, mouth crashing onto hers. It wasn’t soft. It was messy, all tongue and teeth and barely contained hunger. Her thighs fell open around his hips as he pressed against her, hard and aching through his boxers, grinding into her like he couldn’t help it.

“Tell me this is mine,” he growled, dragging her panties down her legs, his fingers slipping through the wetness between her thighs.

“It’s yours,” she gasped, legs trembling. “It’s always been yours.”

He pushed two fingers into her without warning, his thumb circling her clit with practiced precision. She cried out, nails digging into his shoulders as her body bowed up against him.

“Look at you,” Oscar muttered, watching her writhe beneath him. “Dripping for me. I’ve barely touched you.”

She bit her lip hard. “Stop talking and fuck me.”

He smirked. “Say please.”

Her eyes flashed. “Oscar—”

“Say it.”

She reached down and wrapped her hand around him through the fabric of his boxers, squeezing just enough to make his breath stutter.

“Please.”

He shoved his boxers down, not even bothering to kick them off fully before lining himself up and slamming into her in one desperate, blinding thrust.

She cried out, the stretch brutal and perfect.

His hand tangled in her hair, dragging her mouth back to his as he thrust again, hard and deep. “You feel so fucking good.”

Her legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in deeper. He moved like a man unhinged — hips snapping, breath ragged, forehead pressed to hers.

Each thrust was laced with everything they hadn’t said. Every heartbreak. Every unanswered call. Every regret that clung to them like a second skin.

“I thought I lost you,” he panted, voice breaking. “Every day I told myself it didn’t matter — but it did. You did. You fucking destroyed me.”

Y/N cupped his face with shaking hands, dragging his mouth back to hers. “Then ruin me right back.”

And he did.

He fucked her like it was the only way he knew how to continue living. Like claiming her again might put the broken parts of him back together.

She moaned his name over and over, clawing at his back, thighs trembling around his hips as he pounded into her relentlessly. Every thrust sent stars behind her eyes. Her orgasm hit hard and sudden, clenching around him with a cry.

Oscar’s rhythm faltered. His jaw clenched. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Inside,” she begged. “Please.”

That broke him completely.

With a guttural groan, he buried himself deep and spilled inside her, hips jerking, body shaking with the force of it.

They collapsed together, skin slick with sweat, limbs tangled.

Silence settled around them like ash after fire.

Oscar didn’t speak. He just pulled her close, pressing kisses to her hair, her shoulder, her temple. Everywhere he could reach.

Y/N clung to him, heart still racing, the weight of what just happened heavy and terrifying in her chest.

But when he whispered, “I’m not letting you leave again,” she believed him.

For now, that was enough.

209 notes · View notes

jeonstudios · 10 months ago

Text

dextrocardia | 15

Dextrocardia. Originally a medical term, but also a way to describe someone who's got their heart in the right place.

"She's been moved to another operation to help out. This pairing is necessary because you'll be undercover as spouses. I know you two can be professional about this."

"What?!" It's Jeongguk's upset voice that sounds, and for once, you share his displeased opinion.

Spouses.

pairing: cop!jk x f detective!reader

genre: undercover cops, fake marriage, e2l au, angst, fluff, (smut?)

word count: 6k

warnings: self-esteem issues, feelings

rating: NC-17 – Adults Only

masterlist

part 15/?

The ride home lasts ten minutes, during which you’re holding back tears the entire time. It’s only when you’re finally inside your own apartment that you let them fall. It doesn’t help to see Fenrir’s collar and leash hanging next to your jackets, or his bowls still on the floor. In a way, it feels like you’re back at square one.

You know you promised Jeongguk you’d call Jihyo, but you don’t, knowing she’d disapprove of you being on your own probably just as much as he does. Still, realizing that sooner or later you’ll need to either get back to work or find another job, you send her a text, asking if there’s any case for you to work on remotely until you’re ready to return fully.

The first night back is emotional, but you’re relieved to finally be home.

“I don’t think it matters how hard you throw it,” a worried Jimin watches Jeongguk hurl a dart at the dartboard. “Actually, I’m pretty sure you’d see better results if you didn’t throw it like an Olympic javelin thrower.”

Jeongguk doesn’t reply, just rolls his eyes and grabs another dart. The music around them is surprisingly quiet, drowned out by the chatter of the bustling bar.

“So, care to tell me what’s up with him?” Jin asks, nodding toward Jeongguk as he sets the three pints of beer on the table and takes a seat.

“His little lady left him,” Jimin explains sadly, sliding one of the pints closer to Jeongguk.

“Oh. Why? You weren’t a couple, were you?” Jin asks.

“No,” is all Jeongguk mutters before he heads over to the dartboard to retrieve the darts. He has three of them, but only one actually hit the board; the other two embarrassingly stuck to the wood-paneled wall. From the marks already there, he’s at least not the first terrible dart-thrower. When he returns to the table with all the darts in hand, he pushes his designated pint back toward Jimin. “Can’t drink.”

Jimin meets his eyes, looking defeated. Jeongguk already explained that when you’re not with him, he can’t risk being drunk in case you need him. If you called, saying Hoseong had found you, Jeongguk would not hesitate to get on his bike or in his car, no matter how much he’s had to drink, and driving under the influence is something he’d rather avoid.

“She’s scared of me,” he repeats what you told him a few nights ago. Hearing the words from his own mouth stings less, but his heart still aches and his blood boils. He throws another dart but misses the board, and it sticks to the wall a few inches left of it.

“Wait. What do you mean?” Jin asks, confusion written all over his face.

“Yeah. Although I’m pretty sure she hasn’t ruled out that I’ll just snap one day and kill her, she’s mostly scared that I’ll want to hurt her emotionally.”

“But why would you? I thought you two were doing alright? I mean, she’s been living with you for, what, the last month?”

“We were. Or at least, I thought so. She kissed me, and we were… getting closer, but I guess it freaked her out.”

“Why?”

“Remember how I told you I was horrible to her before I found out what Hoseong had done? Yeah, the things I said… they were inhumane.”

“What did you say?”

Jeongguk throws another dart, swinging his arm and using way too much force. “What haven’t I said? I’ve told her that she’s too ugly for me to look at, that she needs to stop eating, that she’s incompetent, and that she basically deserved being trafficked if only the traffickers would take her. That’s the short version.”

“Fuck, man,” Jimin breathes in disbelief. Jeongguk told him what happened ages ago but not explicitly what he’d said to you.

“Yeah. I just… I wanted her to hurt, to pay for what I thought she’d done, but she never seemed affected. I’d call her something, and she’d flip me off or glare at me or call me an idiot or whatever, but she never… I thought she didn’t care, so the next time I saw her, I said something worse. But I wouldn’t have, obviously, if I… If I… knew.”

Jin puts his glass down, wiping the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. “I mean, I haven’t met her, but isn’t she, like, objectively very pretty? From what I’ve heard?”

“Yeah, she is,” Jeongguk sighs. “Which is also why I didn’t think she’d take it to heart, ‘cause what I said isn’t true in the slightest.”

“But can’t she see how pathetically in love you are? No offense,” Jimin asks. “I mean, I take it you’ve apologized and probably told her what you really think? She doesn’t trust that?”

Jeongguk falls silent as he retrieves the darts again, shamefully avoiding eye contact with his friends on his way back.

“Wait, you haven’t apologized?”

“Of course I have,” he argues before lowering his voice. “I just kinda… fucked it up.”

He feels the confused stares of his friends. “I’ve apologized many, many times for how I treated her, and she seemed to kinda accept that? But I never explicitly apologized for the things I said. Nor have I told her how I actually feel about her.”

He sees how Jimin is about to tell him exactly what he thinks about that, but Jeongguk cuts him off before he's able to.

“After I somehow convinced her to stay with me, I thought carefully about how to act around her. I thought that it would be better to apologize for… everything. I thought ‘I’m sorry for how I treated you’ would cover it. And I didn’t want her to second-guess my intentions, so I didn’t actually tell her what I really think.”

“You mean ‘second-guess your intentions’ as in…” Jin trails off.

“As in think that I chose to help her because I was interested in her. I didn’t want her to think I had an agenda or to feel like she’d owe me in any way. She hasn’t had the best experience with men—men in law enforcement, especially—so I wanted to be as… safe, I guess, as possible for her. I didn’t realize she was still thinking about it, taking what I said as the truth.”

Jimin sighs. “So she thinks you might still consider her the ugliest creature to walk the earth is what you’re saying?”

“Apparently. I tried to convince her before she left, but of course, it didn’t seem genuine. I don’t blame her.”

A bit more optimistic, Jin tilts his head. “You don’t think she’ll believe you if you just tell her exactly what you just told us?”

But Jeongguk lets his shoulders slump. “I don’t think so. She told me I scare her because I have a desire to hurt anyone who wrongs me, and she doesn’t feel like she can read me. And I believe her. I wanted to hurt her, and during the mission, I had to pretend to love her when I really didn’t, so I kept switching up on her.”

The atmosphere shifts from frustrated and sad to just sad as Jeongguk runs his thumb over the dart in his hand.

“I lose either way. If I tell her that what I said back then was true, then I think she’s ugly, and I wanted to hurt her by saying so. But if I say that I lied and that she’s really the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, then I still wanted to hurt her. And after everything she’s been through, she doesn’t want a man with a desire to hurt.”

“But like you said, you didn’t mean to hurt her to that point, more so to be taken down a notch? And it got out of hand?”

“Is there a difference? I’ve hurt her, probably beyond what is salvageable, and she thinks I’m still capable of that; that if we disagree on something, I might turn on her.”

With a deep breath, you pull open the doors to the police station one chilly Monday morning, the sky outside gray and heavy with the threat of snow. It’s been three weeks since you came home, and though Jihyo put up a fight, she eventually agreed to let you stay.

Since months have passed, and you still haven’t caught Hoseong and his crew, you figure you might as well try to get back to normal. So you started planning your return to work, but then Christmas came, which you spent at your mother’s, two hours away.

Jihyo also agreed not to tell Jeongguk about your living arrangements, per your desperate request. You’d rather not deal with his savior complex, and you know he’d park outside your building if he thought you were in danger. You scoff to yourself, but almost immediately, guilt settles in. A savior complex isn’t why he’s worried about you; he’s just a good guy. You know that. Still, you don’t want him to know.

