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highvern · 5 months ago

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Beggin' On My Knees

Pairing: Kwon Soonyoung x f!reader

Genre: fluff, smut, hint of angst, established relationship, biker! hoshi

warnings: pregnancy, impreg/breeding kink, fingering, oral sex (f. receiving), nipple play, unprotected sex, praise kink, body worship, spitting, praise kink

Length: ~8k

Note: inspired by the Please, Please, Please MV. this was originally an idea for taehyung but alas my top freak took over again. something about biker/mechanic hoshi really is beautiful thank u @tomodachiii @haologram and @gyuswhore for keeping me sane

summary: After another run in with the law, you come to terms with the fact your friends might be right about your fiancé.

m.list

This blog is intended for 18+ only! Minors/blank blogs will be blocked.

Even at your age, it’s somehow more embarrassing to buy pregnancy tests than condoms. You wouldn’t know since you’ve never bought condoms. That particular responsibility falls exclusively on your fiance after the few times in college when you snagged handfuls from the bucket inside the campus clinic.

You’ve bought a pregnancy test before. Not for yourself but for friends too embarrassed to walk into the pharmacy and publicly declare how active their sex lives were. Now you understand why they wanted someone else to do it. Why are there twenty different brands? Why do they require some high school employee to unlock the case so you can pick the one you want? Why are they so damn expensive? The anxiety you feel rivals the first time you bought weed sophomore year of college from some sleazy frat boy.

You’ve got the box resting on the bathroom counter, a timer on your phone, and the test just out of sight while you pace back and forth in the small space. The door is shut for no other reason than to isolate away from Soonyoung in the event he gets off work early.

You should call Soonyoung. He’d want to know, fight the urge to say something stupid like “I’ll try harder next time” when the tests come back negative and instead offer to pee on one in solidarity if only to lighten the mood.

You never understood when people say a woman just knows until right now because with each passing second the reality that those tests are going to be positive sink in. Despite the fact you and Soonyoung almost always use a condom and the times without them end with him coming anywhere not inside you. You just know it.

Each second ticks down like a bomb waiting to detonate.

Positive. Positive. Positive.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Your stomach twists. Surprisingly, you don’t dread it as much as you would have a year ago. But a million things a baby entails rush over you. Cleaning out the spare room upstairs, doctors appointments, daycare, clothes, school. Do you even know how to actually take care of a kid? One that belongs to you, who you can’t give back to their person when they get fussy or hurt.

Soonyoung was born to be a dad. He never hid how badly he wanted a family of his own, a family with you. He’s good with kids too. You’ve seen him with his nieces and nephews, your friends’ kids. The middle schoolers in your neighborhood come to him with broken bikes and scooters to be fixed, knock on your front door to ask if he can help them get their ball down from some tree. Even if he doesn't know what he’s doing he’d be there by your side.

As the initial shock washes away, the knots in your chest slowly unfurl. You can do this. Even though you planned your life down to the last detail, Soonyoung has a way of sweeping you into his tide. Engagement, marriage, house, babies. In that order. You’ve already got the house before he asked you to marry him and your wedding is only a month away.

After the worst of the panic settles into restless jitters, you leave the solitude of the bathroom. Soonyoung still isn’t home from work yet but it isn’t unusual. He’s been pulling more hours, shouldering more responsibilities since Mr. Lee, the owner, hinted at a promotion. Glancing at the clock, you guess he’ll walk through the door in two hours which gives you plenty of time to put together something to surprise him.

After a long shower, you burn time by cleaning up non-existent messes; you can’t sit still. The ‘surprise’ ends up being lackluster. Your weekly grocery shopping trip is tomorrow so the fridge is slim pickings for dinner and you make the executive decision to go out once Soonyoung is home. Some fancy restaurant neither of you can afford with tiny dishes designed to leave you hungry and stopping at the diner at the edge of town for a burger.

While the noise from the TV hums in the background, you scroll through internet searches on what to do when expecting. Doctors appointments, blood tests, advice on budgeting. It’s information overload but you’re giddy even with the stress.. Then you see it. A screenshot from one of your friends. No words, just a photo.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

The longer you stare the quicker the realization becomes a reality. Soonyoung, your Soonyoung, the Soonyoung you’ve been waiting to get home, the reason for three positive pregnancy tests still on the bathroom counter, stares back. Or his mugshot does. A proud stain on the town jail’s website for everyone to see.

Storming out of the house, you notice Jeonghan’s car is gone from his own driveway. Hopefully he’s given your fiance an earful at the station already. If not, you’ve got plenty to say.

Whatever giddy happiness possessed you earlier is long gone, rotten disgust taking its place. How stupid do you look waiting for him at home while he’s gone and gotten himself locked up?

That stupid bike.

It isn’t the first time. That was the initial appeal back when you were a doe eyed freshman, finally out from under your parents thumb with more freedom than you knew how to handle. Soonyoung was the stereotypical bad boy with a taste for fast cars, working in a garage to your good girl persona who set the curve in all her classes. A few drinks at a run down dive bar landed you on his bike in some back alley, a hand under your skirt while he whispered the nastiest things you’ve ever heard. Then you returned the favor back at his apartment, riding him with enough vigor the headboard slapping against the wall sent his neighbors into a fit.

Then came the routine of Soonyoung picking you up from your dorms late at night, staying out until sunrise doing who knows what. He showed you off at street races, called you his girl in front of friends, and would take you out to the lake after winning a race and make you feel like a winner too.

It was fun.

Until the calls he’d been out street racing again wore down your patience as your friends’ giddy curiosity turned to embarrassment and ‘I told you so’s. It wasn’t enough to break your heart, but it tore your ego to shreds. They called him a loser and you defended him time and time again because you loved him. Because he promised it wouldn’t happen again.

He promised the last time was the last time. The time before that was also the last time and the time before and so on.

The parking lot of the police station is nearly empty this time of day; a few police cars and a handful of other vehicles. Otherwise, it sits deserted.

Jeognhan is waiting for you at the front desk, pretending to type away at something on the computer but you know better. You’ve done this song and dance too many times.

“What the fuck did he do this time?”

He quirks an eyebrow, sliding a clipboard with the usual paperwork your way as he speaks. “What do you think?”

You nearly rip through the paper from pressing the pen so hard as you sign. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Ma’am, language,” a young officer warns.

You’ve never seen him before and the stern look on his face pisses you off even more. His eyes widen in what must be fear because he scrambles back to the filing cabinet at the back of the room without speaking. “I didn’t know you had a new bitch, Han.”

Jeonghan takes his clipboard back before you can whack him with it. “Nope, that's still your fiancé. Chan, go get Soonyoung from the box.”

“Tell him I’ve got a hammer in the car for his balls,” you call.

“Please refrain from making threats inside the police station.”

Soonyoung has the sense to look afraid when he rounds the corner. He’s still in his work clothes, oil stained shirt and dirty coveralls, hair matted to his forehead. You can only imagine what he sees. Last time you picked up he’d still been drunk from a bar fight and you made him sleep on the porch with Jeonghan’s engine as an alarm clock. You’d been too tired to make threats, half asleep the entire time. This time, you feel on the verge of crying, throwing up, and exploding into a fiery rage.

You don’t wait for him while Jeonghan hands over the bag of Soonyoung’s belongings. Halfway to the car, he races to catch up without a word and goes as far as rushing ahead to open the driver's door for you. There’s a fraction of a second you contemplate speeding off before he can get into the passenger seat, let him walk home in the dark as punishment for being a dumbass. But you don’t. You want to yell at him for being a dumbass until your throat bleeds.

The car smells like motor oil and sweat with him so close in the passenger seat. You gag at the stench, rolling all the windows down to avoid vomiting. The last thing you want right now is to need him.

Under usual circumstances the silence hanging heavy in the air would be comfortable, familiar and warm with the golden hue of the sunset and the sound of cicadas not far off. The world holds its breath, but you don’t.

“Do you know how embarrassing it is to find out you got arrested from someone sending me your mugshot?” you ask at the first red light. Soonyoung tries to answer but you cut him off. “No, you don’t. Because I’d never put you in that position.”

He grumbles out the window. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You’re better than me.”

“You think I’m pissed because I think I’m better than you? I’m pissed because you act like a fucking loser. I’m pissed because you’re a liar! You promised me you wouldn’t do this dumb shit anymore. YOU PROMISED ME. And I look like an idiot because I’m stupid enough to trust you.”

You wait for an excuse. Some honeyed platitude about how much he loves you and it being a mistake and how it’ll never happen again but Soonyoung offers nothing.

“What do you want me to say?” he asks.

You scoff. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.”

“Clearly!” you shriek, the vein in your neck throbbing. “Do you know how it feels to have my friends send me your mugshot? I’m at home tearing my hair out and you’re street racing some kid for kicks.”

“He wasn’t a kid—”

“I don’t give a fuck!” The edges of your vision scorch red, teeth gnashing. You’ve never been this angry with him. You’ve never been this angry, period. “Grow up!”

He’s lucky Jeonghan caught him and not one of the other officers hell bent on cleaning up the streets. He’s lucky you didn’t have to front bail money neither of you have, especially now. Instead of spending the weekend in jail, Soonyoung’s punishment is fixing whatever Jeonghan sends his way for the next month free of charge but it’s not enough, not even close.

The kill shot bubbles on the tip of your tongue but that last bit of self control keeps it under lock and key. This isn’t how you thought you’d tell him, nowhere close to the way the evening happened in your head before you saw that picture. You wanted to surprise him. Watch the way the news sunk in slowly then all at once. You remember the test you left on the kitchen counter for him to find when he got home before everything went to shit. The ember of rage flairs back to life.

“You wanna race so bad, go fetch!” You don’t think as you rip the keys to that cursed bike from his hands and chuck them out the window into the grassy median, gone in a flash. It’s only a temporary solution but it feels good. It’s the next best thing to taking a bat to his bike until there’s nothing salvageable.

Soonyoung sputters. “Are you crazy?”

Maybe. You’re absolutely toeing the line of unhinged. The car skids to a stop, tires burning against the asphalt. Thankfully the road is clear of any traffic.

“Get out,” you demand.

“What?”

“Get out. Get out, get out, get out!” You repeat the words over and over until he does what you tell him to. You feel the suffocating tightness in your chest signaling tears are seconds away.

“Baby, let's talk about this,” Soonyoung begs. He tries to reach through the window, he knows your weak spots too well. You snatch your hand away before he can take advantage.

“You can have this back!” You launch the diamond band right at his chest before taking off.

You get back home on autopilot. There are red lights and stop signs and other traffic laws you can’t remember if you followed but you’re in the driveway and barreling up the porch with shaky breaths. Guilt doesn’t cross your mind for a second. Soonyoung didn’t feel guilty for racing like a dumbass until he got caught, so why should you feel guilty for letting him deal with the consequences?

The urge to do something mean, not just mean but hurtful with the intent of seeing Soonyoung sick to his stomach, rears its head. If that’s what you wanted then mission accomplished. He saved for a year to buy that ring and you threw it in his face like it was nothing but cheap plastic. The ire from earlier rushes out of you like a deflating balloon. Your fingers itch for a cigarette but unlike your now ex fiance, you have to cut out all your vices. There’s no relief in pacing back and forth. There won’t be any solace inside the house either. You’re so tired. All the highs and lows of the day have drained you of everything. You don’t want to be mad or sad or anything anymore. You just want to go to bed and sleep off the entire day.

You want to leave but you don’t. You want to yell some more but Soonyoung will be at least another hour. There’s nothing to anxiously clean while waiting so you water the crispy plants on the porch while you wait.

Jeonghan’s cruiser pulls into his driveway across the street thirty minutes later. Still no sign of Soonyoung, not a missed call or text. You think to worry but he gets out of Jeonghan’s passenger seat and trudges your way.

He looks angry and tired. But your swollen eyes and splotchy face melts the furrow in his brows.

“I’m—”

You silence him with a blast from the water hose. Soonyoung takes his punishment like a man, standing completely still while you douse him from head to toe.

“I deserve that. Please, just listen to me—” He’s silent with another stream aimed at his chest. You feel some validation seeing him embody the way you feel: pathetic.

“Will you put the hose down so we can talk about this?”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you huff, dropping the hose for him to clean up.

“Then I’ll talk and you listen.”

“No.” You head towards the door with no intention of letting Soonyoung inside. “Go sleep at Jeonghan’s, I don’t wanna be around you right now.”

“He already told me no.”

Jeonghan would take mercy on Soonyoung in this state; soaked to the bone with your engagement ring in his pocket.

You turn to face him. “I want you to get rid of your bike.”

Soonyoung stays at the foot of the stairs leading up the porch. He knows how you feel and he has the sense to look ashamed.

“You want me to sell Tammy?” he asks.

“I want Tammy to fall off a cliff into the abyss but that’s obviously not going to happen,” you seethe, blinking away more frustrated tears.

“I have a lot of good memories with Tammy.”

“What? The first time you got arrested? Or the time you fell off and broke your arm? Oh, I know! When you ended up in a ditch?”

“The time I asked you to be my girlfriend. And the time I won enough money to help put a down payment on the house. When—“

“It’s me or her.”

Does it feel juvenile giving your fiance an ultimatum between you and a godforsaken bike? Absolutely. But you’ve got a kid to think about now and the thought of Soonyoung missing their life because he’s too busy chasing the rush makes you sick.

“It’s you.” Soonyoung says it with finality but you don’t believe him.

“Then prove it.”

“I’ll do anything.”

“Sell it. First thing tomorrow morning.”

He laughs bitterly. “I’m not selling my bike.”

“Then I’ll be sure to tell your kid their dad is a fucking loser.”

He blinks like the words don’t fully set in but your back is already to him by the time they do. Locked inside the house, you lean back against the door. You don’t want him to hear the crack of breath in your throat breaking into hot, wet tears.

“What do you mean my kid?” Soonyoung’s panicked voice comes through the door. “YN! Open the door!”

“Go away.”

His whispered curses slip through the door while he scrambles for the spare key hidden in the potted plant by the door. If you really wanted him locked out, you would’ve remembered to move it before he got home. Part of you does want him stuck as far away as possible. You don’t want to face him because you know he’ll kiss your tears away and that’s all you want right now. You want him to hold you, promise you everything will be okay.

The lock of the bedroom door clicks into place right as Soonyoung gets the front door open. You hear him downstairs, looking for where you’re hidden. You can plot his course in your head: straight through the living into the kitchen where one of the positive tests waits to greet him on the counter, then he comes racing up the stairs and outside the door.

He twists the doorknob with no success. “YN.”

“Go away,” you sniffle into the pillow. His pillow. You’re on his side of the bed, in one of his old shirts because even if you wish you hated him.

A dull thud against the door and a sigh signals his departure. You hear him shuffling back downstairs, but the sound of the front door never comes. The fatigue of the day takes over swiftly. Surrounded by the comforting smell of Soonyoung, you fall asleep until the smell of food wafts up through the vents. Not burnt but if Soonyoung is in the kitchen then it’s only a matter of time.

You creep down the stairs, careful to stay quiet so you can sneak back up without getting caught. Soonyoung’s body blocks whatever he’s organizing on the counter but you tell it’s a bribe from the sight of take out bags piled in the trash.

“What’s that?”

“Dinner. Do you want some?”

He’s got an entire pizza with garlic knots and cinnamon twists laid out like a feast. You watch him pretend to be nonchalant but he’s glued to your every move as you approach the counter and shove an entire garlic knot into your mouth, chewing with enough force to warn you haven’t forgiven him yet even though you're close to it. “I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

“Then we won’t talk,” he sighs into the base of your skull, fingers edging beneath your shirt for the comforting warmth of skin on skin.

“Don’t,” you say, but lean back into the warmth of his body despite yourself.

“I’m sorry.”

Sure he is. You know he means it. Soonyoung is always sorry but it doesn’t stop him from being a dumbass. But he’s your dumbass no matter how many fights you have.

He lets you eat, content to hide his face in your shoulder and his fingers warm against the waistband of your sweatpants. You hate crying and you hate crying in front of him – because of him – even more. The heavy silence of the kitchen and the love of your life clinging onto you like his life depends on it brings a fresh prick of tears. Once you start, you can’t stop. The tears keep coming as Soonyong maneuvers your face into his chest. His new, clean shirt turns into your tissue. You fall into him without hesitation.

“Are you really…” he asks quietly, dropping kiss after kiss against your hair while you wring out like a sponge.

“Do you think I’d lie to make you feel bad?”

“No. I just—fuck. You’re pregnant.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“How do you feel?”

You blow your nose into his neck. “Like I wanna punch my kid’s dad in the nuts.”

“He probably deserves that.”

“He definitely does.”

“And he deserves to sleep outside.”

“Yep,” you nod.

“But you still love him?”

“Of course I do, you big idiot,” you sigh, leaning back to look at him. Mistake. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” His brow presses to yours, face rounded out, soft cheeks that make you want to scream. Brown eyes shine beneath his lashes. Soonyoung knows exactly what he’s doing.

“I’m still mad at you.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

You don’t but things would be a lot easier if you did.

Soonyoung takes the silence as an admission, and when you don’t object he falls to his knees, pulls your shirt out of the way and presses his face into your stomach. “We should name it Donatello.”

“No.”

“Leonardo.”

“No,” you giggle despite yourself.

“Raphael.”

“You are not naming our baby after a Ninja Turtle.”

“Mojo Jojo Jojo.”

“No.”

“Thanos.”

“Stop!”

“You’re laughing?” Soonyoung gasps, rushing to his feet to pin your squirmy body between him and the counter’s edge. “I’m trying to have a very serious conversation and you’re laughing?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“And you love me.”

You nod, hiding back into his chest where it’s safe. “Yeah, I love you.”

The silence marinates between you.

“I’ll sell the bike, promise.”

“You’re not the best at keeping promises.”

“This time is different.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want our kid to grow up thinking their dad doesn’t worship the ground their mom walks on. Because I know she’s way too good for me and I’m lucky to have her.”

“I’m not too good for you, I hate when you say that.”

“You called me a loser.”

“I said you acted like a loser and I won’t take that back.”

He looks away. “That’s fair.”

The icy wall of hurt freezes back up but you’re too tired to drag on the fight any longer. “When I found out my reaction wasn’t ’oh he’s being stupid.’ It was ‘how would I tell our kid their dad missed their birthday because he got himself locked up.’ That’s all I could think about. Explaining to our kid over and over why you’re never there.”

The words rest like a wet blanket over his flame of excitement. He doesn’t want to be that kind of dad; the one who misses their child’s life for something as stupid as street racing. Who leaves you to pick up a broken heart time and time again, two broken hearts.

You’re at arms length, Soonyoung examining you like a puzzle he can’t figure out but wants to try anyway. You hate when he looks at you like that. Like you’re the best thing he’s ever seen and he can’t quite believe you’re real. “You’re gonna be a great mom.”

“Shut up.” You hide the blush staining across your cheeks with another slice of pizza.

“You are.”

“Well,” you swallow. “I need you to be a good dad. And if you can’t then I’m not afraid to do it by myself.”

“I know.”

“Good.”

“Can I talk to it?”

“If you want to.” You don’t tell him that the thing growing in your womb curiously of him is the size of a pea and doesn’t have a face, let alone ears. You want to hear what his first words as a dad are.

He rucks your shirt up higher until it’s bunched beneath your breast, stomach on full display for him to bury his face into.

“Hi. I’m your dad,” he starts timidly. You bite back a smile at his earnestness. “I don’t usually make your mom this angry. Usually, she’s pretty happy with me.” His lips brush your stomach with each word, tickling them into your skin. “I hope you take after her. She’s smart, and she’s pretty. God, she’s so pretty. I remember the first time I saw your mom and I knew I wanted to marry her.”

You snort. “You did not.”

“Yes, I did,” he corrects. “We were at this bar. You’re not allowed to go there. Ever. Maybe when you’re thirty or I’m dead. But I remember seeing her when she walked in and I thought ‘that is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen and if she talks to me, I’ll throw up.’ I still feel like that sometimes. Even when she’s mad at me. And then when I got the courage to talk to her, I didn’t throw up because your old man is cool.”

Your heart swells too big for your chest. The night you met him wasn’t the stuff of fairytales. You saw him across the bar, all blonde hair and ruby cheeks as he screamed with his friends. He did throw up the first time you talked to him. After an hour of riding him until it hurt, you melted boneless in his lap and he snuck away to the bathroom to toss the used condom. You faked asleep as he emptied his guts into the toilet bowl before crawling back to bed and begging for cuddles. Pure romance.

“So cool,” you tease.

Soonyoung laces your fingers together, nipping at your fingertips in protest. “Your mom is mean to me but it’s okay because I love her. You’ll love her too. I just hope you’ll love me.”

You fight the urge to cry, only a single tear streaking down your cheek before stopping. “They’ll love you.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.”

“How?”

“Because I love you and I’m very smart. Remember?”

“I did say that, didn't I?”

You hum in agreement, pulling him up your body to nudge his nose along yours.

“I’m sorry.”

“I forgive you.” You let him shower you in gentle touches, his hands smoothing up your sides. Soonyoung traps you between his body and the counter, his lips sweeping over your chin, your jaw, your covered chest. That’s when you feel it. “What are you doing?”

“Apologizing.”

“Feels a lot like your penis to me.”

“That’s a part of the apology,” he whispers, the weight of his cocky heavy against your thigh, harder with each controlled grind. “Can’t believe I knocked you up and I never even came inside of you.”

“I can. You talk about kids so much I bet you manifested this.”

“You want it though, right?”

“Yeah.”

You’re lifted onto the countertop, legs spread around his hips. He’s got one hand wedge between your ass and panties to keep you close. “Do you think I’ll be a good dad?”

Not the conversation you thought would happen while you’re tugging his shirt off and working at the tie in his pajamas pants but you humor him.

“I think you’ll be a great dad.” You kiss him gently. His lips, his nose, his cheeks that round in your favorite smile. “If you stop getting arrested. How are you gonna ground Michaelangelo if you keep getting in trouble too?”

“She’s gonna be too smart for that. Just like her mom.”

“Oh, it’s a she now?”

“I’ve got a feeling.” He nips at your throat, a sweet flick of his tongue to soothe the sting. “Back to me coming inside you.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Gonna take it all for me?”

Your chin tips back to provide more skin for Soonyoung to mark up. “Want it.”

“Fuck, you’re so wet,” he heaves. You’re trapped between a hand against the crotch of your panties and one pawing at your ass like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do.

“Take your pants off.”

An amused breath warms your throat. “Someone’s bossy”

“Yeah, and I’m telling you to take your pants off.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Shirt gone, sweats pooled around his ankles, Soonyoung stands in nothing but a pair of tenting briefs and the thin chain you gifted him a week after he placed that band on your ring finger.

“Wow, who knew you'd be such a DILF.”

His cheeks tinged pink from the complement. “I’ve been a dad for five minutes and you’re already trying to hit on me.”

“We’re engaged, doofus.”

“Speaking of.” He snatches his pants off the floor, digging through the pockets until a familiar ring appears. “Don’t take this off again.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

He catches your chin between his fingers, pining you in his gaze. “I don’t care how angry you are with me. When I asked you to marry me, I meant forever.”

You can count on one hand the number of times he’s used that tone of voice with you. Soonyoung doesn't get angry often; at least, not with you. The last time he talked to you like this was when you wandered on the wrong side of town late at night, alone and drunk without a way home. You were pissed about a grade and wanted to do something reckless like every other kid at your university got to. Luckily, Soonyoung found you before trouble could. He used the same tone to chastise you for an hour about how stupid you’d been.

But he isn’t just mad at your antics. He’s scared too. You look at him — really look at him for the first time since this morning when you kissed him goodbye before work. Red eyes, lip bruised, not from kisses but the way he chews it when he’s anxious.

“I’m sorry.” You pull him back, arms wrapped so tightly around his torso he probably can’t breathe and you both like the certainty of it. The tension in his shoulders softens like candle wax but he doesn’t let go.

There’s still the matter of damp underwear and his boner. You want him, the gnawing aching way you always want him. Between your legs, stroking your sensitive spots to life over and over again until you beg for mercy he’s too eager to deny.

You nose against his cheek, adoring kiss after kiss against his skin until mouths meet. Soonyoung slips his tongue between the seam of your lips. You feel it the way down to your toes. On instinct, your hand trickles down his front, wedged tight between your bodies to paw at the fabric. A few dry jerks is all it takes for him to unravel.

“Wait,” Soonyoung gasps, hips rutting into the tight squeeze.

He keens with another tug, neck flushing a pretty shade of pink. The linoleum bites into your knees before you mouth over his underwear for a taste of what's to come. You suck the head through his underwear before leaning back to tease him with a kiss.

“Bedroom.”

“Didn’t think I’d see the day you’d refuse a kitchen blowjob,” you snicker.

Soonyoung doesn’t laugh. He pulls you back up into a bruising kiss, biting at your lip until you’re sure it’s bruised. His hand gropes down your ass, fingers tight to your entrance from behind. Whatever he wants like this you’ll agree to.

“Want you on my mouth.”

You’d kneel over his face right here on the kitchen floor if he wanted. But knowing your fiance, his sights are glued to whatever fantasies boil beneath that blond hair of his.

You race up the stairs, Soonyoung hands heavy on your sides. His thumbs press into the bare curve of your hips. Your clothes fall until just your underwear remains. You want to turn around and mount him on the steps but the second floor landing is close enough you don’t get a chance.

Soonyoung flicks all the bedroom lights on, eager to see every part of you as you crawl up the bed on all fours in nothing but your underwear. A few years ago you wouldn’t dream of sex with a lamp on let alone the overhead light but years of his utter devotion to your body and wanting to watch you get off like it’s his very own miracle gave you confidence. He looks ready to jump out of his own skin at the doorway. You glance over back and arch your spine a little more, ass higher in the air for his viewing. You might just finger yourself like this to see him suffer. You’ve done it before.

You stretch out, naked chest on display. “Are you coming?”

“Fuck yeah, I am.” Unconsciously, he palms his cock and approaches the side of the bed, pulling you into a kiss with a heavy lick of his tongue.

It doesn’t take much to drag him on top of you, dick hot to your thigh, perfect to rut against. There’s too much Soonyoung to think of anything else. His hands pinning you in place, his breath fanning across your chest as he suckles across the slope of your breast, thighs surging between yours in a dry hump you can’t help but beg for more of. His hips stutter when you do.

He follows the same playbook you did earlier; fingers trailing to the wet patch of your wants, mouth following closely. You’re in for a treat when he’s on his knees like this. He wants to tease you the way you did him but Soonyoung isn’t committed to denying you anything, he wants to rake you over hot coals by giving too much.

Your hands eagerly hook beneath your knees, legs spread wide before him like a feast..

“Taste so good,” he rasps with a soft suck at your clit. “You’re so hot.”

Even with the barrier of your underwear each lick lights you on fire. Soonyoung moans a lewd melody, lost in his own paradise. Your thighs twitch with each gentle prod at your entrance, folded away by his shoulders so he can touch as much as he wants.

The promise from earlier lights up your brain. You twist a tight grip in his hair, pulling hard enough to detach him from your body. Lips wet, eyes blown, Soonyoung tries to dive back down until another twist of your nails makes him wince.

“Call Jeonghan.”

His mouth may be gone but his fingers circle your clit in the way that makes you whine. “What?”

“Call. Him,” you command.

You snatch your phone from the end table, forcing it into Soonyoung’s grasp. He still doesn’t understand what you’ve asked.

“Sell him the bike right now.”

“Now?” He looks down at your pussy still on display, underwear soaked in spit and arousal.

You nod. Soonyoung knows better than to argue. He’s back in your good graces but only just, the promise of shipping that infernal bike off to someone else keeping him afloat.

Your body throbs for release, for his mouth to go back to work instead of whispering into the phone when Jeonghan answers.

“Two grand? Bullshit! There's at least…” he trails off.

You’re not going to stop just because he’s busy. You grab your breasts, taunt nipples visible between your fingers. Clad in a pair of sticky panties and nothing else, you’ve reduced him into a stuttering mess. Any other night he’d already be smothering himself in the wetness. You can see the urge in his gaze as he swallows loudly.

“Four,” Soonyoung counters. His face twists between wanting to argue with the neighbor, brows furrowed, lips in a heavy pout, and watch in awe as you suck on your own fingers before pinching at your chest again.

You’ve got him distracted with a hand between your legs, pushing your underwear out of the way to flash him exactly what he’s earning. Flushed and wet, the smell of sex hangs in the air.

“Thirty-five,” his voice cracks as you spread your legs wider, pulling his hand right where it belongs.

Soonyoung bats your hands away, fingers twisting through your heat. A gentle prod at your entrance like he hasn’t mastered your pussy enough to make you stupid and strung out with a few touches. There’s no way Jeonghan can’t hear every pleased sigh, the wet noise echoing from your pussy, the annoyance in Soonyoung’s voice as they barter back and forth.

Soonyoung leans over and spits where his fingers disappear, making you jolt with the force as he does it again. You nearly ask him to spit in your mouth just to see his eyes bulge but the opportunity disappears with the sound of Jeonghan’s cackle through the line.

“Fine, three. I’ll give you the keys tomorrow.” He ends the call, forces your hand out of the way, and eagerly makes up for the minutes lost.

Both of your hands find the soft strands of his hair to hold him in place. Your feet plant on the bed beside his wide shoulders, allowing you to hump his face pathetically only to be welcomed with a grunt. The rip of fabric registers right before what was once your underwear is left stretched across the middle of your thigh.

“S-shit, don’t stop.”

His fingers spread for his tongue to lick between. You punish him for such a dirty move with a harsh pull of his hair that he loves more than anything. Soonyoung does what he does best: groveling for your forgiveness. You’ll give it to him like always. But you both want him to work for it; it’s better when he does.

He spreads your legs wider, gives a pleased grunt when you hold him in place and grind into his mouth.

“Yes, yes, yes,” you chant; vision blurry, body on fire.

Soonyoung moans into the sloppy mess of your pussy, sucking your clit between his lips, wedging another finger between the two already ruining you.

“Oh god—there.”

Your thighs crush his head but he forces them up and open, pinned in place. The tender glow of the end escalates into a scalding burn as it rips through every muscle. You clench so tight around his fingers he can’t move them more than a tight curl. When you cry at the overstimulation he finally rests.

“Did you just—”

Pins and needles ripple through your muscles and all you can do is nod. Once the initial shock fades, there’s a smug twitch of his lips. He catches your foot and pins it before you can kick him.

“Shut up.”

“Have I told you how much I think about you being pregnant?” he asks, watching your every move.

You shake your head. His fingers keep working in gentle strokes, the wet noises quieter than before but loud in your ears.

“It’s a lot,” he grunts. “Fuck, you’re gonna be so sexy.”

“I’m not already?” you half laugh, half gasp. The spark of arousal already demands more so you rock your hips down despite the sensitivity.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

“But I’m not sexy?”

“Don’t pick an argument with me right now, please,” Soonyoung begs.

“Why?”

“Because I’m thinking about coming in you until you can’t take anymore.”

“Then I’ll be sexy?” you goad.

“You’ve always been sexy.” He punctuates the compliment with a kiss to your left hip bone. “Beautiful.” Another on your right. “Gorgeous.” One on the plush of your thigh. “I love you.”

He folds you in half, knees to chest like you possess the flexibility to stay there, ankles cuffed in his hand, lips hot on the back of your thigh.

“We should fuck on the bike one more time,” you tease.

“You want me to defile the mother of my child on a motorcycle?”

You moan at his words. You want him to come wherever he wants, as many times as he can. Until he can’t anymore. To feel nasty and used however he sees fit. You want him on top of you, behind you, bending you over every surface he can until you’re shaking.

“You’re about to defile me right here. W-what’s the difference?”

Soonyoung curls the fingers inside you tight, eyes glued to the way you heave before answering. He fucks into that spot that makes you his puppet and all you want is to ruin him the same way he ruins you with the slightest touch. “You said I should stop doing things that’ll get me arrested.”

You choke on another tease as he sucks on your clit, tongue coaxing pathetic sighs right out of your lungs. He could do this all night. He’d be happy to. Soonyoung grips you tighter as you squirm away. It’s too much. He knows it and that’s why he loves it so much, knowing he can make you cum hard enough to scream.

“Are the cameras still broken at the garage?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, already knowing exactly what you’re thinking.

“Then you can defile me at your place of business, over the bike. Just like old times.”

“No condoms.”

“How else are you gonna stuff me full of cum?”

Soonyoung groans, pushing your legs wider as his hips rut into the mattress. “Wanna come inside you.”

“Then get up here and do it.”

You’re soaked between the legs, sensitive and swollen. Soonyoung settles into the warm cradle of your thighs easily, pressing his cock into the wet mess of spit and arousal. Your body acts of instinct, hips tilting until he slips between your walls.

“Oh my god.” He laps at the swell of your breast. “‘S okay?”

“Yeah, they don’t hurt yet.”

The sharp edge of his teeth leaves lines across your skin while he sucks at your chest until your spine breaks in half. His fingers keep firm pressure against your clit. Sloppy but enough to keep you pulled taunt. You’ll come a second time if he keeps it up.

“Oh my god,” you echo.

Soonyoung likes to fuck hard. Hard enough you feel like all your seams are splitting, just shy of shattering your limit. Now’s no different but there's a new edge of caution. Even with his hips flat, inside you until nothing is left to give, he tangles your fingers together and pins them over head in the pillows.

You push your body against his, needy and pliant. Blind want acting as a guide, your ankles lock around his waist. It feels so much better than all the other times he’s fucked you like this; knowing the risk of him coming inside no longer counts and he can do it as many times as you ask.

The slap of your skin against his fills the room, grunts and pathetic whines passing between mouths with narrowed vision. Nails biting into his shoulders, you flutter tight, trying to pull Soonyoung deeper even if he’s snug to the hilt. Stretched full beyond belief.

“More,” you beg. Frantic. Needy. All those feelings Soonyoung can incite with the barest of touches and a look.

He rises back on his hands, lighting up with each pathetic whimper of his name. “More what?”

If you had the brain power you’d knock the stupid smirk off his face. “Fuck me.”

“I am,” Soonyoung taunts.

“Breed me.”

“Already h-have.” Soonyoung looks like he wants to laugh but he sinks as much weight as he can into his hips, rhythm clumsy but it’s so good you don’t care. “Fuck, such a good girl. Aren’t you?”

You clench around him. He isn’t the most inspired with dirty talk but he knows your buttons, loves to press on your praise kink when you least expect it.

“Say it.”

“I-I’m,” you stutter from his fingers finding your raw clit. “I’m your good girl.”

“My pretty little wife,” Soonyoung gasps. “Perfect.”

Every bit of praise adds a drop in the bucket, chest tightening until it explodes without permission; shredding through your veins. Your teeth sink into his shoulder. Hard enough to bruise as you cry, “Soonyoung.”

He doesn’t stop for your orgasm, not for a second. You asked him to breed you and it’s his sole purpose until you’re both satisfied. “G-gonna come.”

“Want it, want you to come in me,” you sob.

Soonyoung grabs for your hair, a gentle tug with enough force your eyes open to find his.