Walking through the station at nine a.m.—on your way to Jihyo’s office to discuss your new assignment—you almost hold your breath. Some officers glance your way, still not used to seeing you back, and maybe even less used to seeing you without Jeongguk. Or maybe they know you had a “falling out?” Would he tell anyone here? Jihyo, maybe, if she didn’t already know, but you’re not sure if he’d tell anyone else; his closest friends besides Jimin don’t work at this station anyway. And Jimin probably wouldn’t gossip about you either.

Jihyo is waiting for you when you reach the door to her office, calling out for you to come in as soon as you knock.

“Hey,” you say, closing the door behind you.

“Hey. Want a donut?” she asks from behind her desk, happily pointing to the open box, a half-eaten donut in hand and what you assume is part of the other half in her mouth.

“Nah, I’m good,” you grin, sitting down in front of her.

“Alright,” she says, swallowing and wiping some crumbs from her lap. “So, I’ve been looking over your request and proposed methods.”

You watch as she pulls her laptop in front of her, setting the donut down on the table, and starts scrolling.

“And I’d say it’s very reasonable if we’re okay with the risks.”

“I don’t think there are any risks at all, actually,” you argue softly. “We parted on good terms.”

“Yeah, I know. And they played a part in your survival. But I’m still gonna need to have a risk analysis performed. Who would you want to go with you? I could assign Sana, I think, if you want her? She’s on an assignment right now, but we’re hoping they’ll be done by Wednesday, give or take.”

“Yeah, that would be great. Thanks.”

“No problem. I’m glad to see you back and wanting to work on what matters to you. I know the chief—ex-chief—did his best to be a pain in the ass for you.”

“Yeah. I can’t wait until the investigation’s finished, honestly. He deserves to rot in jail.”

“Agreed. I haven’t heard anything else from the higher-ups, so they’re probably still elbow-deep in it. Anyway, if you have any details you’d like to show me, I’m all ears.”

Your smile grows, and you reach into your bag for your laptop and notebook.

“Thanks,” you smile, standing up an hour later with your bag in hand. But before you exit her office and close the door behind you, you glance back at Jihyo. “By the way, I’m so glad you got the job. You deserve it more than anyone.”

“Thank you. It’s been… rough, these last couple of months. A lot to do and a lot of stress and pressure, but I think it’s worth it. And I’ve had help, making it easier for me to adjust.”

You know who she’s talking about; you don’t need to hear a name.

“He asks about you, you know.”

Holding onto the door, you look away. You’re well aware of what Jeongguk has done for not only you but also Jihyo, Sana, and the entire police station.

“Let me avoid him for at least another month. Then you can tell him whatever you want, and I can try to be a better colleague. But now? I can’t… I don’t…”

Jihyo looks at you, seeing the pain well up in your eyes when you think about the reason you left his house that night. If you can just have another month to force the warm, yet invalid and hurt feelings you have for him back into the box they broke out of when you first kissed him, you can try to be more civil with him. Hell, you’ll even work with him if he can keep it professional as well.

Jihyo nods, sad but understanding. After all, she had a front-row seat when he used to tear you bloody.

For another hour, you sit at an empty desk, excitedly looking over the preliminary plan that starts on Thursday. You can’t believe it’s about to actually become reality.

Step one:

Preliminary timeframe: Thursday.

Possible obstacles and risks: Low risk of hostility or danger.

Safety measures: Two detectives, civilian clothes, civilian car, concealed firearms.

Step two: Plan A or B, depending on what you find, if anything.

With your notes full of prepared questions, you rise from the chair, deeming it time to leave the station for the day. As you stand there, organizing your papers, movement catches your eye, and you look up just in time to see Jimin enter the big room. And of course, who does he have in tow if not Jeon Jeongguk, dressed, like so often, in the academy's navy crewneck and uniform pants?

Meeting both of their eyes, you’re saved by your phone’s ringtone, a sound that seems to stop even Jeongguk from taking an impulsive step toward you.

Fishing the phone out from the pocket of your black pants, you swipe your finger across the screen to answer. It’s Sana.

“Hello?”

“Hey! So I talked to Jihyo, and she said that your request got pre-approved? I’m a little busy at the moment and for the next few days, but send me anything you’d like me to look over in preparation.”

“So you’re up for it?” you ask, a wide smile forming. Out of the corner of your eye, you watch Jeongguk reluctantly follow Jimin further into the room, where they start talking to two other officers with their backs turned. If you were more of a hopeless romantic instead of a realistic one, you’d describe the glances he sends your way as… yearning. To avoid his gaze, you focus on the notebook lying on the desk.

“Of course! You and me, just like old times.”

“Old times? It’s only been like a year since we worked on a case together.”

“You know what I mean. Anyway, I gotta go. See you.”

“I’ll send the info tonight. See you.”

Discreetly, you end the call and gather your things, quickly but quietly heading for the exit. But in the corridor, you hear a call of your name. You shut your eyes for a second before turning around. It hurts to see him, to walk these halls, avoiding him just like you used to. Only this time, it’s a different kind of pain.

The shame creeps in at the same rate Jeongguk approaches. It’s the same shame for how he sees you, but also for how you’ve reacted. You can barely look at him, yet you’re ashamed for not giving him a chance, even though he’s the one who made the bed he’s now tossing and turning in. He's so handsome, looking so warm and strong as he approaches, his black hair looking soft, shiny and just a little longer than last time. A part of you wishes he’d close his eyes so that you could throw your arms around his neck and breathe him in.

“Can you please leave me alone for a while?” is what you ask instead, clutching your notebook to your chest.

Now standing right before you, he looks down at you with sad, desperate eyes. “I’ll be quick, I promise. Two minutes is all I need.”

You’re not sure why, because you’re not an immature person, but you press your lips together, trying to suppress a smile. Noticing the shift in your expression, Jeongguk thinks back to what he said, smiling as well. “I set that one up pretty well, didn’t I?”

You turn your head, trying to stifle the smile, but you find that it fades easier than expected.

“And you think I’d wanna fuck that?” he snaps, eyeing your body with disgust.

Your gaze locks on the lower part of the wall. You wish someone would lend you the cloak of invisibility so that you could hide yourself from him and the world.

“Look at me,” he instructs, but you don’t. The more you think about his eyes on your body, the more you want to leave.

“Look. At me,” he repeats, firmer this time but still without sounding angry.

So you do.

“I get it if you don’t want anything else to do with me, but I can’t have you walking around, believing what I said is true.”

Although you don’t cry, you reluctantly let him see just how hurt you are.

“You were right. I wanted to hurt you. I said those things because I was angry, and I wanted just… some kind of justice. When you instead seemed so… unfazed, I let it get the best of me, and somewhere along the way, I lost myself. But I was wrong and although I wanted payback, I didn’t mean to hurt you to this degree. I was only looking for a reaction, anything that showed me that you were paying for what I thought you’d done. If I’d known how I really made you feel, regardless of if you were innocent or not, I would’ve stopped.“

“So you’re just a man, after all?” you ask, and maybe it’s uncalled for, maybe it’s not.

Jeongguk takes half a step back, appearing lost for words, and with enough pain in his surprised eyes for you to think he looks hurt.

He blinks and lowers his voice. “Yeah. Just a man. But listen to me—the things I said were. Not. True. Okay? You hear me? I cannot let you go around thinking you’re anything like what I told you.”

“I find that hard to believe. How else would you know exactly where to hit? What to say to cause maximum damage? Talking about my cellulite and my… weight and…”

“I said what I figured any woman would be scared to hear.”

“Yeah, sure,” you dismiss.

It doesn’t matter what he says now—he did know exactly what to say, which means he must have looked at you, inspected your body and found every single one of your flaws. It makes you nauseous, as if some of those flaws didn’t exist to the world simply because no one other than you had noticed or mentioned them. Then Jeongguk and his friends scrutinized every inch of you, uncovering them all and putting them on display.

“I think you’re gorgeous.”

“You would’ve told me.”

You really think he would have. The Jeongguk who wants you to sleep in his bed, holding you from behind, who asks to hold your hand, and who puts frosting on your lips as an excuse to kiss them—he would have told you if he liked you. If he thought you were beautiful.

“I didn’t. I thought–incredibly dumbly–that if I told you what I really think of you, you’d think I was hitting on you. If things were different, if we ran into each other somewhere without all this… baggage, I would’ve hit on you, but all I wanted at the time was for you to trust me as a friend and to trust that I just wanted you to be safe. I didn’t want you to think I was looking to get laid or that I would… that I was anything like Hoseong. I didn’t know that you took my bullshit to heart—because again, it’s just not true—and so I chose not to say anything.”

“But we’ve been past that point for a while, haven’t we?” you ask, finding his explanation a little too weak to believe. “I trusted you enough to tell you about the worst moment of my life, I kissed you, and I told you how pretty I think you are, yet you couldn’t even…”

Frustration boils in your veins, mixing with the raw disappointment and hurt which cools you back down. You feel so… small, so defeated. “I don’t need compliments. Just… something. Something that would’ve shown me you weren’t being sweet only because you felt guilty.”

Jeongguk doesn’t know what to say to that. In retrospect, yeah, he should’ve told you, and thinking back to his joke about pretty being for girls makes him cringe with both shame and regret. Especially since he’d used multiple occasions to taunt you with the fact that you’re not a pretty girl. But it had been hard, finding a balance in showing his affection without scaring you off. When you reacted the way you did that night during the power outage, he... didn’t want to risk making you more uncomfortable or afraid. He’d decided to take a step back, let you lead, and he would follow. Of course, that backfired horribly.

You look at him, hurt still brimming in your eyes.

He searches for words, trying to explain himself better. “I should’ve told you, but I… I didn’t want to risk making you uncomfortable. I wanted to follow your lead and let you decide everything. You wanted me handcuffed and blindfolded—of course I realized you were nervous. But I thought you were more worried I’d do something to you, rather than what I would think of you. I didn’t want to influence you to do anything you would’ve regretted.”

You’re clearly not convinced, and you shake your head slowly.

“You could’ve just given me a ‘you too.’ That’s all I would’ve needed.”

Jeongguk can only watch as you leave, obviously still very much hurt by him. Ten seconds after your footsteps have disappeared, he heads back to the desk area, his head hung low.

Jimin looks at him, JJ and Min gone. The unasked question hangs in the air, and Jeongguk can see Jimin realize that no, it didn’t go very well.

“You gotta remember that she’s had a hectic few months and maybe wasn’t really able to process everything. You being an ass was probably the least of her worries for a while—until it wasn’t anymore. And healing isn’t always linear. I’m sure she’ll come around one day.”

Jeongguk sighs. “I don’t think she will, and I can’t expect that of her. I just… hate myself for what I did to her. I never even realized she was just walking around, bleeding from my words.”