“Want it?” he pants, tilting your hips to fuck deeper. You nod with limited room thanks to his grip. “Then take it.”

The sticky heat you’re accustomed to on your skin stains your insides for the first time. There’s no way you can go back. Not after knowing how right it feels to have him fill you. You shiver beneath his weight, nerves twitching from the idea of him doing it again. Immediately.

“Love you, love you, love you…” Soonyoung chants into your skin, lips slipping over your throat with each breathless gasp.

You roll down into the nasty feel of cum and cock, the minor relief not nearly enough. Not with the idea of sucking the combined taste off him rearing its head. But Soonyoung collapses with a point flex of his thighs to stop your motions.

“Holy fuck,” he shudders. “If you let me do that sooner, we’d have ten kids by now.”

You’re flustered at the idea. “Do you think my vagina is a baby rocket launcher?”

“It’s definitely something.”

“How romantic,” you snort. “Give it a few months and I’ll be so hormonal you won’t touch me with a ten foot pole.”

“Is that what you think?” he hums, face still hidden in your neck like he’s too exhausted to move except to lap at the dip in your throat. A subtle grind reminds you of his cock still wedge in your guts, stiff like he didn’t come hard enough to see stars.

It’s hard to think that after so many years together, this is the biggest love rush you’ve ever experienced. The urge to keep him wrapped in your arms for as long as possible brings tears to your eyes.

Soonyoung pops over your face after the first sniffle, terrified. “Are you crying?”

“No.” You swipe at the tears. “Shut up.”

“Aw, baby,” he coos, failing to hide his amusement.

“I’m carrying your child, sorry my hormones are all over the place.” You bat his hand away unsuccessfully, leaning your cheek into the comforting warmth of his palm. “We’re ready for this?”

“I mean, I was planning to knock you up on our honeymoon anyway,” he shrugs, lips soft on your hairline. “Do you have any more of those tests?”

“Why?”

“I wanna see what’d happen if I pee on one.”

“Nothing.” You push him off, rolling onto hands and knees with your ass in the air, face buried in the pillows. “Now, fuck me again.”

Soonyoung pushes the head of his cock through the mess of cum leaking out before sinking back inside with a grunt. “Yes, ma’am.”

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#thediamondlifenetwork #ksmutsociety #kvanity #kwon soonyoung #hoshi #kwon soonyoung smut #hoshi smut #seventeen smut #seventeen fanfic #svt x reader #soonyoung x reader #hoshi x reader #svt #svt smut #seventeen #seventeen hoshi #🫡 highvern

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anomalyaly · 7 months ago

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right where you left me

Summary: You died. Sebastian secretly had a portrait of you commissioned.

I profusely apologize for the pain.

Inspired by @sychenb for the prompt idea. Also crediting @sloanesallow for her headcanon about Sebastian keeping track of numbers.

(also sort of inspired by Unus Annus - iykyk - and Taylor Swift, if you couldn't guess by the title)

Tags: Angst, F!Reader POV (you), unreliable narrator, vague ship (Sebastian x reader/Ominis x reader), Sebastian was in love with you but never confessed, death, grief, ambiguous ending, overall the sads in general, I cried while writing this

[AO3] [Wattpad]

It had been 279 days since you died.

At least, that’s what Sebastian tells you — your portrait, anyway. It was all that was left of you after the devastating battle you had fought and never walked away from. You hadn’t even known he’d had a portrait of you commissioned when you were alive until you woke up, your body cold, your face illuminated by the flickering candles of the Undercroft.

He comes to visit you every day — some days, he simply sits in front of you, cross-legged and silent. You creep into the frame and study him, the shadows on his face, a haunted look in his eye — unfamiliar. You can only recall a bright, talkative, charming boy with whom you were once close. You didn’t recognize him the first time he visited you, yet his presence brings you comfort.

On other days, you see traces of the boy he was before. He bursts in through the gate talking nonstop about everyone who misses you, about something he saw that you would have liked or that reminded him of you. Sometimes, he even brings you gifts and places them in front of your frame so you can admire them when he’s away.

That’s where he keeps you — hidden behind a wooden crate in the Undercroft like a sacred shrine, untouched by anyone but him. He only speaks with you when he is alone.

Another boy comes in on occasion, and you only know because of the sound of his voice and the pulsing red light of his wand that you can see from behind the pile of crates. Ominis, you remember Sebastian telling you, another friend from when you were alive. Sometimes they argue, other times they refuse to acknowledge each other. But Sebastian always keeps you tucked away, his own personal secret.

“It’s almost Christmas,” he sighs as he plops down in front of you. “300 days since you…well, since— ”

He could never bring himself to finish that sentence, even after almost a year. You never finish it for him.

“Are you going back to Feldcroft?�� you ask, though you already know the answer.

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t leave you here alone. I couldn’t do that to you.”

You knew he probably hadn’t been back since that dreadful day. He had only spoken of it once to refresh your memory. He never brought it up again.

“Sebastian,” you say, and he perks up at the sound of his name leaving your painted lips, “how come you always hide me away when Ominis comes in? Doesn’t he want to talk to me, too?”

His eyes flash with something — anger, perhaps, it was hard to tell from your two-dimensional world — and he stands, approaching your portrait. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m only a portrait,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s not like you’ve been practicing necromancy.”

It wasn’t the right thing to say, but you don’t completely understand why. He turns away from you, fists clenched, shoulders tense and hunched over, before running his fingers through his hair and repeating himself more adamantly. “He wouldn’t understand.”

You remember him uttering a similar statement throughout your short life at Hogwarts — secrets that only the two of you shared, unbeknownst to Ominis until it was too late. “Surely he misses me, too— ”

“Did you love him?”

The question takes you by surprise, though you think it’s not the first time he’s asked it. “What?”

Sebastian whirls to face you, his gaze intense, demanding. “Did you love him? Or did you love me?”

Your portrait blinks, confused. Truthfully, you hadn’t been alive nearly long enough to confirm your feelings for either of them, but you knew that both boys had been important to you during your last few months of life. The portrait of you had only been a time capsule of your fifteen-year-old self — undecided and immature. You’re not even certain if the emotions you feel now are real or remnants of what you experienced when you were alive. “I…I cared deeply for both of you if that’s what you’re asking.”

Your answer nearly breaks him, as if he’s heard it a million times before. He tugs at his hair, the movement causing him to look frenzied and mad. “That’s not what I asked! Who did you — ”

“Sebastian?”

The voice of the intruder causes both of you to freeze. Sebastian pulls himself out from behind the crate and holds a finger to his lips before pushing it in front of you once more.

“Over here, Ominis.”

You hear footsteps and see the red glow of the other boy’s wand, then shuffling as Sebastian strategically places himself in front of the wooden box. The echoing footsteps grow closer, and you straighten at Ominis’s frantic tone as he speaks.

“Who were you talking to?” he asks. “I…I thought I heard…her.”

“No one else is here but me,” Sebastian says, guarded.

You can practically feel Ominis’s internal struggle to believe him. You decide that there have been enough secrets between the three of you — you’re not going to let it carry on post-mortem.

“Ominis? Is that you?” you call out. You hear Sebastian press his body against the crate in front of you. Ominis pushes past him, and they both tumble into it, knocking it over and exposing your portrait.

Chaos ensues at Ominis’s realization. The two boys are shouting at each other in front of you as you are helpless to stop them — Ominis, for having yet another secret kept from him, and Sebastian, for defending his reasonings. You aren’t sure if it’s because of jealousy, grief, or some combination of the two, but all you want is for the noise to stop.

You call out helplessly from your portrait, wishing you could step between them, just as you had done time and time again all those months ago. Before everything had gone so wrong.

Suddenly, hot, angry tears are pouring down both of their faces, and you are overcome with just how useless you are at this moment — a fragmented memory, trapped within the confines of your magical canvas. You want nothing more than to hug each of them, to let them feel your arms around them in comfort and take their pain away.

But you are gone.

The two boys now stand solemn and silent in front of you. Ominis takes a step closer, his wand hovering over your portrait before he runs his fingers along the gilded frame. “Is it…really you?”

“No.” You can hear the flatness in Sebastian’s voice, how tired and worn he truly is. He repeats exactly what you thought only moments before as if to confirm it. “She hardly remembers what happened, or even who we are. She’s just a fragment. A memory.”

You want to argue that it is you, but you know that he’s right. You barely remembered your living self until Sebastian explained everything to you on his daily visits. Whispers of your personality still shine through on occasion, but you are otherwise simply existing.

Ominis sighs, and you can hear the weight behind it, as if he had been holding his breath and finally allowed himself to release it. He traces his fingers along the divots of the frame once more, and you try to will yourself to feel it.

The two boys exchange an unspoken conversation that thickens the tension in the air. They seem to come to an agreement, and you let out a small breath — if you can call it that — of relief when they sit down in front of you and appear to bask in your presence. You stay quiet and allow them this moment — it’s the only thing you can do.

The days that follow are the same. No longer is Sebastian coming in alone for covert meetings with your portrait. Now, you see both Sebastian and Ominis at the same time every single day, a religious appointment that they’ve set aside just for you. They take turns talking to you, even if they can only manage a few words, and you learn to appreciate their company, knowing that you were loved by both of them in life.

Just like old times, Sebastian says, and the three of you laugh.

Christmas approaches quickly, or that’s what they say when they come to visit a short while later. They bring your favorite things from when you were alive — chocolate frogs, flowers, even books, which Sebastian reads to you — and they tell you stories about you and the kind of person they knew you to be. You wonder if it’s true, or if they have created an idealistic image of you since you are no longer there with them. Not really.

Kind, they say that you were, thoughtful, loving, self-sacrificial, and maybe a bit idealistic. You were friends with both of them, after all, the mischievous pair that they were, before everything was taken away from them, before life was unfair. They try to smile for you and remind you that Christmas at the castle is a time for celebration, but you can tell that it’s a weak facade.

You smile back at them anyway.

The anniversary of your death approaches. Neither of them can bring themselves to say anything, aside from a few words to honor you. So the three of you sit in tearful silence, admiring the flowers that they decorated your portrait with. You think you can almost smell the sweet aroma of the bouquets.

Something changes in the air — you can sense it — though you aren’t sure what. You notice it when their visits become shorter, with fewer stories to tell, and fewer presents left in front of your frame. Sebastian and Ominis start showing up at separate times, stopping in for a brief hello before leaving with an excuse. You start to wonder what they are doing when they are gone, but you are unable to leave your frame — only one portrait of you was ever commissioned.

Soon, they start missing days, returning at a later time with profuse apologies about how life was busy, but they still miss you. Difficult classes, detention, studying for NEWTs, and preparing for a career — all of these seem to take precedence over you. But they still manage to make time in all of the hectic day-to-day activities, and you look forward to the days when they do come.

You wake up one morning and realize you are in a different location — Feldcroft, most likely, though you hadn’t seen it since that fateful day. Sebastian hangs your frame up on the wall, promising that he and Ominis will come to visit you more often now that they have graduated.

They don’t.

The length of time in between seeing them grows longer, you’re certain of it. Each time one of them arrives, they look a little bit different — sometimes they have longer hair, other times a bit of scruff around their chins, but they always come in looking more weathered than they had when you last saw them.

You realize that they are doing something that you will never again be able to join them in — growing older. You start to wonder about their lives outside of you, yet your painted mind cannot comprehend what an adult life looks like, forever frozen in your adolescent state. You find that you are unable to relate to any of their stories, and they seem to be holding back in what they choose to share.

I wish you were still here, they always say before they go, and you start to wonder if they mean it.

At long last, the visits from your once two closest friends become scarce, and you aren’t certain how much time has passed since someone last spoke to you. The bright flowers that once decorated your golden frame wither and die, and the little gifts they used to leave stay untouched and unopened. The tiny cottage in Feldcroft becomes a sepulcher of your essence — a permanent reminder that you are no longer among the living.

You can’t help but wonder if it was something you did, if their reasons for not returning were your fault. You can feel the stories that they used to tell you fading away, unable to retain the memories in your current form.

You decide that it’s time to rest.

In the quiet house, just south of Hogwarts, your portrait closes its eyes. You do not wake again.

#hogwarts legacy #sebastian sallow #ominis gaunt #hogwarts legacy mc #sebastian sallow x reader #ominis gaunt x reader #angst #hl fanfic #hl angst #hogwarts legacy angst fanfic #hogwarts legacy fanfic #hogwarts legacy oneshot #reader pov #hogwarts legacy fandom

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aakeysmash · 8 months ago

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sukuna lets yuuji wear his jersey

a/n: this drabble contains angst that i didn’t want to spoil in the title (i’m so bad with titles y’all PLS bare with me okay)

college!sukuna masterlist

You know how football players usually give their jerseys to their girlfriends? College!Sukuna gives his to his little brother Yuuji.

You’re not big on sports, but Sukuna asked you to watch Yuuji a couple of times because he had “practice at the ass crack of dawn”. Seeing how ripped he is (you may or may not have walked in on him shaving his beard one time while he only had a towel wrapped around his waist) you already thought he did some kind of sport, but you never cared enough to ask him about it. It’s not until 6 months into your forced proximity that you come to know he’s actually really popular on campus.

It happens randomly. You just finished playing monopoly with Yuuji and you’re listening to your sweet little companion tell you he wants to help you cook this evening. You’re discussing what meal to cook when Sukuna comes home, late, as he did every day this week. He throws his gym bag near the living room door, gets his shoes off and grunts as a form of acknowledgment.

“You know, dogs usually bark more than you to say hi. Imagine being worse than an animal,” you say, not even looking at him, picking up the little plastic houses distributed on your table.

“Imagine never shutting the fuck up,” he answers, ruffling his still wet hair from a shower he must have taken not too long ago, not sparing you a glance either. You scowl, watching the water droplets fall on the freshly cleaned (by you) floor. Well, you have to admit he does look hot in his black hoodie. Black compliments his face tattoos really well, you think.

“Bro! Language!” His mini counterpart exclaims from in front of you, putting his hands on his hips, frowning. He looks like an old lady. A really cute and young old lady.

“Yeah, Sukuna, language,” you snort, flipping Sukuna off behind your back when Yuuji isn’t watching. The tattoed man, still standing by the door, narrows his eyes at you when you turn your back on him. Yuuji goes into his room to put the game away and leaves you two alone.

“You’re lucky I need the fucking money to live here or I would’ve fed your body to the really nice dogs who say hi by now,” your roommate says lowly, coming behind you and pushing you out of the way to lay on the couch. He pushes you harder than usual, so you stumble and bump your thigh on the table, muttering ouch and pouting. You’re pretty sure he didn’t control his strength like he usually does in your playful banters. You sit down to rub your sore spot, waiting for Yuuji to come back and start cooking with you, while he just puts his hood on his head and closes his eyes.

“Is this how you treat a lady?” You mumble, at which he scoffs, not even bothering to answer. As a natural conversation starter, you try to think of something to say. You think he looks like he could use a conversation, anyway. He’s been more distant this last week, but he always had his emo moments, so you didn’t think too much about it. Today his mood is darker than usual though, and for some reason, after six months of living together, that doesn’t sit well with you.

"How was tod-"

"Fine," He interrupts you. You're stunned by his roughness.

“Listen, tomorrow I was thinking of going-“

“Can you shut the fuck up?" He curtly barks, one of his eyebrows ticking.

You frown. "Hey, I was just-"

"I’m not joking. Shut up. Stop talking for one fucking day. God, you’re so fucking annoying,” he grits out, scrunching his eyes even more. At this, you close your mouth fast. Well, maybe he didn’t look like he wanted to have a conversation, at the end of the day.

After his outburst, the silence inside the living room is deafening.

You don’t want it to, but the tone he uses stings, even if you try not to let it get under your skin. You thought you two had become close enough to joke around this way, but you apparently guessed wrong. You just wanted to help, and he just shut you completely out. You just wanted to be a good… friend? Are you even friends?

Yuuji gets back and you stand up from the floor, going toward the kitchen. You wince when you put your weight on your leg.

You inhale deeply, reigning yourself in. “What do you think about… quesadillas?” You ask the little one calmly, and you see him beam.

“Yes, please! I want to learn how to make them good like you-“

“Kid, there’s a game tomorrow. Wanna come?” Sukuna interrupts you two. He’s still sitting on the couch with his eyes closed, but now he has his arms crossed too.

“Hell yeah!” Yuuji answers, jumping with his little fist in the air. Sukuna hums.

“Gotta tell coach. You still have the jersey from last time, yeah?” He asks, getting up from the couch and rolling his left shoulder. When it pops, he grimaces in pain a little.

“Of course I do,” the kid proudly says, looking up at his big brother with stars in his eyes. Standing next to each other they look like the ghost of the past and the ghost of the future from A Christmas Carol. Yuuji is dressed in bright yellow while if Sukuna had any more black on him he’d be a shadow. A chill runs up your spine. Spooky.

“Good,” Sukuna rasps out, solemnly getting the palm of his hand on his little brother’s head.

You start preparing the ingredients for dinner. “Are you eating with-“

“I’m going to sleep,” he interrupts you once again. He still hasn’t looked you in the eyes since he entered the apartment. You turn away, not wanting Yuuji to feel the shift in your mood by looking at your face.

“Goodnight, bro,” Yuuji says cheerfully. Your other roommate rushes inside his room, locking it from inside, and you and Yuuji are left standing in front of the stove in silence.

“Oh. Well,” you start talking again awkwardly, a fake chuckle coming through. “I guess that means he’s not eating with us,” you tell Yuuji, getting back to preparing the ingredients for your dinner, now for two.

“It’s a big game, you know,” Yuuji whisper shouts from next to you, overstuffing his quesadilla. “I already knew about it, but it feels nice when he asks me to go,” the kid continues, a small smile ever present on his lips. Your gaze softens.

“What sport and position are we talking about?” You ask him, handing him a piece of cheese to chew on while you finish preparing everything.

“He’s a quaftef bafck. He’f capftainf too,” Yuuji answers between bites. So he’s a football player. His strength makes sense now.

“You seem really proud of him, Yuuji,” you tell him sweetly, adoring the way he’s trying to get his point across by waving his hands in the air a lot.

He gulps down the cheese. “Yeah, big bro always lets me wear his jersey. He told me that if someone annoying has to be wearing it, then he might as well give it to me,” he smiles, big, while you inwardly cringe. Couldn’t be Sukuna if he didn’t say something that felt more like an insult than a compliment.

“Why is it an important game?” You ask, preparing one more quesadilla.

“Because he just became captain! It’s his first game as a captain!” The kid tells you, jumping a little on his chair and watching you, excited. Oh, is that why he looked like a bird just shat on him the whole week?

“Well, then you have to be his top supporter, don’t you think?”

The next morning, you wake up early to go grocery shopping. You wanted to ask Sukuna to come with you yesterday, but after the way he probably didn’t even notice he treated you, you really don’t feel like it. You get out of your bedroom door and are met with the sight of Yuuji already wearing his brother’s way too big jersey. You snap a pic when he’s still turned around. He looks so cute.

You go toward him, who is conveniently also toward the apartment exit. He hears your footsteps and looks at you expectantly.

“Can you help me tie the scarf?” He asks you, said scarf still in his hands. It's full of little drawings of tigers, which he told you are the mascots of the football team.

“Of course Yuuji. You look so good today, I bet your brother is really happy, mh?” You smile, getting at his eye level and wrapping the piece of cloth around his neck.

“I think he’s almost ready too!” He says, raising his eyebrows. Then, he assumes a confused expression. “Wait, aren’t you coming? I thought we were going together.”

You hesitate.

“I have to go grocery shopping today,” you answer, averting your gaze.

“Can’t it wait? It’s a really big game,” Yuuji pouts.

You hesitate again.

“I don’t think your brother wants me there, Yuuyuu,” you softly smile, trying to be nonchalant, finally securing the scarf and standing back up. You try not to look into the little boy’s eyes, because you’re sure you aren’t that good at masking your feelings.

“But he was-“

“Brat, are you ready?” Comes Sukuna’s voice from down the hall. You push Yuuji toward the approaching footsteps, mouthing Go! He’s talking to you! The child looks back at you like he wants to tell you something, but you ignore it. You hastily open the door to get out, managing to catch Sukuna’s gaze only a spare second before closing it behind your back. You stiffen. Then, you walk away.

Inside the apartment, Sukuna puts on a confused expression, matching his sibling’s one.

“Where did she go? Nevermind. We’re late, Yuuji. Run, or I’ll leave you here,” he hurries out, grabbing his house keys, hands sweating and feet carrying him to the stadium, while Yuuji tries to follow him.

When the Itadori brothers come back home, Yuuji screaming and Sukuna grinning like a madman for his team’s victory, you’re not there.

“Awh, I wanted to let her know you won,” says Yuuji pouting. In your place, there’s a sticky note on the fridge, which looks like it’s been there since this morning. In the haste of leaving, they both didn't notice it.

Go Tigers!!! P.S. for Sukuna: I left some quesadillas in the fridge. Good luck, captain.

Yuuji claps his hands, saying you must have made more yesterday after dinner when he was asleep, happy to be eating something good two days in a row. Meanwhile, Sukuna can’t take his eyes off the little piece of paper.

“Yo, do you know where she went to this morning?” He asks Yuuji, who is getting out a plate to microwave the food.

“She said she went grocery shopping. She said you didn’t want her at the game,” his little brother responds, lightly and not worried at all, like this is a reoccurring conversation.

“What?” Scoffs Sukuna, baffled, whipping his head toward his brother’s. When did he ever say something like that?

“Well, she said she thought you didn’t want her there,” specifies Yuuji, shrugging, getting two forks and two knives to put on the kitchen table. “I tried telling her you bought her a ticket too! But I don’t know, she seemed…” he stops, thinking about the correct words to say, now looking directly at his big brother’s eyes. “She seemed sad,” he finishes, muttering.

Right then, a tube of cream for bruises put near the coffee machine catches Sukuna’s eyes. He grits his teeth. He thinks back to yesterday, and to the way you rushed out this morning. To the way you obviously tried to ignore him when you locked his gaze. To the way your ticket never left his pocket, because he never properly asked you to come.

Suddenly, the words on the sticky note burn on his skin like a fresh tattoo.

Shit.

#college au #sukuna x reader #sukuna fluff #ryomen sukuna #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x reader #sukuna x y/n #sukuna x you #sukuna oneshot #sukuna jjk #sukuna crack #jjk x y/n #jjk fics #jjk x you #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #sukuna angst #ryomen sukuna angst

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whytheylosttheirminds · 1 day ago

Text

make this place your home - r.c.

Rafe Cameron x Maybank!reader

summary: Rafe has been begging you to move in with him, but when you finally show him the place your heart belongs to, he realizes he'd do anything to make you happy.

content: fluff, angst, a drizzle of spice, semi-canon obx if you were to eliminate some pretty important things lol

cw: mentions of blood and injury, suggestive comments, closed-door romance, mentions of abusive parents (Luke)

note: my contribution to @zyafics mrga campaign <3

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“Don’t open your eyes yet!”

“I’m gonna trip over something and fall on my ass. Or run into something. This is The Cut, who knows what junk is just lying around. I’m gonna get tetris or some shit.”

You laughed out loud. Rafe nearly opened his eyes to figure out why.

“See, now you’re laughing at me, you better not be doing some dumb shit to me for a Tiktok,” he warned.

“Oh my god, you’re such a baby, calm down,” you chuckled. “I’m laughing because you’re cute. It’s tetanus, not tetris.”

He should feel embarrassed, but the sound of your laugh and of you calling him cute calmed every muscle in his body. You were a balm that went straight to his agitated heart.

You were the only one who could disarm him when he got irritated like this. You told him once that you don’t take his bad moods personally because you can see them for what they are - he’s not angry, he’s anxious. He realized then that you’re the only person who’d ever really understood him, that you might understand him better than he understands himself.

It’s why his shoulders relax now, it’s why he can take a deep breath. There was no one else in the world who could convince him to let them drive his boat while he’s blindfolded or walk through the tall, marshy grass without knowing where he was going. Only you.

“Can I open my eyes now?” He asked.

“We’re not there yet,” you shook your head, hand still on his arm to lead him closer to your surprise. “You can go one more minute without seeing where you’re going.”

“Maybe, but I don’t know if I can go another minute without seeing you,” he flirted.

You smiled, tempted to rip the blindfold off him and forget all about the surprise. Too bad for him you already knew all his tricks.

“Nice try, Cameron.”

As you got closer, your stomach twisted. Maybe this was stupid. After all, wouldn’t it be underwhelming to Rafe after all he’s seen? This place meant so much to you, you didn’t know if you could handle any criticism from him. You considered turning around, but you’d already made such a big deal out of this, how would you explain it to him?

“Okay, this is a good spot, I guess,” you said, your voice shaking with trepidation.

“You good?” Rafe asked. Of course he could tell your mood shifted without even looking at you.

“Yeah, I think, just open your eyes.” At this point you just wanted to get his inevitable disappointment over with.

Slowly, Rafe opened his eyes. He blinked a few times to adjust to the blinding Carolina sunlight before finally sizing up your big reveal.

It was your house, the one he’d been to a hundred times before - sneaking into your window so your brother wouldn’t hear, showing up in the night to investigate when you “heard a noise,” defending you from Luke when he got violent. Except, this wasn’t the same house. It was bigger, for one. And slightly bigger, with new walls, new roof, and a big, hand painted flag in your brother’s handwriting: “Poguelandia.”

It wasn’t much, but it was your dream come true. In your eyes, you may as well have been standing in front of a magic castle. As you watched Rafe’s expression stay completely unchanged you realized that to him, it probably still looked like some shitty shack on The Cut. You wished you never brought him here.

“This is what you guys have been working on this whole time?” He asked, still looking at the house and not at you.

“Yeah, I mean, and the store,” you gestured to the dock behind you where you and your friends had built yourselves a small business. Another thing that would surely seem pathetic compared to what Rafe was used to.

“It’s nice, I like it,” Rafe said.

“No it’s okay, you don’t have to lie,” you said, voice small. You started to turn to leave. “I shouldn’t have made such a big deal out of it, let’s just go-”

“Hey, woah, woah,” Rafe interrupted you gently.

He approached you from behind, arms twisting around your waist, forcing you to turn back and look at your home. He had to duck down to slot his chin into your shoulder, swaying you both gently.

“If I had to come all this way, I think I at least deserve the grand tour, don’t I?” he mumbled into your ear.

Your smile returned, you nuzzled your cheek into his, heart swelling.

“I guess, if you insist,” you said with a cheeky grin.

“I do,” he nodded, tickling your neck with his buzzed hair. He tilted his head down to place a sloppy kiss into the crook of your shoulder. “I’m especially looking forward to seeing your bedroom.”

“You mean the one I share with your sister?”

He groaned, “why do you torture me like this?”

“Because it’s fun.” You twisted away from his hold and slid your hand down his arm to interlock your fingers with his.

Rafe followed you onto the porch. You paused at the front door for dramatic effect.

“Hello MTV, welcome to my crib!”

Rafe smiled as you cracked up at your own joke, but his momentary joy turned sour when you opened the door and revealed an unwelcome sight on the other side; the Pogues.

The lively discussion that had been filling your shared living room stopped dead in its tracks. The room turned cold. Six icy stares were aimed in your boyfriend’s direction.

You understood why they disliked him so much. He didn’t put much effort into changing their minds. But he’d changed yours. And though you’d tried for years not to, you loved him. Neither of you had said it yet, but you knew it was true, at least for you.

There had been countless arguments between you and your brother and the shared friends that were basically family about Rafe. Countless fights you’d stopped between JJ and Rafe, countless nights begging Rafe just to try a little harder, begging JJ just to give him a chance. They both cared for you enough not to kill each other, but it was a reluctant ceasefire. A fragile peace you were always vigilant to protect. A truce that could be broken at any moment. You prayed this wasn’t that moment.

“Sorry, I didn’t think you guys were home,” you explained. The six pogues shared concerned glances with each other, something unsaid that you felt had nothing to do with you walking in with their least favorite person. “What’s going on?”

Kie stood, shot a brief but blazing glare towards Rafe, and handed you a piece of paper. You read it carefully, your eyebrows creased in confusion that was slowly morphing into great concern. Rafe read over your shoulder.

It was an official warning from the Kildare City Council. The land you were standing on and the home you’d built would be rezoned. They were taking Poguelandia.

“What the hell?” You shouted. “Can they actually do this?”

“Looks like they already are,” John B confirmed.

“No, no. There has to be something we can -”

“There’s not!” JJ stood from his seat at the far end of the room.

You could see it all over his face, the anger that was always lying just beneath the surface starting to make its way to the top. Everyone thought of JJ as a happy-go-lucky, silly, mischievous kid. And he was all those things, but he was something else, something only you really saw; a hurt kid who never healed.

“There’s never something we can do,” JJ continued, stalking slowly toward you, but keeping his eyes locked on Rafe the whole time. “Not when Kooks are involved. They always win.”

“Back up, Maybank,” Rafe snarled, looking down at JJ, who’d gotten close enough to break the barrier of Rafe’s personal space.

You stepped between them instinctually, a move you’d made a hundred times before.

“Stop.” You put a gentle hand on JJ’s chest to back him up, but he didn’t budge. “This isn’t his fault, J.”

“How do we know that, huh?” JJ finally tore his eyes off Rafe to look at you. “How do we know he’s not behind it somehow? Trying to steal our land for another bougie ass development project. You can’t trust these people, sis. How many times do we have to get screwed by them before you realize it?”

You and your brother looked at each other for a long time. The rest of the room watched as the two of you seemed to have a conversation none of them could hear; the unspoken language of siblings who’d been to hell and back together.

After a long moment, you turned your gaze toward Rafe.

“Do- do you know anything about this?” You asked him hesitantly.

His face fell. A series of emotions flashed across his features so quickly, you were sure you were the only one in the room who caught them all; surprise, betrayal, hurt, anger, and finally, back to his go-to: detached stoicism.

“That’s really what you think of me? That I’d do something like this?” His tone was even, his voice far away even though you were inches apart.

You knew you’d hurt him by even entertaining the idea that he’d betray you like this. But this ground was shaky, and you had been screwed over by Kooks your entire life. The trust you put in him did not come easy, and sometimes it wavered, even though he’d never given it any reason to.

Rafe’s jaw clenched when you didn’t answer. He nodded once, his lips twisting into the kind of smile that had absolutely no joy behind it.

“Unbelievable.” He muttered.

He took one last searing look around the room, twelve hateful eyes met him, and he didn’t look at your watery ones before turning and storming out of the house, the newly installed screen door banging shut behind him.

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Your knees were tucked all the way to your chest, your chin resting on them as you wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to manufacture any sort of comfort. It wasn’t working.

The zone change notice sat on the bed in front of you. You read it over and over, as though if you just wanted it badly enough, the words would change into something less devastating.

You were going to lose your home. You’d probably lost the love of your life, before you could even tell him he was the love of your life. Your brother was one step from completely falling over the edge, the rocky path toward destruction that you’d pulled him back from your whole lives getting steeper by the minute. A few hours ago you were excitedly cleaning this room so you could show Rafe. How could so much change in so little time?

A knock at the door pulled you from your spiraling thoughts.

“Come in,” you said quietly.

The door creaked slightly despite it being brand new. Sarah tiptoed into the room gently, searching you for any signs of distress.

“Sar, you don’t have to knock to come into your own room,” you told her.

“I know, I just thought maybe you needed some space.”

You shook your head and scooted over on the bed to make space for her. She took your invitation with a smile and settled in next to you.

“So…how’s your day going?” She asked in a singy-songy voice.

You both erupted in bittersweet laughter.

“Oh y’know, I’ve had better.”

She nudged your arm with her elbow.

“Everything’s gonna be okay, you know.” She assured you.

“Is it though? I mean really, Sar, is it?” No laughter hung in the air now. “I mean, what if I just lost my home and my boyfriend? Or worse, what if I just lost my home to my boyfriend.”

“You really think Rafe would’ve done something like this?” She asked.

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t want to. You heard him though, when I asked him about it, he didn’t deny it.”

Sarah sighed, a deep exhale that usually signaled she was about to say something she didn’t want to.

“What?” You prodded.

“Look, I’m not my brother’s biggest fan, you know that,” she began.

“Um yes, you’ve made that very clear,” you chuckled, thinking of all the times Sarah had warned you not to get involved with Rafe.

“But, just this one time, I’m going to…” She paused dramatically, her eyes screwed shut with reluctance. “...defend him.”

Your eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Be honest, how hard was that for you to say?” You teased.

“I’m holding back vomit right now,” she laughed.

“Well then defend him quickly before you yack on my bed.”

“Okay, I just,” she paused to consider her words carefully. “I know you know Rafe really well. I mean you’re the only one he’s ever really let in, so you probably know him better than anyone. But I’ve known him longer than anyone. I’ve seen every version of him. I knew Rafe before he met you, and now I know him after he met you, and believe me when I tell you, those two are not the same guy. As cliche as it sounds, you changed him.”

You sat in silence, letting the words settle over you, surprised by how emotional they were making you. You willed the tears forming in your eyes not to fall.

“Don’t get me wrong, he’s still a dick,” Sarah added. You were grateful for a reason to laugh before you started crying. “But he’s not the same. There was a time where I’d say ‘absolutely, Rafe definitely did this just to screw us over,’ but not anymore. Not since he fell in love with you.”

You looked up in surprise, the tears at your lash line threatening to finally spill over.

“You think he loves me?”

“Girl, be so for real. That man has never looked at anyone the way he looks at you. Believe me, he’s yours.”

Your heart skipped, and the tears finally fell. You rose from the bed so suddenly, Sarah almost fell back onto the mattress. You didn’t know what had taken over you, just that you needed to go, now. Everything in you was being pulled toward him, like sand being dragged back out to sea by the tide. If you spent one more minute of your life without him knowing what you were so certain of now, you might not make it.

Sarah smiled at you, she read it all over your face.

“Go!” She urged.

“Love you!” You shouted over your shoulder as you raced out of your bedroom.

“Love you too, you freak,” she smiled to herself, knowing you were already long gone.

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Where could he have gone? Your mind flipped through all the possibilities as you ran across the lawn toward the dock. JJ would probably be pissed that you took The Snapper without asking first, but didn’t even care about that right now. You just needed to find Rafe.

You didn’t have to search for long.

As soon as your feet hit the wooden dock, they stopped in their tracks.

At the end of the pier sat Rafe’s boat bobbing in the water. The long figure of your boyfriend leaned over the bow. You watched with a big, bright smile as he untied the line, then retied it, then untied it, and retied it once more. He was clearly having a silent disagreement with himself. All that mattered to you was that he hadn’t left.

You approached slowly, avoiding the planks in the dock you knew would creak and give away your presence. The closer you got to him, the faster your heart beat. The words you were dying to say sat perched at the end of your tongue, you knew they wouldn’t be able to hang on much longer.

Half way through untying the boat again, Rafe stopped and sighed.

“Need a push?” You said.

His eyes shot up to yours, startled. Tension filled his shoulders as he took you in, his shock quickly fading to something softer, yet still unsure.