You haven’t fixed your car since the last tampering, but fortunately, Jihyo agreed to lend you one of the station’s unmarked cars. A discreet black thing that you park outside the station at ten a.m. on Thursday to pick up Sana, who needed to retrieve some things and told you to meet her there.

Getting no reply, you lock your phone and step out of the car with a sigh. The ground is powdered white, your shoes leaving tracks as you walk up to the station’s main entrance.

Warm air envelops you as you step inside, the doors falling shut behind you.

“Good morning!” Sana rushes over, a coffee in hand. “Sorry, I’ll be done in a minute, I just gotta ask Mark something.”

She gestures for you to follow, and you do, trailing behind her into the sea of desks. The place is unusually crowded with officers, so you decide to wait near the wall, leaving her to weasel her way into the middle on her own.

There usually aren’t this many people here when you’re around, but in your case, the problem isn’t necessarily people; it’s big, strong, law enforcement men. Though they’re not paying you much attention—they must be preparing for something big—you still can’t will your body to fully relax.

By instinct, you tug at your clothes, wishing you hadn’t left your jacket in the car. Since you decided to wear civilian clothes today, you thought you might as well dress somewhat according to your original mission’s dress code. Except adjusted for winter, of course.

You’re wearing winter boots that reach your upper calves, a pair of those invisibly fleece-lined pantyhose you’ve seen all over social media the last few months, and a cream-colored knitted turtleneck dress. It’s been in your closet forever, but unfortunately, you didn’t try it on before you had to leave.

It feels too tight on your body. Not to wear into a ‘strangely religious neighborhood,’ but too tight to wear here. You pull at the hem where it ends at your mid-thigh, keeping your eyes down when people pass you and hoping no one is looking at you and taking note of how awkwardly shaped your body is.

You stand there for a while, avoiding people’s eyes while you wait for Sana.

However, when you—out of the corner of your eye—notice a uniformed man walking toward you, you look up. Jeongguk’s eyes flicker between you and the people walking past you, as if he’s seen exactly the shameful way you carry yourself around men—these men—nowadays. It’s gotten worse since you left his house; you know that, but when all of your confidence was fueled by anger and then denial, removing those leaves… not much left.

He comes to stand in front of you, looking down at you with frustrated eyes. He’s so broad, so imposing, and it’s very evident when he wears his navy uniform, the sleeves rolled up his veiny forearms.

“Listen to me—”

You look away, about to step back, but he grasps your hand—not just to stop you but to guide the two of you a few steps away from the path of officers and behind the tall panels of a cubicle.

“No. Listen to me. I’ll leave you alone after this if that’s what you want, but I need you to know that you are so incredibly beautiful.”

You sigh, looking at him and wordlessly begging him to just give up already. He’s quiet for a few long seconds, his frustration seemingly growing.

When he speaks again, his voice is calm, more earnest. “Do you remember the first time we met?”

“No,” you shake your head. You can’t recall the very first time you met him.

“I do. It was a rainy day—my fourth at the station—and I ran into you at the main entrance. The rain had wet your hair, and I held the door open for you. You thanked me, but you didn’t really smile much, just politely. I think you also bowed your head slightly. I remember thinking that you must’ve been cold from the rain, but I realize you were wary around the men here, even if you and I didn’t know each other.”

Sounds about right.

“And I thought that you were just so beautiful.”

You look down. It’s humiliating, and you feel like shit, hearing him throw compliments your way just to make you feel better. You can’t tell if he’s lying or not, but what else would he say? You can’t exactly say you expected him to approach you today to call you ugly.

Noticing your hesitation, he appears to be searching his mind for something, and you glance at him.

Suddenly, his eyes widen slightly, and he reaches into the pocket of his navy uniform pants. It’s his phone that he pulls out, and he starts to scroll. He scrolls, and he scrolls, until he finally finds what he’s looking for.

“Look,” he says, handing you the phone.

Although you’re not too keen on entertaining whatever this is, you can’t help but be a little curious. What could he have on his phone that would convince you?

Accepting the device, you start reading the words on the screen. They’re text messages from an old group chat, dated years back, and though you can’t remember the exact date Jeongguk first showed up at the station, you assume it was right around then. The chat seems to have consisted mostly of him, Ryung, Hoseong, Seunghwan, and Junseo.

Seunghwan: Yeah, we’re excited to have you, just let us know if you need anything.

The next few texts are from the following day.

Jeongguk: So I just met the most gorgeous woman I think I’ve ever seen??

Jeongguk: Quick question, is there a work dating policy here? I can’t remember.

Jeongguk: And if not, where do I find this woman again? Is she an officer? I’m not even kidding when I say that I’m absolutely head over heels from a three-second interaction, and she didn’t even really say anything.

Jeongguk: I’d love to ask her out.

Ryung: If it’s who I think it is then you better stay away, man.

You read on, seeing how Ryung goes on to describe a woman’s features, which happen to align with yours. The length, color, and style of your hair, the color of your eyes, and your height. But also a very generous way of describing your face and the shape of your body.

Jeongguk: Yeah! Is she with one of you already? In that case, I apologize!

Ryung: No, but Hoseong did her briefly, and she’s absolutely mental. Pretty, but crazy

The next words are not very nice, the men urging Jeongguk to stay away from the woman who could only ever be you, promising to tell him what happened the day after.

“See,” Jeongguk says, “Even Ryung knew exactly who I meant; I didn’t even have to describe you, just say that you were the most gorgeous woman I’d ever seen.”

You’re not sure. Yeah, the evidence points to that, and you can’t deny that you’re definitely feeling some form of relief, but… you can still hear his voice in your ears, see the anger and hatred in his dark eyes.

You hand the phone back, and Jeongguk looks around, sighing before turning his attention back to you. “You want me to be completely honest? Tell you exactly what I think of you?”

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion. “No? That’s the point? I know that I’m not your type. I’m full of flaws. I don’t have a body fat percentage in the negatives like you, I don’t always have the energy to shave every inch of my body, and I’ve never gotten flowers. No matter what you say now, I’m not someone you want.”

“You think I’m someone who would care about any of that?” he asks, his voice tinged with hurt.

“You look like someone who would.”

Jeongguk looks away, taking a second to gather his thoughts.

“I… wanted to ask you out that day, after I first met you. You looked so pretty out there in the rain, and I think my heart stopped for a while. I think that you’re cute—really fucking adorable—and charming, and you’re smart and kind, and you’re absolutely breath-taking and sexy as hell.

"Which was another reason I was so angry at you; I saw this… stunning woman, who appeared to live a very privileged life, yelling ‘sexism’ whenever something didn’t go your way to… I don’t know, avoid consequences and get ahead, not realizing what sexism truly meant for other women. I didn’t think there was that much harm in what I said because I thought you knew very well how goddamn pretty you are, so I gripped at every straw, trying to get a reaction.”

You listen to every word he says, still unable to decide. You want to believe him, but the deep wounds he carved into your skin are still bleeding.

“I was so conflicted during our mission. On one hand, I had to pretend to like the person who had shot one of my best friends, who got away with it and refused to be held accountable for it. On the other hand… I liked seeing you pretend to like me too. First, out of spite, but then I realized that I liked seeing you smile, and how nice you were to the people around you, except for me, of course, but I guess I always started it. Then you fell asleep in my arms at the barbeque, and I knew I was fucked. I felt like I betrayed my friends for… feeling something other than hatred for you.

“But this little thing, that hated me so much, let herself be so vulnerable as to sleep in my arms. And I guess I looked at you differently after that. The more I realized that you might actually be a pretty decent detective; a decent person, the harder it was for me to be mean to you. After everything, and after I’d found out what had happened, I wanted to tell you how much I liked you and how pretty I thought you were, but I was scared you wouldn’t come with me if I did. I was scared they’d look for you at your apartment, so I kept quiet.

“Even after you came to stay with me, and it seemed like you started to trust me, even just a little bit, I had to convince myself to wait. And the more I got to know you, the harder it became. Do you have any idea how much I wanted to bury you in flowers? Hold you and kiss you silly? And you know why I was always up before you—or at least I tried to be—when you slept in my bed with me?”

You shake your head because you don’t know.

There's something else in his eyes when he holds your gaze, “Because I dream about you, and I wake up hard. But I remembered how I freaked you out when we made out back at the house, when you were on my lap and I got hard. I didn’t want to scare you or make you uncomfortable, so I made sure to wake up before you, just in case.

“I wanted to kiss you and hold you and really, it would’ve been my pleasure if you’d wanted to sleep with me. But more than that, I wanted you to be safe and feel safe, never doubting why I was doing what I was.”

He shuts his eyes for a short moment. “I guess that’s all I can say. I don’t need you to forgive me, I just need you to know that all I wanted was revenge; nothing of what I said was true.”

He opens his eyes again, looking into yours with his soft, brown ones and a gentle sincerity. Though it’s overshadowed by something else. “I have many regrets, but you are my biggest. What I did to you.”

Regret.

As if she’s been waiting for the right moment to make her return, you hear Sana call your name. When you turn around, you spot her approaching.

“I gotta go,” you excuse yourself.

Sana looks between you and Jeongguk, but when no one says anything, she shrugs and turns her attention to you. “So, Jihyo said you had a problem with your apartment? The door, was it? Cause I can call my brother, and he’ll fix it for free next week if you want?”

“You’re living in your apartment? On your own?” Jeongguk questions, his voice upset.

You turn back at him, “Yeah. Have been since I left your house. It’s fine.”

Despite the clear worry his eyes display, he makes no effort to follow you and talk you straight, probably realizing that there’s nothing else he can do; that was his last chance.

<previous | next> author's note: so there's that! thanks for waiting for it <3 this was the last puzzle piece of their past, i think, and i'd love to hear your thoughts on everything, but especially him lol <3<3

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butch-buckley · 3 months ago

Text

“So, you told him you were gay.”

Jake nods.

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“There’s nothing wrong with being gay, Javy,” comes Nat’s voice from in front of the dartboard. Bob hands her another dart, and she tosses it at the wall.

“I never said there was!” says Javy defensively.

They’re drinking at the Hard Deck, something of a send-off before their collective two-week leave. A leave that, unfortunately, falls directly on Jake’s high school reunion. Apparently, being a hero means everything begins to fall into unfortunate place.

Javy takes another sip of his beer. “What’s the wrong part, then?” asks Fanboy, sitting next to him.

“He assumed I had a boyfriend,” Jake sighs.