“That depends,” he squinted in the sun to see you better.

God, he was gorgeous. You could not let him get away.

“Depends on what?” You played along.

“If my girlfriend will forgive me for being a dismissive prick,” he said.

You forced your lips not to twist into a smile, pretending to consider his words.

“I think she might. If you forgive her first,” you said.

His eyes softened, lips twitching. You were both failing not to smile at each other now.

Rafe finally tied up the boat for good, hopping up onto the dock. You admired every movement of his body as it drew closer to yours. When he reached you, he placed his hands on your waist, your arms drawing up to wrap around his neck, stretching up on your tiptoes to get as close to him as possible.

“She has nothing to apologize for. The only home she’s ever known is being threatened. She’s just scared. I get that.”

Every word fanned over you like a soft summer breeze. Your heart warmed, impossibly full despite all the anxieties today had brought. He just got you, he understood without you having to say it. This must be the closest two people can get to making magic, you thought.

“Thank you,” you let your head fall forward to rest on his chest. He kissed the top of your head.

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” he whispered into your hair.

You looked back up at him, shaking your head.

“How is everything gonna be okay, Rafe? What if there really is nothing we can do? I mean, who’s even behind this?”

Rafe didn’t answer, but one name popped into his mind. Even with his suspicions, he didn’t know if he could help you. Helplessness was the feeling he despised more than any other, especially when it came to you.

“I don’t know,” he said, his heart breaking at the despairing look on your face. “But you’ve still got me. You could always move into the condo with me, like I’ve been begging you for months.”

“Can I bring my friends with me?” You scrunched up your nose, hoping he’d find you cute enough to say yes.

“I love you, but there’s no way in hell…”

A bolt of lightning shot through you, goosebumps erupting over your entire body. Did he really just say…?

He instantly read the shock on your face, but there was no look of regret on his.

“What? Haven’t I said I love you before?”

“Umm, no, I think I would’ve remembered that!” You couldn’t help the big, goofy grin taking over your whole face.

“Oh, well that’s weird,” he shrugged, his hands sliding from your waist to your lower back, wrapping his strong arms around you and lifting you off your feet. “Because I do love you, so fucking much.”

You yelped as he lifted you into the air, head falling back in laughter as he almost tumbled you both off the dock in his effort to sweep you off your feet.

You looked down at him and he lowered you slowly, tucking his head into the crook of your neck, arms still wrapped around each other like you’d never let go. You stood there embracing for a long time, so long that the sun was starting to set, casting a golden shimmer across the water.

Finally you said, “I never gave you the grand tour.”

“And I was really looking forward to seeing your crib,” he teased, his lips brushing against the skin of your neck when he talked.

“Well, c’mon then.” You grabbed his hand, leading him back toward the house, both of you buzzing with the excitement that there was something much better than a tour waiting for you inside.

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“...And this is John B and JJ’s room,” you opened the door only a crack, afraid to unleash the stench that permanently filled the space. “They insisted on getting bunk beds even though they’re, like, forty. And Pope insisted on having his own room because, as he said, ‘JJ is a walking biohazard.’ Which is…fair.”

Rafe was just watching you with adoration as you showed him around the house. He was barely looking at the rooms you were showing him because he was so focused on the way you glowed with joy. It was true that he wanted you to move to Bayline with him, it was his life’s goal to get you there, actually, but he had to admit that you seemed like you really belonged here. He’d never seen you look more at home.

“And this is our gallery wall.” You gestured to the display of framed photographs hanging in the upstairs hallway.

Rafe surveyed them dutifully with his hands tucked politely behind his back, like an old man in an art museum. Most of the photographs were of you and the pogues at various times in your life. Out fishing in the marsh, riding dirt bikes, post-surf at the beach. You admired the way Rafe was looking so intently and resisting the urge to grimace at so many photos of you with his once sworn enemies.

He explored the wall, eyes lingering on any photo of you a little longer than the rest. The hall continued to lead down toward your bedroom. At the very end, in a high corner, just above a series of photo booth pictures you’d taken with Sarah and Kie last summer, hung a delicate circular frame featuring a worn-out picture almost too small to see. Rafe leaned in for a better look.

In the photo, which was a tad faded and clearly taken several years ago, was a young guy, probably about 30, holding two young kids on his lap. The slightly bigger one, a boy, held up a trout he’d just caught, flashing a toothless grin. The little girl beamed at the man holding her.

It took Rafe a moment, but when he felt your weight shift next to him uncomfortably, he put it all together. The photo was you, JJ, and Luke. Probably the only one you had. And despite everything Luke had put you through, you’d hung it on the wall to see everyday.

Rafe turned to you, you were looking down at your feet, toes digging anxiously into the rug. His heart ached. If anyone knew what it was like to have a complicated relationship with their father, it was him. The fact that you’d still given Luke some dignity in this house he almost destroyed so many times said so much about you, and reminded him why he loved you so much.

“You wanna show me your room now?” He asked gently.

You looked up at him with glassy eyes and a small smile, “yeah.”

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The door clicked closed softly. Rafe took in the room, immediately identifying which bed was yours and which bed (the messy, half-made one) was his sister’s.

“Sarah doesn’t spend much time in here,” you admitted.

“No?” He asked, keeping his eyes off of you, the closed door suddenly adding a nervous energy to the room he wasn’t expecting.

“She mainly sleeps with John B.” Rafe grimaced, you hurried to reassure him. “Like, in his bed I mean, or his bunk I guess. Not, like sleep with him sleep with him, although I’m sure there’s plenty of that -”

“I’m literally begging you to stop talking,” he said, his eyes finding the ceiling, no doubt trying to erase the mental picture you just created for him.

“Sorry,” you chuckled.

Rafe wandered around the room some more, taking in all your decorations. He never understood why someone could collect so many knick-knacks that seemed to be worth nothing, but there was something endearing about it that drew him to you even more. Just another in a long line of things that would annoy him with someone else, but enchanted him with you.

As your time alone in the room dragged on, the air became tenser. You felt yourself watching him, but unable to move, back pressed up against the door, frozen in anticipation.

You and Rafe had been alone together before - and you had been together before - but something had shifted out on that dock. Something that you knew you couldn’t take back, and didn’t want to. In fact, you only wanted to solidify it more.

“Rafe,” you said softly, finally pulling his attention away from your decor.

He looked up at you expectantly, like he had been waiting for you to give him permission to. He didn’t respond, just walked slowly toward you, his eyes on yours the whole way. Your heart was beating out of your chest.

“I don’t know why I’m so nervous,” you said, trying to laugh to break the tension, though the sound came out more like a hiccup.

“Has something changed?” He wondered aloud.

“Yeah, I guess it has.” You chewed on your bottom lip. “Because today I realized two important things.”

“What two things?” He asked, surprised, and a little alarmed, by your answer.

“The first is that this is my home, and that in a way, it will always be my home. And yet at the same time, I also realized that you’re my future, and I love you.”

Rafe’s smile spread slowly, like he was taking in each word one at a time. His blue eyes sparkled - like actually sparkled - with joy. Maybe you were imagining it, but it didn’t matter, you just wanted him to keep looking at you like that.

“Oh you love me, huh?” His voice was low and dangerous, he stepped closer until he was towering over you.

“Yeah, haven’t I said that before?” You echoed his words from earlier back to him.

He just shook his head at you, tucking his tongue in the corner of his cheek to try and tame his smile. His hands found your waist like they were made to fit there. His voice carried down to your very core as he leaned in.

“You know you can’t take it back now, right?”

“Why would I take it back? I mean it, Rafe, with everything I have. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

And he showed you. His body enveloping yours as he backed you up against the door and kissed you deeply. A whole new energy between you now, your need and your affection for each other stronger than ever.

Before you could get carried away, footsteps on the stairs reminded you of a very crucial step of bringing your boyfriend home.

“Wait, hold on.” You pulled away from Rafe and he frowned. His disappointment was so cute you were tempted to kiss the pout right off of him, but first you rummaged through a drawer in you and Sarah’s shared dresser.

“What is that?” Rafe asked when you pulled out a conch shell glued to a piece of twine.

“Just a little system Sarah and I have.” You winked at him, opening the door just a crack to hang the shell from the doorknob.

“Do I want to know?” Rafe asked.

“I don’t know, do you want to talk more about your sister’s love life, or work on ours?” You bit back your smile when he cringed at your words, suddenly realizing Sarah’s use for the shell with a shudder.

“You’re lucky I love you,” he said, before scooping you up and carrying you over his shoulder, just to drop you on the bed with a bounce.

“Yes, I am,” you smiled up at him.

And he showed you, over and over, just how lucky you were.

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It was different this time, more passionate, more intense, more everything. And when he held you after, whispering more I love you’s into your hair, and neck, and the side of your face, you knew it must’ve felt the same for him, too.

You laid tucked into his side, his arm wrapped around your shoulders so he could intertwine his fingers with yours as you both stared up at the ceiling in pure bliss.

You sighed a happy, airy sigh and nuzzled closer to him.

“You know I just mean for now, right?” You said.

He twisted his neck at what must’ve been an uncomfortable angle to try and see your face.

“You just love me for now?” He asked, incredulous.

“No, no!” You couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry, no, that’s not what I meant. I meant to say, this is just my home for now.”

“Oh, okay,” he rested his head back onto the pillow. “That’s better, I guess.”

You sat up, shuffling through the sheets so you could see him. You brought your legs up and sat criss cross on the bed next to him. Rafe lazily reached out a hand to tuck your hair behind your ear as he waited for the words he knew you were trying to formulate. He loved that you thought so hard before speaking, always determined to say what you mean. You loved that he waited to hear what you had to say, a patience he reserved almost exclusively for you.

“I know it must seem weird,” you began, “that I’m so attached to a place with so many bad memories. And I know you want me to live with you, and I want that too, eventually. But you have to understand, for so much of my life, it was just me and JJ. It was just us in this house. Even though a lot of it was us hiding from Luke or fending for ourselves when he didn’t come home for days at a time, there are good memories hidden in all the bad ones. Like, at the bottom of the stairs, there’s a spot where JJ and I accidentally ran our sled into the wall when we were stair-surfing. We covered it with chewed bubblegum and colored it in with marker, and Luke never noticed. Or in the kitchen, there’s tally marks under the countertop where we used to keep track of how many beers Luke had so we knew when it was time to go to John B’s for the night. And on the old dock, where our store is now, we made each other a pinky promise that someday we’d grow up and make something of ourselves and buy this house right out from under him. And we did it! And now, they’re just going to, what, take it away? Punish us for rising above the low expectations that they set for us? We were hurt here, yeah. But we also survived here. We did it together. I can’t leave that, or him, not now, not yet.”

Rafe drank in your words, and when tears came, he didn’t wipe them away or tell you to stop crying, he just let them fall. Let you feel what you needed to feel. His hand stayed firmly rested on your leg, there to hold only if you wanted it.

Through sobs you finally said, “this is our home, Rafe. We’re gonna lose our home.”

He’d heard enough. He stood from the bed quickly, pulling on his khakis and polo wordlessly.

“Where are you going?”

Rafe turned to look at you, saw the worry in your eyes and leaned over your bed so his face was level with yours. You would have been frightened by the steel in his eyes if you weren’t so excited by it.

“You asked me how it was going to be okay, right?” He said, voice low and tinged with danger.

You just nodded, unsure what to make of this sudden change in demeanor.

“It’s going to be okay because I’m going to make it okay.”

With that he stood and stalked toward the door, stopping to look at you one more time.

“Get some sleep, yeah? I’ll be back in a bit.”

You didn’t bother to ask where he was going, you knew he wasn’t going to tell you. When he had a plan like this, there was no slowing him down. Usually, his plans were self-serving. He was a strategist, like his father. Only now, it seemed, you were the beneficiary of his plot, and you weren’t sure what to expect.

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It sure as hell wasn’t the doorbell ringing at two in the morning.

It had started to storm and the thunder was rumbling through the house. It took a few rings before you could even hear the doorbell over the sound of the rain. Sarah lay on one side of you, Kie on the other, Cleo at the foot of the bed. They’d come to comfort you after Rafe left and you all cried yourself to sleep talking about the future of Poguelandia.

You accidentally kicked Cleo when you got up, who then kicked Sarah, who reached over and hit Kie in the arm as if it was her fault. Everyone was awake now.

“Noise. Bad. Make it stop,” Sarah grumbled into her pillow.

“Hit me again and I’ll make you stop breathing,” Kie said, her threat a little deflated considering she made it with her eyes still closed.

The doorbell rang out again, in rapid succession this time, causing everyone to groan and cover their ears.

“Who the hell rings the doorbell at 2 a.m.?” Sarah whined.

“If it’s those goddamn Jehovah’s Witnesses again, I’m gonna shove their little pamphlet down their throats,” Cleo said.

“I’ll get it,” you said through a yawn.

“Wait, you’re gonna go alone?” Kie grabbed your hand to pull you back.

“What if you get murdered?” Sarah said, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

Kie and Sarah both climbed out of bed with you, but Cleo didn’t budge.

“If you get murdered let me know,” she said, pulling the blankets tighter around her. “I will avenge you.”

Kie rolled her eyes and pulled the blankets off Cleo, Sarah grabbed her hand to drag her from the bed.

“You’re coming with us, babe,” Sarah said over Cleo’s protests. “And bring your knife.”

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Lightning struck somewhere across the marsh at the exact second the door flew open. You and all three girls, wrapped in your blankets and holding various kitchen utensils, screamed at the sight on the other side. A dark figure of a man stood on the front porch, too far from the light for anyone to make out his identity. Cleo stepped in front of you all with her knife wielded.

“Hey! You better show yourself or get lost,” she shouted at the figure.

As the man slowly made his way into the flickering porch light, you realized you recognized the broad curve of those shoulders, the slope of that neck.

“Rafe,” you whispered.

Just as you identified him, the porch light swept across his face, and all four of you gasped.

The same places on his face you’d laid gentle kisses just a few hours ago were now black and blue, except in the places they were bloody. And he wasn’t walking slowly toward the light, he was limping, barely able to stand. He leaned against the door frame, holding his right hand in his left, his knuckles were raw and wounded.

“Rafe!” You repeated, pushing past your friends to get to him. You tried to support his weight but you couldn’t manage it alone. Sarah came to his other side to help catch him as he stumbled forward.

Kie, however, took a defensive step backward, her arms crossed over her chest. Cleo kept her knife raised.

“Think you can put down the knife now, babe,” Sarah told her.

“You never know,” Cleo said, narrowing her eyes at Rafe.

“Cleo, look at him,” you scolded.

She gave Rafe a once over, finally determining he wasn’t a threat in this state.

“Let’s get him on the couch,” you told Sarah. “Quickly, before he falls.”

Cleo stepped away to allow you to walk Rafe further into the living room. Kie created more distance between herself and your bloodied house guest. You searched her face quickly, it was a mixture of alarm and defensiveness. You could see the decision as it was being made, you tried to stop her but you were too late.

“Kie, wait!”

But she was already running up the stairs, surely to wake the boys. There was no version of these circumstances that would be made better by your half-awake, hotheaded brother.

You and Sarah finally got Rafe on the couch. He leaned forward, grimacing in pain as he propped his head in his hands. You knelt in front of him, trying to find his eyes with yours.

“Rafe, baby, what happened? Are you okay? Please talk to me.”

You placed your hands on his legs, rubbing soothing circles, begging him to fill the silence with an explanation. You looked at Sarah with pure panic in your eyes, she looked back with concern. Whether it was for you or for her brother, you weren’t sure.

“Rafe, it’s okay, whatever it is, you can tell us,” she encouraged him.

You’d never been more thankful for your best friend. You knew how much it took for her to offer him comfort like that.

You reached up to cup Rafe’s cheek in your hand, touching gently so as to not worsen his pain.

“Please, baby, what happened?”

He finally looked at you, and your heart skipped a beat. You thought maybe he was going to confess something terrible, or else cry out in agony. But instead, he just smiled that soft, sleepy half-smile of his and placed his hand over top of yours, caressing your skin with his thumb.

“I made it okay,” he whispered to you.

Before you could react, footsteps thundered down the stairs behind you, the fury of their descent louder than the storm outside.

“What the hell is going on?” JJ bellowed.

“What are you doing here, Cameron?” Pope followed up.

John B rushed to Sarah’s side, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“Everything okay?” He asked the both of you.

“I don’t know,” you shook your head, rising to sit next to Rafe on the couch, slipping your hand into his. The sight only enraged JJ further.

“You have ten seconds to explain yourself and stop bleeding on our fucking couch, Rafe.” JJ barked.

“Jay, can’t you see he’s obviously hurt?” You snapped at your brother.

“Looks more like he did the hurting,” JJ replied.

“You don’t know that! You always assume the worst!” You yelled.

“Because he is the worst!” JJ yelled right back.

You stood in anger, ready to fight your own brother in defense of the man at your side. But Rafe grabbed your hand and pulled you back towards him, not lifting his head as he held you in place. His other hand reached into his back pocket, pulling out a piece of paper that had been folded to protect it from the rain.

Rafe looked up finally, but not at you, at JJ. He extended his arm to offer JJ the piece of paper.

JJ tiptoed over as if Rafe had somehow booby trapped the floorboards between them. You rolled your eyes at his dramatics.

With all eyes on him, and no sound but the storm outside, JJ unfolded the piece of paper. He read it for a long time. Like, a really long time. The little sister in you had to bite back a joke about his intellect, and you met eyes with Pope to see he was holding back the same comment. Even in this incredibly adult moment, you were kids together.

Finally, JJ looked up from the paper. Staring incredulously at Rafe.

“Is this for real?” JJ asked him, eyebrows raised.

Rafe just nodded, the movement causing the cut on his lip to open, making him wince in pain. You sat down beside him again, watching him anxiously for signs that he was hurt elsewhere.

JJ just stared at the two of you for a moment before turning and leaving the room, dropping the piece of paper on the coffee table as he left. Pope and John B went to it immediately to read what had caused JJ to storm out, but you didn’t even care at this point, all that mattered was Rafe being okay, you needed him to be okay.

Except, JJ hadn’t stormed out. He had only gone to the kitchen, from which he was now returning, a bottle of whiskey and a bag of frozen peas in hand. He offered both to Rafe, Rafe opted for the whiskey. He twisted open the cap and took a sip, wincing as it went down.

You grabbed the peas from your brother, holding them up to Rafe’s black eye. He flinched at the contact but settled after a minute. JJ watched as Rafe placed his hand on your leg gratefully and handed back the bottle of whiskey.

“What’s the bourbon for? Drowning our sorrows?” Cleo asked.

“No,” John B said, he and Pope looking up from the paper with disbelieving grins. “Celebrating.”

“What does it say?” Kie asked, stepping further into the room, though she continued to eye Rafe like he was a wild animal that could go feral at any minute.

“We got the land back. They’re not rezoning,” Pope explained. “We’re keeping Poguelandia.”

The room froze for a minute, then erupted in a burst of hoots and hollers. Finally, the storm had some noise to compete with. The others hugged and cheered. Sarah rose from the couch and threw herself into John B’s arms.

“How’d you do it, man?” John B asked Rafe.

“Don’t worry about it,” Rafe said, squeezing your leg three times. “I just took care of it, okay?”

He sounded aggressive, like he always did when addressing these six people, but you saw this for what it really was - a peace offering. A grand gesture. A declaration of his love for you. He gave you your home back, he gave you everything.

As the others continued to celebrate, the volume in the house reaching new heights as they passed around the bottle of whiskey and toasted Poguelandia, you leaned into Rafe, your chin tucked into his shoulder so you could whisper something in his ear.

He smiled at your words, raising his arm to wrap around your shoulders and curling you toward him so he could bring his lips to your temple.

“I love you, too.”

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a/n: had to come out of retirement for this one, missed my boy too much. and holy shit did I have fun writing for rafey again. also this is as canon as I'll write Rafe lol

oh, and what did rafe have to do to get Poguelandia back? That stays between me and him xoxo

518 notes · View notes

ssweeterthanfiction · 12 days ago

Text

off the record!

summary: a sweet journalist is picked to trail billionaire bachelor Harry Castillo for an article that could change her career…and life.

harry castillo x fem journalist!reader

content warnings for the whole story: age gap (harry is in mid fourties, reader is in her late twenties), some angst in later chapters (other than that this is going to be for my fluff girlies)

word count: 2k

mood board

masterlist | next part

Chapter One

You were running late.

Not disastrously late—but late enough that the latte you’d bought ten minutes ago had gone lukewarm, and your tote bag kept slipping off your shoulder, and you’d already gotten your scarf caught in the revolving door of the subway station. Twice.

This was not the morning of someone assigned to trail Harry Castillo. No, this was the morning of someone who was supposed to be tucked into a cubicle, fact-checking book blurbs and editing press releases, not writing a feature piece on a man who could buy the building you lived in and turn it into a wine cellar.

You checked your phone again: Meeting with Mr. Castillo’s team– 9:00 AM.

It was 8:56. You were a block away.

“Okay,” you mumbled to yourself, clutching your coffee in one hand and your notepad in the other. “Don’t trip. Don’t stutter. Don’t call him sir. Don’t-”

And that’s when it happened.

You collided with someone—full-body, mid-stride—and your paper cup launched from your hand like it had been shot from a cannon. It hit him squarely in the chest and spilled everywhere: across the lapel of his navy overcoat, down the front of a crisp white dress shirt, and onto a pair of what were definitely very expensive shoes.

“Oh my God-” you gasped, already pulling tissues from your bag, “I am so sorry, I wasn’t watching where I-”

The man didn’t yell. He didn’t even flinch.

He just stared at you, deadpan.

And very, very familiar.

You froze.

Sharp cheekbones. Dark eyes. Subtle but well-earned frown lines. He looked like he’d been carved from money. Which… he basically had.

“Oh my God,” you whispered again. “You’re-”

“Harry Castillo,” he said flatly, flicking a glance down at his coat. “And you’re the reason I now smell like oat milk and espresso”

You wanted to sink into the pavement.

“I’m so sorry,” you said again, frantically blotting at his jacket with the sleeve of your cardigan before realizing that was worse. “I was just- I didn’t see- this isn’t usually how I introduce myself, I swear.”

He studied you. Carefully.

You could feel your blush rising in real time.

“I’ll buy you another one,” you said suddenly. “Coffee. Not the coat. I definitely can’t afford the coat.”

Something twitched at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But not not a smile.

“It’s fine,” he said, brushing a few droplets from his sleeve. “I own dry cleaners.”

You blinked. “Of course you do.”

He moved to step around you, but paused. “You’re not press, are you?”

You shook your head. “No- I mean, yes, technically, but not- I'm not paparazzi or anything, I swear. I'm a writer. With Kindling. Just… small features. This week. One week. Just shadowing.”

“Ah,” he said. “So you’re the one they sent to humanize me.”

“I guess so.”

“You’re off to a great start.”

Your jaw dropped. But when you looked up at him, he was smiling now, just a little.

Then he adjusted his cufflink, nodded once, and disappeared into the glass-and-marble lobby behind him, leaving you on the sidewalk clutching a crumpled napkin and your ruined dignity.

You exhaled a laugh, half in awe, half in horror.

Day one. You hadn’t even made it through the door.

You stared at the spot where he’d disappeared, still holding your half-empty coffee cup like a peace offering. Or a crime scene artifact.

Harry Castillo.

Of course that’s how the week would start. Not with a confident handshake or a witty opener, but with an oat milk assault on a billionaire’s overcoat. You considered just turning around and going home, resigning by email, maybe switching careers entirely. Dog walking? Librarian? Something with less risk of public humiliation.

But instead, you smoothed your sweater, tugged your tote higher onto your shoulder, and walked through the same glass doors he had just vanished behind.

The lobby of Castillo Capital was like walking into a luxury watch ad: sleek, intimidating, all cool marble and warm lighting. A receptionist glanced up as you approached, her eyes flicking over your cardigan, your scuffed boots, and your slightly coffee-stained notebook like a barcode scanner.

“I’m here for the media profile?” you said, voice pitching upward like a question. “Um, with Mr. Castillo’s team.”

She didn’t blink. “Name?”

You gave it.

A beat. Then she nodded, tapped something into her computer, and gestured toward the gold-trimmed elevators. “Thirty-eighth floor. They’re expecting you.”

You swallowed, muttered a thank-you, and stepped into the elevator. It smelled like leather and ambition. The kind of place where you definitely weren’t supposed to press all the buttons at once just to see what happens.

The doors opened with a soft chime.

The thirty-eighth floor was…quieter than you expected. Sleek and minimal, sure, but not cold. There was art on the walls. Someone was playing faint jazz from a speaker. The waiting area had soft chairs and bottled water that probably cost more than your rent.

You perched on the edge of a leather armchair, rereading your notes for the hundredth time.

This wasn’t just your first real assignment, it was your chance. You were supposed to be a fly on the wall, following him for a week, writing something “approachable but aspirational,” in your editor’s words. “Make him seem human, but not boring. Thoughtful, but still powerful. Like if Gatsby had a climate initiative.”

Right.

You were just rereading your pitch line when a sleek glass door swung open and...

It was him.

Again.

Harry Castillo stood there, somehow looking cleaner than he had ten minutes ago, like the coffee had been a hallucination. He’d changed jackets, this one was charcoal, even sharper than the last, and his hair was still perfectly in place. His eyes landed on you immediately.

You jumped to your feet.

“Hi. Again,” you said, heart climbing into your throat.

He looked at you for a long moment, then unexpectedly, he tilted his head.

“You know,” he said, voice calm as ever, “most people wait until the second meeting to spill something on me.”

You made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “It’s part of my process. Very avant-garde.”

He cracked the smallest smile.

“This way,” he said, holding the door open.

You followed him into a conference room that looked like it had never seen a crumb of food in its life. A long, dark table. Floor-to-ceiling windows with a skyline view. A few folders neatly stacked at one end.

“Do you normally start your mornings by colliding with strangers?” he asked, without turning around.

“No,” you said. “Usually I limit it to embarrassing myself in emails. This was just bonus content.”

He actually laughed at that—quiet, low, but real.

That surprised you more than anything else.

He gestured to a chair. “You can sit.”

You did. Immediately. Like your knees were tired from pretending you had dignity.

He sat across from you, folding his hands. “So. You’re going to be following me around all week.”

You nodded. “That’s the idea.”

“You’ll ask questions.”

“Hopefully the right ones.”

“You’ll write about me.”

“Technically, yes.”

He leaned back slightly, assessing you. “That doesn’t bother you?”

You blinked. “Should it?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he turned his gaze toward the window. The silence stretched.

You took a breath and said, “I’ll be honest. I don’t know what I’m doing yet. Not entirely. But I do know I want to get this right.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. He turned back to you, eyes narrowing just a little.

You met his gaze, even if it made your palms sweat.

Something about the moment felt suspended, like a decision was being made. Or maybe a bet.

Finally, Harry Castillo said, “Then let’s see if you can keep up.”

He didn’t offer to shake your hand. He didn’t offer you coffee. He didn’t even sit across from you in the little lounge space like a normal human being would. No, he just turned on his heel and began to walk.

“You can walk with me.”

You scrambled to gather your things.

He moved fast.

The hallway you followed him down was quiet and sleek. He didn’t explain where you were going, didn’t look back to see if you were keeping up. You were basically jogging to stay beside him.

“So,” you tried, breathlessly, “what’s the schedule for today?”

“Meetings. A working lunch. A site visit. You’ll keep up.”

It wasn’t a question. More like a quiet challenge.

You scribbled it all down in your notebook anyway, adding a small try not to fall down the stairs next to it for good measure.

The first meeting was a round-table conference with four other men in suits, none of whom so much as glanced your way except to arch a curious brow. Harry introduced you once and then didn't mention you again.

You sat quietly at the edge of the sleek table, sipping still water from a crystal glass and trying not to look impressed every time someone used a word you didn’t recognize.

Harry, meanwhile, was silent for most of the meeting, until one of the older men made a joke about “bleeding hearts and idealists.”

Harry leaned back, eyes cool.

“Idealists are useful. They haven’t given up yet.”

You weren’t sure if it was a dig or…not. But you scribbled it down anyway.

The working lunch was held in a private dining room. Three staff members. Zero menu. You had never felt less equipped for a salad in your life.

Harry noticed you trying to subtly Google one of the courses under the table.

“It’s fennel,” he said without looking up from his phone. “...Right. I was going to say that.”

He smirked. Just a little.

You poked at the dish and leaned toward him. “Be honest. Do rich people actually like this stuff, or is it just a performance?”

He glanced at you, eyes shining in a way that felt dangerously close to amused, then he quickly looked away.

The first site visit was a high-rise renovation project he was personally investing in. You rode in the back of a black town car together, him with one AirPod in, you trying not to spill crumbs from the granola bar you'd secretly unwrapped.

When the driver opened the door for you at the site, you climbed out awkwardly—then turned to see Harry had already been standing on the sidewalk, waiting.

“You're not very good at being trailed,” you said lightly. “You’re not very good at tailing.”

You grinned. “Is that a rich person riddle?”

The rooftop was huge, still raw—steel beams and open air. You took a photo for your notes, wind tugging at your cardigan. Harry walked ahead, his coat billowing behind him like he’d stepped off a magazine cover.

At one point, he turned and caught you staring.

You blurted: “You look like a villain in a Bond movie up here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Is that your professional opinion?”

You tucked your notebook under your arm, cheeks warm. “Just saying. Very dramatic cape energy.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond.

Then, a deadpan, “I’ve always preferred brooding antihero.”

And then he looked away, but not before you saw it. That tiny smile again.

By the time you both got back to the office, it was nearing eight. Your feet ached, your head buzzed with facts, and your notebook was nearly full.

Harry paused in front of his office door. “You kept up.”

You smiled, biting back a yawn. “I’m tenacious.”

He tilted his head. “Or stubborn.”

“Semantics,” you said brightly. “Same result.”

He opened the door but didn’t step through. “Tomorrow’s early. We leave at eight.”

“I’ll be ready,” you said, trying not to sound like you’d immediately pass out on your couch the second you got home.

He hesitated, then...

“Don’t bring coffee.”

You blinked then smiled and nodded. “Noted.”

And for the second time that day, he smiled as he shut the door.

You left the building with sore feet, a stupid grin, and the very real realization that you might be in way over your head.

Not because of the money. Not because of the pressure.

Because Harry Castillo was not what you expected.

And that might’ve been the most dangerous part of all.

A/N: ahh i hope u all enjoyed <33 i love pedro pascal and im so happy that i finally decided to start writing for his characters!! i think im gonna start a tag list for this fic so lmk if you’d like to be added in the comments <3

#isa’s thoughts #harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #harry castillo x you #harry castillo fluff #harry castillo fanfiction #harry castillo materialists #materialists #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal #harry castillo fic

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harringtonfeels · 2 months ago

Text

touch

2.8k | Friends to ???? to Lovers with inexperienced Reader | Smut, Fluff | Part II

Notes: This is about half fluff, half smut, with a liiiiittle bit of angst. There is some discussion of the right to revoke consent regarding a past boyfriend of Reader's toward the beginning. Nothing bad happens to Reader, aside from confusion about expectations for female sexuality. If this would be triggering for you, please don't read.

"Wait, hold on a second." Steve sounds so perplexed that you have to look up from the book in your hands and glance around the room, as though someone else may have walked in and changed the tenor of the conversation. All you'd said was— "You've never had sex?"

You blink back at him, surprised by his surprise. Cheeks burning, you say, "Well, I mean…" Closing the book with a dense thump, you force yourself to make eye contact. "You don't have to say it like that. And it's not like nobody's ever, like, offered."

When he cocks his head slightly to the side, his hair falls slightly in that very Steve sort of way. "What about Mark?" You can't help the way a shiver runs down your spine at the mention. The intrigue is practically spilling out of him at this point, as he turns over onto his side and props himself up on his elbow, settling into the conversation. "I thought you said you were going to sleep with him. That night with the big, fancy date and the—"

"You mean right before I avoided him for three days and then broke up with him?" How had Steve not gotten the memo on that one?

You watch him connect the dots in real time, but he still seems a little confused. "Okay, then Rick. You dated Rick for a long time."

That forces a laugh out of you. "Yeah, when we were like thirteen, Steve. Come on."

"Jeff?"

"I couldn't even get Jeff to answer my phone calls, let alone have sex with me. Can we stop the rundown of my abysmal love life?" you say, trying to remain lighthearted but feeling your own mood sour with each passing moment. What started as incredulousness at Steve's reaction is beginning to turn into something like shame.

A beat later, Steve asks, "Did something happen with Mark?"

You know what he's asking, and your cheeks burn even hotter with embarrassment. "No, nothing like that."

"I thought you liked him."

"I did. And then I didn't. It was just… He just…" You drop your forgotten book onto Steve's bed and bury your face in your hands. "He was just very pushy, I guess. Like, as soon as he realized I was willing to have sex with him, he just wanted to get right to it. I didn't really feel like he was listening to me."

Steve's hand curls itself gently around your wrist, prying your hand from your face, and his voice takes on a slight edge. "What do you mean, 'he wasn't listening to you'?"

"Not like that." It's so hard to find a way to put it into words. You aren't entirely sure Mark even did anything wrong. It's more that he didn't do anything right. You steel yourself and look up at Steve, your longtime best friend who recently became something more, and you know he'll wait as long as you need him to, until you find the words to say. Steve has always had such patience with you, your whole lives. Somehow, that makes it feel even more urgent.

Finally, you inhale deeply and summon the courage to continue. "It wasn't like he tried to make me do anything, really. He was just kind of… inconsiderate. It felt more like he was excited to be having sex than that he was excited to be having sex with me."

Steve rubs soothing circles into your wrist and presses a soft kiss to the palm of your hand. "So you told him to fuck off?"

That draws a laugh out of you. "Yes, basically. I was really confused about how I was feeling, so I told him I didn't think I was ready, and then he acted like he was mad at me the whole way home. So I broke up with him."

He looks a bit lost in thought, and you wonder what he's thinking about. If he's rethinking your relationship, if this makes him see you differently.

He props himself up against the headboard and pulls you close, tucking you into his side. "Baby, you know that's not how it's supposed to be, don't you?"

You want to say yes, but deep down, you're not really sure. What if you're just high maintenance? What if that's the way it always is, and it's true that sex isn't really supposed to be enjoyable for women, and maybe Mark was right to be upset with you for putting an end to things? What if once you'd already said yes, you weren't really allowed to say no? What if what you want isn't supposed to matter at all?

Realistically, you feel like this can't be the case. Why should sex only be good for one person? Why should you not be able to decide when and where and how you have sex, for the first time or for any time? Why should anyone else's feelings matter more than your own? But it's hard to reconcile your feelings of self-preservation with the things you've been told your whole life, or the look on Mark's face when you told him you wanted to go home.

Knowing something is true doesn't make it feel that way.

You bury your face in Steve's shoulder and nod anyway. Of all the ups and downs in the years you've spent with Steve, one thing he's always made you feel was safe.

His fingertips brush against your thigh, just under the hem of your dress, and you smile into his shirt at the way it tickles. Reflexively, you lift your leg a little higher, running away from the feeling. "I'd never want to make you feel that way, honey. You know you could tell me if I did, right?"