“And you had to awkwardly correct him, and he thinks it’s going to be weird that you’re the only one there without a partner,” says Javy.

Jake purses his lips.

“You did correct him, didn’t you?” the other man asks, slowly looking up from his beer.

Jake is silent.

“Seresin. Tell me you corrected him.”

Jake covers his face with his hands, his confident demeanour all but destroyed by that fateful conversation. “I didn’t know what else to say! He was talking so fast, and he was so excited, and I’m—”

“—painfully single and embarrassed by it,” finishes Fanboy.

“I wouldn’t say painful. Or single,” adds Javy. “Embarrassed, yes.”

Jake glares at the both of them. “I’m not embarrassed. I’m… waiting.”

“Yeah, waiting with your legs wide open,” calls Nat. Bob sputters next to her.

“Don’t slut-shame me, Trace,” Jake says, pointing a finger at her.

“Stating a fact isn’t slut-shaming. You’re not exactly closed for business,” Nat points out.

Bob shrugs. “He’s right, Nat. It’s not very feminist to talk about how the guys Jake chooses to bring home. Or how many of them there are.”

“Wise choice, mansplaining feminism to the female pilot holding a dart,” says Nat, pointing the projectile at Bob’s chest. He raises his arms in surrender, and she flicks it at the target.

“What’s this about mansplaining? I thought that was Hangman’s department,” comes a voice from the doorway.

And there’s Rooster, sunglasses on the bridge of his nose, a shining grin plastered on his face. He’s next to Jake in an instant, taking the empty seat beside him. “Or is Bob usurping your role?”

“Can it, Bradshaw,” Jake says. “I’m no misogynist.”

“That was just the repressed homosexuality talking,” adds Nat.

Jake shrugs. “She’s not wrong.”

#little snippet of dagger squad silliness from my first sereshaw fic!#don't think too hard about the sporadic usage of first names #my brain is weird with who gets callsigned and who gets first named #and javy and jake are best friends in my mind anyways #top gun maverick #top gun maverick fic #sereshaw #hangster #sereshaw fic #hangster fic #jake hangman seresin #bradley rooster bradshaw #dagger squad #fake dating #fic snippet #current wip #tg:m #v writes

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plasticflowersinahistorycemetery · 2 months ago

Text

don't do coke in the bathroom

*✧･ﾟ: *✧ do me instead

one-shot

Pairing: Russell Shaw x Fem!Reader

Summary: Russell makes a bet with you, winner gets to do something to the loser that they've always wanted to do.

Warnings: 18+!, language, pining (kinda?), smut (fingering, p in v, bathroom hook-up), I think that's all?

Word Count: 1,998

Russell leaned back against the booth, one arm stretched along the back like he owned the whole goddamn bar.

The corner of his mouth tilted up as he looked at you, eyes glinting under the low lights.

"So what—you’re just scared to lose?" He said, voice rich and lazy like honey dripping off a spoon.

You rolled your eyes and sipped your drink, pretending the heat under your skin wasn’t because of him, pretending you hadn’t been half a second from leaning into that arm all night.

"Of you? Please," you said, with more bite than you felt.

He hummed low in his throat, pleased. Like he knew. "Good. 'Cause I was thinking..." He tapped his glass against yours. "Winner gets to do one thing they've always wanted to do to the loser."

The words hit like a slow, deliberate punch. You laughed—too loud, too quick—because what else were you supposed to do with the way he was looking at you?

"Deal," you said, trying to sound casual, like your heart wasn’t already hammering against your ribs.

Russell’s grin widened, slow and knowing.

"Hope you’re ready to lose, sweetheart," he said.

You squinted at the dartboard like it had personally wronged you, lining up your final shot with exaggerated focus.

Russell hovered behind you—too close, his body heat licking at your back—and you could feel the smirk without even looking.

"You know," he drawled, "it’s really all in the wrist."

You flipped him off without turning around and let the dart fly. It missed by a laughable mile, thunking into the wood frame. Russell barked out a laugh, sliding in close enough that your elbow bumped his chest.

"My turn, sweetheart."

You tried not to watch how easily he sank the last shot, but it was impossible—the way his forearms flexed, the easy way he moved, the damn smirk when he turned back around.

"Guess that makes me the winner." He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. "Which means... I get to collect my prize."

Your stomach swooped. You forced a grin, tried to keep it light.

"And what prize is that, Shaw?" You teased, though your voice came out a little breathless.

He stepped closer, until your back hit the wall, until he was a breath away. His eyes dropped to your mouth, slow and deliberate, before dragging back up to meet yours.

"Come on, sweetheart," Russell said, low enough that only you could hear. "Don't get cold feet now."

He tipped his chin toward the back of the bar—to the hallway where a flickering 'Restrooms' sign buzzed above a cracked door. The look he gave you was devastating—all easy confidence and a glint of something darker under the surface. Something you suddenly, desperately, wanted aimed at you.

You should have said no. Should have laughed it off. Instead, you set your drink down and followed him, heart pounding so loud it felt like it was in your throat.

The bathroom door swung shut behind you, rattling in its frame. Before you could even catch a breath, Russell turned the lock with a click, and then he was on you.

His mouth crashed against yours—hot, hungry, messy—and you barely had time to gasp before his hands were everywhere. Sliding under your jacket, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, tugging you against him so you could feel the way he was already hard for you through his jeans.

"Fuck, you’ve been driving me crazy," he muttered against your mouth, voice rough with it. "Flouncing around all night, laughing like you don't fucking know what you do to me."

You whimpered—actually whimpered—and he swallowed it down, dragging his mouth across your jaw to your neck, biting hard enough to make you gasp.

His hand shoved between your thighs, rough and greedy, popping the button on your jeans without missing a beat. "Been thinking about this for weeks," he said, breath hot against your skin. "How sweet you'd sound when I finally got my hand in your pants."

And then he slipped his fingers past the waistband—skin to skin—and found you wet and wanting.

"Christ, sweetheart," he groaned, head dropping to your shoulder for a beat, like the feeling of you wrecked him. "You're fucking soaked. All that lip you give me, and look how easy you open up for me."

You tried to snark back, tried to say something, but it dissolved into a gasp as he circled your clit—slow, brutal, devastating. Teasing you with just enough pressure to make you ache, but not enough to give you relief.

"What’s the matter?" He said, smirking against your throat. "Cocky little thing can’t talk now?"

You clawed at his jacket, hips bucking into his hand, chasing the friction like your life depended on it.

Russell just chuckled, dark and low, fingers slipping lower to tease your entrance—but pulling away just before you could take him in.

"Nah," he murmured, mouth brushing your ear. "You're gonna say please first."

Your mouth opened—some smart-ass retort on the tip of your tongue—but it melted into a broken sound when he dragged two fingers through your folds and pressed inside you, slow and thick.

You grabbed at him blindly, clinging to the front of his jacket, feeling like the floor had dropped out from under you.

"That's it," Russell rasped, mouth hot against your ear. "Take it, sweetheart. Knew you’d feel this good—fuck—knew you'd be this tight for me."

You whined, rocking down onto his hand shamelessly, chasing the friction. He groaned low in his chest, the sound barely contained.

"You're gonna make me lose my fucking mind," he muttered, and then—like the thin thread of his self-control finally snapped—he pulled his fingers free, grabbing you under the thighs.

You yelped as he lifted you—easily—and shoved you back against the cold metal wall of the stall.

"Hold on," he said, voice rough and shaking with it, like he wasn’t even talking to you—like he was talking to himself.

One of your legs stayed tangled in your jeans, but it didn’t matter—you locked the other around his waist, dragging him closer, feeling the hard press of him through his jeans, frantic and unforgiving.

Russell shoved his pants down just enough to free himself, hand wrapping around his cock—rough, desperate strokes—and you caught a glimpse of him, flushed and thick and fucking perfect before he lined himself up.

"You sure about this, sweetheart?" He said, voice a wrecked thing against your mouth, like even now he’d give you a chance to stop.

You grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back to look him in the eye. "If you don't fuck me right now, Shaw, I swear to god—"

You didn’t get to finish.

He pushed into you in one hard, devastating thrust, and the sound you made echoed off the grimy walls—high and helpless.

Russell cursed low under his breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his hands bruising your hips as he fought to keep still. "Tight little pussy—fuck—feels like you were made for me," he growled, voice wrecked and shaking, like he couldn't believe it.

You whimpered, wrapping both arms around his shoulders, dragging your nails down his back through his shirt. He started moving, hips snapping into yours in rough, hungry thrusts—fast, messy, fucking ruthless—and you matched him, grinding down, meeting him thrust for thrust, chasing it like you needed it to live.

You tugged at his hair again—hard—and he groaned, deep and broken, snapping his hips even harder into you.

"Gonna make you come just like this," he muttered, the words falling hot and desperate against your throat. "Gonna make you fuckin’ scream for me, sweetheart."

The rhythm got rougher, messier—the slap of skin, the scrape of the stall wall at your back, your broken little gasps punching the air between you.

You were so close it hurt—every thrust driving you higher, every filthy word he muttered against your throat setting you more on fire.

"C’mon, sweetheart," Russell rasped, one hand sliding up your spine to fist in your hair, dragging your head back so he could see your face. "Wanna watch you fall apart for me."

You clenched around him, a wrecked whine slipping out of you, and he groaned deep in his chest—low, dirty, desperate—grinding into you harder.

"Yeah, that’s it," he muttered, voice wrecked and half-laughing against your mouth. "So fuckin' pretty when you break for me."

Your vision blurred, heat coiling tight in your gut—and then it snapped.

You came with a strangled cry, thighs tightening around his hips, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

And Russell just watched you—eyes half-lidded, lazy grin curling his mouth, like he was the one getting off on the sight of you falling apart.

"Fuck, look at you," he murmured, almost awed, fucking you through it with slow, deep strokes now, dragging it out, savouring it. "Should make you come again right now, sweetheart," he said, voice rough with it, smirk lazy and filthy as he thrust into you once more, hard enough to punch another little sound out of you.

"But nah..." He kissed you, messy and slow, dragging his mouth across yours, breathing you in. "Gonna get another... hell, gonna get severaloutta you when I get you back to mine."

He pulled back just enough to flash you that devastating smirk—the one that made your knees weak and your heart stutter—before driving into you again, chasing his own release with reckless, hungry thrusts.

"Not lettin' you walk right for days, sweetheart," he groaned, the words breaking against your mouth, "swear to fuckin' God."