You flush at the insinuation. Steve wants to have sex with you. And he wants you to enjoy it. It's still hard to wrap your mind around it, this newfound whatever-this-is, the boundariless relationship status that started with a kiss and ends with… you're not sure what, exactly.

But you know Steve. Whatever this is between you, you can't imagine Steve Harrington would ever treat you like an object, or a means to an end. "I know," you say softly, breath hitching in your throat as his palm slides beneath your dress.

"Is this okay?" he murmurs into your hair.

Your stomach flutters with anticipation, and you nod.

His touch is so gentle, it's almost maddening. It's already so different from how Mark touched you, slow and thoughtful instead of rough and hurried. For the first time, you think you might really understand the meaning of the word sensual.

When his palm leaves your skin, you sigh with disappointment, but just as quickly, he's tipping your chin upward, looking into your eyes with his honey brown ones. "Can I kiss you?"

Suddenly, there's a lot you want to tell him. Words that threaten to spill out of you without cohesion or any defined purpose. But this moment is so perfect you don't dare tarnish it. You lean into it instead. Breath stuttering, you nod again, and you sit up just enough to see him better, to reach him better.

His lips are soft against yours, hand gently cupping your cheek, and it's excruciatingly slow at first, until you clench the front of his tee shirt in your fist and urgently draw him closer. He shifts, slotting one knee between your thighs and deepening the kiss as he does.

Steve has kissed you a few times now, and each time, it's like learning a different version of him. Drunk, confident Steve the first time. Sticky-sweet, adoring Steve the second. Soft, horny Steve today. You can feel the hard outline of him pressed against your thigh. A few minutes ago, this might have been jarring or even somewhat alarming, but not now. With your skirt rucked up almost to your waist, you can't help but sigh into his mouth and roll your hips against his.

He pulls away just enough to murmur, "Oh, honey."

You whimper in response, feeling your way under the hem of his shirt. You've never touched him like this. You don't know when the lines blurred so much that your best friend Steve has become someone whose sides you can caress, whose mouth you can feel on your neck— "Oh my god."

His lips brush against your skin. "Can I tell you how I'd touch you?"

Your brain struggles to piece together what he's asking, which is a testament more to how focused you are on how you feel than the complexity of his question. Swallowing thickly, you nod again.

"Come on, baby, use your words. I need to know you mean it."

You dig your nails lightly into his back at that, pouting. "Steve, please."

He's got you flat on your back now, grinding his hips absentmindedly against yours. You can feel him smile against your collarbone, fingers splayed across your ribs as his thumb ghosts across the underwire of your bra. "If you let me touch you, I'd start real slow," he whispers. "Get you nice and comfortable for me, start somewhere safe, like here." His hand cups the outside of your thigh, making leisurely circles with his thumb.

It's a clear retreat from before, less suggestive, and yet you feel your pulse pick up with anticipation. Mouth falling open just slightly, you watch his face as he continues. You've never seen him like this before, focused but glassy-eyed, lips swollen.

When you focus on his hands like this, it's hard to think that it was ever outside the bounds of your relationship for him to touch you like this. All those times watching him shift gears, watching the way his big hands wrap around his baseball bat at practices. Eyes lingering on his long fingers just a little longer than strictly necessary. It feels natural, now that you see his hands on you in real time.

You're sucked back into the present when Steve opens his mouth. "And when you're feeling really comfortable, I'd make my way a little higher." He punctuates this statement by bending your leg at the knee, hand slowly lowering beneath your dress once more.

You let out a whimper as his fingertips graze the edge of your light pink panties, drunk on the suggestion alone, and you weave your fingers through his hair to steady yourself.

It's not like you've never made out with anyone before. You've had boyfriends, you've been on successful dates with passionate kisses that left you winded on your doorstep. But it's never been anything like this, not that you can remember. Every time you made it even to second base with someone before, they were just… demanding or selfish or, once, even actually insulted your body. Some guys didn't work out because they moved away for college, or got back together with their ex, or because you didn't like them that much, or they just weren't a very good kisser. You told yourself when you were dating Mark that, if a lackluster makeout session was the worst of it, you could handle that. You hadn't known at the time that it was possible you wouldn't have to make any concessions.

Steve swipes his thumb across your lower lip, eyes darkening with desire. Teasing the wasitband of your panties with more intention, he leans back in to press a kiss just above the neckline of your dress. He hesitates slightly, and you hang on his every movement like it's a lifeline. When he speaks again, his eyes meet yours. His hair is wild from your fingers running through it, and he looks just as feverish as you feel.

You can't help but watch his mouth when he speaks, as if you don't already know what it feels like on your skin. "And if you liked that," he says, "then I'd turn my attention somewhere else. The trick—" His free hand brushes along your ribcage, dangerously close to your breast. "—is to keep my hands busy, and keep your imagination busy, too."

If you were ever under any illusion that you weren't turned on before, the slick gathering between your thighs makes it quite clear. The late summer breeze rolling through the window is cool on your skin. If it weren't for that, you'd be burning up under the heat of him. As it is, you can barely breathe, but you're not sure that's from the temperature.

His hands move confidently but not impulsively. He skims across the side of your breast with his palm, and you arch into his touch, fingers tangling into the hair at the nape of his neck. Removing his hand from your waistband, he pulls you up into a sitting position and finds the zipper of your dress. He starts to unzip you, then stops abruptly, raising his eyebrows in question. When you nod in response, he leans in for another searing kiss and finishes the job.

You only notice he's run into some difficulty unclasping your bra because he laughs after the third try, and you can't help but smile as you reach around to unclasp it yourself. And then his hands are on your skin again, palming one of your breasts and burying his face in your neck.

When he brushes his thumb over your nipple, you gasp, and he grins against your skin, carefully laying you back down on the mattress. "Does that feel good, honey?"

"Mm-hmm," you whimper, not caring how needy you sound. "Please don't stop."

"'M not stopping, baby," he murmurs, "unless you ask me to."

Steve is nothing if not good at building suspense, you're learning. He circles your nipple with his thumb, then backs off, sliding his free hand back down the front of your dress and toward the front of your panties. While you're distracted by that, stomach clenching in anticipation, he pinches your nipple gently, rolling it between his thumb and finger.

You can't help but gasp in response, overstimulated in the best way.

"And when you're nice and relaxed and ready for me…" He uses one finger to lift the waistband of your panties up just high enough to fit his hand inside. Your thighs fall open at the movement of their own accord, and you tug at his hair, hips lifting slightly to chase his touch.

Steve stills completely, mouth parting like he can't believe it. As if he himself didn't honestly think this little lesson would be so effective. Sounding a little distant, he looks into your eyes and whispers, "That's when I'd touch you."

You stare back at him, the spell broken. You had almost forgotten there was something he was getting at, other than just showing you what you were missing. It's a little dizzying, seeing how far you've gotten on a flirty line, an ambiguous relationship status, and a suspension of disbelief.

Didn't he just say he wasn't going to stop?

"Steve?" you prompt him, voice uncharacteristically small, as if speaking too loudly will make this moment disappear.

He blinks back at you, re-engaging. "Can I touch you, honey?"

Biting your lip, you nod, and a slow, easy grin spreads across his face.

He finds your free hand and kisses your knuckles before slipping his hand just a little bit lower, fingertips just dipping into your slick folds. "Oh, sweetheart," he hums, "you're s' wet for me." When the pad of his middle finger brushes your clit, your hips buck against his hand with urgency. "We've made a mess of your pretty panties, honey. We're gonna have to take these off."

You raise your hips up off the bed without further prompting. You don't have it in you to feel embarrassed, or to worry about what you're going to wear back home. You just let Steve remove them, and when he's done, you paw at the hem of his shirt, asking permission silently. He rolls his shoulders and helps you pull it over his head, tossing it haphazardly onto the floor.

And when he leans back in, you marvel at all the parts of him you get to touch now, the things you get to do that you never could before. The things you've thought about a million times when you really shouldn't have. During school night sleepovers, summer afternoons by his family's pool, at the department store when you both tried on outfits for prom. All those parts of him you've craved, the things you never thought you'd get to feel.

The words tumble out before you can stop them. I love you.

And sure, it's embarrassing. There's a lot of stuff about tonight that's embarrassing, but it doesn't matter. Because even if he doesn't—

Before your cheeks have even had time to warm up, Steve is climbing up your body, eyes wide with something like wonder, and he's cradling your face in his hands. He kisses you slow and firm, like it's the first time, or even the last. He kisses you until you're both breathless, and then he leans his forehead against yours, both of you panting and giggling a little at the absurdity of it all.

And then Steve whispers, "I love you, too."

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington smut #steve harrington x you #don't know how to tag for this fandom so sending this out there and hoping it finds its people lol

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landologged · 2 months ago

Text

Out Lapped | Part One

pairing: lando x reader

genre: toxicity, shit aint sweet sorry, like 85% porn and arguing????, its hot tho, angst? i guess, monaco beinf monaco, possessive and hot lando, readers a dumb hoe (but i get it)

description: You sure as hell didn’t expect to find yourself at Lando’s door after promising your therapist you wouldn’t see him again. But your thighs remember things your brain pretends to forget, and Monaco is a dangerous place to have free time and a hell of a lot of unresolved trauma.

So, here you are, stuck in a loop you swore you’d escaped: he wins races, goes home to her, and calls you at 2AM like you’re the reward. You know it’s toxic. You know he’s lying. But every time you try to walk away, he says your name like it still means something. And every time he touches you—you forget how to leave all over again.

WC: 19k

notes: want to preface this is extremely toxic, i dont hate magui but needed her for the plot sorry, this is not a healthy relationship its just toxic n sexy im sorry i have issues, enjoy tho xx | had to repost bc tumblr put a warning on it

You tell yourself it’s just a building. Just concrete and glass and overpriced furniture, just one of dozens of sleek high-rises dotting the cliff-edge of Monaco’s coastline like little temples to wealth. But that’s a lie you started telling before the plane even landed, and now—standing outside of his door, heat curling around your ankles and your jaw locked so tight you can feel the tension in your teeth—it’s all unraveling way too fucking fast. This isn’t just a building. This is a goddamn shrine. To every version of you that lost and begged and bled behind those walls. And the worst part is you let all of it happen. Over and over and over, like some stupid animal who keeps going back to the cage because it’s the only place she remembers how to breathe.

You stand there too long. Not knocking. Not leaving. Just standing like a goddamn idiot. Sweating in your blouse, clutching your phone like it might ring if you squeeze hard enough, though no one’s called you in hours. You’d deleted his number. Blocked it. Then unblocked it. Then memorized it, like that made you the one in control. The gate code, too. You remembered that one without trying.

Inside, you imagine he’s probably shirtless. Or worse—fresh out of the shower, towel slung low, smirking at his own reflection in the mirror like he’s still a teenage boy. Or maybe, just maybe, he’s got someone over. That girl he was seen with last week, or the one from before. Some Portuguese model with a body like a Victoria Secret angel and a face the camera loves. Long legs, soft mouth, always sun-kissed and unbothered. She’s been rumored with him for months—not that you’ve been reading, obviously. Not that you have the search saved. Not that you zoomed in on the photos where he’s walking three steps ahead and still somehow looks like he belongs to her.

She has no idea what he sounds like when he’s angry. No idea how fast his mood can turn—how one second he’s teasing, laughing, and the next his voice goes low and hard and mean. She doesn’t know what it’s like to be devoured by him, not kissed but taken, not fucked but owned. She’s never had to piece herself together in his bathroom afterward, thighs shaking, mascara wrecked, trying not to cry just because he simply didn’t stay.

There’s no breeze in the hallway, just stillness. Expensive stillness. Climate-controlled. Smells like fresh-cut flowers and clean linen and the faintest undercurrent of chlorine—like the building itself is trying to convince you nothing messy ever happens here. No broken glasses or slammed doors or whispered confessions between kisses that feel like the end of the world.

The walls are paneled in soft blond wood, warm under the overheads, you shift your weight, and the tap of your heel against polished wood echoes too loud. Sharp. Embarrassing.

A laugh bubbles up uninvited. Quiet, bitter, barely audible, but still real. What the fuck are you doing here? You told your therapist—once—that you were past this. That you’d written it off for what it was: a phase, a crash, an experiment in self-destruction that just happened to have a face. His face. His voice. His hands. You’d said it with conviction. You’d almost believed yourself.

But that was when you hadn’t counted in the photo.

It wasn’t even new. Just some grainy tabloid resurrection of last summer—him holding your wrist outside the back of a club, the tension in your posture so clear it almost hurt to look at. And his face—god that fucking face. Golden tan, summer-slick skin that caught the flash of the camera like it knew exactly where to land. That haircut—fresh, sharp, fade carved clean down the sides, but the top left long, soft, curled just enough to look effortless. Like he’d rolled out of bed into a suit and made it look intentional.

White shirt open at the throat, no tie. Slim-fit navy blazer that hugged his frame like he’d been sewn into the thing. And that expression—cool, calm, always calculated. He looked straight into the lens, jaw set, eyes unreadable, like he knew they were watching and didn’t give a single fuck about it. Like he knew you wouldn’t leave. Because you hadn’t. Not really. Not for long, and sure as hell, never for good.

You don’t knock. You can’t. Your hand hovers near the wood, fingers curled like a fist you don’t have the strength to make. You stare at the door like it might open on its own. Like maybe he’ll feel you on the other side and save you the choice.

So when the door finally opens—slow, quiet, just a few inches at first—it doesn’t feel like an invitation. It feels like a trap you’re already halfway inside.

Warm light spills out into the hallway, catching the edge of that honeyed wood paneling behind you, and suddenly you’re in it again. His world. The clean, curated silence of it. Not cold—just impersonal. Too white. Too perfect. A mirror near the entry catches the edge of his shoulder, and for one disorienting second, you see both versions of him at once.

He’s barefoot, of course. Hair damp and pushed back like he’s just gotten out of the shower or maybe just doesn’t give a shit anymore. Black long-sleeve shirt, sleeves shoved up to his elbows like he’s mid-recovery from something. The fabric’s soft, lived-in, probably smells like skin and detergent. There’s a ring on his finger now—something thin and silver, catching the light as he leans one shoulder against the frame. Something that definitely wasn’t there before.

And just under his collarbone, a flash of color. Sunburn maybe. Lipstick, if you let yourself believe in worst-case scenarios. You don’t want to know. You do want to know. It burns both ways.

Behind him, the apartment stretches long and quiet. Pale floors. White cabinets. Stainless steel fridge that reflects the open-concept kitchen like a showroom. Heineken keg on the counter. DJ deck in the corner. Stacks of papers on the island that say he’s busy. Clean sink that says he’s not that busy. Trophies in the other room. Art that’s mostly just versions of himself—cars, helmets, movement frozen mid-victory.

“Well, well,” he says, mouth curling slow. “Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You raise an eyebrow, defaulting to sarcasm like muscle memory. “You think too much of yourself.”

He leans against the frame, lets his eyes drag over you like it’s nothing. Like it's a habit. “And yet, here you are.”

You hate how calm he sounds. How unsurprised. Like he knew. Like he felt you coming before you even booked the flight. You step forward without meaning to, past the threshold, into the coolness of the apartment that smells like bergamot and money and something darker underneath. Something familiar. Like heat after sex. Like you.

“Are you gonna say why you’re here,” he says as he closes the door behind you, voice low, smooth, almost bored, “or just continue to stand there?”

You shrug. You’re already halfway to the couch. “Didn’t think I needed a reason.”

“You always had one,” he says, following at a lazy pace. “Even when you lied about it.”

You don’t sit. You don’t take your shoes off. You just stand there in the middle of all that soft lighting and polished calm like you’re something feral that wandered in off the street. Your arms cross without thought, instinctive, defensive—like maybe if you press hard enough, you can hold yourself in. He notices. He always notices. That was the problem, wasn’t it? How seen he made you feel. Not loved. Not even wanted. Just known.

“You look tired,” he says. Not kindly.

You stare at him. Let your eyes drag over every inch of him. The tan. The jaw. The lazy posture. The fucking confidence. You try not to let it show—how familiar it all is. How foreign it feels now. Like you’ve studied it in photos more recently than in person. “You look the same.”

He grins. “You mean perfect?”

There it is. The smirk. The bait. The comfort in knowing exactly which part of himself still gets to you. He tosses it out like a joke, but his eyes don’t leave yours. He’s watching your mouth. Your shoulders. Your tells.

And fuck—you wish it didn’t still work. And so you do what you always do, you deflect. You roll your eyes, but the sting hits anyway. He’s always been beautiful in that arrogant, accidental way—like he never had to work for it. You always had to work for everything. But he just was. That was half the danger, all of the problem.

“You must’ve seen the article,” you say, even though you’re not here to talk about the article. Even though this whole thing has nothing to do with whatever the press dug up and everything to do with how quiet your apartment’s been. How empty your chest’s felt. How loud he still is, in every fucking corner of your mind.

“I did,” he says, shrugging. “You looked good. Even when you’re pissed off.”

You laugh once, sharp. “You looked like a fucking asshole.”

“Branding,” he replies, with that infuriating grin, the one that used to mean you’re not really mad at me and you’re not really leaving. The one you used to fall for. The one you feel yourself slipping toward again, like gravity. Like his goddamn dog.

You inhale through your nose, slow. Careful. Like control is something you can hold in your lungs.

“Don’t get excited,” you tell him.

He steps closer. One, then two. Not touching you. Just standing there, inches away, his presence thick as smoke. “You came back,” he murmurs. “That’s all I need.”

And your heart breaks a little, just enough to make room for something worse. Because this is the part you forgot—how he looks at you. Like nothing else exists. Like you’re a secret he’s been keeping warm in his mouth this whole time. There’s something about his eyes up close. Something impossible. They make you forget all the bad endings and bruised mornings. They make you think you might want it again. That maybe the problem was never him. Maybe it was you. Maybe you were too scared to be kept.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, voice raw around the edges. But it’s not a real protest.

He moves like he hears it for what it is. Like he knows the thread is already pulled, and you’re unraveling in his hands. He steps closer. Close enough that his breath ghosts against your cheek. Close enough that you can feel the burn of him without needing to touch. But then he does touch—just one hand, slow and certain, curling around your hip like he’s staking a claim he never stopped believing in.

“You always say that right before you kiss me,” he says, low, like a dare he already knows you’ll take.

Your breath catches. Just a subtle hitch in your chest that betrays you more than any yes ever could. Your mouth parts like instinct, like muscle memory, like maybe it remembers how good it felt to fall apart under his mouth. His hand moves, slow. Deliberate. Thumb grazing over the front of your shirt, dragging downward. Just enough to make your skin burn under the fabric. It’s not a grope. It’s worse than a grope. It’s casual. Familiar. Possessive in the quiet way that says I’ve had you like this before, and I will again.

His touch isn’t asking. It’s remembering. You swallow. Your heart's trying to crawl up your throat. You should move. Should say something colder, sharper, final. Instead, you just breathe out—

“Don’t.”

Barely audible. Not even a command. Just a plea. God, you’re an idiot.

He tilts his head, like he wants to get a better angle on your mouth. His nose almost brushes yours. The space between you contracts until it’s only breath and tension and history.

“Don’t what?” he asks, and his voice has that low, slanted softness—curious, cruel. Like he knows exactly what you meant but wants to hear you struggle to say it. The kind of voice that used to unravel you in dark corners, in backseats, in beds that didn’t belong to either of you.

He leans in. Just a little. Enough that you feel the heat of his breath against your mouth—warm, embarrassingly warm, laced with mint and something sweeter underneath. Familiar. Him. That exact blend you used to chase in the dark like a hit you didn’t want to quit. It makes your knees weaken. Your jaw tighten. Your pride splinter.

Your eyes flick to his lips. Mistake. They’re right there. Parted. Wet. Waiting. And the space between you shrinks until it feels like a trick.

“Don’t make this something it’s not,” you manage, barely above a whisper, every word scraped from the raw edge of restraint.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just leans in further, and fuck—his mouth grazes yours. Not a kiss. Not yet. Just a ghost of one. A threat.

His voice is so rough now—like it’s been worn down by every time he’s said your name in the dark. “You mean something it is.”

You shiver, and you hate that he feels it. You want to hold out. You want to keep control. You want to say something biting, something final, something that makes him feel the way you’ve felt since he let you go. But then he exhales—slow, hot, right against your tongue. And just like that, you’ve lost.

You kiss him, hard. Desperate. Like a dam breaking. Your hands are in his hair, dragging him in, and his body collides with yours like he’s been holding back since the moment you walked in. It’s all heat, no space. His mouth opens against yours and the taste of him hits like hunger—like rage, like missing something for too long. You chase it. You give him your teeth, your tongue, your breath. He takes all of it like it’s owed.

His hands are everywhere—gripping your waist, your ass, sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing the skin he used to fall asleep on like he’s checking to make sure it’s still his. You make a sound in your throat, somewhere between shock and surrender, and he groans into it—deep, guttural—like he’s been waiting months to hear it again.

He pushes you back until your spine kisses the wall, the impact muffled by the heat rolling off him. And you—God—you don’t even think. Your legs part without hesitation, hips tilting, instinctive. You wrap them around him like that’s where they’ve always belonged, thighs locking tight as his hands slide lower. And then you feel it—how hard he already is against you, thick through his pants, straining with a pressure that feels dangerous. You gasp. His hips grind forward, slow and deliberate, dragging that heat against the softest part of you. All muscle. All him.

He’s solid everywhere, unyielding, his abs pressed tight against your stomach, his chest hot through the thin fabric of your shirt. You can barely breathe. He’s all around you, above you, inside you already without even being there yet.

“You miss me?” he growls into your mouth.

You don’t answer. Your answer’s in the way you arch into him, nails raking down his back, pulling his shirt up and over his head like you need to feel every inch. It hits the floor. He’s warm and solid and panting.

“You fucking miss me,” he says again, dragging his mouth down your throat, sucking hard enough to mark.

You nod. A tiny motion. Barely there. Then—brrzt. brrzt.

His phone.

You freeze. Just for a second, enough for the thoughts to collect. Lando, however, keeps going. Grinding against you harder. Hand shoved between your thighs, fingers pressing through denim like he wants to rip it off with his teeth.

brrzt. brrzt.

“Your phone,” you pant.

“Fuck it,” he mutters. “Ignore it.”

It buzzes again. Long this time. He doesn’t even look. Just lifts you higher, his mouth dragging over your jaw, your cheek, back to your lips. “Come back to bed,” he whispers against you. “Let me show you how much you fucking missed me.”

Your heart stutters. The phone won’t stop. You twist your face away, breathing hard. “Answer it.”

He growls low in his throat. Frustrated. Presses his forehead to yours. “It’s nothing.”

brrzt. brrzt.

You push against his chest. Gently. Not to stop. Just enough to see his face. “Lando. Just—answer it.”

Silence stretches. He stares at you. Jaw tense. Then—without a word—he reaches into his pocket and pulls the phone out. Glances at the screen. Jaw flexes again. You see it before he hides it.

Magui? The model. He doesn’t answer right away. Just holds the phone like it’s radioactive. Then, slowly, he presses accept. Puts it on speaker and doesn’t look at you.

“Lando? Where are you?” her voice asks, soft, breathy, sweet like something that doesn’t know how sharp the blade is. “You said you’d come back.”

Your stomach drops. Something ugly twists in your chest. He looks at you. Finally. Lips parted. Chest heaving. Guilt doesn’t even register on his face.

And you—you just stand there, legs still wrapped around his hips, his hand still under your shirt, his mouth still wet from your kiss.

Listening. Like a fucking idiot. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until it starts to burn. His name is still hanging in the air between you, but you’re not looking at him anymore—you’re staring at the phone, your body gone still in his hands, your heart pounding like it’s trying to scream over her voice.

You said you’d come back. He doesn’t say anything. Not to her. Not to you. And then she says it. Soft. So soft you almost miss it.

I love you.

Your brain doesn’t register it right away. It glitches. Like static. Like maybe it wasn’t real. Like maybe your ears are just cruel. You blink, but your face doesn’t move. Your jaw’s locked so tight it feels like your teeth might break.

And he—he just ends the call. Like that. Like nothing. No goodbye. No excuse. No tone shift, no sigh. Just a tap of his thumb and the silence is back, louder than before.

Your mouth opens. But nothing comes out. You look at him, really look, and you don’t know what the fuck you’re expecting. Remorse? A joke, maybe? Something to soften the way that name is still ricocheting around your skull like a pinball.

But he just breathes—deep, shuddering, like he’s swallowing down the instinct to pull you back in. Like it physically costs him to let go. His chest rises too fast, too hard, like he’s been running, like holding you against him took something out of him. His breath hits your cheek in short bursts, humid and sharp, laced with the taste of everything you almost let happen. It’s the kind of breathing that isn’t just from need—it’s from restraint. Barely-there control. Like his whole body is buzzing with the effort not to drag you right back against the wall and finish what you started.

You slide off of him. Feet hitting the floor like reality. You fix your shirt automatically, hands shaking, lips buzzing from where his mouth had been, skin hot and damp and stupid.

“Are you serious?” Your voice comes out raw.

He watches you, eyes dark, unreadable.

“She—she loves you,” you spit, breath catching as you take a shaky step back, heart still racing, hands still curled into fists. “She said that and you just—what the fuck was that?”

He exhales sharp through his nose, then drags a hand through his hair—fast, rough, like he’s trying to get a grip on something he can’t hold. His curls fall right back into place, but his jaw’s tight, his eyes flicking toward the floor like maybe he’s trying not to look at you. “She doesn’t mean it.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

He exhales, sharp through his nose. “She doesn’t know me like you do.”

“That’s the problem,” you snap. “She doesn’t know what you are.”

“And you do,” he says, voice quiet. Still dangerous. “So why are you here?”

You open your mouth. Then close it. Then open it again, and this time it’s just a laugh. Ugly. Bitter. “Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking idiot.”

“Don’t,” he says.

“Don’t what? Don’t realize what this is? That I’m your dirty little relapse while your soft little girlfriend plays house and says I love you into your voicemail?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he barks. Too fast. Too defensive.

You stare him down, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t say that a second ago.”

He comes toward you and you stumble back.

“No,” you say. “Fuck no. You don’t get to touch me right now.”

He freezes. Stops dead, just a foot from you, close enough to feel the heat of him, too far to do anything about it. His chest rises and falls like he’s running—he’s not. He’s just feeling too much, too fast, too late.

“Look at me,” he says.

You don’t. You stare at the floor like it might save you. Like if you don’t meet his eyes, you won’t fall back into the same goddamn loop that’s already eaten you alive twice over.

He reaches out, fingers brushing your jaw. You flinch, but you don’t move away. Of course you don’t. Because part of you is still standing in the wreckage hoping he’ll lie to you sweet enough to make it okay. His touch is soft now. Thumb tracing your cheek, then dragging down your throat, slow and reverent, like he’s memorizing you again.

“She doesn’t know what I sound like when I’m inside you,” he murmurs.

Your knees almost give out.

“She doesn’t know how you taste when you come.”

Your stomach flips, hard. Heat coiling down your spine, settling between your legs.

“She doesn’t know how wet you get for me, even when you hate me.”

Your thighs clench—reflex, muscle memory, betrayal. His grin brushes your cheek without even forming. He doesn’t need to see it. He feels it. He steps closer. Just one inch. But it’s all it takes. His mouth brushes your ear, hot breath curling into your neck.

“But you do,” he whispers. “Don’t you?”

You close your eyes. Just for a second. Just to breathe. Just to pretend.

His hand slides under your shirt again. Palm flat over your stomach, fingers splayed, dragging up—slow, heavy, deliberate. Every inch he takes feels like a claim. Like he’s reminding your skin who it belongs to. He reaches your ribs. Stops there. Presses in. Just enough to make you feel the weight of it. The heat. The power.

You should pull away. You want to pull away. But your body’s already arching into it. Already melting.

“You’re not some side piece,” he says, low and rough, his mouth dragging along your jaw. “You’re not a fucking mistake. You’re the one I can’t seem to get over.”

You shake your head. “You don’t mean that.”

“I do.”

His mouth finds yours again. Softer this time. Slower. Like he’s trying to rewrite the last five minutes with his tongue. Like if he kisses you deep enough, long enough, you’ll forget her name. Forget what she said. Forget what you heard.

You moan into it. God help you.

He lifts you again. You let him. Your legs wrap around his hips like they never left. He presses you back into the wall and grinds against you, and you’re gasping again, already soaked through your jeans, shame melting into heat like sugar over flame.

“You still want me,” he says. “Even after all this.”

You nod before you can lie. Before you can save face. Because the truth is—it’s not that you want him. It’s that you need him. Like air, you want him more than anything else. And when his hand slips down, tugging open your fly, fingers sliding beneath the fabric like a claim, you whimper.

Because this isn’t healing. This is a fucking possession, and worst of all you’re still letting him in.

His fingers are in your jeans, dragging them down with that reckless one-handed pull like he can’t wait anymore. As if he’s been fucking starved. The denim catches at your knees, then your ankles, and you almost trip trying to step out of them, but he catches you—of course he catches you—because the fall is always part of the game with him.

“You still get wet for me so fast,” he murmurs, thumb pressing into your underwear, slow circles right over where he knows you’re already soaking. “Just like that. Just like you used to. I didn’t even have to try.”

Your breath hitches. Shame and arousal flood through you in equal measure, but it’s not enough to stop you. He watches you fall apart with that cocky, ruined grin—like he’s proud of what he does to you, but not even remotely surprised.

“Bet you touch yourself thinking about this,” he adds. “About my mouth. About my cock.”

Your mouth opens to protest, but he slips a finger beneath the fabric and slides through you—wet, thick, slow—and your entire brain short-circuits. Your knees buckle and he fucking laughs, low and mean and gorgeous.

“You’re so full of shit,” you whisper, voice shaking. “You don’t mean any of this.”

His mouth finds yours again, teeth scraping your lip. “Maybe,” he says against your tongue. “But it’s working, isn’t it?”

You shove his chest, but it’s not a real push. It’s nothing. You’re already grinding against his hand, thighs trembling, cunt clenching around his fingers as he adds another. The stretch burns in the best way. Your head falls back against the wall.

“Lando—”

“I missed this pussy,” he cuts in, voice rough now, his own breathing ragged. “Fuck. I thought about it every time she opened her mouth. Had to stop myself from saying your name when I came.”

That hits like a slap. Your jaw drops, your stomach lurches, but the worst part—the most humiliating part—is how much wetter you get hearing it. You hate him. Hate yourself more. He drops to his knees before you can think. Yanks your underwear down and apart like he owns it, spreads you open with both hands and groans when he sees how wrecked you are.

“Oh, fuck, baby,” he mutters. “You’re dripping. Look at that. She’s got no fucking clue.”

Then his mouth’s on you. You cry out, hands flying to his hair, trying to push him away and pull him in all at once. His tongue is relentless—circling, flicking, sucking your clit with practiced, hungry precision—and your thighs are already shaking. His fingers pump into you hard, steady, curling just right. It’s disgusting how fast you’re close. How desperate you are. How your hips are fucking chasing his mouth like he’s the only thing you’ve ever needed.

“You gonna come for me?” he asks, voice muffled against you. “Show me how bad you still want it?”

You nod frantically, too far gone to pretend. He chuckles darkly. “Then fucking do it. Let her hear you next time she calls.”

And then he sucks, hard, and everything inside you snaps. Your legs shake, your vision whites out, your body jerks against him with a guttural, broken moan that you couldn’t stop if you tried. You’re still shaking when he stands. Licks his lips, smug. Unbuttons his jeans like it’s nothing.

“Still think I don’t mean it?” he asks, pulling his cock out, hard and leaking, dragging it against your thigh.

You should run. But instead you grab his face and kiss him again—deep, messy, tasting yourself on his tongue—because if you’re gonna go down, you’re gonna burn on the way.

“Shut up,” you whisper against his mouth.

He grins like he’s already won. Next thing you know your panties are hanging from one ankle, forgotten. He’s panting into your mouth, hand gripping the back of your neck like he wants to fuck you with your face pressed against the wall and your spine bent backwards. His cock is hard against your thigh, leaking, twitching, so ready, and your nails are in his skin, already dragging, already marking.

Then he pulls back.

“Hold on,” he mutters, breathless, and turns away.

You blink. Chest heaving. “What the fuck are you doing?”

He doesn’t answer. Walks toward the bedroom. Opens a drawer. You don’t move, frozen in that second of hot disbelief, like maybe you didn’t just see what you saw.

Then he comes back. With a condom. And your blood boil over, you were going to fucking murder him. You stare at the plastic like it had personally slapped you.

“Seriously?” you spit in utter disbelief.

He shrugs, casual, tone light like it won’t explode the whole fucking moment. “What? Just being careful.”

“Careful?”

He shrugs again, tearing the foil open with his teeth, cock still hard in his hand. “I don’t know where you’ve been.”

The silence that follows doesn’t hang—it slams down between you. Sucks the oxygen out of the air. You just stare. Your mouth doesn’t work. Your chest doesn’t move. Rage rises slow in your throat, heavy and hot, turning your blood molten. It crawls up the back of your neck, behind your eyes, makes your vision pulse at the edges.

You take a step. Then another. Close enough to see your own slick glinting on his skin. And then your hand flies. The slap cracks across his face—flesh to bone, skin to heat—and his head snaps with the force of it. The sound ricochets off the walls, brutal and final.

He doesn’t stumble. Doesn’t flinch.

He just laughs. Low. Dark. That sharp, broken sound that says fuck yes. Mean. Worse, turned on.

“Oh, that’s what does it for you?” he breathes, eyes flicking back to you, wild now. “Getting offended that I don’t assume you’ve been sitting at home like a fucking nun?”

“You’re disgusting.”

“So are you,” he snaps back, grabbing your face with one hand, gripping your jaw. “But you’re the one who keeps coming back. Not her. You, princess.”

You’re both panting. Still half-dressed. Still drunk on whatever shit-show occurs whenever you two are in the same room.

“You think I’m letting you fuck me with a condom now?” you hiss. “After all this? Go fuck yourself.”

“You’d rather I come in you just to prove a fucking point?” he growls.

“Yeah,” you snap. “I fucking would.”

He doesn’t put it on. He just lets it fall. Condom hits the floor with a whisper and then he’s on you—slamming you back against the wall with the weight of his whole body, his mouth crushing yours, tongue and teeth and spit, hands everywhere, gripping your thighs, your ass, your jaw like he can’t decide what part of you he wants first.

He’s cursing into your throat, your name half-spoken—spit out—like a threat, like worship, like an apology he doesn’t fucking mean.

And then—

He shoves into you.

Raw. Bare. Deep.

You gasp—no, scream—your legs snapping tight around his waist, head thudding back against the wall as your body stretches around him with that slick, aching slide that feels like pain, like home, like fuck, finally.

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t check if you’re okay. Doesn’t have to. Your nails are already dragging down his back, hips tilting into his like your body’s starving. He grabs your ass and drives into you again, again, harder—grinding deep like he’s trying to split you open and crawl inside.