You were still shivering through the aftershocks of your orgasm, thighs trembling around his hips, when Russell’s movements turned wild—messy, ragged thrusts, chasing his own high like he couldn't hold it back another second.

"Gotta pull out, sweetheart," he gasped against your mouth, "gonna fuckin’ lose it—"

You whimpered as he thrust once, twice more—then he wrenched his hips back, just in time. Hot, thick spurts of him splattered across your stomach and the inside of your still-open jeans, messy and obscene.

You gasped, feeling it hit your skin, and Russell groaned—long and low and wrecked—watching you like you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second, breathing hard. Then he pulled back enough to drag his fingers through his release, smearing it across your lower belly with slow, lazy strokes. A dark, dangerous little grin curled his mouth.

"Painted you real pretty, huh?" He said, voice thick and smug.

You laughed—breathless, overwhelmed—and let your head fall back against the wall with a clunk.

You stayed tangled like that for a second—him holding you up, you clinging to him, both trying to remember how to breathe—before reality started creeping back in. The flickering light. The distant thump of music from the bar. The fact that you were half-dressed in a grimy bathroom, covered in him.

You huffed out a laugh, reaching down awkwardly to tug your jeans back up with one hand while still half-wrapped around him.

"Jesus Christ, Shaw," you muttered, wiping at the mess on your stomach with the corner of your shirt. "I didn’t even realise you wanted to fuck me."

Russell barked out a sharp, disbelieving laugh—one of those real ones, the ones that made your chest ache—and leaned back to look at you properly.

His grin was devastating—lazy, half-lidded, so fucking fond it hurt.

"Jesus," he said, voice rough with affection and disbelief, "for someone so goddamn smart, you're fucking oblivious."

He tucked himself back into his jeans with a casualness that made your head spin, reaching out to help you straighten your jacket, fingers lingering too long at your waist like he wasn’t ready to stop touching you.

"Thought I was makin' it obvious," he added, smirking, thumb brushing slow over the curve of your hip. "Guess I'll just have to keep hammerin' it home till it sinks in, huh?"

You rolled your eyes, but your smile was helpless, glowing—and Russell saw it, clocked it, tucked it away somewhere deep.

He bumped your forehead lightly with his, still smirking, still breathless. Still looking at you like you were a goddamn miracle he couldn't quite believe was real.

"Let's get the hell outta here," he said, voice low and wicked, "before I say fuck it and bend you over the sink too."

And you believed him. God help you—you wanted him to.

a/n: OMG, okay. So originally, I wrote this for @losers-clvb because we've been thirsting over Russell in our chats, but she convinced me to share it with y'all. I would label it a drabble but it feels way too long for a drabble so... one-shot. I hope y'all like it. Fully feel like I'm about to go back into my Russell hyper-fixation. Let me know what you think hehehe. <3 All the love.

Everything taglist: @bejeweledinterludes @blossomingorchids @tinas111 @lunaleah @drakulana @sacr1ficialang3l @mostlymarvelgirl @bohoooitsme <3

#pfiahc writes #my writing #russell shaw x reader #russell shaw x you #russell shaw fanfiction #russell shaw fanfic #russell shaw fic #jackles #tracker fanfiction #russell shaw

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with-eunseok · 23 days ago

Text

DOOM DOOM DOOM

🎧 now playing… cupid’s girl - marina

pairing: non-idol!eunseok x fem!reader

genre: smut, light angst ( 18+ ) ── 2.7k words

you’re unsure how to name what you and eunseok have but it’s growing with each passing month you spend together in the same company - no matter how much he tries to keep his guard up in fear of the past repeating itself. until one night, you finally have the chance to prove him that love is something he shouldn’t fear any longer

✎… coworkers to lovers au (outside the office), hint of slow burn, switch!eunseok, unprotected sex, fingering, oral sex (m!rec), edging (m!rec), cock worship, pet names, praise (f!rec), choking (f!rec)

When is it going to be your turn?

The question you’ve asked yourself, the universe, more times than you can count.

Maybe it’s tonight a small voice whispers in your head as you watch him measure his steps to the oche.

“Let’s play.” He glances at you; a lazy smirk tugs at his lips. There’s a dart between his two fingers that waits for you to take it.

The bar is much quieter now - your coworkers left almost an hour ago, other clients are starting to head home too. You can hear your own footsteps beneath the low hum of the music as you walk towards him.

Your own lips curl next.

“You sure you want to do this again? You know I never miss.”

The unserious late night dart games somehow have become your thing. A sort of ritual that grew out of weekly after-work drinks with your team.

But there’s so much more than that - between you and Eunseok.

Tension in the office, stolen glances during meetings, flirtatious comments, flowers for your birthday, coffee and sweet pastries when you overwork yourself.

Almost kissing in the elevator; almost kissing in his car after he drives you home when it rains.

But he always pulls back. Just when he’s reached the edge of what it could be, he looks away, takes a step back or murmurs a soft sorry, returning behind the walls he’s built from his pain.

You know why because he told you the story once - about the mess of lies and manipulation his ex-partner left behind.

Of course, you don’t want to push his boundaries or pressure him in any way, but it’s so hard to keep your feelings tucked away sometimes; those urges that open up inside you… the urge to soothe him with your touch, to ease his wounds with pleasure, to pick up the broken pieces of his heart kiss by kiss.

To prove him that he can love again, and be loved.

When is it going to be your turn?

To love him, and love him the way he’s meant to be loved.

Especially in moments like this, when something’s holding him back from ending the night and he allows his gaze to linger on you for longer than it’s appropriate. When his voice softens the way it does only when he’s alone with you.

“Please,” Eunseok gestures gracefully with one hand, stepping aside so you can do the first throw. “Who doesn’t love being humiliated in public places?”

“I won’t go easy on you then.” You still manage to match his humour even as you focus on lining up the dart.

Eunseok watches you carefully with arms crossed against his chest; how you move so close to him, how your fingers roll the dart for a moment before aiming it at the board, and how you tuck your bottom lip as you concentrate - he’s seen you do this unknowingly at work too.

For some reason, here - where it’s just the two of you, - the sight makes his chest flutter with something stronger.

A quick thump snaps him out of his daze, and his eyes flicker to the dartboard.

“Not bad,” he nods impressed.

It’s not perfect, but it’s definitely a good start.

You turn to Eunseok and meet his dark eyes. They look even more captivating under the dim amber glow.

“Don’t panick.” You tease, lowering your tone almost to a whisper.

Your hand brushes against his shoulder, a delicate, yet deliberate gesture to heighten his adrenaline rush. A reminder that with you, he is safe.

Eunseok parks outside your home, and you glance over at him as you unbuckle your seatbelt. His elegant fingers twitch around the wheel as if they’re debating whether he should reach out for you or keep his guard up.

“I already can’t wait to see you tomorrow.” He says quietly, and his gaze finally shifts from the empty street, settling upon you calm and steady.

“I like being with you too.” You reply, watching the corner of his mouth slide with satisfaction.

After that, a moment of silence stretches between you, but not the uncomfortable kind. Instead it feels… like an opportunity is being offered to both of you.

“What if,” you shift one hand over his thigh, “we continue the night at my place?”

You move your gentle palm with intent, cautious not to go too further; your heartbeat thumps with anticipation as more seconds pass without a response.

The view of your bold hand awakens all the deep cravings Eunseok has been too of a coward to face, but once he looks up, you can see it - he hesitates behind the lust in his eyes.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he slightly shakes his head, “you don’t deserve it.”

“I know,” you answer softly, hoping he will hear the reassurance in your voice; that he will feel it in the way you cup his cheek. “You won’t.” Tilting his head in your direction, you lean in. “You’re not her, Eunseok.”

The effects of your warm whispers caressing his lips are clear as you sense the sudden presence of his touch on your hip.

“You’re a good person… you just need to relax a little bit.” Your hand drops to his chest where you can feel his excited heartbeat fluttering against your palm. “Trust me.”

Few seconds pass like this - you, drawing slow patterns of comfort with your hand, Eunseok tightening fingers on the side of your body, eager to slide them under your clothes.

And then, before you can even grasp that it’s finally happening - his lips press against your own.

You can feel it, the quiet acceptance in his kiss… that this, whatever it is between you, feels real. He feels it too.

Finally, he allows himself to feel more than he thought he could.

It’s in the way his mouth moves - insatiably, without hesitation. Like he’s chasing something that could slip away any moment after he’s been looking for it all his life.

His hands move to rest beneath your jaw. The light pressure from his thumbs guide your head back as his tongue swiftly parts your lips to sneak through.

Your tongues meet, and the thrill is so strong, passionate. On the instant, electricity runs through your body, heating up your skin. A quiet hum of bliss escapes you, and upon hearing it Eunseok’s lips detach softly.

“Fuck,” he exhales, pressing his forehead against yours to stay close.

“You know you want me.”

Your words, hopeful and delicate, come out slightly coy, but Eunseok catches the subtle seductiveness dripping from them. Each letter has his pulse intensifying.

“You cannot resist, not anymore.”

“I need you…” he confesses, tracing your jawline with fingertips.

Not I want you. I need you.

Need.

The word echoes in your mind, holding so much weight. Heavy with everything he’s been trying to hold back from.

Heavy with all these months you’ve been waiting for him.

When his lips find the side of your neck the following moment, they let out a thrilling sigh of relief; he can’t remember the last time he felt this light.

The moment you step into your bedroom, your trousers are left on the ground.

Eunseok pushes you gently on the bed, hovering over you with appetite glimmering in his gaze.

On the other hand, as you do oftentimes, you watch him with heart-shaped eyes; how few strands of dark hair dangle over his face, how his adam’s apple moves when his mouth slightly opens as if to speak, but turns out it’s just a reaction of bliss to his thumb swiping your lips to study their shape and texture closely.

At once, he tugs your bottom lip, then kisses you again. This time, completely out of any restraints. He’s just about to sneak a hand under your top when you switch positions without a warning.

The shift in his expression makes you smile bashfully as you settle on his lap. He’s impressed.

“Let me.” You murmur softly, undoing the buttons of his shirt one by one.

As you slowly expose more and more bits of Eunseok’s skin, the only movements you catch him make are the one of his fingers that draw shapes on the sides of your legs.

Soon enough, after he remains in a pair of black Calvin Klein boxers, you remove your top, putting him in a temporary trance.

“You’re beautiful,” he draws out the words like he’s hypnotised by what’s in front of him; as though his current state of mind slows down his train of thoughts.

His eyes take their time travelling up and down your silhouette too; wanting to explore every part of you, he’s in no rush of anything.

You like that, because you wish the same.

“And you’re handsome.” An erotic ring slips into your low voice, perfectly matching the light dominance of your hand that presses against his toned chest - a quiet signal to lay back.

Eunseok’s pleased grin softens. His bare thighs fidget once or twice when your mouth hovers over his crotch, but his gaze is steady - more than ready to see your next move.

Delicately, you slide your tongue along his bulge, not breaking eye contact even for a second.

On the instant, Eunseok tucks his bottom lip between his teeth, watching you repeat the act silently. You can almost feel it… the tension in his jaw, the saliva pooling in his mouth as you trace the outline of his boner with your pink tongue.

The constant presence of your fingers, resting on the waistband only frustrates Eunseok further, but you’re so captivating - silently flirting with your eyes, scattering open mouthed kisses at his clothed tip… he cannot find the will to utter a word that could possibly interrupt this moment.

Your eyes flicker down after you earn the first little twitch; it makes your lips stretch into a playful smile.

“Can I?”

“Yeah,” Eunseok lets out a brief chuckle before he can catch it.

Your attentiveness, even after both of you acknowledge the wet spot forming, is honestly endearing.

He shifts to rest on his elbows, swallowing at the tempting sight of your mouth.

You continue teasing him - exposing nothing more than the flushed head of his cock. Blowing on it and smiling when you catch him suppressing a grunt. Twirling the tip of your tongue around it and peering into his eyes so he can see all the naughty thoughts reflected into the glimmer of yours. Attaching your soft lips for a tender kiss and sucking with a blissful hum - that gentle contact is the one to pull out the very first moan from him.

This isn’t the only kiss you end up giving his shiny tip.

Both of you humm and sigh in delight just seconds apart as you keep sucking passionately. You, because of his masculine taste, and he - from the sensation of your glossy lips hugging tight and releasing more of your spit when you ease them.

“Want to hear me beg or something?” He finally speaks up after a moment of admiring you. His voice is dropping lower the more his arousal heightens, and the more his arousal heightens the thinner his patience gets. “Is that it?”

You see his smirk stretching, slightly playful, slightly daring.

“I want you to relax.” You simply say, finally freeing him from his underwear. “You don’t need to do anything, not tonight.”

The truth is, Eunseok has been craving you for so long that if you ask him to beg - something he hasn’t done for anything or anyone in his entire life… he would.

But you don’t say anything more. Silently, you take him in your mouth and his head falls back; a long exhale of relief escapes his parted lips.

You don’t just suck his cock up and down, you worship it.

Your warm mouth soaks him wet, your soft lips applying the perfect amount of pressure as they keep dragging along his length, stretching further in order to adjust around his size.

You maintain the steady pace you picked up for a while; caressing what you can’t fit into your mouth with gentle fingers, finding pleasure in the gradual change of his breathing, in the way he starts to let out the groans building in his throat instead of swallowing them.

“Fuck—“ Eunseok reaches out to stroke the top of your head. “Just like that, you’re amazing.”

The pleasure is clouding his vision, but he can’t look away. He studies the movements of your seductive mouth, of your hands, and the way you close your eyes before you force yourself lower.

Seeing you aim to invite more of him between your hollowed cheeks, Eunseok’s hips slowly move up, helping you out by pushing the rest of his cock. His palm on your skull presses slightly, not too much, but enough for you to gag a moment later.

He groans at the thrilling vibrations, long and intensely, before you retrieve to catch your breath.

“Good girl,” he whispers, sitting up.

Before you have time to acknowledge it, his one hand is tilting your head back by grabbing your face, and his lips - breaking the string of spit hanging from your chin. His other one sneaks into your panties immediately making you whimper at how effortlessly he slips two of his slender fingers into your leaking entrance.

“What were you saying…” he mutters thoughtfully against your shiny lips, still just a breath away as he keeps his grip on your jaw, “I don’t need to do anything?”

There’s a hint of amusement dripping from his quiet voice that has your eyes flickering to his mouth, but the warmth inside you starts flowing in much stronger waves, distracting you completely. Following the rhythm of his experienced touch - of his fingers gliding with ease in your pool of arousal, pumping deeply, - the rush wraps your mind into a fog, and you close arms around his shoulders.

“You sure about that?” The corners of his mouth twitch slyly. Then, his lips part at the enticing sound of your rising moans as if he can invite them on his tongue to taste them. “You’re fuckin’ dripping for me, I think I should be the one taking care of you, hm?”

“Eunseok,” you mewl, swaying hips in the rhythm of his hand while he buries face in the side of your warm neck; his teeth graze your skin as he nibbles, toying with your sensitive spot, hungrily rather than teasing.

“I know, honey, I know…” he drags his lips to your earlob meanwhile his hand on your face drops around your throat.

As he continues to speak, his voice turns huskier, heavier with more demand. It doesn’t sound like he’s going to take care of you.

It sounds like he’s going to make you fall apart.

“How am I supposed to just lay back and not do anything about this mess?”

His palm brushes against your clit as your pussy walls squeeze onto his digits like they don’t want to let go. The squelching noise doubles beneath you.

“Fuck me, please,” you breathe out, unable to bare the urge to feel him any longer.

Your nails dig into his back as another sign of pleading. And that’s more than enough for Eunseok.

He empties your pussy, then pushes you on your back; your head’s right at the edge of the mattress, woozy from excitement and lust.

The euphoria is already buzzing through your body as he positions your legs over his shoulders, locking eyes with you as he inserts himself slowly but smoothly.

He doesn’t want to miss out on the way your gaze goes glossy at the exciting stretch, on the way you stop breathing.

After he rests his body weight on top of you, his strong hips start moving and the rush intoxicates your system ike a drug; it soakes into your bones, making you wonder how you’ve managed to live without something that feels so good, so striking.

‘been waiting for this, he chants at your ear, making your brain fuzzy, been wanting you so bad, finally you’re in my hands…

And you relish the sound of his words; the emotion he awakes in you with each next thrust, with every single kiss and brush of his fingers. They all grow more persistent, slightly rougher as the minutes pass by. The grip around your neck as your head slightly hangs from the bed tightens too.

All of those separate sensations blend together perfectly, bringing you to a climax without a problem.

Because there’s something that just works between you.

You take care of him with quiet tenderness - gentle hands, featherlight touches, a soft kind of healing he doesn’t know how to ask for.

And he takes care of you in his own way - with slight intensity, touching you like he wants to leave a deep mark. Consuming.

Somehow, like that, you create balance. A rhythm you don’t want any other way.

! please do not repost, copy or translate my works

! please keep in mind that english is not my first language. i apologise for any mistakes i’ve might missed

♡ taglist: @jaellymint

a.note ! thank you for reading till the end!! hope you enjoyed the story, and if you did, i hope you enjoyed the sprinkled lyrics of marina’s song cupid’s girl too as the plot was inspired by them <3

#riize smut #eunseok smut #riize hard thoughts #riize hard hours #eunseok hard hours #riize x reader #eunseok x reader #song eunseok x reader #riize angst

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fluentmoviequoter · 2 months ago

Text

Friend of a Friend

Pairing: Deacon Kay x fem!reader (implied to be around Street's age)

Summary: Your neighbor, Street, invites you to join his team on a night out. You meet Deacon, who thinks you're there with Street, but can't deny that he feels something for you.

Warnings: brief angst maybe, mostly fluff!! Annie doesn't exist

Word Count: 2.0k+ words

Masterlist Directory | Deacon Kay Masterlist | Request Info/Fandom List

You’ve been unpacking for what feels like weeks on end. In reality, you’ve spent the last twenty minutes standing behind your couch and staring at the mess of boxes against the opposite wall, too overwhelmed to pick a place to start. The kitchen and bathroom are mostly unpacked, and your furniture is in place for daily life. Still, the rest of your belongings are making a cardboard art installation in your new living room. Someone knocks on your door, and you blink several times before realizing you need to answer it. You’re glad to have your own space away from family and roommates, but being alone in a new place bears a steeper learning curve than you anticipated.

“Street,” you greet, smiling when you see your next-door neighbor. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” he answers, peeking inside to see your progress. “How’s it going?”

“Uh… fine.”

“Good, then you can take a break, right?”

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes at Street’s smile. “I guess,” you answer slowly. “For what?”

“You’ve been in this house since you moved in a week ago, you need to get out, see people, hydrate, probably.”

“Oh,” you answer, nodding as you lean against the doorjamb. “But I left yesterday.”

“For two hours to get furniture, if I recall,” Street replies, unrelenting. “Get ready. Luca and I are leaving in twenty to meet our team, and you’re coming with.”

“No, Street,” you begin.

“Was there a question in there?” he challenges. “If it sounded like there was, then you really need to get out of this house before you completely lose it.”

“If I agree, will you stop?” you ask, smiling.

“For a while,” he answers honestly.

You sigh and glance at your phone, lying face-up on the couch. “I’ll see you in twenty minutes then. Dress code?”

“Nope.” He waves over his shoulder as he walks across your grass to return home.

“That wasn’t an answer,” you mumble as you close the door and walk to your bedroom before remembering that most of your non-work attire is in the boxes.

Street and Luca’s choice of hangout location is about what you expected. As you enter the restaurant, you’re unsurprised to find it has a laid-back atmosphere. Tables are arranged oddly around the open room, a dartboard hangs on the far wall behind a pool table, and a jukebox shines bright beside the entrance to the kitchen. Quiet rock plays through the speakers above you, and you loop one finger through your purse strap as Street waves to a table of men.

“Come on,” he urges.

You follow him and Luca to the table, pausing awkwardly when Street begins talking to one of the men. Luca shakes his head and sighs before he taps your shoulder and introduces you.

“This is Hondo, Deacon, Chris, and the man taunting Street is Tan,” Luca says.

“Nice to meet you,” you offer, lifting your hand.

“This is our new neighbor,” Luca adds as he pulls a chair from a nearby table for you.

You sit beside Deacon, wondering why Street invited you to a gathering where you are undoubtedly the odd one out. At least you’re not staring at boxes now, you think.

“And he’s gone,” Luca sighs when Street and Tan leave the table to play darts.

Deacon turns toward you, smiling kindly as he reintroduces himself.

“Sorry for crashing your night with your team,” you reply. “Street kind of forced me to come.”

“And then he abandoned you,” Deacon muses, glancing at the back of Street’s head. “To be fair, that’s on brand for him.”

“Oh, I know,” you say, chuckling. “He offered to help me move in, but I ended up carrying in most of the boxes while he played with my new TV.”