You bite his shoulder. He groans loud, then fucks you harder.

“This what you wanted?” he snarls. “This what you fucking needed?”

“Yes,” you moan, breath caught, body stretched and shaking. “Yes, yes—fuck, yes.”

He pulls out mid-thrust and drags you down the hall, arms still locked under your thighs. You’re dizzy, dripping down his stomach, mind gone. Then he kicks the balcony door open.

You jolt. “Are you serious—”

It’s too late. The breeze hits your sweat-slick skin. Warm air, salty from the sea, cool on your flushed face. He presses you to the glass, your chest against it, city lights glittering like stars below, and pushes back inside you in one brutal stroke.

You scream. Palm slaps the window. He fucks you like he wants Monaco to watch.

“You don’t care if anyone sees, do you?” he hisses, snapping his hips. “Fucking exhibitionist slut.”

You’re moaning into the glass, fogging it up with your breath, clawing at the railing.

“Say it,” he growls into your ear. “Say you like getting fucked in front of the world.”

You can’t even form words.

“You’re mine,” he snarls. “Say it.”

His hands grip your hips like handles, like he’s steering the whole scene, and your face is pressed to the cool glass, moaning open-mouthed against your own reflection. You can barely see the city anymore—just streaks of light and shadow and your own shame, smeared across the surface in fogged breath and desperation. Your knees are going numb. Your thighs burn. You can’t stop clenching around him.

He’s fucking brutal now. Deep. Deliberate. Each thrust hitting with the full weight of him—hips slamming into your ass, chest flush to your back, breath hot and ragged in your ear.

You shudder. Grip the railing, knuckles white, thighs shaking. And all it takes is one more thrust—one more brutal drag of his cock inside your soaked, ruined cunt—and your body fucking shatters. You come with a sob that scrapes your throat raw, clenching down on him, pulsing so hard it feels like you’re trying to pull him deeper.

“Fucking—fuck—I’m gonna cum in you,” he grits, voice torn, no space for permission, no pause for protest.

You don’t say no. You can’t.

He slams forward one last time and stays there—buried to the base, cock twitching inside you, and then he lets go.

You feel it hit. Feel him spill, thick and hot, spilling into you without hesitation, no condom, no fucking thought. Just heat. Just need. Just him.

His entire body shudders against yours, mouth open against your shoulder, groaning low and wrecked, every pulse a brand.

It’s silent for a moment after. Just heavy breathing and the muffled throb of music echoing up from the street below. You can feel him softening inside you. Feel him pulling out, slow. Lazy. Like he’s done. Your legs shake. You press your forehead to the glass, body humming, raw and wrecked.

And when you turn—he’s already walking away. Without a single word, he begins adjusting his waistband. Grabbing a towel. Scrubbing his face like he just finished a workout. Not even a glance back in your direction.

You blink. Still half-naked. Still leaking.

Still there.

“Lando,” you say. Quiet. Maybe it’s not even his name—it’s a plea. A question. He doesn’t respond. Just walks into the kitchen. Opens the fridge. Drinks straight from a bottle of water like your body wasn’t just wrapped around him minutes ago.

That’s when it hits. The shift. The drop. On queue. You wrap your arms around your chest. The breeze brushes your thighs, sticky and exposed, and you feel it—his cum sliding out of you, running down your inner leg in a humiliating heat.

You feel empty. Not the kind that hums. Not the kind that settles sweet and fucked-out in your bones.

No. This is raw. Open. Like something vital’s been scooped out and left behind. You’re still dripping from him. Still shaking, breath catching in your throat like a secret you didn’t mean to tell. Your legs are barely holding. Your heart’s trying to pretend it’s fine.

He leans against the counter. Phone in hand. Scrolling. Laughing under his breath at something you’re not a part of.

Like he didn’t just fuck your soul out against the glass. Like you didn’t say yes to all of it.

And now—he’s done. And you’re just there. Still wanting. Waiting.

You don’t know how long you stand there, barefoot and half-naked, the breeze licking at the mess between your thighs, spine still curved from where he bent you against the glass. The city glows on without you. Somewhere below, people are drinking champagne and laughing under golden light. The world keeps turning. You peel yourself off the railing. Limbs heavy. Walk stiffly back inside, legs aching from the way he held you open like a vice. You grab your jeans from the floor and pull them up without really thinking, fabric clinging to sweat and everything he left inside you. You’re dizzy. It doesn’t feel real. Or maybe it feels too real. Like the high’s just starting to rot from the inside out.

He’s still in the kitchen. Shirtless, scrolling. Water bottle on the counter, beads of condensation sliding down the side. He hasn’t looked at you once.

You watch him for a second, arms wrapped around yourself like you’re trying to hold your insides in. He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t move. Just scrolls.

You clear your throat.

“I… guess that’s it, then?”

His eyes flick up. Casual. No longer interested.

“Thought that’s what you came for,” he says. Not cruel. Not sharp. Just flat, just honest.

Dismissive. Like the fuck was the favor. Like this was a transactional itch, not a relapse that shattered something in you.

You blink. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

He goes back to his phone.

You step forward. One bare foot against the marble tile, cold and slick beneath your toes. “So what now?”

“Now nothing.”

He says it like it’s funny. Like you’re the one being too dramatic. Like you didn’t just let him inside you. Like you’re not still stretched around the memory of him.

Your stomach tightens.

Of course. Of course. Because his is how it’s always been, isn’t it? Because he fucks you, and then he pulls away. Mentally. Physically. Spiritually. Every time. He rolls off. Goes quiet. Distracted. Picks up his phone like your body didn’t just bend around him like it remembered how. Like you didn’t give him everything—again. And on the rare nights he let you stay, he wouldn’t touch you after. Wouldn’t hold you. Wouldn’t even turn toward you in the bed. Like warmth was permission. Like kindness meant commitment. God forbid he see you after.

And still, you stayed. Every fucking time. Still hoping that one day he’d kiss you on the forehead instead of just your mouth. That he’d trace your back after instead of zipping his pants. That he’d make breakfast. That he’d ask you how you felt.

But he never did. He never wanted that part. And still—you came.

“I came here because of that photo,” you say, quietly. “Because I thought—fuck—I don’t know, I thought maybe we should talk. About what we were. About what we never really finished.”

That gets a reaction, but not the one you want. He exhales sharply, smirks at the counter. Shakes his head.

“You’re kidding, right?”

Your jaw tenses. “No. I’m not.”

He sets the phone down, finally looks at you, and the look is pure Lando—half exasperated, half smug, like he’s above it all. Like he’s already out of reach again.

“What did you think this was?” he says. “Closure? A love story?”

Your throat closes up. You swallow hard. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t think. Okay? I just missed you.”

The words feel pathetic in the air. He tilts his head. “Yeah, and now you don’t have to.”

And that’s it. That’s fucking it. No tenderness. No gratitude. No I-missed-you-too or it’s-complicated or even a lie to soften the blow.

Just that. He picks his phone up again. You start to say something—maybe don’t make me feel used, maybe tell me this wasn’t nothing, maybe just lie to me—but you stop.

Before you can even finish inhaling, he’s pressing the phone to his ear.

“Hey,” he says, soft.

So. Fucking. Soft.

Your heart caves. It doesn’t break. It caves. Like something imploding from the inside out. It’s not the volume of his voice—it’s the tone. The shift. Like he’s wiping you off his skin and putting on someone else’s smile.

He turns his back to you, leans against the counter. “Yeah… I know. I’m sorry, baby.”

You just stand there. Your arms still crossed, but now it’s because if you don’t hold yourself together, you’ll fucking fall apart. You feel the cum drying between your legs. You feel it leaking into your jeans. You feel like a mistake wearing your own skin.

“Yeah,” he says into the phone. “Just had to handle something real quick.”

Your breath stutters. You’re not a person. You’re not even a memory. You’re a thing he had to handle.

He glances over his shoulder. Sees you still standing there. He turns back, still murmuring sweet nothings into the phone, and you’re left standing in the middle of the room with your mouth full of dust and your thighs still slick with the lie you let back in.

You stare at the back of him, phone cradled to his ear, voice soft in that way you haven’t heard in months—not since he used to call you at 1AM, whispering like a promise. He’s murmuring something now. You catch pieces. Missed you too. No, just tired. I’ll come by tomorrow. Yeah, I will.

The words don’t even hurt as much as the tone. That casual affection. The tenderness you’ll never get again.

Your body aches. Not from pleasure, not anymore. From the aftermath. From the sharp reminder of how quickly he empties you out and walks away. You’re still sticky with him. Inside and out. You don’t say anything. No dramatic line. No last jab. That would give him too much. Let him think you still want a reaction. That you’re still clinging.

Instead, you start collecting your things. Quietly. Your shirt’s wrinkled where he tugged it. Your panties are still damp, shoved in your back pocket with shaking fingers. Your shoes by the door—you slip them on without a sound. Your bag. Your phone. What little dignity you can scrounge from the marble floor.

You glance back once, not because you want to, but because your body betrays you even now.

He doesn’t look. Still on the phone. Still laughing quietly. Still calling someone baby like it means something. Your throat burns. You swallow it down. You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You told yourself it was just to talk. Just to finish what never got finished. Just to say goodbye properly.

But you knew. You knew the second you saw him. This was never going to end clean. Not with him. Not with you.

You open the door. His voice fades behind you as it clicks shut. You hold your bag close to your chest as you walk down the hall, staring straight ahead, blinking fast and hard.

Because if you cry now, you’ll never stop. And he doesn’t deserve to know that he still has that power. He already knows.

You don’t even remember walking back. You must’ve called a car. Or maybe you walked half the way and then gave up. Maybe you blacked out the drive, staring out the window with your lips still swollen and your thighs still sticky with him, flinching every time a memory passed too close. Maybe you held your phone in your hand the whole time and didn’t unlock it once. You can’t remember. You don’t want to.

You’ve never felt less like a person and more like a ghost dragging her ruined body across white marble and velvet hallway carpet. Everything at the hotel is too pristince. Too quiet. No one at the front desk looks at you, but you feel like they know. You feel like you’re wearing it—like guilt is a stain bleeding through your clothes, like they can smell him on you.

You ride the elevator in silence. Your reflection stares back from the brass paneling. Eyes rimmed red. Lip a little bitten. Hair half-wrecked from where he’d fisted it. You don’t fix it. What’s the point? There’s no one left to impress. You get into the room and it feels smaller than it did this morning. Like the walls have leaned in, closing around you. You don’t turn the lights on. You just stand there for a second, letting the dark settle. Your bag slides off your shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud. Your phone clinks against the dresser when you set it down too hard. And you’re still holding your shoes.

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare into nothing. The shame doesn’t come all at once. It creeps in. Starts as a whisper behind your ribs, an ache behind your eyes, the slow, growing awareness of what you just did. And who you did it with.

Lando.

Your heart clenches at the sound of his name in your own head. Not because it’s romantic. Because it’s sick. Because you want him still. Want more. Want his mouth, his hands, his fucking voice even now—like he didn’t just toss you aside like old gum. Like he didn’t walk away mid-mess and call her. Like he didn’t say nothing when you stood there, humiliated and half-clothed.

You drag yourself to the bathroom and flick the light on. It’s too bright. Makes everything worse. The mirror is a crime scene. Your makeup is half-gone. Mascara smudged. Lipstick faded and smeared. You can still see the mark on your collarbone where he bit you. You run cold water. Cup it in your hands. Splash your face. It does nothing. You strip slowly. Shirt. Jeans. Bra. That ruined pair of panties you shoved into your back pocket like a secret. You drop them all onto the cold tile, one by one, and stand there naked, not touching the towels. Not stepping into the shower. Just standing. Letting the air hit your skin.

You feel used. Your thighs are sticky. The inside of your cunt aches, sore in that way that used to make you feel desired, but now just makes you feel stupid. You stare at the spot on your hip where he used to kiss you, back when it meant something. Back when it felt like worship instead of a routine.

Your exes never fucked you like this. Not even the worst ones. Not even the ones who said all the right things with their mouths and none of it with their eyes. They fucked you politely. Or carelessly. Or selfishly. But never like this. Never like they needed you to feel it days later. Never like they hated you and loved you and wanted to punish you for both.

Lando does.

Lando always did.

You sink to the floor. Slowly. Your bare ass hits the tile and you curl your knees to your chest like you can somehow close yourself off from the parts of you that are still open. Your hair falls in your face. You don’t move it. You just breathe.

You told yourself this wouldn’t happen again. You said it out loud. Like a spell. Like if you repeated it enough, it would become a truth. I won’t let him do this to me again. I won’t let myself want him. I won’t go back.

But here you are. Back. Fucked. Full. Empty.

And still—wanting.

You reach for your phone. Not to call him. Just to look. Some part of you is already anticipating it. Hoping for the text. The breadcrumb. Some half-assed “You okay?” that’ll make you hate yourself more because you’ll respond to it. You always do.

You unlock the screen. Nothing. You check the signal. Perfect bars. You wait. Another minute. Five. Still nothing.

You open his contact anyway. Just stare at it. That stupid name. The photo you should’ve deleted months ago—him grinning at some party, hand in your hair, that cocky fucking smile. You remember the moment. You remember thinking this might actually work.

You close the app. Open your messages. Type something.

“You didn’t have to call her while I was still in the room.”

Delete.

“I know what this was, but you could’ve at least—”

Delete.

You lock the screen. Drop the phone next to you on the floor.

You sit there, knees tight to your chest, bare skin on cold tile, heartbeat echoing in your ears like a countdown to nothing.

You won’t cry. But the part of you that still aches for him—still wants him—knows the truth. This isn’t over. It never is. And when he calls again, you’ll answer. Because you always do.

The morning’s too bright. Not metaphorically. Not emotionally. Just literally—too fucking bright. The Mediterranean sun punches you in the face the moment you step out of the hotel, and you’re instantly sweating through your shirt. You should’ve worn black. You should’ve stayed in bed. You should’ve never come to this country in the first place.

The streets are already buzzing. Tourists, locals, teams in branded polos. You can hear the distant whine of an engine on a test run somewhere, that sharp scream of speed slicing through the heavy, salt-thick air like a knife. The city’s waking up, but not slowly—Monaco never does anything slowly. She wakes up hungry, already half-drunk, already waiting for someone to crash.

You hope it’s him. You hope he hits the wall. You hope he qualifies dead fucking last. P20. God, give him P fucking 20. It’s petty. It’s cruel. But it’s all you have left. You wrap your arms around your stomach like it’ll hold in the sour twist of jealousy and hurt and sex you still haven’t scrubbed off. He’s probably already awake. Already laughing. Already sending her good morning texts while stretching in those silk sheets you bled yourself into last night.

You duck into a small shop near the marina—overpriced bottled water, sunscreen, last-minute branded merch. A cap with his fucking number is front and center on the rack. You want to set it on fire. You want to smash the display. You want to grab it and scream at the teenage girl fawning over it, he’s not a hero, he’s a fucking coward.

You buy gum and painkillers and overpriced sunglasses you don’t need.

At the register, the clerk asks, “You here for the race?”

You smile too hard. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Your body’s sore in that deep, intimate way. Not just your thighs, not just your hips—but your core, your chest, your fucking heart. Your insides feel rearranged and not in the poetic way. Your stomach is tight. Your mouth is dry. You didn’t even eat dinner last night. Just swallowed him. Let him fill every empty space. Let him win. You keep walking. Past yachts bobbing in the harbor, past velvet ropes and security guards and women with lips like weapons. Everyone’s beautiful here. Everyone looks like they belong.

Your phone stays cold in your pocket. No text. No call. No you okay? You imagine her posting something. A soft-boiled egg on a white plate. His wrist in the corner of the frame. His smile. Her caption: my love.

You hope the car catches fire. You hope he gets lapped. You hope he feels a tenth of what you’re swallowing with every step.

You sit at a café just off the main street. Order espresso. Black. No sugar. Your phone’s on the table. Face up. Still nothing. You chew your gum until your jaw hurts. You glance around. Every man in the city looks like a ghost version of him. Curls and sunglasses and soft voices ordering oat milk lattes. Every laugh sounds like the one he gave her. Your legs are crossed tight. Like if you keep them that way, it’ll keep the shame in. You still feel it. Every time you shift in your seat, you feel the dull ache of him. The stretch. The emptiness. Like he’s still inside you, just in the form of silence.

It’s not that you wanted love. You just wanted to not be discarded. Not like that. Not so fast. Not so quiet.You check your phone again.

Nothing.

You sip your coffee and watch a woman walk by in a Ferrari shirt, her toddler in tow. The kid’s got a tiny McLaren cap on. Your stomach flips. You wanted to be seen. Instead, you were handled.

Just another fucking pit stop. You close your eyes. Inhale. Count backwards from ten.

But the only thing that fills your mind is his voice from last night, low and smug in your ear.

You almost don’t go.

The cab ride feels long. The restaurant feels too much. Too much candlelight, too much glass, too much silver on the table, like it’s all trying to distract you from the fact that you’re still aching in all the places he touched. Your body’s clean, but it doesn’t feel that way. The shower didn’t help. The makeup didn’t help. The dress—tight black silk, slit to your thigh, halter low enough to tempt—feels more like armor than anything else. You wore it to forget, not to remember.

The guy across from you—what’s his name again? You haven’t said it out loud since you saved it in your phone—he’s sweet. Easy laugh. Well-dressed in a way that’s intentional but not obnoxious. Confident, but not a narcissist. The kind of man who should be able to make you forget. You’re nodding along to something he’s saying about race weekend logistics, sipping cold white wine and tasting nothing.

You laugh when he laughs. You answer questions. You twirl your fork in risotto you’re not hungry for. And you look fucking good. You know you do. Hair pinned. Collarbone sharp. Lip gloss like lacquer. There’s a version of you here that could do this. Who should be doing this. Being adored. Taken out. Picked up and shown off. A version of you who isn’t still bleeding for someone who left her dripping on a balcony.

But you’re not her. Not tonight. Not when your heart’s still a clenched fist in your chest. Your phone lights up once.

You glance down.

Lando.

No message preview. Just the name. Just the knot that forms instantly in your throat—tight, familiar, awful.

You don’t react. Not outwardly. You don’t flinch. Don’t gasp. You lift your glass like nothing’s wrong, like your whole body isn’t already curling inward from the contact.

The guy across from you is still talking. Still smiling. Still thinking you’re here.

“—so I told him, mate, you can’t just buy the yacht, you actually have to learn how to drive it,” he’s saying, laughing at his own story, voice too loud, too clean. “Rich kids, man. No sense of reality.”

You nod. Smile, maybe. You’re not sure what your face is doing. Everything sounds underwater.

Your phone lights up again.

Lando.

You shift in your seat. Cross your legs tighter beneath the table.

“Anyway, so we ended up in Saint-Tropez for the weekend—crazy, right?—and I swear to god the guy tried to dock it by just, like, aiming.”

You pick up your drink just to keep your hands busy. The rim touches your lip but you don’t sip. The screen lights again.

Lando.

And again.

Lando.

“Have you ever sailed? I feel like you’d be good at it. You’ve got that… I don’t know, that calm presence. Like you’d be the only one not panicking.”

Your fingers twitch on the stem of your glass. Calm. He has no fucking idea of the whirl-wind occuring in your head this very moment. Your phone buzzes again and this time you don’t even look. Because you don’t need to.

Lando.

Your hand tightens around the stem of your glass. Your lips part like you might say something. Like maybe you’ll stand up and run before this moment becomes what you know it’s about to be.

You look over your shoulder.

Not because you want to.

Because you have to.

That awful sixth sense prickling at your neck, crawling down your spine. Your body stiffens before your eyes find him. Because somewhere inside you, you already know.

And then—

There he is.

Far end of the restaurant. Slipping in through the private entrance like the front door was beneath him. Like he hasn’t made a mess of your insides. Like he didn’t fuck you breathless against his balcony railing not even twenty-four hours ago.

Tan coat. Dark trousers. Curls pushed back like he ran a hand through them on the drive over. Jaw tight, smile easy. There’s a laugh in his throat—God, that laugh—like he didn’t tear yours out with his fucking teeth. She’s with him. Magui. In the flesh. Long legs. Loose hair. White silk dress, delicate little thing hanging off her body like an afterthought. She’s laughing at something he said, hand on his arm, and your gut plummets.

He doesn’t see you yet. Or maybe he does, and he’s just pretending. Your face burns. You want to disappear. Melt into the leather of your chair, vanish into the floor. The guy across from you says something about dessert. You smile. You think you do. Maybe you grimace. He excuses himself to the bathroom, promising to be quick.

You’re already grabbing your phone the second he stands. And now you look, you read, properly.

Lando [9:37 PM]

nice dress

Lando [9:39 PM]

trying to impress him or just make me crazy?

Lando [9:40 PM]

it’s working

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t walk over there?

Lando [9:41 PM]

you think I won’t remind you what you begged for last night?

Lando [9:42 PM]

you can’t fuck him. you won’t. i can see it on your face.

Your heart pounds so loud you can feel it in your throat. Your hands are trembling against the phone. Your thumb hovers and then you type it.

go fuck yourself

You don’t even get the full breath out before another text lights up.

Lando [9:43 PM]

already did. thinking of you the whole time

Your stomach turns. You look back across the restaurant—and now he’s looking at you. Head tilted. Smile carved into his mouth like a dare. His hand rests on Magui’s lower back as he murmurs something in her ear.

She doesn’t notice you. But he does. His eyes are locked on you like a blade. You want to stand. You want to scream. You want to slap him across the face in front of everyone, tear the candle off your table and set that fucking smile on fire.

Instead—you grab your wine and down it.

Pick up your phone and you type.

what do you want from me, Lando?

Because you know exactly what he’s going to say. And you know you’ll give it to him anyway.

You don’t send another text. You don’t need to. Because you already feel it—his eyes. Continuing to burrow into you across the room. You don’t have to look again to know he’s watching your every move, jaw tight, tongue pressed hard behind his teeth. She’s still talking to him. Smiling. Leaning close like she’s won something.

But you know better. You’ve played this game before. He’s not listening to her. He’s watching you.

Before you know it, the bathroom door swings open and your date returns, all warm smiles and lightly cologned confidence, none the wiser. He slides into the booth beside you now instead of across. And you—oh, baby—you let him. You lean in. Just enough. Just close enough that your perfume slips into his nose and your thigh brushes his. Your knee rests against his under the table and you don’t pull away. You’re smiling now—really smiling, lip caught between your teeth, eyes bright with something vicious.

“Miss me?” you murmur, voice syrupy.

He laughs. “Was only gone a minute.”

You rest your hand on his forearm. Light at first. Then you drag your fingertips down to his wrist, slow and soft like you’re mapping out where you’ll bite later. He pauses, eyes dipping down to your hand, then back up to your mouth.

“You’re… different all of a sudden,” he says, smiling. “Something change?”

You shrug, eyes hooded. “Just realized I like this table better from this side.”

You know what you’re doing. You tilt your head, your mouth just a little too close to his neck, and you laugh at whatever he says next—something harmless. A joke. A compliment. It doesn’t matter. You laugh like Lando isn’t sitting ten tables away, burning. You laugh like you’re not already thinking about unzipping this poor man’s pants just to get revenge on the one who broke you.

You rest your chin on your hand and trace circles on the inside of his knee. You cross your legs in his direction and let your dress slip higher. You sip your wine with your lips parted, slow, tongue flicking the rim.

And then—your phone buzzes again. You check it casually, still smiling.

Lando [9:51 PM]

what the fuck do you think you’re doing

Oh, there it is. The leash pulls tight. Instead of answering, you reach for your date’s collar and straighten it instead, gentle, intimate. He’s blinking at you now, almost stunned, not quite believing his luck.

You feel Lando watching. You can taste it. Your hand drifts down to your date’s thigh. Not obvious. But not subtle either.

“You wanna come back to mine?” you ask, quiet, like a secret.

His breath catches.

“Yeah. Definitely.”

You feel the heat in your cheeks. Not embarrassment—arousal. And rage. And something darker. You want Lando to lose his fucking mind. You want him to picture it—the way you’ll moan for someone else, even if you’re faking it the whole time. You want him sick with it. You want him to feel what he did to you.

Yo grab your bag and stand, letting your hand trail down your date’s chest as you say, “Come on, then.”

You don’t look back. But you don’t have to. You can feel Lando watching you walk away like he’s about to snap a wine glass in his fist. And for the first time all fucking day, you feel a little bit like you won. The cool air hits you the second you step outside, crisp with salt and a faint hint of fuel—Monaco always smells like money and speed. You’re holding his hand. This new guy. The sweet one. He’s talking about the afterparty, asking if you want champagne or tequila when you get there. You nod. Smile. Pretend.

But it’s all wrong. Every step you take feels heavier. Your stomach twists once. Then again. Sharp, then dull, then sharp again. It’s not the wine. It’s not the food. It’s the lie you’re living inside, stretched too tight around your ribs.

By the time you reach the curb, your throat is dry. He’s hailing a car, jacket off, offering it to your shoulders like a gentleman, still thinking this night is going somewhere good. He’s got no idea you’re two seconds away from falling apart.

You stop and pull your hand back.

“I can’t,” you say, voice too small.

He looks over. “What?”

You shake your head. Your smile’s already cracking. “I’m sorry. I just—I can’t.”

He takes a step closer, brows pulling together. “You okay? Is there something wrong?”

You press a hand to your stomach. It does hurt now. Real pain. Not from food. From grief. From self-disgust. From the way your body still remembers another mouth, another weight, another name.

“I thought I could,” you say, voice barely above a breath. “I thought I was over it. But I’m not.”

He just watches you. Confused, maybe. Definitely kind, and kind in a way that only makes it worse. You hate that he’s decent. Hate the way he listens without interruption, the way he offers space for your sadness without trying to fix it. He’s doing everything right and it still feels wrong. Because no matter how gently he holds you, how safe his hands are, your mind always drifts elsewhere. Always pulls back to something sharp. Something dangerous. Something that doesn’t even belong to you anymore.

To Lando. To the way his name still lives under your tongue like it has a right to be there. To the taste of him, the weight of his stare from across a room, the way his laugh ruins you even now. To the memory of his hands on your body while someone else wears his heart in public. It’s shameful, the way you crave what hurt you. The way your skin still prickles for him while someone good stands in front of you trying to love you without a fight. And still—he’s the ghost you reach for in the dark. Even now. Even here.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, stepping back. “You don’t deserve this.”

And before he can speak, you turn. He calls your name once. But he doesn’t follow.

You walk. Fast at first, then slower, then fast again. The city glows around you—buzzing, alive, gearing up for a weekend of victory and champagne, of golden boy headlines and photos that will never include you. The heels you wore start to hurt. You carry them, bare feet on warm pavement, heart thudding in your ears like a warning bell.

You don’t cry. You don’t scream. You don’t throw your phone or punch a wall or sink to the floor in some kind of cinematic collapse. That would require an emotion that hasn’t already been wrung out of you. What you do is walk. Barefoot. Purse in one hand, heels in the other, dress still clinging to your skin like it knows it’s part of the performance you didn’t get to finish. You walk like you’re being timed, like if you slow down even a little you’ll notice what your body’s doing—shaking, buzzing, trying not to feel anything too loudly in case someone hears it. In case he does.

You walk back to the hotel. Back to the quiet. Back to the too-cold lobby where the concierge doesn’t even glance up. Back to the elevator that moves too slow, back to the room that feels too clean. Back to the bed where you let him inside you, to the window you pressed your palms against, to the glass that still holds the outline of your spine. You walk back to where last night still breathes in the sheets, where the air remembers what your mouth sounded like when he pulled you open.

You unlock the door with shaking hands. Not trembling—shaking. That kind of shake that lives in the marrow, in the hollows between bones, the kind that doesn’t show up until the moment things go quiet. You twist the handle and step inside like the room might have changed, like maybe it’s not the same space where you peeled yourself out of his grip hours earlier, where your knees hit the carpet and you thought maybe, for a second, that he might look at you and see something. The door closes behind you with that soft hotel click, and it sounds too final. It sounds like the kind of soft that doesn’t care how heavy the silence is on the other side of it. You don’t turn the lights on. You don’t move beyond the threshold. The air feels stale even though the window’s cracked. The sheets on the bed are still half-pulled back from when you rushed to get dressed, from when your fingers fumbled over your bra strap like it mattered, like decency was something you still had access to.

And that’s when it hits you—that feeling. That pulse. That presence.

Not the man you left at the restaurant, not the one who leaned into another woman’s ear while staring straight through you across the room. Not the one who smiled like he hadn’t had his face between your thighs the night before. Not the one who let you walk out without chasing. That version of him is for the public, for the cameras, for the kind of girls who don’t know better.

The one you feel now is the one who told you, under his breath, that no one would ever fuck you the way he does. The one who kissed your throat like it was an apology, like it was a promise. The one who held your hips in both hands like he needed to brace himself against the want. The one who said I love you with a groan and meant it in the filthiest, most broken way. The one who left you full and aching and ruined and somehow still wanting more.

He isn’t here. He isn’t anywhere. But his name is still wet in your mouth, and his breath is still in your lungs, and your underwear is still sticking to you from where he finished without asking, and every part of your body still feels like it belongs to him. And maybe that’s worse. Maybe this—this absence, this phantom weight—is heavier than the act itself.

Because this is what he does. He invades. He stays. He lingers. And when he goes, he never really leaves.

The phone rings just past two a.m.

You stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen, not moving. You don’t answer right away—not because you’re trying to punish him, but because it’s a moment, and it’s yours. The quiet just before. The breath held. The anticipation curled at the bottom of your stomach like something alive. You hate how much you want this. Hate how your body remembers his name before your mouth does. Hate how none of it has dulled, not even now.

It rings again, softer somehow, though you know that’s impossible. It’s just the hour. The way silence thickens around sound this late, the way everything feels heavier when you’re alone. The way he feels heavier when you’re alone.

You press accept on the third buzz.

You stare at the ceiling while the line connects, the glow of the screen fading into the dark again as your hand drops back to the mattress. Your fingers brush the edge of the pillow but you don’t turn over. You don’t shift. You stay exactly as you were—still, flat, undone. He doesn’t say your name. He never does right away. That’s part of the performance. That moment he lets the silence settle just long enough to remind you that he holds the leash, that if you want anything—words, answers, closure—you’ll have to crawl for it.

He sighs, soft, like he’s tired, like it’s been a long day, like this is normal. “Hey.”

Just that. Just hey.

And it’s nothing. It’s nothing and it’s everything, because your chest tightens immediately, stomach flipping like you were still twenty minutes from him and not lying here in the wreckage of what he left behind. His voice sounds rough, maybe from the champagne, maybe from her, maybe from the way he always sounds when he’s just had something and still wants more. You want to hate it. You want to pretend it makes your skin crawl. But all it really does is make you ache.

“You alone?”

The question lands too gently, like he’s not really asking. Like he knows.

“Yeah.” Your voice sounds like it’s coming from someone else. Brittle. Caught in your throat.

A pause. You can hear him breathing. That quiet, familiar rhythm that used to mean something. That used to make you feel safe before it made you feel like a fucking joke.

He clears his throat, and the smirk is audible even over the line. “So? How was he?”

You flinch. You don’t know why—you should have expected it. It’s exactly the kind of thing he says when he’s trying not to ask the real question. When he’s trying to keep the power even while he’s already lost it.

You pause. Too long. “Fine.”

“Just fine?” His voice drops, dark amusement curling at the edges. “You let him fuck you, then?”

Your jaw clenches. You know what he’s doing. You know exactly where this is going. You roll onto your side, tuck the phone closer to your ear, press your thighs together without thinking.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. You swallow. Hard. “No.”

He laughs. Just once. Dry. “Didn’t think so.”

The silence stretches again, and it’s worse this time, heavier, like it’s his. Like he brought it with him and left it in your lap and now you’re the one holding it. You shift onto your side without meaning to, knees curling into your chest, hand still clutching the phone like it might anchor you to the bed.

“Hmm,” he hums, dragging the sound out like he’s picturing it. “Thought so. You always tighten up when you lie.”

You don’t respond.

“You were thinking about me the whole time, weren’t you?” His voice is softer now. Dangerous in a different way. Not sharp. Sweet. “Sitting there all pretty, playing the part, but your pussy was still sore from me.”

You swallow hard, lips parted, phone hot against your cheek. It feels heavier than it should—like it’s holding his whole mouth on the other end. Like if you press it tighter, you might feel the weight of his breath against your skin, humid and amused.

“Lando…” You don’t mean it to come out like that—weak, soft-edged, needy—but it does. It always does when he says your name first, or doesn’t say it at all. When he lets the silence settle until you have no choice but to fill it.

“I bet you didn’t even want him to touch you,” he murmurs. Not a tease. Not even mean. Just certain. Like he’s telling you something you haven’t admitted to yourself yet. “You sat through dinner, acting like a good little date, and all you could think about was my hand on your throat. My mouth on your cunt. The way you begged for it on that balcony.”

Your breath catches. The kind of catch that expands across your chest and makes your lungs feel too full too fast. You shift—barely—but the movement gives you away. Your hips tilt into nothing, like muscle memory took over. Your chest rises too quickly. You’re trying to hold it back, but your body’s already mid-confession. You make a sound, low in your throat, too soft to call language. Half protest, half surrender.

And he hears all of it.

“You touching yourself right now?”

You don’t say anything and he takes your silence as a yes.

“Do it.” He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t coax. He never has to. His instructions always sound like they’ve already happened, like you’re just catching up to the inevitable.

“Slide your hand down. Just one finger.”

You move slowly, not because you’re trying to be seductive, but because there’s shame in the familiarity. The way your body responds without hesitation. The way the sheets shift as your hand disappears beneath them. The way your fingertips graze your stomach and you pause—not out of modesty, but reverence. Like you already know what you’re going to find. You press your thighs together, the way you used to when you were trying not to let him see how bad it got, how fast. You hesitate. You want to blame him. But you’re already wet. Already ruined. Your panties cling, soaked and still warm, like your body’s been waiting for this call all night.

“Lando,” you whisper, but it’s not a plea to stop. It’s a surrender.

“Yeah, baby,” he breathes, and it lands deep in your ear, rough and syrup-slick at the edges. His voice has thickened—fuller, slower, like the sound of someone wrapping their palm around a want they’re trying not to show. “That’s right. Show me you still fucking need me.”

You hate how good it feels. Not the words. The tone. The certainty. He never doubts it. Never doubts you. Your need. Your body. He speaks to it like it’s his, and the worst part is—it still listens. God help you—you do.

Your fingers hover beneath the sheet, suspended above your stomach like they’re waiting for permission. Caught there in limbo. Not quite obedience, not quite defiance. The space between his command and your compliance is thin, delicate, the place you always seem to fall into first.

His voice lingers, curls around you like a second skin. Honey-laced gravel. That sound you’ve heard pressed to your shoulder, your mouth, the inside of your thighs. It tugs. Not gently. Not violently. Just effectively. It would be so easy. To give in. To surrender under the guise of pleasure. To let your body chase his voice and pretend—for five minutes—that this is love. That he means any of it. That wanting you is the same as keeping you. That this ache, this pull, is more than just habit wrapped in heat.

But something clenches in your chest. Sharp. A tightness just behind your sternum, hot and specific. A different kind of knowing.

You pull your hand back. “No,” you say, quiet, but not soft. A whisper, yes—but one you mean.

The line stills. His breath shifts—no longer seductive, just audible. A pause, an exhale, the kind that happens when someone wasn’t expecting a refusal.

“No?” he repeats, slower now.

You swallow. Your throat tightens. “Not like this. I’m not—” You sit up in bed. The sheets slip down your chest like they know they’ve been dismissed. Cool air replaces the warmth of your body, and it feels like stepping outside of something. “You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to say that shit to me after what happened.”

You wait. Expect the smirk in his voice. The pivot. The sarcasm. The cruel, clever deflection that always comes when you try to reach for something with weight.

A beat passes. Then another. You brace yourself for the mockery, the deflection, the teeth. But instead, he sighs. Honest. A sound you’ve only heard a handful of times before. The sound he makes when his armor slips, when he thinks no one’s watching.

“I know,” he says snd it sounds like truth.

You blink.

“I just— fuck,” he mutters, voice dropping low again, but not to seduce this time. Just honest. Raw. “I keep trying to not think about you. I go to sleep next to her, and it’s you I’m dreaming about. I kiss her and it doesn’t taste like anything.”

Your breath catches.

“I thought maybe if I pissed you off enough, you’d stop being in my head. But then I saw you tonight.” He laughs under his breath. “You looked so fucking good. I hated it.”

You’re quiet. Staring at the far wall of your hotel room like it might give you answers.

“I don’t want to keep doing this,” you whisper.

He doesn’t protest. Doesn’t try to sell it as love or misunderstanding or timing or fate. He just waits, still on the line, still breathing, letting the weight of your words—and his silence—do what it always does. Fill the room with him.

“I want to stop,” you say again, but it sounds different this time. Smaller. Your voice loses its bite somewhere on the way out, like your throat already knew it was a lie.

“So stop,” he murmurs. “Block my number. Forget my name.”

You don’t answer.

“Exactly,” he says, softer now, and the smile bends downward in his tone, into something resigned, something rotted. “You won’t. You fucking can’t.”

You close your eyes, let your head fall back against the pillow. The ceiling’s too white, too still. Your chest feels hollow, carved out with something blunt, something dull and wide. Like he reached in with both hands and took, not just the good parts, but the name you say when you’re alone, the thoughts you think when you’re cold, the you that existed before him.

“I miss you,” you admit, and it guts you to say it.

He breathes in like you just unzipped his skin. Like you reached down the line and dragged his ribs apart with your teeth. “Say it again.”

You shake your head, lips parting, but no sound comes.

“Please,” he says, quieter now, the way he gets when he really means something. Like you’ve just put your hand on the door, and he’s begging without pride. “Just once.”

The silence feels like it stretches forever, like the night itself is holding its breath just to hear what you’ll say next. Your fingers tremble where they rest on your chest, tracing the curve of your collarbone like distraction could be enough. It isn’t. You should hang up. You should. But your throat is tight and your stomach’s hollow and your whole body feels like it’s still locked in the shape of his. You wish it didn’t matter anymore. You wish his voice didn’t still pull at the part of you that needs to be seen. You close your eyes and inhale through your nose, a sad attempt at trying to ground yourself in this moment. “I miss you,” you whisper, again. And it cracks something in your own voice—thin and breaking, like you hate yourself for meaning it.

You hear him groan. Deep. Loud. From the chest. The kind of sound that doesn’t start in the throat—it starts lower. Beneath the ribs. That heavy, involuntary kind of noise that escapes before it can be shaped into something cooler, something controlled. It scrapes up through him like the words pulled something raw out of him and left it there, exposed.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You don’t know what that does to me.”

You picture him—eyes closed, jaw tight, knuckles white around the phone. Picture him tilting his head back, one hand dragging over his face like he’s trying to shake it off, like the sound embarrassed even him. Like your voice still reaches places he keeps locked and your thighs clench instinctively, traitorously from the thought of it. Something inside you twists, low and hot and helpless.

“You can’t say that to me and expect me to stay quiet,” he mutters, voice ragged now. You can hear the shift in him, the sudden tension coiling under his words like a wire pulled too tight.

You bite your lip, but you don’t interrupt.

“I’ve been thinking about it since you walked away tonight,” he says, lower, slower, each syllable like a bruise dragged across your skin. “How your hips moved in that dress. How empty your hand looked without mine in it.”

Your fingers slide beneath the sheet again, slow this time, like surrender—like there’s no point pretending you won’t. Not when he’s already in your ear, in your body, in the rhythm of your breath. You barely brush your own skin, but it’s enough to light up everything he left raw. You don’t stop. You can’t. Something in you has already given way.

He exhales, sharp and sudden, like he felt it—like he knew the moment your hand moved. “Are you touching yourself now?”

Your breath catches in your throat, tight and unsteady, and you hate the pause that follows. Hate how long it takes you not to answer, but not to lie either. The silence is its own admission.

“Yeah…” he says, voice dipping. “You are.”

You swallow hard. Hard enough that it hurts.

“I can picture it,” he murmurs. “Your legs spread just a little, that pretty little cunt already soaked for me. You’re rubbing slow, aren’t you? Just like I taught you.”

Your hand obeys without permission, palm pressing down over the thin cotton of your underwear. You gasp—quiet, quick.

“God, I miss the way you taste,” he groans. “I’d fucking die right now to have you sitting on my face, one hand in my hair, grinding like you always do when you’re too far gone to be shy.”

Your hips jerk.

“I’d tongue-fuck you ‘til your legs shake,” he growls. “Wouldn’t even stop when you begged me to.”

You moan, involuntary, soft and choked.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Don’t hold back. Let me hear you, baby.”

You slide your hand lower. Inside. Fingers sliding through slick heat. Shame and need pulsing together under your skin. You want to stop. You don’t. Because his voice is the only thing that feels real right now.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick now, every word catching on the edge of a groan. “Nice and slow. Fuck yourself for me.”

Your fingers move without thought, caught between his breath in your ear and the ache blooming low in your stomach. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet of your room—shameless, slick, and sinful. And he knows. You haven’t said a word in minutes, but he knows exactly what you’re doing.

“I bet your thighs are shaking,” he says. “Bet your fingers are slipping because you’re so fucking soaked. You always were, weren’t you? Always such a desperate little thing for me.”

You bite your bottom lip, hard, your free hand grabbing the sheets beside you, twisting them as your hips start to move.

“Are you gonna come for me?” he asks, voice low and reverent now, like it’s prayer instead of poison. “Yeah? You’re close, aren’t you? I can hear it. I can fucking feel it.”

You moan. Soft. Broken.

“God, I miss how you sound,” he groans, the sound raw in your ear like he’s fisting the phone. “I used to make you scream, didn’t I? When I had you bent over the edge of the bed, dripping, wrecked, begging me not to stop.”

Your back arches off the sheets.

The room is too still—dim and expensive and wrong, like every object inside it is holding its breath with you. Fingers move frantically between your thighs, slippery with sweat and want, chasing that high you swore you wouldn’t let him give you again. The bedsheets twist beneath you, cool against your calves, sticky at your back. You’ve kicked them off entirely now, one leg stretched toward the edge of the mattress like you’re bracing for impact. You are.

Outside, the faint drone of the sea whispers through a cracked window. Somewhere in the distance, a car rips down the avenue too fast, tires humming against wet asphalt. Monaco never really sleeps—just hums at a lower frequency, like even the city is in on it. Like the architecture itself is bent toward indulgence and regret. And then his voice drops again—low, measured, threading into the stillness like silk soaked in kerosene. Almost tender.

“You wanna know something?” His voice drops even lower, into something almost tender.

You make a noise. Can’t speak. Don’t trust yourself to. Your eyes are closed but you can feel him—his voice in your ear, his name still carved into the rhythm of your breath. He doesn’t wait.

The words drop like fire in your chest. They land hard. Searing. Like you swallowed something molten and now your lungs are screaming, your spine melting into the mattress. Your thighs jerk. Your fingers falter. The ceiling above you stays dark, indifferent.

“I fucking love you,” he says again, this time harsher. Desperate. “I hate how much I do. But I do.”

It’s not soft. It’s not romantic. It’s a wound splitting open in real time. A confession flung into the dark because he can’t hold it anymore. And you—you shake. You can’t breathe. You can’t stop. Your fingers stop and then start again, harder, faster, like maybe if you come it’ll drown it out. Like you can flood it out of your bloodstream, sweat it out of your skin. But it doesn’t work. It’s still there. In every heartbeat. In every gasp.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

“You’re mine,” he breathes. “Even when you’re not. Even when you walk away. I still feel you. Every fucking day. No one else even comes close.”

And your orgasm hits like a crash.

It’s violent. A wave slamming your body against itself. Your legs tense. Your stomach seizes. Your breath breaks into pieces. A sound claws its way out of your throat, and your hand flies up—reflex—trying to cover your mouth, trying to keep it in. You can’t. It’s too late. He hears it. Of course he does. He always does.

“That’s my girl,” he growls. “Fucking knew you’d give it to me.”

You don’t say anything. Can’t. The words won’t come. They’ve drowned under the weight of him—of this. The way his voice still owns the oxygen in the room. The way your body still says yes when everything else is screaming no.

The line is quiet.

You can still hear him breathing, but it’s distant now. Removed. Not soft or hungry anymore—just there. Like a metronome ticking at the end of a hallway. Background noise in a house that doesn’t feel like yours anymore.

You curl onto your side, away from the phone. Away from him. The sheets are cold on this side—untouched, undisturbed. Your arm tucks under your head, and your legs curl toward your chest on instinct, like your body’s trying to hold itself smaller. Contain the ache. The trembling hasn’t stopped yet, a slow pulse beneath your skin like something sacred was scraped out with a dull edge.

He should say something.

You should say something. But neither of you do.

The heat is already fading from your skin. It evaporates too fast, like it was never yours to keep. The chill that replaces it seeps under your ribs—quiet and surgical. It settles in your throat like a question you don’t want to ask. You blink at the wall. At the dark. At the soft glow of the city bleeding in from the window. The room’s filled with dim gold and ghostlight, shadows cast by luxury fixtures and memories you didn’t mean to resurrect.

Everything is still. And wrong, you fucking hate how familiar this feels. The after. Always the after. That hollow stretch of silence where he pulls away—not with excuses. Not even with guilt. Just absence. Just a breath you can’t sync with anymore. A distance so thick it presses against your chest like a hand. You’re alone in a room that smells like him. On sheets that remember your back arching. And now it’s quiet. And cold. And exactly like the last time.

When he finally speaks, it’s low. Measured. Like he’s collecting himself. Like the version of him that just broke you apart is already folding itself back into something clean, something that won’t ruin the rest of his night.

“You still there?”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

You wait.

You try not to. You tell yourself not to. But you do. Of course you do. For softness. For proof. For anything that makes what he said—I love you—feel like a truth and not just a well-aimed knife disguised as comfort. You wait for the voice that said it to come back with warmth, with meaning, with something that makes the wreckage worthwhile. But all you get is silence.

And then—his voice again. Casual. Neutral. Airy, even. Like a light switch flipped somewhere between your thighs and his pride.

“You gonna be at qualifying?”

It hits like a slap. Not a sharp one. A dull one. Open-palmed and slow, the kind that comes after the fight’s already over. The kind that reminds you who’s still standing. You roll onto your back. Stare at the ceiling like it might peel away and let you float out of this. Your chest aches, hollow and wide. Your thighs are still slick and parted and ruined. Your mouth still tastes like his name. And he’s asking about fucking qualifying. Like this was a meeting. Like this wasn’t a bloodletting.

“No,” you say. Flat. Tired. Honest. Like your voice has finally given up trying to be anything else.

He doesn’t argue. Of course he doesn’t. That would require effort. Would require remembering that you just let him back inside a body that still flinches from the last time.

The pause stretches. Long. Unearned. The kind of pause that should hold regret. But doesn’t. You wonder if he’s already looking at her. If she’s asleep in his bed right now, one leg kicked out from under the covers, soft breathing and sheets still warm from her skin. If he’ll crawl back in like this was just a break. If he’ll kiss her shoulder and curl into her like nothing happened. Like he didn’t just call you from the next room and come in your ear while whispering your name like a prayer. If she’ll roll over and whisper I love you back.

“Okay,” he says, finally.

That’s it. No pause. No catch. No sorry. You don’t say goodbye, won’t allow yourself to give him the satisfaction. So instead, you just hang up. Slowly and quietly. Like if you move too fast, the grief might notice you. Like if you make a sound, whatever just died might come back and ask for more. And then you lie there. Alone. Cold. Numb in the exact places he made you feel again. The wet between your legs isn’t even arousal anymore—it’s humiliation, pooling like proof. The room feels too big. Your skin too tight. Your heart too loud for how little it’s getting back. You close your eyes. And you try—god, you try—not to remember how good it felt to believe him.

You told yourself you wouldn’t watch. Told yourself you’d go out during the race. Walk the port. Maybe take a train out of the city. Catch a ride into Italy, buy a coffee in some no-name border town where no one gives a fuck about Formula One. You told yourself if you left early enough, you wouldn’t hear the engines start.

But you did. You heard them. Sharp and brutal. Like the city itself was exhaling all at once. The engines howled to life like beasts shaking off sleep. And the streets—those narrow, glittering veins winding around the harbor like silk on bone—filled instantly. People spilled out of hotels, bars, yachts. Laughter carried down alleyways. Shoes clacked against marble and cobblestone. Horns. Screams. Sirens. The whole city vibrating in a single fevered pitch, like a heartbeat you couldn’t separate from your own.

And that was it. You felt it again.

That tug. That sick little string wound tight through your ribs. Strung there by him. Still holding. Still pulling. It didn’t matter how much distance you told yourself you needed—when the world turned toward him, you did too.So you ended up outside a bar near the track. Not the private ones. Not the ones with velvet ropes and industry passes and terrace views. Just one of the ones carved into the street-level buildings, open to the chaos, full of heat and sound. Flat screens bolted above the bar. Fans shoulder to shoulder. Bottles sweating in metal buckets. Flags tied like bandanas. Champagne already foaming across tabletops like victory was a guarantee.

You stood by the railing. Arms crossed. Sunglasses still on even though the sun was behind the buildings now. Shadows stretched across the street like tired ghosts. Your foot tapped against the base of a rusted stool, your hip leaned just barely into the edge of the counter like you weren’t really here. Like maybe you were just watching a version of yourself watch him.

The race blurred by.

It always does. Too fast, too clean, too cinematic. Like it’s not real. Like it’s something you could turn off if you found the right remote. He looked good—of course he did. He always does when there’s something on the line. Fast. Confident. Hungry. His car didn’t take corners. It swallowed them. He moved like he was dancing with the track. Like he could feel its heartbeat better than his own. You didn’t blink when he overtook on Lap 42. Didn’t flinch when the leaderboard adjusted like it had been waiting for him all along.

But when the checkered flag dropped? When the whole bar erupted—glasses raised, hands slapped to backs, phones held high and recording?

That’s whens something inside you cracked. It was clean and silent. Like glass under pressure. You watched the screen. Watched him throw his fists into the air inside the car, helmet still on, adrenaline turning his voice to something breathless and boyish through the radio.

“Fuck, man! We did it!”

And he sounded happy. Not like he’d sounded on the phone. Not like last night. Not like someone torn in two. He sounded whole. He sounded free. You stood still while the rest of the bar screamed and spilled and toasted and laughed. While confetti machines burst at the table beside you. While someone popped a bottle and poured foam into a stranger’s cup like they’d both waited their whole lives for this.

And you—still in your sunglasses, arms locked across your chest like armor—you felt like you were being erased. Not slowly. Not softly. Violently. Like the footage of him crossing that line was actively overwriting you. Like every frame of his win was bleaching your name from his mouth. Then you saw her.

Not up close. Not at the podium. Just a flicker. A flash of white on the screen behind him. Behind the fence. Her hair. Her silhouette. Her hand.

Raised in a wave. And the way he looked at her—god. You thought you’d collapse.

You don’t know why you’re here. You already booked your ticket back to Italy. You packed your bag with one hand while brushing your teeth with the other, You checked out of the hotel like it was a fire you had to get away from. You had a plan. You were going to leave before the city woke up, before the papers hit the stands, before your own stomach could catch up to the shame curling in it.

But then you didn’t. You didn’t leave. You didn’t get in the car. You didn’t do the smart thing, or the sane thing, or even the thing you promised yourself you would. Instead, you walked. Shoes in your hand, face bare, heart kicking like it wanted out. You walked past the marina. Past the crowds still drunk off the race. Past the café where your phone first lit up with his name. You told yourself it was a loop. A muscle twitch. A final look.

You knew it was a lie and now you’re here. You ride the elevator in silence, arms crossed, your teeth sunk so deep into your lip you can taste blood. The hallway stretches out in front of you like something cinematic—floor-to-ceiling windows on one side, pale wood on the other, recessed lights humming low like they know what you’re doing. You don’t even knock. The apartment door is already cracked open.

Of course it is.

He’s inside. Shirtless. Sweaty. Champagne-drenched hair curling messily across his forehead. Still wearing his fireproofs, halfway unzipped. His chest rises with breath that’s only just started to slow. He smells like victory. Like sun-warmed metal and sweet rot and something you used to beg for. He looks good.

Of course he does. He turns when you step in. Smiles. The real kind. That one that used to mean I knew you'd come.

But it fades the second he sees your face.

“Hey,” he says, cautious now. “You okay?”

You shake your head once. Quick. Like it might stop the tears from crawling up your throat.

“I don’t know why I’m here,” you say. But that’s a lie.

He steps forward, slow, cautious, like approaching an animal he’s already wounded once and isn’t sure won’t bite again. His arms stay loose at his sides, fingers twitching like he doesn’t know what he’s allowed to reach for anymore—your waist, your wrist, your forgiveness.

“You—uh, did you see the race?” he asks, and it’s not small talk. Not really. It’s a test balloon. A toe in the water. Like maybe if you say yes without venom, maybe if your voice stays level, he can convince himself none of this is a disaster.

“Yeah,” you snap, the word scraping up your throat like it came with splinters. “You were amazing. Congratulations.”

His smile twitches back onto his face, but it doesn’t land properly. It hovers at the corners like a glitch in the system. Like he knows it’s too late to fix the part of him that doesn’t know how to be soft when it counts.

“Thanks,” he says, and it should mean something. Should carry weight. But it floats.

You step closer. Not because you want to be near him, not anymore. But because the distance feels dishonest. Like if you’re going to bleed in front of him, he should at least have to watch it happen up close. Your voice shakes when you speak, but you don’t try to hide it. You don’t care if he hears what it costs you. You want him to.

“Why wasn’t I ever good enough?”

He blinks. His head pulls back just slightly, like you slapped him. Like the words hit somewhere he wasn’t guarding. His brow creases—not out of confusion, but something worse. That dawning realization that this conversation isn’t going to end where he thought it might. That this isn’t another soft landing.

“What?” he says, but it’s not really a question. More like a deflection. A delay tactic. Something to stall the blow he knows is coming.

Your heart’s beating so hard it feels physical now—like it’s trying to break out of your chest and throw itself at his feet in one last act of desperate, humiliating honesty. Like it still wants him even as you drag yourself through the fucking wreckage of that want.

“Why have I never been enough for you to choose?” you ask, and your voice cracks on the word like it’s never been said out loud before. “Not fuck. Not sneak around with. Not call when you're lonely or bored or drunk at some goddamn afterparty. I mean choose. I mean claim. Why have I never been the one you tell people about?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes. His throat works around it. His eyes drop to the floor and back up again, and for a second—just a second—you think he might lie. Might try to salvage this with some half-truth about timing or image or circumstance.

“Why her?” you whisper, and this one hurts more than the rest—not because of what it means, but because of how quietly you ask it. Because it comes from the part of you that’s already accepted the answer. “Why does she get to be seen?”

He looks at you like you’ve just thrown a grenade at his feet, like he doesn’t know whether to jump on it or run. And maybe that’s always been him—too cowardly to save you, too selfish to leave you alone.

“I let you inside me,” you say, and now your voice is breaking for real, cracking down the middle like an old fault line that’s finally splitting open. “And you walked away. I let you hear me. I told you shit I’ve never said out loud before, not even to myself. I gave you everything. And I didn’t say I loved you, not because it wasn’t true, but because I knew it didn’t fucking matter. Because I knew, no matter how much I gave you—no matter how deep I let you in—I’d still just be the thing you come back to when you’re bored. Or lonely. Or drunk. Or broken. But never when it matters.”

He doesn’t speak. Not right away. Just stands there in the center of his spotless, silent apartment—an altar to success and self-control—still radiant with the remnants of the win. His chest rises in slow, shallow pulses, adrenaline still flickering beneath skin damp with sweat and victory. There’s a gleam across his collarbones, the faint shimmer of champagne that never got wiped off, dried sugar crusted along the edge of his jaw like celebration had kissed him and refused to let go. His hair’s a mess—curling, golden, clinging to his temples like he earned the chaos. And maybe he did. Maybe he earned every fucking second of it. But all you want is to ruin it. To drag your hand across his face and wipe the triumph off like it’s blood that doesn’t belong to him.

Because he looks too happy for someone who’s left you bleeding this many times. But when his eyes land on you—finally, fully—something shifts. He’s not smiling anymore. Not smirking. Not playing cool or disinterested or oblivious. He’s just looking. At you. Carefully, as if he’s cataloguing damage. Like he’s not sure if you’re about to cry or scream or throw a glass, and the fact that he doesn’t know is maybe the only honest thing he’s ever done in your presence.

You step further into the apartment. The floor is cool under your feet, too clean. Everything here is intentional—curated—like even his grief would be expensive. Your arms are still crossed tight over your chest, but it’s not a defense anymore. It’s just something to hold while the rest of you starts to come apart in slow motion. The tension in your shoulders doesn’t brace you—it betrays you. It trembles loose. Not strength. Not anymore. Just unraveling in real time.

“I shouldn’t have come,” you say, and your voice barely makes it past your teeth. It sounds like someone else said it first and handed it to you to carry. “I told myself I wouldn’t. I watched you win and I felt sick.”

He shifts his weight, opens his mouth, but you hold your hand up. You’re not finished. If you stop now, you’ll never say it.

“I’m tired of pretending I don’t care. Tired of pretending that what we had was just sex. You know it wasn’t. You know. We talked. We laughed. You let me in. You made me feel like I wasn’t crazy for needing you. And then every time I get close to believing you—really believing you—you disappear. Or worse, you show up like nothing happened and expect me to melt for you. And I do. God, I always do.”

His gaze drops. His jaw clenches. But he still doesn’t speak. And that silence—it’s not passive. It’s precise. It’s brutal in its precision. Like he’s figured out by now that anything he says will only confirm how much worse he made it. So he doesn’t say a word. Just lets the weight of what you said sit there. Lets you carry it alone, like you always have. And that silence? It hits harder than anything he’s ever said. Than every lie. Than every I miss you that came too late.

You take another breath, but it doesn’t settle. It just wobbles on the way out, shakes loose in your throat like it’s trying not to turn into a sob.

“I just want to know…” you start, and your voice is thinner now, worn down to something soft and splintered. “Why I’ve never been enough. Not once. Not for a full day. Why I’m always good enough to fuck. To call. To cry to when you’re falling apart at three in the morning. But never good enough to stand next to in daylight.”

Your hands shake, but you keep going.

“Why it’s always her when I’m the one who knows how you take your coffee. When I’m the one who told you to breathe before qualifying, when you couldn’t stop pacing. When I’m the one who stayed.”

That’s the part that undoes you a little. That last word. Stayed. You weren’t supposed to say it—not out loud. It’s too naked. Too pathetic. But it tumbles out anyway, like the truth was tired of waiting for permission. And it lands. You see it shift something in him. His eyes flick toward the floor, then back up. His fingers twitch at his sides, curling briefly into fists, then flattening again. His shoulders rise with a breath too deep to be casual—like he’s dragging something up from the part of him that doesn’t usually speak.

“I never meant for it to get this far,” he says finally, voice raw around the edges, like he’s chewing on the words even as he gives them up. “I didn’t think I’d need you like that.”

You almost laugh, but it’s not funny. It’s sharp. Bitter. It curls in your mouth like acid.

“You needed me,” you echo. “But not enough.”

He steps toward you then. Slowly. Cautiously. Like he’s approaching a live wire. Like he thinks there’s still something left to salvage in the wreckage.

“It’s not that simple,” he says.

But you shake your head before he can finish the thought. “Yes, it is.”

And this time you don’t snap it. You don’t spit it out like a weapon. You just say it flatly. Like a fact that doesn’t care how he feels about it.

“You either love someone,” you say, “or you don’t.”

“I do love you,” he replies. Just like that. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s always been true, and always been enough.

But it costs you everything to hear it. Every little ounce of composure you’ve been clinging to. Every version of yourself that held out hope. It’s not relief that hits you—it’s grief. Not longing. Not even disbelief. Just loss. Again. All over again. Because now that he’s said it, now that the words are out, you know for sure: his love was never the kind that saves you. Never the kind that holds you in the light. His love only ever lives in the dark.

You look at him, and something twists in your chest—not from happiness, but from mourning.

“Then why has it always felt like I had to beg for it?” you whisper. “Why has it never once felt like it came freely?”

He doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t lie. Doesn’t soften. Just stands there, mouth parted like he wants to say something, anything, but he knows. He knows whatever he gives you now will only make it worse. So he says nothing. And the silence between you—thick, heavy, final—says everything.

You stare at him—not the Lando the world loves, not the polished boy in champagne and fireproofs and grins for the cameras, but the one in front of you now. Quiet. Flickering. Human in the worst way. The kind that disappoints just by standing still.

Your arms drop to your sides. Not in surrender. In exhaustion. Your limbs feel too heavy to hold upright, your ribs ache from holding in this pain for too long. You’re sagging under the weight of it.

“You love me,” you repeat, hollow now. Like the words are ash in your mouth. “But you’re still with her.”

He doesn’t deny it. Just lowers his eyes, clenches his jaw, like maybe he hates himself for it. Or maybe he doesn’t. Maybe he’s just tired of pretending it’s not true. And that’s the answer. That’s the only answer you’re going to get. There’s no grand speech. No twist in the narrative. Just the sharp silence of reality pressing down on you like gravity finally remembered your name.

And somewhere behind you, the elevator dings.

#f1 #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #lando #lando fluff #lando norris #lando norris fic #lando smut #Lando X reader #Lando Norris x reader

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angelsforthenight · 3 months ago

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screen babe, mean babe, guess who’s gonna cream babe! (pt. 4)

camgirl!vi x reader (pt 1, pt 2, pt 3)

summary: days are going by too quickly and fickle feelings blossom between you and vi. you make the most of each day with her, but when a certain someone comes back and places a hard choice on you, decisions will have to be made.

PRE A/N: hi lovelies,, even though i really really love when u guys send me messages and express how much u love my work (i adore it sm pls keep doing so) pls don’t ask me when i will update a chapter because i can never tell you a specific time and it stresses me out .·°՞(¯□¯)՞°·. believe it or not it takes a lot to write a series fanfic and i’ve already got a lot on my plate with work and school so pls acknowledge that ;; ANYWAYS I HOPE U ENJOY AND I LOB U GUYS

content (18+): lots of smut, situationship, tribbing, sub!vi, brat!vi, dirty talk, begging, risky sex, sort foot fetish but i don’t wanna call it that 😭🙏, very faint angst, lots of fluff too!!! crushing & yearning, dbf!sevika feature, we get a bit of vi’s pov, cliffhanger at the end :p

“you’re never gonna forget about me, are you?”

your legs are currently slotted in between vi’s, sticky not only from the film of sweat coated over your bodies, but also the undeniable arousal that has grown and festered between you two.

vi gasps sharply when you push yourself forward; bumping your clit against hers and smearing your fluids.

“you’re so… f-fucking smug.” she has to force the words out, now familiar with the fact that you always expect an answer to your questions. you reach down and cup her face, squeezing her cheeks.

“because i’m right. you’re gonna go off to wherever the hell knows where and i’m still going to be on your mind.” you grin, fucking her harder. vi’s hand flies to her mouth as she stifles in a cry. she doesn’t want to wake your parents who are asleep next door.

“i prefer not to think about that.” vi pitches her hips up, making sparks of stimulation rivulet down your entire body, right down to your feet. a whine doesn’t fail to escape your lips.

you and vi have been at this since the night of the barbecue party. fucking. it’s the best thing you could’ve wanted, especially because you always get to tease and taunt vi in the process. the unconscious ‘competition’ that had been going on between you two is now no more, but if it was, you’d be so many points higher than vi right now.

“i’m close. keep talking to me.” you sigh, eyes fluttering closed.

“i— fuck… c-can’t really talk either, you know. hah!” vi tries to sound snappy, but with the way your clits are gliding together at an intense pace, her voice comes out as pathetic instead.

“how bad do you need to cum right now?” you huff, your gaze struggling to focus as the impending release threatens to overtake you.

“real bad.” vi whines, tipping her head back. your hand reaches for vi’s, intertwining your fingers with hers.

“beg for it. i know you can.”

with how close you two are about to cum, your movements begin to grow sloppier, inconsistent. vi squeezes her hold on your hand.

“oh god… please let me cum. pleaseplease—“

it’s a salacious view alright. what with the harsh pants and the outwardly pornographic noises filling the room, creaming your sopping pussy against her own.

“then go ahead. make a mess.” you permit. vi doesn’t even need to be told twice, tipping her head back as her body goes rigid, shuddering violently. she swears she can see god, and you, the same.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

you are something quite like the sun these days. even your parents have noticed your heartened mood.

“you have roses in your cheeks.” your mother would point out warmly, the old-fashioned saying never failing to make you blush even more. you’re fucking glowing, and you have no one else to thank but vi. the bond between you two have nurtured like a river, flowing deeper with each passing day. is it too early to say that you’re falling in love?

it’s currently the evening and vi’s exhausted after a long day of running after animals, cleaning kennels, feeding and watering. you’re half sat/half laying in between her legs, with the cd she bought for you playing soothingly in the background. vi traces her name on the nape of your neck and you squirm, scrunching your face up.

“that tickles. and you’re not slick.”

you turn around only to see vi smiling impishly, like a mischievous child. “i was gonna write violence, actually.”

“liar.” you smile, turning back around and nuzzling comfortably against her front. you could fall asleep right now if you wanted to.

her fingertips graze against your scalp, tracing circles and stars and spirals. her name is what she writes the most, however, from the back of your head to the nape of your neck. as if engraving her name in your brain.

you’re the happiest you’ve been in a while.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

fried chicken for dinner tonight. vi’s got one of those nights when she comes early from work, and your parents like her so much that they insist on eating all together and chatting when they all have the chance to. whereas two weeks ago you hated it, you’ve now come to appreciate it.

you sink your teeth into a wing, immediately regretting doing so because of how hot it is.

“damn it.” you mutter, blowing on it repeatedly. vi, sitting across from you, watches you amusedly. a slack smile playing on her lips.

“that’s why you gotta be patient.” she chirps, and your parents agree. you roll your eyes, though your heart betrays you by fluttering in glee. any sliver of attention from vi gets your heart going, and by the way she’s looking at you makes you hope she likes you the same way you do.

your clothed foot grazes vi’s under the table before sliding up her leg. vi quickly glances at you before focusing on her food again, quietly clearing her throat. you smile, your eyes brazenly set on her. it seems to be embarrassing her, considering the way her skin is beginning to match the colour of her hair.

you make matters worse by guiding your foot upwards, boldly pressing the heel of your foot against her crotch. it makes vi jolt so hard that her knees hit against the table, making the dishes clatter. you quietly snort.

“are you okay, violet?” your dad asks, raising a brow. vi’s jaw slacks open, her brain momentarily short-circuiting as she tries to figure out something to say.

“i… um. sorry. i get… s-shivers.” she mutters slowly. your foot doesn’t move.

“it’s okay, dad, i get them too sometimes.” you chime in, though your eyes are still settled on vi’s nervous ones. you take this a step further by ever so slightly shifting your foot up, with the right amount of pressure. vi instinctively clenches her thighs against your foot. the fabric of your sock crammed against vi’s dressed cunt is unbelievable, and vi hangs her head low, pinching the bridge of her nose as she tries her hardest to act normal at the dinner table. this is all so fun, watching vi try to stay as still as possible. her food is left discarded on her plate, completely forgotten about, whilst you amusedly nibble on a fry.

you press too hard, and high-pitched whimper leaves her lips. she thinks nobody heard because she instantly shot up from her seat, offering to take plates to the dishwasher. she shoots you a withering glare, one that makes you feel a pang of heat on your lower stomach.

you innocently smile back at her, offering her your plate for her to take.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

“that wasn’t cool what you did back there.” vi huffs whilst she tilts her head to the side, letting you pepper sloppy, open-mouthed kisses all over her neck.

“you didn’t like it?” you let yourself be selfish, planting purple bruises on the slope of her neck where it meets her shoulder.

“it’s not th—ah..t. it’s ‘cuz we were with your p-parents, so it’s weird…” vi’s voice is beginning to slew into a heap of slurred babbles, because you’ve now brought your teeth into the mix; nipping and sucking at her skin.

you glance up at her, taking in the hazy look on her face, the way her eyebrows are already settled in that familiar needy look you worship so much.

“good thing we didn’t get caught then. right?”

vi gazes down at you, furrowing her brows. the corner of her lips twitch into a little smile.

“you’re really something y’know?” she whispers, brushing your hair to the side so she can see more of your face. “you know what? you’re right. i’m probably not gonna forget about you.”

you blink, eyes widening a fraction as you register what she’s just said. mere words have somehow blown you off your socks and left you speechless, your dominant and playful demeanour gone like the wind. vi isn’t going to forget about you.

you glance down, busying yourself by running your hands up her thighs so vi can’t see how flustered you’re getting, how hard your heart has started to pound against your ribs.

“you mean that?” you mumble quietly, the question slipping out of your lips before your brain even gets a chance to stop them. you mentally curse yourself for sounding so needy and desperate. vi looks down at you quietly, before gently guiding your chin up to focus your gaze on her. she flashes you a grin.

“what was that tone? ’you mean that?’ you sound so sad.” you flush red when vi mimics you, swatting her hand away and looking away from her.

“fuck off.”

“no! just say you’re gonna miss me.” vi teases, trying to get you to show your face. you jerk away like a baby refusing to be spoon-fed. “come onnnn!” she coos.

vi pounces on you, making you both tumble onto the sheets. you squeal as you two get yourselves into playful roughhousing. you lightly pull at vi’s hair whilst she shoves your face, rolling around on the bed. you can’t help but burst out laughing at how silly you two are acting.

“there she is.” vi breathes, raising herself above you, her hands being on either side of your head. you guys both pant breathlessly, synchronised, as if connected.