Deacon shakes his head. His heart beats faster with your attention on him, but he reminds himself you’re here with Street.

“So, you’re all on the same SWAT team?” you ask.

“We are. Hondo’s our team leader,” Deacon explains.

“How long have you been a police officer?”

Deacon blows out a breath and spins his cup before answering, “A long time.”

“Which is great, as long as you love it.”

Smiling, Deacon asks, “What do you do?”

You give him a short overview of your job, shrugging as you conclude.

“Do you like your new house?” he inquires, eager to hear your voice and learn more about you, despite knowing you came in with another man. A man he works with, at that.

“I do,” you answer, your smile brightening. “And I’ve made a few friends, including Street and Luca.”

“You and Street aren’t…” Deacon trails off, his brows furrowed as he gestures his hands together.

“Oh, no,” you say airily. “Just friends, and neighbors.”

Deacon nods to cover the relieved sigh he releases. He glances at Street, his mind circling between you and wondering why Street hasn’t made a move on you. Lost in his thoughts, Deacon doesn’t realize you’re talking to him until you trail off and look down at your lap.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, shifting toward you completely. “I was judging Street’s dart game.”

You smile as you look up, nodding in understanding. Deacon is undeniably attractive, and having his attention on you feels like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.

“Are you from Los Angeles?” he inquires. “Know many people around here?”

After you explain why you moved, you add, “I have a few friends.”

“Well, any friend of Street is part of our family,” Deacon assures you. “You’re always welcome.”

“Thank you,” you murmur. “If I knew being a friend of friend was so beneficial, I would have tried to get on Street’s good side sooner.”

“I only have good sides!” Street calls over his shoulder.

“Oh, that he could hear,” Deacon sighs dramatically.

You laugh, an infectious, joyous sound that Deacon wants to hear for the rest of his life.

“His first question was ‘Is your husband here to help you carry these boxes?’” Luca grumbles, shaking his head. “Not smooth.”

“Street hit on you?” Hondo asks incredulously. He tsks, then drops his voice to say, “You may be entitled to compensation.”

“Well, I told him I was single, and then he just wanted to talk about video games,” you reply. “It wasn’t exactly a romantic speech. Besides, he’s not interested in me like that.”

Hondo glances over his shoulder and tips his head to the side. “We haven't quite figured out how the little brain in that big head works.”

“Careful calling other people’s heads big, boss man,” Tan responds, lining up a shot.

“Don’t laugh at that,” Hondo warns you. “Deac, she’s all yours, man. But you’re welcome whenever you want. Mostly because you’re Luca’s neighbor; nothing to do with Street.”

“Thanks,” you answer, stifling your laughter.

“You can laugh at Hondo,” Deacon whispers, leaning toward you. “He can take it.”

“What about you?” you ask. “From LA? Have friends and family here?”

“I am,” Deacon answers, moving his left arm over the back of his chair, completely open to you. You resist the urge to look at how his sleeve stretches over his bicep, reminding yourself to maintain eye contact. Losing yourself in his eyes isn’t a hard task, though. “My friends and family are sitting at this table.”

“You’re single?” you ask, your eyes widening in surprise that someone like Deacon hasn’t been snatched up, married, and made a father.

“Yeah,” he answers carefully.

“How?” you inquire.

Deacon chuckles, but you press, “No, seriously, that makes no sense to me.”

“Why are you still single?” he counters.

“Because I don’t look like you.”

“This would be weird if you did.”

You laugh again, amused out of your shock. Deacon smiles as you get more comfortable beside him, suddenly envisioning a future where you are comfortable beside him as more than Street’s friend, in a different place where you can both be yourself, say what you’re thinking, and not be interrupted by Street asking if the jukebox plays Kendrick Lamar.

“Jukeboxes were made for real music, Street,” you argue. “Play some Sinatra, Orbinson, Eric Clapton.”

“Those songs are older than me!” Street complains. “And they’re not like us.”

You groan at his reply, but Deacon is more interested in what you said than Street’s dramatic position that all music is jukebox worthy, depending on the listener.

“You like the classics?” Deacon asks.

“That’s what music is supposed to be,” you sigh. “I mean, I listen to some newer stuff, but Rat Pack-era music will forever be my favorite.”

Deacon nods. He sees that Street and Tan have moved on to the pool table, which means they’ll ask everyone else to play, too, because apparently, pool is more fun with teams.

“Would you…” Deacon begins. “There’s a place a few blocks from here - it’s a dive, but they’ve got good food and better music.”

Smiling at his offer, you ask, “Now?”

“We can wait,” he offers.

“No,” you reply, feeling your smile widen. “I’d love to.”

Deacon stands, then offers his hand.

“Where are you going?” Hondo asks, though you suspect he knows exactly what just occurred. His question draws the attention of his teammates, and soon you and Deacon are the center of attention, his hand still warm and fitting in yours.

“I’m taking your neighbor on a date,” Deacon tells Street.

“Without my blessing?” Street deadpans. He lifts a pool cue and murmurs, “Have fun.”

You blink at him, then notice Hondo rolling his eyes. After thanking them again, you tell Hondo and Luca bye, then follow Deacon to his car. He opens the door for you, a perfect gentleman. While he drives, you watch his profile, glad you abandoned your unpacking to join Street and his friends.

“A date,” you murmur.

“We can call it something else,” Deacon replies.

“Let’s call it what it is.”

“A date, then.” Deacon smiles, glad he could keep you company after Street all but abandoned you at a table of strangers. They won’t be strangers for long, he knows.

“Thank you, Deacon,” you say after he parks outside the building, which looks like it’s been repurposed too many times over the year. A worn diner sign hangs from the side wall, a neon bowling pin blinks in the window, and a handwritten ‘MUSIC’ sign flutters in the light wind blowing in from the ocean.

“For?” he inquires.

“Asking me out. I don’t think I could’ve worked up the courage, not today at least.”

“You wanted to?”

“Yeah,” you answer softly. “Of course I did.”

“It’s David,” Deacon says. “My first name; the Deacon nickname just stuck.”

You hum, mouthing his name. “Which do you prefer?”

Deacon looks back into your eyes, drawing his eyes from your mouth. “Either.”

“Well then, David, thank you.”

Smiling, Deacon exits the car and walks around the front to open your door. He hears you saying his name in his head, imagining hearing it through the years. Different volumes, different contexts, private and public moments, and he decides that nothing else will make him feel the same way hearing you say his name does.

“Favorite Sinatra song?” you ask, linking your arm in Deacon’s as you approach the front door.

“I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” he answers immediately. “Fitting, isn’t it?”

You laugh, and Deacon briefly considers finding the nearest pawn shop to get a ring. Something about your relationship – as new as it is – makes Deacon feel like he’s twenty again and falling in love for the first time. But you both know that relationships are more than that. As you talk about your pasts, interests, and what you want in your future, he realizes that you were never going to be a friend of a friend. You’re Deacon’s future, he thinks, he knows.

Standing on your doorstep, your hands are in Deacon’s, and you kiss his cheek when you wish him goodnight. Leaning against the inside of your door, giddy and excited for your future, you finally feel at home enough to unpack. The electricity coursing through you after hours of Deacon’s light touches keeps you awake, energizing you like caffeine never could.

As you turn on a playlist you and Deacon made during dinner and begin sorting boxes, you don’t hear Street step out of his house and yell, “It’s past curfew, Deac!”

#deacon kay x reader #david deacon kay x reader #deacon kay fluff #david deacon kay #deacon kay #david kay x reader #swat imagine #swat fic #swat x reader #swat cbs #hanna writes✯#fem!reader

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imperator-kahlo · 7 months ago

Text

OK what even is happening with the Crows

I’ve just been trawling through the wiki and World of Thedas for a few hours trying to figure out what we (a) know, (b) can guess, (c) can speculate wildly about the inner workings of the Crows during the Dragon age.

(I am by no means an expert on the lore so please let me know where I have wildly missed the mark).

I'm definitely not trying to propose any kind of fanon consensus, where's the fun in that?! Just trying to figure out a timeline that makes sense to me. Possibly also toying around with a pre-canon Rookanis fic.

Loooong and probably insanely disorganised text post under the cut. I should have been in bed hours ago but I am hyperfixating on this and will not sleep until I hit post.

Spoilers, so many spoilers below: Veilguard, Tevinter Nights, The Silent Grove, Origins, Awakenings, the entire franchise basically.

So, a speculative timeline. Events in black are fairly or very well supported by the lore; events in blue are inconsistent/uncertain in the lore; events in purple are guesses that I can sort of back up; events in red are me throwing a dartboard at the wall.

Note: The wiki puts the events of "Eight Little Talons" in 9:44 Dragon, but I can't find any source for that. I would have guessed a little later, but let's roll with 9:44.

Also, I'm pretty unclear on the guildmaster/grandmaster distinction. I'm just going to say 'head of house' for whoever is in charge of a Crow house, or Talon if they're head of one of the eight Talon Houses.

Blessed Age

8:70 Blessed - Caterina born (she's described as well into her 70s during Eight Little Talons and as around 80 in the data-mined character descriptions for Veilguard, so give or take a couple years this seems right).

9:00 to 9:29 Dragon: House Arainai Shenanigans

9:00 Dragon - Antivan civil war, beginning of the "much maligned" Three Queens era (Codex, History of Kirkwall - Chapter 4). Unclear exactly what happens or over what period of time, but seems like the Crows would be in the thick of things.

9:05 - 9:10 - Caterina maybe reaches Talon status (not First, though). Around 8:98 Blessed would be the absolute earliest she could get there given Teia's holds the record (youngest Talon at 28). But I think Teia was at least three or four years younger than any previous Talon so I'd put it somewhere around here, if not a few years later.

9:12 Dragon - Zevran, aged 7, is purchased from a Rialto brothel by House Arainai. The House is led by First Talon Talav Arainai and described as rolling in coin after the "Three Brides" contract - they purchase 17 other slaves that year, including Taliesen (World of Thedas, vol 2, p. 96). I think based purely on vibes that House Arainai is fairly secure in First Talon position and has been there at least a couple years, probably longer.

9:15ish Dragon - Teia born (she's described as 28 in the data-mined descriptions, but she's already a Talon in 'Eight Little Talons', which says she was the youngest ever to reach the rank at age 28. I'm assuming she got there a year or two before the events of the story. See 9:17.