“so what if i am going to miss you?” you mutter.

vi smiles sympathetically, a look you both want to diminish from your brain and keep it locked in there forever. you really don’t want vi to go. for her to just go back to being a cam-girl on your screen.

vi leans down and presses a chaste kiss to your lips. though vi was the one to initiate it, your lips chase after hers, cupping her cheeks and holding her close. as if she’ll disintegrate if you let go.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

you two sleep together in your bed that night. it wasn’t planned, it just kind of happened. your heads are huddled together, vi’s cheek pressed against yours. despite the onslaught of boiling summer heat you’ve been experiencing these past few weeks, the covers are pulled up high, just under your chins, tucked in comfortably with the woman you’ve come to fall for.

you sleep so well that you don’t even realise your mother coming in the room to leave some towels in the cupboard. she’s quite surprised at the sight, not having really known how close you two have gotten. she smiles to herself and creeps away quietly, not wishing to wake you two up. she knew you’d be embarrassed if you found her there.

it’s the sound of vi’s alarm that wakes you two up. you inhale sharply at the unexpected blaring noise, whilst vi groans and lazily switches it off. she squints her eyes at the harsh sunlight bleeding through your sheer curtains. she then glances down at you — who’s trying to bury your face in her arm so you’re isn’t met with how bright it is.

“think it’s time to get up.” vi mutters, her voice laced with sleep. you groan awake, stretching and purposely shoving her a little while you do so.

“hey.” vi giggles, shoving you back.

you two end up staying in bed for a while longer, lazily mumbling about all sorts of things: how vi has the day off today, and you suggesting you go to the ice cream parlour downtown together. all the while, the tip of vi’s nails drag against your scalp soothingly.

though this little tranquil moment feels lovely, there’s a little voice nagging in the back of your head that vi will be leaving soon, in less than a week, so you shouldn’t feel too comfortable. guilt slithers up your spine at how much this feels like a relationship, like you two are girlfriends. the fact that this moment won’t last upsets you.

you faintly move away from her. “i’m gonna start getting ready.”

“mmm i’m gonna stay here for a little longer. i like your bed.” vi stretches.

after getting dressed, you pad downstairs. you expect to see your parents in the kitchen, but instead you surprisingly find sevika instead. sitting against the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee, reading a magazine as casual as ever, as if she’s been here all along.

“oh, look who’s finally up.” she glances at you through her glasses, before taking it off and setting it down on the table.

“sevika?” you blink repeatedly, “what are you doing here? where are my parents?” your thoughts frantically rush to vi, dreading how awkward things will most-likely be if she comes downstairs. your mind then proceeds to flash to the barbecue party, how you were so drunk you were practically throwing yourself all over the poor woman.

“they went out, told me to look after the house.” she grins. “i haven’t left this side of town quite yet. sorry to disappoint.”

“disappointed? no! definitely not… i’m more than happy you’re here actually.” you ramble, spilling more than you should. sevika simply stares at you amusedly.

“what’s with you lately? sit next to me.” she instructs gently, her voice so low and guiding that you can’t help but comply immediately. her silver eyes pierce through you so hard you’re afraid she’ll be able to somehow read your mind, so you look away. you do not want vi to come downstairs and see you like this.

but alas, vi does. skipping down the staircase and even cheerfully singing a little tune to herself. however upon seeing you and sevika, her face falls. in fact, it even sours.

“oh. hello.” she greets sevika flatly. glancing at you straightaway. you want to melt.

“morning. violet, was it?” sevika looks at her.

vi hums in response, you internally cringe at vi’s obvious attitude. “you?”

“name’s sevika. i’m a friend of the family.”

there seems to be this inexplicable tension in the room that is so thick that it feels like it’s being shoved down your throat and constricting your airways. you make up an excuse to leave, lying that there’s plants that need to be watered.

vi fleetingly hates you for leaving her alone with this older woman, who exhibits an air of being intimidating yet lenient all the same. she knows you two are close, judging by the way you two acted at the party. it may be selfish to admit, but she didn’t like it. not even in the slightest. sure, it’s worrying, considering you two aren’t even dating, and she’ll probably never see you again once her stay here expires, but she doesn’t care.

“you’re staring at me a lot. is there something on my face?” sevika smiles. vi swears she’s not being crazy when she says she can feel the condescending tone bleeding out of her.

“no.” vi mumbles as a response, trying to peek at the garden to see where you are at; silently pleading for you to come save her from this painful conversation.

“so… you and y/n? y’all close or..?” sevika raises a brow.

vi narrows her eyes. she’d be pleasured to snap in sev’s face about that being frankly none of her business and that she should be playing bingo or some shit (vi has no sense of what forty year old women do.)

“sure. close enough to know that she’s good with her hands… which explains the planting thing.” vi passes it off as a simple gardening thing, but she meant more, and sevika knows she meant more. they glare at each other silently, an invisible zing of electricity charging between the two of them.

you come back just in time to fizzle out the tense moment, and both women stare up at you, saying your name at the same time. vi and sevika glare at each other whilst you stand there confused; obviously unaware of what happened whilst you were gone.

sevika’s the first to successfully grab your attention, getting at your name first before vi does.

“you mind if we talk? privately?” she mutters.

“it’s fine, i’ll just go upstairs.” vi bitches, storming up the stairs like an angsty teenager. you furrow your brows at her behaviour. maybe it wasn’t such a good idea leaving them alone.

“anyway. i mostly came here to talk to you about something.” sevika says, her eye contact as strong as always. you quietly nod, though a little inkling in your brain is worrying about vi, hoping she isn’t actually sulking upstairs.

“i’m leaving today. do you want to come back with me?” sevika’s words make you pause, your gaze fully focused on her.

“just for a few days. i already talked to your parents about it. i think you’d like it. would be good for you.” sevika smirks.

your brain short-circuits, just shy of exploding. a year ago, you were absolutely gutted upon hearing that sevika was leaving. you wanted nothing more than for her to pack you up in her suitcase and take you with her. you adore sevika. anything she says, goes.

but on the flip side, you cannot just leave vi: someone you’ve bonded with heavily, even outside of sex. you can’t even begin to imagine her face if you’d tell her, especially since vi’s days of living in your house are coming to an end. you don’t even think you’d be able to see her go if you went with sevika.

then again… vi came here with a purpose. she simply wanted to do volunteering and wanted a place to stay in. having sex with you is probably just a mere bonus, that’s all she probably sees it as. you two don’t mean enough to each other than you hope.

you get out of your head, noticing that sevika is looking at you expectedly. whatever you pick will matter, and will leave an impression that’ll hardly be forgettable…

part 5 (final part)

taglist: @moonchildcovenxx @h0n3yf0rlif3 @vxtanne31 @elliesbabygirl @jaydonisnothere @wlw-please @d1psht @morticeras @bambiaches @drunkenrosesluv @vicforelsfavorite @elliezlils11utt @ghgygd @gel6tine @yearningandstillnotlearning @honeyboo-1 @scissorszex @rishofkf @jajsnjz @kmhbygss @pornoangelz @ilikegirlz @rhian88 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @goticapomposa @etherealpixie8 @elliecoochieeater

(whoever asked to be tagged but isn’t on the list, your mentions r off!!! check ur settings and switch it on for next time :3)

#arcane #lesbian #vi arcane #lesbian smut #smut #wlw #vi x y/n #vi x fem!reader #vi x reader smut #vi x reader #vi x you #vi smut #vi fanfic #wlw fanfic #wlw fiction #arcane x you

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pearlymel · 11 months ago

Text

"The Masks We Wear"

Summary: as a journalist, you are itching to find the identity of this mysterious hero. But could it be that the hero is closer to you than you think?

Wc: 7.3k eat up

Warnings: Wriothesley x afab!reader, gn! reader, modern au, hero and villian au (one of each), reader is a journalist/cameraman, fluff, making out, crack (i laughed a lot writing this), angst (oops), one small sex scene, slightly under the influence, cursing, it's pretty unrealistic, petnames used: sunshine, love, and sweetheart.

Notes: i poured my heart and soul into this, i think it's my best piece so far ^^ give it a chance, maybe you'll love it. (Pleasepleasepleaseplease) Rbs are greatly appreciated!

Credits: banner art by the great @/danijaci

Click!

The city is absolutely beautiful today. No, no. It’s not because of the lights that makes the place brighter and a bit more magical, how it seems livelier with a group of teenagers laughing together while buying street foods together, or the old couple that seem still very much in love, the gentleman kneeling down and tying her shoes just to make sure she wouldn’t trip this time.

Humans can be cute, you think.

But of course, among those innocent ‘humans’ are those who desire destruction.

This time, you think you might have caught something in the shadows, and you stare intently at your camera, zooming it in to see the faintest color blending in with the darkness. Hair? A part of clothes? You don’t know, but you got it.

you have this obsession of finding out who the hero of this city was, or even the villian. Although, you would be technically be walking into death if you try finding out who the villian is.

Where did this hero come from? No one knows. Sure the crime rate has lowered, but it felt like the world became even more messed up.

It all started a couple of years ago when you were in your college days, one day almost dying from a falling building, and you thought you saw the scythe waiting to take your soul at that very moment but, no.

The mysterious hero of the city that you never thought you would never encounter carried the building with his super strength power, apparently.

He who has no name, took your hand and lead you into a safer area with the police.

cliché story, right. But that’s what got you into journalism and media now.

And let’s say… you’re too far into the deep black hole to back down now.

The almost blinding light made you come back to your senses, the sounds of engine roaring in the air as the bike approached you, and your shoulders were already slumped.

“How did you find me?” You raise your voice due to the loud engine running, covering parts of your vision from the light.

“Lucky guess.” Wriothesley replied gruffly, pulling his helmet off and shaking his head slightly to fix up his messy strands.

“Care to explain what on earth are you doing here in this shady alleyway? At nine thirty where the moon is out and wolves could be coming for you?” He starts scolding you, quirking an eyebrow when you give him the bored expression, and he immediately mimics it back.

“Taking pictures.”

“Of the rats?”

“Wriothesley.” You shoot him a look and he raises his hands in the air. “I understand your… obsession. But it could hurt you in the process, mentally and physically.”

You know he’s saying all this because he cares so much about you. Loves you too much that it would break his soul piece by piece if one day what you’re doing will hurt you.

“Hop in, sweetheart.” He hands you the extra helmet, and you take it with a sigh. Securing it around your head before taking your place behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist as he revved the engine.

The whole ride back was silent, yet traffic, which entirely ruined the whole mood. With the constant car horns ringing in your ear.

You tap at his thigh to grab his attention, “Why’s it traffic?” You grumble, rising yourself from the seat to look at the row of cars trying to get through.

“Not any holidays or events i can think of,” he responds back to you.

Red mixed with orange fills your vision, suddenly the car at the very front explodes. The car parts flying in the air and landing at the other vehicles which makes you frozen in shock.

Wriothesley’s clenches his hands tightly as he turns the bike around, speeding his way far away from the scene. “Hold onto me tight, and don’t look back, you hear?” He yells enough to grab your attention, and your arms tightens around him, but you have your head turned around to see the people yelling and dashing out of the vehicles. You want to capture the moment with your phone so you could submit it in for the news, but you know more than to ignore Wriothesley right now.

It’s not rare to see destruction happen in your city, it’s just… terrifying every time anybody witnesses it.

Maybe it wasn’t an accident, maybe it was planned.

“You’re not allowed to go out after seven.” Wriothesley makes it clear to you with his firm tone as you both step inside your shared apartment, locking the apartment with a click. He then tosses his keys into a bowl on a small table, before turning to look at you.

“Are you seriously setting a curfew for me? Please. what happened was not new—”

Your face is now being cradled by his rough hands, but the way he swipes a thumb under your eyebags really makes you melt. And you forget what you were going to say when his lips curl the slightest.

“I don't want anything happening to you. Ever.” He takes you in his arms, holding you like you were the most precious thing he ever held. “I didn't mean to pressure you like that. I'd hate it if you were in the position of those injured people.”

You pat his back to reassure him that hopefully nothing like that will happen. “And, if, hypothetically, something like that happened; What would y—”

“I'll kill everyone.” he doesn't even let you continue before he answers, though the chuckle against your hair followed after makes your tense shoulders relax.

“maybe not to that extent,” he lifts your head up to lean in and press a tender kiss on your forehead.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“what is it?”

“… something or someone.”

Your boss gives you a nonchalant sharp look when you eagerly showed him the bits you managed to capture last night before you were interrupted by your great boyfriend.

His eyes squints at the more of a blurred photo that sits on the display of your camera, taking the glasses that hanged from his collar.

The sigh afterwards makes you feel discouraged when he hands you back your camera.

“i see it.” He starts and you perk up immediately.

“it looks like a blurred image of a fucking bird taking a shit on the electrical cords.” You press your lips into a thin line at his description. Too detailed of a description,

what a bastard.

It.. certainly didn't look like that.

You clear your throat, pinching the bridge of your nose to compose yourself.

“You're lucky i like your determination or you would've been fired,” he utters out in a lax tone, resting his glasses on his big bald head that you want to spill with ketchup.

“Keep looking, i need the hero's face, details, anything. Just think of the money you and i could both earn.” He seems too enthusiastic about it, showing you determination with his fists pressing together and his wide ear to ear smile.

You leave work early that day, starting your daily walk of looking around for at least two hours or—one hour?

No, Wriothesley would be too worried if you came back after… nine. Your words not his.

You need to rearrange a schedule in your head.

Step one: somehow convince your boss that you need to leave early everyday.

Step two: search every nook and cranny of the city, ask every shady person if they get to talk to the hero in person or got a glimpse of his name.

Step three: go to the dark web— is that car flying infront of you right now?!

Shit. Just why does everything have to go down wherever path you go?

The people around you panics, and you equally panic with them because you're no fucking hero to tell them to get away from that flying car.

You take your camera out hurriedly from its case that slung around your shoulder, pressing record while frantically looking around. The ground shakes, it shakes so much that it feels like an earthquake almost.

“it's him! The villian!” Someone shouts from the distance, and just like that the screams that follows are in sync.

You know why the ground shook, the street has become a battlefield for the hero and villain fighting together with all their strengths, the air is filled with tension as they both clash in an epic confrontation. The ground trembles beneath your feet again as they traded blows, sending shockwaves through the battlefield. The once tranquil street has now been transformed into a chaotic arena of power and destruction. As the battle rages on. The hero and villain continue their fight, each strike more powerful than the last, their movements a blur of speed and precision.

You try capturing anything with your camera, but your hand shakes that it was impossible. When the villian lands a powerful punch on the hero’s shoulder, sending him way back, it makes you think it's time to leave.

You run with the rest without stubbornness this time. You should've listened to Wriothesley, why did you always have to be so curious about everything?

This curiousity will kill you next after the cat.

“Taxi!” You shout, waving your hand at the yellow vehicle, but every taxi seems to ignore the people's pleas, determined to save themselves instead.

Guess it's time to burn calories and run back home.

You were a panting mess once you reached back to your comfort space, eyes zeroing at the running television in the living room. Watching the newscaster talk about today's battle and how it affected the shops and buildings.

It seems like the battle lasted twenty minutes before the villian gave up and fled away.

Your head snaps to the bathroom once you hear the sink water drip, you didn't even think if he would be here this early.

“Wriothesley,” you say breathlessly when you swing the door open, arms squeezing his side as you take a deep breath in.

“woah, easy there. What happened?” He takes you in, hand rubbing at your arm.

“i was…” nevermind. Maybe you shouldn't tell him what you have witnessed, he'll know once he checks the news.

You only realise that he was chest bared at the moment, and you furrow your eyebrows once you see a bruise on his shoulder.

“What happened?” It was your turn to ask, talking a gentle finger and running it over the bruise, earning a hiss from him.

“was changing the car oil at the repair shop.” He mumbles, gaze turning to the mirror, “then accidentally hit my shoulder once i got up.” he turns his arm, swinging it slowly.

“but you don't work at a car repair shop?”

“it's a side hustle, sunshine.”

“why didn't you tell me?” You press on, and he hangs his head low, both of his hands gripping the sink bowl.

Okay, maybe you have annoyed him a little too much now. Upon sensing your incoming apology, Wriothesley smiles at you.

“don't worry your pretty little head too much. The bruise will fade.”

“i can massage you later?” You offer, and he lets out a breathy chuckle. “You're the best.” He gives you a chaste kiss on your lips on his way out, which makes you feel a little fuzzy.

The evening gave way to the night sky, and you found yourself lying on the bed, replaying the video captured on your camera. The footage was far from perfect, shaky and lacking in clarity, but it still managed to capture fragments of the intense confrontation between the hero and the villain. You couldn't help but feel a sense of excitement as you watched the brief glimpses of the clash that had taken place earlier.

How the villian managed to blow a punch on the hero’s shoulder, sending him way back. Must've hurted.

It's almost like the same spot Wriothesley got his bruise on.

…

Wait, the same spot? You sit up on the mattress, replaying the video on repeat of their fight.

The hero was about the same height as him, the same physique, same cake—

You shake your head, focus. Wriothesley can't be the hero, no that's impossible. He was a busy man, doing… side jobs and whatnot.

Sure he was kind, always helping everyone, even walking the neighbors dog because they got sick one day.

But then again… you never saw Wriothesley and the hero at the same time,

Or was it merely a coincidence, a random alignment of physical features?

“Sunshine?” You gasp when you snap your head up to find Wriothesley leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed.

“y-yes?” You set the camera aside on top of the drawer. He moves closer, seating himself on the edge of the bed, his eyes fixated on you then glancing at he camera.

“dinner's ready.”

You nod, silence fills the room after. You know he's waiting for you tell him more, on why you were so shocked.

“was looking at the hero's pictures.”

“not mine? I'm wounded.”

You roll your eyes, a slow smile creeping up your face, and he loves it. He takes it as an invitation to lean closer, suddenly pinning you down on the bed to capture your lips with his.

It's slow, and gentle. It makes you hum softly, taking his face in your hands to kiss him back, moving your lips together until you were gasping for air.

You forget you were even suspicious of him a second ago.

Your fingers lightly trace his jawline and you feel the pricks of his growing facial hair. A small smile plays on your lips as you inform him in a soft tone, "You need to shave." Wriothesley chuckles softly, the sound warm and low. He reaches up to your hand, gently taking hold of it and bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss on your palm. "Is that why you stopped kissing me?" He says, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "No! I find you more.. attractive. Plus it.. yeah, it feels like little needles on my face.” you admit quietly.

Wriothesley presses his face into your neck, his lips tracing soft kisses along your skin. His hands begin roving your body, each touch sending a gentle shiver across your flesh. He whispers quietly next to your ear, his voice low and smooth as he responds, "I'll shave after dinner." The sensations of his lips against your neck and his hands exploring your body mix together, creating a heady combination that heightens your senses and ignites a slow fire within you.

“I'll.. help.” You whisper, bringing both of your arms to wrap them around his back. “What a sweetheart.” he uttered out, voice muffled from trying to mold into your skin.

Your mind stops working for a second when he presses his knee gently between your legs to pull them apart, “Wriothesley, what about dinner?” You frantically ask him, tugging his hair up so both of your gazes could meet. And the almost drunken expression he has on makes you let out a shaky breath.

“later,” he drawls, his fingers tracing lazily along your sides.

Hero? Pftt, what hero? This is just your wriothesley, it's quite impossible for him to be the hero.

You snap out of your daydream when your colleague hands you a cup of coffee, he raises an eyebrow at you and you smile back awkwardly.

A sip of the coffee to get a bit of energy, but only just a bit, since too much caffeine makes you nervous.

“You filmed the crazy battle yesterday?” Your colleague sneaks from behind you, watching the video replay again on your camera.

“they do movies about them now, insane huh?”

“well atleast the hero knows he's popular.” You reply bluntly, taking anothsr sip from your hot beverage.

“flash news, someone heard that his name starts with the letter ‘W’ or som—”

You spit out your coffee all over your white attire. You both exchange surprised looks, but you quickly wipe your mouth using the back of your hand.

“where exactly did you hear that?” You get straight to the point, gesturing them to sit next to you.

“from my father's friend’s cousin sister.”

His reply makes your eyes twitch, from who and who?

“Okay…” you whisper, turning around and thinking of the utter nonsense they spouted.

“you don't believe me.” he sighed, “I've been telling this to everyone in the building but no one is believing me! Just tryna’ do my job here.”

Let's say maybe you believe him. But the dots are connecting too fast that you want to refuse from believing it.

Was your target closer to you than you had expected?

“I'm clocking out, can you cover for me today?” You inform your colleague, and he crosses his arms while eyeing you up and down.

Your roll your eyes, “I'll be the cameraman for next week. So you could get three days off.” You force a smile and they smile back enthusiastically.

Wriothesley is definitely home. Earlier than the usual time he'd be back.

Oh, he's asleep on the couch. Leaning back tiredly with an almost stern expression on, but his body seems relaxed.

Now is the time to do anything. Investigate? Go through his things without his permission? That sounded all awful… surely he's not hiding any—

“go search his things.” You furrow your eyebrows when the devil on your left shoulder speaks, it makes you rub your face in annoyance.

Then a sudden white little angel poofs on your right shoulder with a disappointed face, “no, don't do it. He's a little scary when he gets mad. But he'd never betray you!” you feel reassured at it's words and you nod in agreement.

“don't listen to it. He could hurt you if you keep it a secret.” The red devil whispers again and it makes you shiver a bit.

“he would never hurt you.” The angel frowns.

“yes he would, he's a man.”

“a good man.”

“yeah? You're no better than me, you just want that—”

“okay shut up both of you. Shoo.” You brush both of your shoulders off before taking a deep breath to brace yourself.

You'll just search his.. clothes.

You feel guilty once you pocket his jackets and pants in his side of the wardrobe, checking every hidden pocket thoroughly while glancing at the door once in a while to make sure he doesn't wake up.

As your fingers brush against his jacket, you notice an unusual sensation – a cool, metal feeling hidden underneath the fabric. Your eyes widen in surprise as you recognize it to be the form of a gun's handle. A mixture of curiosity and concern floods through you, freezing you in place.

It really is a gun. You study it carefully, turning it around and feeling it's heaviness in your palm.

But you feel your heart run out of your ribcage when two pairs of arms wrap tightly around you, his chin resting on your shoulder.

Shit.

“hi,” he whispers next to your ear, but you're too nervous to even look back at him.

“nice thing you got there.” He muses, and you feel like you're losing oxygen once he tightens his grip around you even more.

“… i just found it.” You mutter, mostly to yourself. Your head hanging too low to avoid his eyes.

“Could've just asked me, no?” He clicks his tongue, almost in disappointment.

“i have it on me because—”

“because you use it for the good, right? Because you're the hero?” Your voice is shaky when you ask, the gun in your hand shaking with you, and you're afraid to drop it.

“hero?” Wriothesley repeats, shaking you gently awake and you gasp harshly, taking in big breaths, your boyfriend immediately trying to soothe you.

it was a dream.

“you were mumbling something about a hero in your sleep. Are you okay?” He asks in concern, brushing a strand off your face. You were sweating too much for your liking.

“when did i get here?” You look around, taking your palms to rub the sleepiness off. “Right when you got off work. You slept on the bed without changing your clothes.”

Oh… so you never checked his clothes. Deciding to just sleep instead.

Your head turns back to the wardrobe, staring at it intently. Could the jacket be in the same arrangement as you found it in your dream? Or will the gun also be there?

“you're going to poke a hole through it if you keep staring.” He stifles a laugh, and you couldn't help but try to smile as well. “Drink up. Slow sips.” He offers you a glass of water, and you hold the glass firmly in your hand.

“so… what was your dream about? Even this hero appears in your dreams? Can't say I'm not jealous.”

“You'll have grey hairs too early from overthinking.” You tease, sitting upright in bed, “oh no, you already do, old man.” you frown, tracing the grey strands along with his black hair. He watches in amusement.

Wriothesley lets out a deep sigh, “give your old man a break. They're a badge of wisdom and experience,” he rests his head on your lap, nuzzling close as you massage his scalp.

•••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

“Breaking news: the ‘’lola” flower shop sets on fire just three hours ago. Our dear hero saves the day yet again, protecting the old lady just in time before her shop explodes. The cause of the fire is still unknown…”

Destruction out of nowhere again. Accidents out of nowhere again.

The voice of the newscaster on the television fades away in this little diner you're in. You drive your attention away from it, instead focusing now on the Polaroid pictures laid out infront of you.

The hero always wore a mask to cover his identity, obviously. But even after watching the countless of interviews he had, the deep tone slightly matches Wriothesley’s voice, or maybe he's changing his tone on purpose. You can see it by zooming in on the video, how he's catching his breath everytime he speaks when he's just sitting down.

Asthma? Nah.

You tap your fingers impatiently on the table, this is not helping at all, and the slightest itch in your brain worsens as the time goes by.

You think about giving up on this, but the possibility of finding the answer on how or why did all of this happen is probably closer to you than you think.

“Bad guys never end with their schemes. Bunch of attention seekers.” The hero speaks on the television, and you hum curiously as the hero salutes the camera playfully before disappearing from the crowd.

Is it possible that there are multiple heros? Working all together in some basement and taking turns to go out and do a better job than the police?

Possibly, and you write down your new theories down on your little notepad.

You check your phone next, Wriothesley still hasn't answered you back from your most recent text to him.

It's nothing to worry about, but the thought that he's busy saving the city is gnawing at you.

Batman?

You shake your head again, gathering your things to stand up from your seat. You should be blunt asking him about it tonight.

It's cold. Colder than usual. Was the air conditioning on? No. But the windows are sure wide open. You look around the living room before closing the windows and curtains from the outside world, as you draw the curtains, the outside world becomes obscured, leaving the room in a soft semi-darkness.

“Wriothesley, honey?” You call out softly, peeking through the bathroom, not there. The bedroom? Nope.

That leaves the kitchen, you slowly peek your head in he kitchen, and sure enough, he was there.

Wriothesley was rubbing his face in exhaustion while mumbling words under his breath that you can't quite hear. Having one singular glass of some drink in his hand.

“hero this.. hero that..” you finally listen to his mumbles, which makes you furrow your eyebrows together.

"Wrio...?" You call out softly, flipping the switch to turn on the light. His sharp eyes immediately dart up to look at you, and you can't help but shiver under his intense stare. You let out a small gasp of surprise as he suddenly stands up, the glass in his hand slipping from his grip and shattering on the ground along with its contents.

Taken aback by his sudden movement, you instinctively take a step back as he approaches you. But before you can even register what's happening, he crashes his lips against yours in a hasty, rushed kiss. Caught off guard, you cling tightly to him, desperately seeking support to prevent yourself from toppling over.

“You love me,” Wriothesley's voice breaks through the heated kiss, his words coming out in a low, guttural groan. He grips the back of your thighs, hoisting you up against the wall and wrapping your legs around his waist. “right?” His voice holds a hint of vulnerability and desperation, as if seeking reassurance and affirmation of your feelings for him.

And when you don't answer him right away, he takes your lower lip between his teeth, nipping at it gently, “answer me.” He almost growls.

“love, what are you taking about? Are you drunk?” You ask breathlessly in concern, your lips feeling swollen.

His jaw clenches, “Why can't you say it?” he inhales your perfume, your scent filling him that it makes him groan, his mouth lavishing your neck and collarbone, leaving kisses and littering marks then soothing the area with his tongue that it makes your pant softly, pressing your face into his hair while your fingers weaving through his black-greyish strands.

“i love you,” you utter quietly, and it suddenly makes him start grinding his hardened length against you. “I'm sorry in advance, sweetheart.”

One minute you're confused about his words, and then the next he's pounding so hard into you like there was no tomorrow.

Strings of “don't leave me,” and “i love you’s,” are echoed in the air. Wriothesley's mouth moves against yours with a sense of urgency and haste, his tongue gliding and tangling with yours in a fervent dance. The bed creaks so loud underneath you that you think it might break anytime, the embarrassment of the headboard banging against the wall immediately gone once he hits your sweet spot rapidly.

Poor neighbors

"Wrio... Wriothesley?” you slowly flutter your eyes open, still in the hazy realm between sleep and wakefulness. The sunlight streams through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room, and you blink a few times as you take in your surroundings. A quiet sense of contentment washes over you as you remember the events of the night before, the memories of Wriothesley's body against yours and his lips on yours still fresh in your mind.

You prop yourself up using your elbows, only to look down at the sight of your sleeping lover with his head pressed up on your chest. You collapse back on the bed with a tired sigh.

You still couldn't understand the reasoning behind his.. desperate actions last night. He seemed so pent up and stressed, you'll forgive him this time.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• It's the day where you're covering for your colleague, being the cameraman for tonight's news. Yes, tonight.

Wriothesley would kill you if he knew you were working so late at night, but only because he cares about your safety. Good thing he's out of the city for a day.

Or he claims to be out of the city for some important work.

You press the button on your video camera, adjusting the lens to focus on the newscaster standing in front of the camera, holding the microphone with a serious expression. The news van is parked in front of a desolate, run-down neighborhood known for its high crime rate and dangerous reputation. The newscaster speaks into the camera, her eyes boring into the lens as she reports on the neighborhood.

“We are now standing in the heart of one of the most dangerous areas in the city. This neighborhood is notorious for its high crime rate and volatile atmosphere.”

Your senses are heightened at this rate and you really try to focus but the moment you hear the faint crunch of leaves, you lose composure just a bit.

Okay you're a bit scared, but as long as your workmates are he—

a group of armed gang members suddenly appear from the alleyways between the buildings, surrounding the news van and the camera crew. The newscaster, taken off guard, gasps and steps back.

The gang members brandish their weapons, circling the news crew menacingly. One of them shouts at the newscaster, waving his gun in the air. “Hold it right there, pretty lady. This is our turf! You ain’t gonna be broadcasting nothing about us!”

You're about to shit your pants for real this time.

“Drop your cameras and get outta here, or things are gonna get real ugly real fast,” he growls, and one of them points the gun right on your camera.

“I'm talkin’ to you too.”

Yeah, you're not going to fight anyone and act all big. You simply drop the camera on the ground to raise your hands in the air.

As the gang members close in on the news crew, the atmosphere is suddenly shattered by the sound of footsteps pounding against the pavement. Everyone turns to see a tall, muscular figure approaching from the distance.

It's the hero.

You watch in awe as the hero strides towards the group of armed gang members, his movements fluid and precise. With a swift swing of his fist, he lands a powerful punch on the leader's face, sending him stumbling backwards. The other gang members are taken aback by his sudden appearance and the display of force, their eyes widening in surprise and fear. They exchange nervous looks, realizing they're facing a much stronger opponent than they anticipated.

“Hey, let's go!” Your workmate calls for your name. Her hand waving at you so you could all retreat back to the van.

And before you could follow, the van explodes.

The sudden explosion catches you off guard, jolting you out of your stupor. Shouting in surprise, you recoil from the loud blast, ducking instinctively as debris and fragments fly through the air. Your colleague, sitting next to you in the van, lets out a terrified yell as the force of the explosion propels the driver backward. The van shudders and lurches from the impact, the windows shattering and various objects sent flying.

“in the building! Let's go!” All three of you dash to protect yourselves inside this tall company building.

“I will call the police,”

“but the hero is here!” the driver of the van speaks, almost yelling in frustration.

“the hero is also a human. Just a strong one. We can't rely on him—” but before you could continue, you all cover your ears once you hear gunshots come from outside.

Ohmygosh. It’s—it could possibly be Wriothesley who's getting hurt right now. What are even the chances?!

“Fine! Just call the fucking police!” The driver gives up, leaning back against the wall while breathing heavily.

You want to go out there. You want to see. It's your chance to see who the hero is if he got hurt. Just to get the crumbs of news in exchange for your life apparently.

When it grows quiet, you peek outside, “it's clear, I'll take a look—”

“No, you're not.” her hand is firm as she grips your wrist, “just let them go.” He, on the other hand, scowls.

“Be safe!” She shouts at you as you make a run for it, running down the alleyway while looking left and right.

Someone's in the area.

You dart behind the nearby dumpster, heart pounding in your chest as adrenaline courses through your veins. Hiding as best you can, you press yourself against the rough metal, trying to keep your breathing steady and quiet. Peeking out from behind the dumpster, you cautiously scan the surroundings, trying to catch a glimpse of someone nearby. For now, the area seems to be clear, but you can't shake the feeling that someone is in the vicinity, lurking in the shadows.

“Where ya at, lil’ birdie?” You cover your mouth when you hear someone speak, it sends a chill down your spine and you can feel your heart drumming in your ears.

Your sharp eyes turn to your side to find a metal rod, you don't hesitate to grab it before smacking the shit out of the guy.

No that did not happen, but you wish it did.

Instead, the minute you see his feet pass the dumpster, with a swift movement, you grab hold of both of his ankles, using your weight and leverage to pull them out from under him. He lets out a pained shriek as he suddenly loses his balance and topples to the ground, his body hitting the pavement with a thud.

Alright, you can be cool sometimes.

Stepping at his hands to hear him cry again, you run put of the place, making turns and finally spotting the hero sitting down against the building wall while panting, seemingly exhausted.

“…” you take slow steps once you approach him, looking down at him with your eyes already glistening.

This is it, you just have to confirm it.

Your hand pulls at his mask, “Wrio—”

Huh?

This…

Is not

Wriothesley.

“Ah, what the fuck?” He grunts, the blonde grabbing the mask from your hands and you take a step back.

“Elias?!” You yell out in confusion, it's your colleague that you're covering for supposedly today's shoot.

“You're the hero??”

“not a word. Scram, you freak.” he mutters, eyes diverting away from you and staring up at the roof. “The roof,” he whispers to himself, making the effort to stand back at his knees.

Is this bitch serious? He's the last person you expected to be the hero. With his stupidly arrogant and lax attitude.

You give him an almost death stare, studying his features again before making your way out.

You need to check the other people that were with you.

But when you arrive back at the building, they were gone.

Did the police arrive? You don't hear any sirens. Could they have possibly went up on one of the floors to hide?

You find yourself in the elevator next, watching as the doors close with your hands clasped infront of you nervously.

You take deep breaths, trying to calm your racing heart and steady your nerves. Hey, at least there's nice elevator music.

As the elevator comes to a halt, the doors slide open with a soft ding, revealing the rooftop and the figure standing in the open space.

There's a figure standing at the edge of the building, you can see the person's silhouette clearly now, but you can't make out their features just yet.

Your steps are hesitant as you slowly approach the figure, the wind gently billowing around you. The city lights twinkle below, but your attention is entirely focused on the person standing at the edge of the roof. You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for whatever may come, and call out tentatively, "Hello?”

Your voice rings in the air, that the person's shoulders tense.

When they look around, you're met by the same blue eyes you've known for three years now.

“Wriothesley.” You whisper, in shock, breathlessly under your breath.

He's holding.. a gun? The same gun you remember seeing in your dream.

Something in his mind snaps when you turn around, in fear. Like it was a mistake to ever see him in the first place.

Wriothesley doesn’t even give himself time to think before his body suddenly reacts, suddenly reaching out and circling his hand around your wrist to forcibly tug you back.