9:16 Dragon - whoops, sometime over the last four years it all went to shit for Talav Arainai! The House dropped to Second Talon, and he was executed in 9:16 after trying to take back the seat of First. Isadora Arainai takes over, and the House hangs on as Second Talon... for now. Rinna joins House Arainai and immediately works well with Zevran and Taliesen under the mentorship of Eoman Arainai (World of Thedas, vol 2, p. 96). This would be the earliest that Caterina could reach First Talon, but I'm not sure I'd put it this early. I think the latest she could possible reach First would be 9:25ish based on my guesses about House Velardo (see below).

9:17 Dragon - Lucanis born (described as 36 in the data-mined character descriptions. I know I threw out those descriptions for Teia, but I think we can be pretty certain Lucanis is mid thirties).

9:17 Dragon - Teia born. I was going back through Eight Little Talons and my initial read was wrong. Teia is 28 during the events of the story.

9:24 Dragon - House Arainai, having the sort of shitty luck they absolutely deserve, falls entirely out of the rank of Talons when Second Talon Isadora dies. They wallow amongst the cuchillos (minor houses) for a few years (World of Thedas, vol 2, p. 96).

9:22 - 9:27 - House Velardo attempts to usurp First Talon from House Dellamorte? The resulting war kills all of Caterina's children and grandchildren, save Lucanis and Illario. My reasoning here is this: Lucanis says he and Illario would have ended up with Caterina to train, but being orphaned sent them to her younger than anticipated. Zevran was purchased at age 7, so we know Crow training, at least for House Arainai slaves, begins very young. Perhaps the non-slave children of influential house leaders start later, but I would guess not much. So I'm assuming they end up with Caterina sometime between ages 5 and 10?

9:25 Dragon - King Maric is thought lost at sea, but is in reality being held by Third Talon Claudio Valisti in a Crow prison on behalf of a Tevinter Magister, Aurielion Titus.

Side note: I had the same reaction to finding out the Crows have a super-fun torture prison as I did to finding out Weisshaupt has dungeons. Just... why? That feels like mission creep? Does the assassin skill set at all overlap with the prison guard skill set?

9:26 - 9:28 - Eoman takes over as head of House Arainai. He eliminates House Ferragani, which was Eighth Talon, thus clearing the way for Arainai to claw its way back into power. Unfortunately, he needs the support of Third Talon Claudio Valisti to take over the position. Valisti wants Rinna Arainai dead (cult / royal bastard reasons) and Eoman tricks Zevran and Taliesen, her lovers, into doing it. This was a very stupid decision (WoT vol 2, p. 96).

9:30 to 9:43 Dragon: Zevran's Revenge

9:30 Dragon - Zevran, depressed and angry about Rinna's death, bids for the contract on the Warden's life. House Arainai is said to have accepted this contract because they believed Loghain to be the best person to defeat the blight (WoT vol 2, p. 96).

Side note: This sort of, if you squint, reconciles the contract on the Warden's life in 9:30 with the memento found in Veilguard that says the Crows had treaties with the Wardens to fight the "next blight". But also they tried to kill the Warden-Commander in Awakenings, too. I guess one could argue a new blight was unlikely so soon but like. Come on, guys. Is your word to the Wardens worth anything or not?

9:31 - 9:34 - If Zevran survived, he comes back from Ferelden with a spring in his step and murder in his heart (and possibly a Warden on his arm) and wreaks absolute havoc on House Arainai. Eoman is first to go, then like half a dozen more of their top people. The House loses Eighth Talon and falls once more into obscurity. The Crows call Zevran (or an unnamed assassin if Zevran is dead) the "Black Shadow" and speculate that he has allies among the cuchillos (WoT vol 2, p. 96).

9:34 - 9:43 - Where the fuck is Zevran?

9:37 Dragon - Corypheus is freed (Legacy DLC). The Venatori will start to be a thing in the next few years, so Lucanis is going to pick up his nickname between now and, say 9:50 Dragon. I'd put it between 9:45 and 9:49 because of vibes (and because he talks about not immediately specialising in mages. Crows get started very young, but I dunno. I see him starting on mages in his mid twenties because, again, vibes.)

9:38 - 9:40 - Events of The Silent Grove (comic - I haven't read it in a while but I'm throwing it in here for complete-ish-ness). Alistair, Varric and Isabela break into the Crow archive and Velabanchel prison (which side note is a totally heinous operation). Isabela kills Claudio Valisti (Third Talon passes to Ezio Valisti). This, for me, raises the question again: Where the fuck is Zevran (sob). Valisti was implicated in Rinna's death, so either Zevran never found out or he couldn't get to Valisti while he was cleaning house.

9:44 Dragon - Ongoing: We're Entering Our Freedom-Fighter Era

9:44 Dragon - The events of 'Eight Little Talons'. Briefly: Caterina calls all the Talons together to plan for the imminent invasion of the Antaam, but a whole bunch of murder happens. Turns out that Fourth Talon Emil Kortez made deal with the Antaam and was trying to wipe out the Crows' leadership. He was killed by the survivors and Viago suggests--correctly, I think--that Caterina will wipe out the whole house.

The following Talons are killed but it seems like their houses will probably retain their status, with somebody else taking over as Talon:

Dante Balazar, Second

Lera Valisti, Third

Giuli Arainai, Eighth (having only just managed to lift that fucking house back up to Talonship, shame lol)

In addition to Caterina, Viago, and Teia, Sixth Talon Nero Bolivar survives, but he um, isn't much help. I would guess that Caterina, in a pretty strong alliance with Viago and Teia and with all the other Talons being new, might fuck his shit up and try to get someone more solid in before the Antaam invade?

9:44 - ongoing - WHERE THE FUCK IS ZEVRAN???? He can't have taken control of any of the eight Talon houses, because he's not at the summit in 'Eight Little Talons'-- and however much he damaged House Arainai, they've clawed back some power by 9:44. Is there a breakaway faction of cuchillo houses that Caterina won't even dignify with an acknowledgment? Is he not interested in any kind of Crow power and is just fucking shit up for them - we can assume House Valisti has had a lock on Third Talon since at least 9:28 (Claudio or Ezio Valisti pop up periodically in this position), and my guess is House de Riva have held Fifth a decent period of time, but as far as I can tell we know nothing about Second, Fourth, Sixth and Seventh Talon Houses in this period. So maybe Zev is toppling houses left, right and centre? Seems like that sort of instability might have changed Caterina's approach in 'Eight Little Talons', though...

9:51 - Lucanis imprisoned in the Ossuary.

9:51 - Antaam invasion of Antiva, starting with Treviso. The Antaam rebellion begins in 9:44 and is ongoing; the failure of Kortez in 9:44 delayed the invasion somewhat. I wouldn't have thought it would delay it this much, but I'm pretty sure that it happened while Lucanis was imprisoned, right? So since we free him in 9:52 after a year in the Ossuary, the invasion must have been delayed until 9:51? Maybe very late 9:50?

"Conclusions"

(I haven't read the comics in a bit and I know there's some Crow stuff that goes down in there beyond the Silent Grove... but as best I recall its just Teia and Viago running into Varric and Harding, and some stuff setting up Solas and the Antaam. Please let me know if I'm mistaken!)

I think it's safe to say the Crows are in chaos for pretty much the entire first half of the Dragon age: Arainai are causing chaos from 9:16 to 9:25, then they pass the torch to Velardo, whose war against House Dellamorte must have lasted a few years if it wiped out almost all of Caterina's family. Zevran is on a murder spree at least between 9:31 and 9:34, and possibly (much) longer depending on your headcanon.

After, at very best, a decade's peace, 9:44 sees the plot to wipe out the Crow leadership, which fails but does kill half the Talons and lead to the elimination of at least one, maybe two of the Talon Houses. Half a decade after that the Antaam invades.

I've been completely on board with the critiques of Veilguard's portrayal of the Crows, but I think writing it all out like this has helped me reconcile things a little bit? This is a deeply chaotic network of feuding families, and no single Talon is going to have the secure political power to make sweeping changes. Which isn't to say the child abuse that was definitely still occuring in Houses Dellamorte and de Riva during Rook and Lucanis' childhoods is just fine. But it makes more sense to me now that Houses Dellamorte, de Riva and Cantori could have wildly different ideas about slavery and torture prisons than, say Houses Arainai and Valisti--and have extremely limited power to shift the culture of competing Houses. Even the First Talon's position is deeply precarious.

Whew. Good night!

(Just realised as I was tagging that I haven't slotted The Wigmaker Job in anywhere. I thiiiiink Viago mentions in 'Eight Little Talons' that Lucanis is currently in Tevinter for a job, maybe a sly reference to Wigmaker? But I cannot possibly get sucked in any deeper, my dog is losing her entire mind at me STILL being at the computer.)

***

Waking up and editing to add: At some point in her time as a Talon (probably First but I guess maybe not?), Caterina wiped out another house so completely that Teia doesn't even recognise the name, Gaspari, when Viago mentions it in 'Eight Little Talons'. Given House Velardo was the one that made a play for First Talon, this is a whole 'nother big intra-Crows conflict that slots in somewhere on this timeline. Caterina is ruthless, y'all.

***

Editing again a few days later to report that I was flicking through WoT and spotted a WHOLE-ASS ENTRY on Claudio Valisti that I’d managed to miss. I was… not happy. I’m begging you BioWare, no more information. I cannot reconcile it.

Anyway. World of Thedas, vol 2, p 44, has Claudio Valisti taking over from his father as Eighth Talon in 9:34, quickly getting the house to Sixth Talon and appearing to be going places. This appears to contradict p. 96 of the same, which has a Third Talon Claudio Valisti helping House Arainai in 9:28, as described above.

I thought very carefully about tearing the page out, burning it, and forgetting I ever knew this particular piece of lore.

Instead I have decided fuck it, we have a father-son pair here. Senior helped out Arainai in 9:28. His house later fell to Eighth (in my incredibly unwieldy and underdeveloped headcanon this is partly because helping Arainai really pissed off Caterina). Claudio Senior dies in 9:34, Claudio Junior inherits. By the time Junior dies to Isabela in 9:38-40 he’s got the house properly back on track, so the loss of a leader doesn’t destabilise them too badly.

Ezio Valisti is Third Talon in 9:41, according to the Winter Palace announcer in Inquisition, and the house still holds the third seat in 9:44.

(Also edited Teia’s birth year from 9:15 to 9:17; I misread Eight Little Talons. She’s 28 during the events of the story.)

#dragon age veilguard #dragon age #lucanis dellamorte #caterina dellamorte #antivan crows #zevran arainai #dav spoilers #veilguard critical #just a smidge and mostly I'm talking myself out of the negativity #dragon age lore

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