He yanks hard enough that you lose your balance and fall against him, his other arm coming up to wrap around your shoulders, preventing you from going anywhere.

“W-wrio—”

“think it's time we talk, sunshine.” He speak into your ear.

When you try to move the slightest from his hold, he grips you around him tighter. You figure it's best to stay still for now.

“what? Are you going to kidnap me now?” You manage to chuckle out, nervously though, your voice coming out more shaky than you intended to.

“Is that going to satisfy your little fantasy? What, I should play into it and shove you into a corner, keep you under my thumb until you’re begging me to set you free? Or no… you want to be saved by the hero.”

"You know you're not helping with your case, right? You really sound like the bad guy now.”

You’ve definitely found his breaking point because that comment makes him snap.

Wriothesley suddenly whirls you around so you’re facing him before he’s pinning you against the nearest wall, his body practically covering your own.

“Well…” He whisper, raising an eyebrow calmly in the way you look being at his mercy. “Aren’t I?”

Your jaw practically hangs at his words. Is he... Playing the bad guy now?

Or was he really… not the opposite of the hero?

He sees the shiver you try so hard to suppress and smirks at that, clearly satisfied with your reaction, “What’s wrong, sunshine? Finally realize that the man you’ve been dating isn’t the hero you've obsessing over?” He chuckles.

“i… i knew it—”

“You didn’t,” he says, his tone suddenly becoming cool and firm.

Wriothesley leans forward, pressing into you so that you’re smashed between him and the wall. His hand suddenly comes up, cupping your jaw so that he tilts your chin up to look directly into his eyes.

“If you’d known, you’d never have come within twenty feet of me. You’d never have been alone with me or spent a single night in our bed.”

He's right. And you hate it. You feel betrayed, lied to, even.

It makes you rethink your life choices.

You've gotten too comfortable with him that you didn't even think about him being the villian. You've gotten too close while you were being a complete idiot.

“you hid it.”

Wriothesley laughs, the sound almost sounding cold, “of course I hid it, sunshine. I wasn’t going to just come strutting in wearing a big, red sign saying ‘look at me, I’m a bad guy!’ was I?”

You clench your fists together, “you tricked me.”

“Tricked? No.” He shakes his head slightly. “I simply… left out key details.”

“Why?”

“ah, there it is.” He steps back, giving you space to breath, to recollect your thoughts.

“why? Because the hero isn't a hero. He started all of this destruction. Why? To get fame, recognition, power, and to be seen, to look like he's doing something when he's not.” He lets out all in one breath, and you lips part again.

“four years ago when the building almost fell on you? He did that, on purpose. then saved you to make it look like he's the one that everyone needs.”

What the hell?

“Wriothesley, we were strangers to each other four years ago. How did you know?” You don't hesitate to step closer to get more answers out of him, but he only stares at you.

You swallow thickly when he draws infront of you once again, “i did this all for you, love. I-i will do everything in my power to stop him, i will kill him so you wouldn't get hurt—”

“Okay, fucker. Out of my way,” Elias, the ’hero’, suddenly barks, and without warning, a gunshot rings out. The bullet pierces through Wriothesley's shoulder, causing him to flinch and stagger backwards.

Your eyes widen in horror as you watch the scene unfold. "Wriothesley!" you cry out, watching as he turns around despite the injury and charges towards Elias.

Despite the pain he must be in, Wriothesley doesn't relent. Ignoring the gunshot wound, he barrels towards Elias with unmatched determination, closing the distance between them.

"Bastard," Wriothesley manages to grit out as he collides with Elias, knocking him off his feet and sending them both crashing to the ground.

You don't hesitate to rush forward, with adrenaline fueling your actions, you move quickly towards them as they roll dangerously close to the edge of the roof.

"Stop!" you shout, your voice filled with desperation. "You'll fall!”

And surely enough, Your two hand clamps down on Wriothesley's, desperately grasping onto anything you can to prevent him from plunging off the edge.

Meanwhile, Elias grips Wriothesley's leg, using his strength to anchor him in place. The three of you hang there, suspended over the city, Wriothesley's body along with Elias’s dangling in the air.

“Sweetheart—”

“shut the fuck up I'm not letting go.” They're both too heavy, the feel of his fingers slipping away from yours increases everytime you try to pull them up.

Elias is purposely pulling Wriothesley's leg down to drop them both, your lips quiver, crying when two of his fingers slip now.

“hey,” his voice is soothing when he calls for you.

“at least… i protected you till the very end, right?” He tries smiling but it only makes the lump in your throat grow.

“i love you.”

“Wriothesley!”

…

“Wriothesley—!” You gasp harshly when you open your eyes so wide, finding that your hand was already reaching out for nothing.

You rest your hand on your chest before leaning back on your seat.

“are you okay?” The newscaster, the friend you made, offers you her handkerchief so you could swipe the sweat off your face.

“i think… continuesly searching about this, is making you stressed.” She points out, looking at the papers and drawings splayed out on your desk.

More theories of the disappearances of the hero and villian. Not their death. Their bodies were never found.

“it's been a year.”

The realization is like a punch to the gut as you bring a sweaty palm to rub at your temples.

“This is not over.” You whisper, more to yourself than to her. “We got no more trouble. No more heroic or bad guy news. The world is back to normal, almost like they never existed huh?”

Never existed.

She then suddenly gasps, which catches you off gaurd, “are engaged??” She eyes at the gem resting on your left ring finger.

The ring you found in one of his jacket pockets when you sorted his things out.

“yeah…” you decide to drawl out before sitting upright on your seat.

“now, if you'll excuse me, i got work to do.”

You're never going to stop searching, to find another answer of the question; 'why?'

Even if it will mean risking your life this time.

#Wriothesley #genshin impact #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut #genshin fluff #genshin angst #wriothesley smut #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley x you #wriothesley fluff #wriothesley angst #genshin impact x you #genshin x reader #fanfic #wriothesley #genshin wriothesley #wriothesley genshin

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bombiikki · 4 months ago

Text

𝖇utterflies 𝖎n 𝖙he 𝖗ain ⸝⸝ 𓂃₊ ⊹

⋆˙⟡ — loser!haerin x popular!reader

♯ 𝖘ynopsis : as the popular kid at school, you were constantly put in the spotlight. but, you never liked it. you never felt truly seen by people and it was exhausting. walking in the rain was never a problem for you—you always carried your umbrella on you. so, why did you give it away to some girl you didn’t know the name of? and why did she make you feel human?

𝖈ontains : fluff, slowburn except i dont rlly know how to slow the burn, pianist x artist, theyre both each other’s muses, umbrellas and rain mentioned a lot, and butterflies, and a lil unwanted angst but idk how to write angst bc i js decided i didnt want them to be happy without a lil miscommunication first, miscommunication!

𝖜ord 𝖈ount : 20.9k

𝖆uthor's 𝖓ote : pretend everyine is aorund the same age please i forgot abt all the age gaps so 😿 does the synopsis even make sense?? also this was written over like 2 months while i was constantly in and out of falling asleep so i apologise if everything is lwk inconsistent or js badly paced 😓i was literallt one bad mood away from scrapping this entire thing

you walk through the damp streets of your neighbourhood, trying to find your way home through the heavy rain. with an umbrella over your head, you made a turn onto another street. why did you have to walk home today out of all days? you’re not so sure yourself.

you look out into the heavy rain, noticing a figure completely soaked in the rain. she has a school blazer over her head—you recognise it as your school blazer. you watched as the soaked girl continued to walk in the pouring rain, socks probably damp and cold. did you do anything about it? well, you couldn’t. the rain had begun to clear up as soon as you took another step forward. talk about bipolar weather.

the sun shone brightly against the girl, but she didn’t turn around enough for you to see her face. you watched as she lowered the school blazer. a butterfly had come out of hiding and was now fluttering around you. you watched it with curious eyes as it fluttered towards the girl. though you didn’t have the clearest view, you watched as the butterfly seemed to have perched on the girl’s finger.

“the rain yesterday was insane!” yunjin exclaimed, wrapping an arm around your shoulder. you smirked as you ducked your head, the familiar weight of attention already crawling up your neck.

“i’m guessing you ran home as soon as you felt a single water droplet,” you snickered. yunjin scoffed, nudging your side playfully.

“i don’t know about her, but i did,” hyein grinned, rushing over to your side. you watched danielle approach from behind, her expression warm and gentle.

“did you make it home safe? didn’t trip in the rain?” danielle asked, genuine concern lacing her voice.

hyein looked at her with big eyes and a beaming smile. “yep! not a single scratch!”

yunjin shifted to your other side, diving into a conversation with hyein and danielle. you found yourself smiling automatically, even as your mind drifted elsewhere—tuning out the laughter and chatter that surrounded you.

the four of you wove through the crowded hallways, passing students who glanced your way like clockwork. some offered quick smiles; others whispered just out of earshot. you returned the polite gestures out of habit, but it all felt distant—like watching someone else’s life from the outside.

being popular wasn’t something you asked for. it was a label that stuck to you like static, a side effect of being that person—good looks, successful parents, and just enough charm to draw people in. you never resented it, but the constant attention was exhausting. every smile felt like a mask, every conversation weighed with expectation.

in those moments, you longed for quiet. the kind of silence where no one expected anything from you.

that’s when you noticed her—the outlier in the sea of eyes trained on you.

she had long, dark hair falling over her shoulders, feline-like eyes hidden behind thick glasses. unlike everyone else, her focus wasn’t on you. there was no curiosity, no recognition. just quiet exhaustion, reflected in the red tint around her nose and the pout of her lips. she didn’t look like she belonged to the noise of the hallway, and somehow, that made you notice her even more.

the bell rang, snapping you from your thoughts. you waved goodbye to your friends, slipping into your classroom with the practiced ease of someone used to being watched.

and yet, the girl followed—figuratively, at least. she sat in clear view from your seat, unknowingly pulling your attention back toward her. for once, your sketchbook wasn’t filled with vague ideas or forced inspiration. this time, your pencil found its own direction, tracing the sharp curve of her jaw, the subtle tension in her eyes, the softness of her lips.

she didn’t know your name. she wasn’t impressed by your reputation. you weren’t popular to her. you were just another student in a classroom. and for the first time, that thought made you feel human.

the girl got up to blow her nose, your eyes now avoiding her at all costs. you didn’t even know this girl’s name, but you were already enamoured.

the bell rang for lunch, and as you packed up your things, you could already feel the weight of expectation gathering around you like a cloud.

smiling faces, casual greetings, students brushing past just to be seen near you—it was always the same routine. polite nods, quick conversations, all shallow interactions that left you feeling more like a concept than a person.

you slipped through the hallways like a shadow, ducking away from the growing crowd. no explanations to your friends, no excuses—just a quiet retreat to the one place you hoped would offer silence. the library.

the moment you stepped inside, the pressure in your chest eased. here, surrounded by the soft shuffle of pages turning and the faint scratch of pens against paper, you weren’t anyone special. you were just you.

that’s when you saw her again.

seated by the window, framed by the steady patter of rain against the glass, she was completely absorbed in her book. the same girl with sharp eyes and thick glasses, her focus unwavering even as you quietly took a seat nearby.

she didn’t notice you. no sideways glances, no stolen looks—just silence. for once, you weren’t the center of attention. and it was peaceful.

your hands moved almost without thought, sketchbook opening to a fresh page as your pencil danced across it. the lines came easier this time—her focused expression, the furrow of her brow, the way her lips pressed together as she read.

your pencil tapped absently against the table as you got lost in thought, and finally, she noticed. she glanced at you, not with recognition but curiosity.

“sorry if i’m bothering you with the pencil tapping,” you mumbled, offering a small, sheepish smile.

“it’s okay,” she replied, voice quiet but steady. “you weren’t bothering me.”

that was it. no forced small talk, no polite admiration. just a moment of shared quiet. for the first time in a long while, you didn’t feel like you had to perform. you didn’t need to be charming or likable. you could just exist. and that, somehow, was the greatest relief of all.

you were walking home, and it was raining once more, your feet splashing in the forming puddles of the streets. the rain was heavy, making everything foggy and dark. you turned a familiar corner to see a girl up ahead, completely soaked and maybe even shivering.

you took a big sigh before running up slowly to the girl down the street. you slowed down as you tilted your umbrella over her head, tilting it away from your head. you felt small drops of rain hit your head, soaking you completely within a matter of seconds. the rain that hit your shoulders made them feel heavy and cold.

the girl under your umbrella turned around to look at you, moving a little closer and holding your hand to position the umbrella over the both of you. you watched her lower her soaked blazer from her head over her shoulders.

the girl with soaked dark hair looked at you with her completely rain-covered glasses. she took off her glasses and wiped them with her shirt before looking back at you—a glimmer of confusion in her eyes. you recognised those sharp eyes.

“how did you see with the rain all up on your glasses?” you chuckled. the girl in front of you shrugged slightly.

she stood in front of you with a blank stare on her face, watching as you seemed to warm up quickly. you could feel her body warmth radiating against yours due to the close proximity.

“you shouldn’t be out in the rain like that, especially without an umbrella,” you said, your small smile turning into a small frown.

“i walk home in the rain every day, it’s okay,” the girl said with furrowed brows.

you shook your head with a frown, noticing the slight red tint of her nose. “but you’re sick from the rain, aren’t you?”

as if on cue, the girl turned her head to the side to sneeze—sniffling before looking back into your eyes with tired eyes.

you felt the corners of your lips twitch into a soft smile. “so, are you going to take the umbrella or not?”

the girl looked at you with a confused look. “why would i take your umbrella?”

“because you need it to shelter you from the rain,” you said flatly.

you took her hand and brought it up to the handle of the umbrella, passing it over to her. you took her other hand and secured it over the other. you had wished to hold onto her hands for longer, they were warm despite the coldness of the rain.

“see? wasn’t that hard was it,” you smirked. the girl continued to look at you with a confused look, her eyebrows furrowing once more.

“what about you?” the girl asked.

“what about me?” you replied with a small laugh.

“how will you get home in the rain?”

you looked out into the rain, then back to the girl in front of you.

“i guess i’m gonna have to run,” you smiled softly, sighing at the situation you put yourself into. you just knew you had to take the warmest shower when you got home.

“i thought you said i shouldn’t be out in the rain without an umbrella. shouldn’t that apply to you too?” the girl said with a frown.

you nodded and opened your mouth, then you closed it again at your hypocrisy. you really didn’t want to run in the rain, but you had already given your umbrella to the girl in front of you—you couldn’t just take it back.

“well,” you began, “better me than you.”

you took your blazer off quickly and put it up over your head. you looked back at the girl with a small smile.

“i’ll be fine,” you said with a shrug.

the girl watched you as you stepped away from the shelter of the umbrella and into the rain, the rain immediately soaking up every inch of your body. she watched as you gave a small wave before running down the street.

turns out, raining in heavy rain with just a blazer for shelter did not stop you from catching a cold—even after taking a warm shower too. you took two days off of school before returning.

“catching a cold in the big ol’ 2025 is crazy,” yunjin snickered, messing up your hair from next to you.

it was lunch and you had decided to walk around campus with your friends, not feeling particularly hungry. other students had noticed your absence, bombarding you with questions in the morning. you greeted person after person with a tired but still wide smile, shrugging off your absence as nothing major. you didn’t want to continue dealing with people so maybe that was also a partial reason why you decided to walk around with your friends.

“whatever man. i didn’t have my umbrella,” you mumbled back, sniffling a little from what was left of your cold.

“you didn’t have your umbrella?” danielle sighed. she shook her head slowly with concern in her eyes.

“ooo y/n’s in trouble with dani,” hyein teased with a grin.

you smiled softly, rolling your eyes and pushing hyein from the side. danielle looked back at you with her concerned eyes.

“why didn’t you have your umbrella?” she asked sternly.

“i gave it to some girl in my class. she was way more soaked than i was,” you shrugged.

your friends began whispering between themselves. all you could take out of it were the words “haerin” and “asked”. you looked up from the page to look at your friends with a confused expression.

“what are you guys whispering about,” you snickered.

you watched as yunjin wore a shit-eating grin before she began to talk. “the first day you were gone, this girl came up to us—her name was haerin. she’s friends with one of dani’s friends or something. but, she came up to us and asked about you. she had an umbrella in hand too.”

“oh, so her name’s haerin,” you nodded slowly, humming softly.

“is that all you got from that?” hyein giggled. you looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “that’s all i needed to know, no?”

“did you not know her name before?” yunjin laughed.

you lowered your head, mumbling a little “maybe” as yunjin continued to laugh at you.

“c’mon yunjin, stop laughing at y/n, ” danielle smiled. “we all gotta get to class soon too by the way—bell’s gonna go soon.”

the four of you began to walk to your respected classrooms right before the bell. you waved goodbye to your friends as you slid open the door to the classroom, finding a few students already sat at their desks—one of them being haerin.

you walked over to your own desk, noticing your umbrella sitting on top of it with a note.

“You’re terrible at following your own advice. Don’t get sick next time.”

you felt a small smile tug at your lips, your eyes finding the back of haerin’s head. she had her eyes locked towards the front of the class, her fingers tapping her desk rhythmically.

the warmth of late afternoon sunlight streamed lazily through haerin’s bedroom window, casting soft, golden patterns across the walls. the peaceful quiet was quickly shattered as hanni burst into the room, all energy and sunshine, her smile as wide as ever.

“hae! i feel like i haven’t seen you in forever,” hanni exclaimed dramatically, tackling haerin into the mattress.

“you see me every day, hanni. you’re literally impossible to miss,” haerin scoffed.

“yeah, well, you disappear into the library every now and then so,” hanni mumbled, a small pout plastered on her face.

minji followed in—dropping onto the mattress with a small bounce. her playful pout didn’t quite mask the mischief in her eyes. “can’t we miss our best friend in peace without getting judged for it?”

haerin rolled her eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. “nope. in fact, i should probably kick you both out now while i still have the energy.” she sat up, making a half-hearted attempt to shoo them toward the door.

hanni, swift as ever, caught the back of haerin’s shirt and yanked her back down with a disapproving look on her face. “absolutely not. you promised we could hang out today. breaking promises is illegal in this friendship.”

minji let out a laugh, watching as haerin surrendered and flopped back onto the bed with a dramatic sigh. the familiar comfort of their friendship settled over the room like a soft blanket—easy, effortless, safe.

they lay there, limbs tangled together in the lazy sprawl that only close friends could manage—the quiet hum of the world outside distant and unimportant. hanni broke the comfortable silence first, her voice softer this time.

“so, haerin. what’s going on with you lately?”

haerin stared at the ceiling, watching the light shift across the plaster. “nothing much,” she mumbled with a shrug. “why?”

hanni shot her a questioning glance, raising her eyebrow. “just checking in. you’ve seemed… distracted these past few days.”

there was a pause—a beat of hesitation—before haerin spoke again, her voice low but thoughtful.

“it’s probably nothing, but there’s this girl.”

minji immediately sat up, her curiosity sparked. “a girl? you’re telling me you’ve been holding out on us?”

“it’s not like that,” haerin muttered, cheeks warming despite herself. “it’s y/n. the—uh—you know, the one everyone’s always talking about.”

hanni blinked, recognition dawning quickly. “like, y/n y/n? the popular girl who’s always with dani and stuff?”

“yeah,” haerin admitted. “she gave me her umbrella the other day when it was raining. completely soaked herself in the process and then just… left.”

the room went quiet for a moment, the weight of her words settling between them.

“that’s… weirdly sweet of her,” minji said, her voice cautious but intrigued. “what happened after that?”

haerin shrugged again, trying to seem indifferent. “nothing much. she’s missed the last two days of school—probably caught a cold from the rain.” her fingers stilled, the memory of their brief encounters flashing uninvited in her mind. “she doesn’t seem like everyone says she is. she seems real.”

hanni and minji exchanged a knowing glance that didn’t go unnoticed.

“what?” haerin asked, narrowing her eyes.

“nothing,” hanni said, a teasing smile creeping across her lips. “just—maybe—‘nothing much’ is actually something after all.”

haerin rolled her eyes, but the warmth blooming in her chest told her they weren’t entirely wrong.

“hey, just saying. if you wanna hit her up, i can set you up through dani,” hanni’s teasing smile only increasingly growing wider.

“having a popular friend must be fun,” minji rolled her eyes.

“do not classify danielle as just a popular friend,” hanni frowned.

another school day flew by quickly—the bell signifying the end of the day, students crowding the hallways and walking off campus. haerin was not one of these people. she found herself in the music room instead, drawn by the piano that was sitting untouched.

“let’s see if i remember how to play this one,” haerin whispered to herself. she placed her hands onto the keys and her fingers began to move slowly.

haerin began to play the first few notes quietly, slowly building up the volume but still keeping it soft. haerin melted with the music, feeling at peace. she continued to play, softly and soothingly until she made a mistake—her hands pausing into place when she did. haerin mumbled out a curse before pushing her hair back.

“don’t stop there. keep playing, it sounded nice.” you said from behind her. haerin jumped a little before slowly turning towards the sound of your voice. as haerin turned her head, you stood against the closed door of the room. haerin grew a confused expression on her face.

you smiled a little before slowly walking towards haerin.

“can i sit with you?” you asked softly. haerin didn’t say anything but made space for you on the stool.

you sat yourself onto the stool gently, haerin feeling the warmth of your body radiating despite the gap between the two of you.

“do you come here often?” you asked softly, placing your bag down by the side of the stool.

“no, not really. do you?” haerin asked you back. you nodded in response.

“i didn’t know you played piano,” haerin added. you saw a small smile on her face as you scratched the back of your head.

“hate to break it to you, but i don’t. i’m actually really ass at it,” you chuckled nervously.

“you can’t be that bad,” haerin replied.

you brought your fingers up to the keys and tried playing as much as you remembered of ‘twinkle twinkle little star’. you watched as haerin winced everytime you pressed the wrong key. she adjusted her glasses up her nose bridge as you finished your little performance.

“so, you’re that bad,” haerin hummed. you chuckled softly at her comment, taking your fingers off the key. “why are you here then?”

a smile began to grow on your face. “well, i like to draw,” you said softly. “and no one really uses the music room. it’s peaceful to sit in this room and just—draw.” you reached down for your bag and took out your sketchbook as proof.

haerin nodded slowly at your response. “i should leave then—i don’t want to bother your drawing time,” she said with thin lips, getting up from the stool.

you went to grab her wrist, her head turning back to look at you in the eye. she tilted her head to the side in confusion. you quickly let go of her wrist, not wanting to seem overly pushy.

“sorry for grabbing you all of a sudden. i don’t mind if you stay—your playing gives a better atmosphere rather than me drawing in silence,” you said sheepishly.

luckily for you, haerin slowly descended onto the stool and placed her fingers on the keys. you moved yourself onto a spare chair off to the side, leaving haerin in front of the piano by herself. haerin felt her side grow colder without your warmth next to her. to say she liked having you in her personal space was not something she wanted to admit just yet. you told her it was so she could have free reign over her space but you also wanted to give yourself some space to draw freely.

you brought a foot up onto your chair, your knee serving as the surface to hold up your sketchbook. you listened as haerin began to work her magic, a soft melody playing in your ears. the room was now filled with the sounds of your pencil scratching over the paper of your sketchbook and the sweet melody haerin was playing.

“what are you playing?” you hummed softly, still sketching away against the paper. haerin continued to play, not missing a beat, as she responded “gymnopédie no.1”.

“sounds fancy,” you chuckled softly.

“it’s french,” haerin hummed back softly.

a smile tugged onto your lips. you began to flip through the pages of your sketchbook. it was filled with little doodles, but there seemed to be a recurring theme of cats. there were multiple pages filled with sketches of haerin too, but you didn’t want to show anyone those sketches just yet.

you smiled softly as you found yourself sketching haerin at the piano. you doodled a few butterflies around the finished sketch, feeling butterflies in your own stomach as you looked up at haerin. she wore a soft smile as she played, the sound rich in your ears.

the sun hung lazily in the sky as lunchtime rolled around—its warmth spilling through the windows of an empty classroom tucked away from the usual chaos of the schoolyard. you always loved camping out in empty classrooms—they felt like your quiet place where the noise of expectations couldn’t reach you.

the room buzzed softly with the hum of a distant lawn mower outside and the occasional creak of old wooden chairs shifting under familiar weight.

you sat cross-legged at a spot by the window, sketchbook balanced on your knee, pencil tapping thoughtfully against the paper. you were mindlessly sketching out the same face that blessed your thoughts. whenever you were lost in your own mind, you thought about that day in the music room a lot—the way you and haerin sat in the room in comfortable silence, and the way her lips curled up into a soft smile as she played. it had been a few days since that day but the memory still lingered in your thoughts—butterflies thrashing around in your stomach and cheeks growing warmer when you did.

across from you, yunjin, hyein, and danielle lounged in their own chairs, half-eaten lunches abandoned as their attention slowly shifted toward you. you didn’t notice the way their eyes narrowed in amusement as you absently smiled at whatever filled your page—until yunjin’s voice cut through the comfortable silence.

“okay, spill,” she said, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “who is she, and why do you look like you just walked out of a rom-com montage?”

you didn’t even bother looking up, pretending to focus on a stray line in your sketch. “you’re imagining things. i’m literally just sketching.”

but hyein was quicker than you, snatching the book from your lap before you could react. she flipped through the pages with a sharp eye until a knowing smirk spread across her lips. “just sketching, huh? then why are half these pages full of the same person? wait… is this haerin?”

your stomach twisted as danielle leaned over to peek, her gasp filling the room with exaggerated drama. “no way. you? making a new friend? since when do you let anyone past the ‘i’m too cool for this’ wall?”

you snatched the sketchbook back, cheeks burning despite the indifference you tried to force into your voice. “she’s not just—ugh, it’s not like that. we just hang out sometimes. she plays piano, i draw. that’s all.”

yunjin raised her eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “yeah, just hang out. that’s why you’re blushing like we just caught you confessing to your high school crush.” her smirk softened into something gentler.

“you never let anyone sit that close to you without acting like they’re invading your personal bubble.”

you let out a small sigh, leaning back in your chair and letting your gaze fall to the dust motes floating lazily through the sunlight.

“it’s not a big deal,” you muttered. “she doesn’t care about—y'know—all this. she talks to me like i’m just another person, not someone to be put on a pedestal.”

hyein’s teasing expression faded into something more thoughtful. “not like the untouchable, super-talented, way-too-popular-for-her-own-good artist everyone else sees, huh?” her voice softened at the end, and it struck a chord somewhere deep in your chest. “must feel nice.”

you stared at the table for a second, the silence growing heavier around your next words. “yeah. it’s… weird. being around someone who doesn’t expect anything from me. she’s just there. no pressure, no expectations. just comfortable and quiet.”

danielle reached out and nudged your shoulder gently. “you know we’re not expecting anything from you either, right?”

you glanced up at her, and a small, genuine smile tugged at the corner of your lips. “i know. you guys are different. you’ve always been around. you’re home.” your voice dropped lower. “but everyone else? they just see what they want to see. haerin doesn’t do that.”

yunjin let out a low whistle, though her expression had softened into something almost proud. “so, she’s special then? the ‘cool, detached’ y/n finally found someone who doesn’t treat her like she’s made of glass?”

groaning, you buried your face in your hands, the heat in your cheeks impossible to hide now. “can we not do this right now?”

hyein let out a soft laugh, resting her chin in her palm. “too late. we’re invested. this is the most human you’ve looked in weeks.”

danielle’s voice, warm and reassuring, cut through the teasing. “just don’t push us away, okay? we’re happy you’re letting someone new in but we’re still your people.”

your heart softened, the teasing and warmth of your friends wrapping around you like a familiar blanket. “i know,” you said quietly, voice full of gratitude. “you always will be.”

the teasing faded, replaced by a comfortable silence, the kind that only exists between people who know you—really know you. you flipped your sketchbook back open, pencil poised over a fresh page, and let yourself sink into the ease of the moment. lines began to take shape on your page—but this time, it didn’t shape into a sketch of haerin. this time, you found yourself drawing yourself with your friends—flashing smiles drawn on all your faces.

the hallway buzzed with the usual end-of-day chaos as everyone rushed to their last class. you barely had time to react before your friends—yunjin, hyein, and danielle—were ushering you forward, practically steering you like a ship toward the classroom door. the room was nearly full, heads turning as they whispered something to you, their smirks just as loud as their voices were soft.

you could feel it—your cheeks growing warm, eyes wide as you tried to resist their playful shoves. but they didn’t let up, and soon enough, you were standing awkwardly just past the doorway, all too aware of the eyes on you.

“you better do it, y/n. i have eyes everywhere,” yunjin whispered like a villain in a cheesy movie, her grin sharp with mischief.

and then the real walk of shame began. instead of your usual seat in the back—safe, unseen—you were walking toward the front, stopping right next to haerin. you could feel every stare burning into the back of your head. why were they all watching you? what were they thinking?

as you sat down, your shoulders nearly touched hers. the whispers behind you grew louder, each one tightening the knot of discomfort in your chest. your body slumped, shrinking under the weight of it all.

and then you heard a soft voice. “oh, hi y/n,” haerin’s voice cut through the noise, gentle and a little confused.

“hi, haerin,” you mumbled, trying to keep your voice steady.

she tilted her head slightly, brows furrowed in quiet concern. “you okay?”

you nodded, pretending to focus on the teacher walking in, though your heart was nowhere near the lesson. your friends’ idea of strengthening your friendship with haerin suddenly felt more like social torture.

still, you figured if you were stuck here, you might as well do something. you ripped a piece of paper from your notebook and sketched a quick cat, its round eyes softening your own mood. under it, you scrawled the words:

“hai :3”

you slid the paper toward her and waited. haerin blinked, then unfolded it carefully. a small snort escaped her, her shoulders shaking with quiet laughter. she scribbled back:

“did all your penmanship go to your art? your handwriting is ballz”

“is that a compliment on my art? :D”

“maybe maybe not who knows it’s cool, i guess”

“COOL U GUESS? i see that you can’t escape my amazing eyes”

“u better write bigger before i steal ur eyeballs. i’m blind enough with these stupid glasses”

“well i think your glasses are cute”

you watched from the corner of your eye as haerin opened the paper. her blush was obvious, dusting her cheeks like soft pink watercolor. she scribbled fast:

“write bigger.”

“sorry!”

“so why were u being so somber like 5 min ago?”

you hesitated, then wrote back:

“i just lowkey hate attention and everyone staring at me was too much”

“that’s so real. being stared at never gets easier.”

“OMG U GET ME i thought u would’ve figured since i’m ‘miss popular’ i’d be used to it or whatever”

“you think too lowly of me. i see how uncomfortable you get around people. that’s not the face of someone who likes attention”

you stared at her note for a second longer than necessary—a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips. for once, you didn’t care if anyone else noticed.

“u’re cool haerin”

“thank you. i think u’re really cool too”

it was a gloomy day, the sky darkened with grey clouds, threatening to rain. you sat on a bench facing out into the field, losing yourself in your thoughts. your thoughts seemed to be on overdrive, yet they also seemed to be so cool and collected—you were thinking of everything, yet nothing at all.

it's too much. you should be used to this by now. smile, nod, laugh—don’t let them see it gets to you. there’s always noise. people calling your name, expectations hanging heavy in the air. you know the routine. the effortless charm, the carefully measured responses, the way you have to be on all the time. popularity is supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it? people want to be around you, want your attention, want to claim a piece of you.

but sometimes, it feels like you don’t belong to yourself anymore. do they even like you? or just the idea of you? you feel like you’re being watched, even when no one is looking. your every move—picked apart, analysed, turned into a story by people who don’t actually know you. admiration turns into expectation. you can’t slip up. you can’t afford to be anything less than what everyone wants you to be. what if you disappoint them? what if you’re not as interesting as they think?

and then there’s haerin.

haerin, who doesn’t look at you like you’re something to be impressed by. who doesn’t try to pull you into the spotlight or demand anything from you. around her, the pressure loosens just a little. you don’t have to perform. you can just be. but at the same time, that scares you. because if haerin is the only one who makes you feel real, then what happens if she leaves too?

you felt a drop of rain slide down from the corner of your eye and down your cheek. more raindrops continued to drop down on your cheeks—the sound of the rain falling against the ground soothing your emotions. you just hoped you could sit out in the rain for the rest of the day, to never be found and to have some time to yourself.

you leaned back on the bench, embracing the raindrops that fell straight onto your face. you closed your eyes to soak up the rainy atmosphere. that was until you no longer felt the rain hit your skin. you opened your eyes with furrowed brows to see haerin standing over you, umbrella over her head.

“for someone who told me i shouldn’t be out in the rain, you’re pretty bad at avoiding the rain yourself,” haerin chuckled. her small smile soon faltered as she saw your unchanging expression. you looked empty, like there wasn’t a soul behind your eyes.

“are you okay?” haerin asked, sitting next to you on the damp bench as she kept the umbrella above both of your heads.

she didn’t press you for an answer. she just sat there, silent, as if she knew you didn’t have the words to explain it.

“finally got yourself an umbrella, huh?” you smirked softly. you heard a small chuckle from haerin as she continued to sit with you in silence.

you were quiet for a moment, staring at the ground before glancing at her. “how did you find me?”

haerin shifted slightly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “saw you from the classroom.”

your brows knot together. “classes have already started?”

she gave a small shrug. “yeah.”

“then why are you here with me? shouldn’t you be in class?”

haerin looked at you, her gaze steady, as if the answer was obvious. “well, you looked like you needed company. i’d rather be here with you than in class anyway.”

your breath hitched slightly at her words. a warmth spread through your chest at her words, but you didn’t know what to say, so you just nodded. you turned your gaze back to the field, letting the soft patter of rain fill the silence between you.

the two of you sat in comfortable silence, the sound of raindrops filling the air. after a moment, haerin shifted closer, pressing her shoulder gently against yours. you let out a quiet sigh and leaned into her, letting yourself relax against her presence.

your hands brushed, fingers barely touching. without a word, haerin reached for your hand, her fingers lacing gently with yours. her grip was warm, steady—not demanding, just present. you almost flinched at the unexpected touch, but you didn’t pull away. something about it made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t quite understand. you squeezed back, grounding yourself in her quiet presence. neither of you spoke. you didn’t need to.

the silence wasn’t heavy, wasn’t filled with expectation or pressure. it was just the two of you, sitting there with shoulders brushing, hands intertwined, leaning into each other as the world carried on around you.

the rain continued to fall, steady and rhythmic, a quiet shield against the rest of the world. haerin never let go of your hand. she never asked you to say something. she was just there.

the two of you sat and watched as the rain slowed down. it was still present, but much softer. in an agreed silence, you both decided to run away to the music room instead of your normal classes.

the music room was quiet except for the soft hum of the rain against the windows. the air smelled faintly of old wood and sheet music, the piano keys reflecting the dim light from outside. you sat on the floor, your back against the piano, knees drawn up slightly. haerin sat beside you, legs crossed, close enough that your shoulders brushed.

“do you ever feel like… people see what they want to see?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

haerin turned to you, waiting. you hesitated before continuing. “like, no matter what you do, you’ll always be some version of yourself that they’ve already decided on?”

she nodded slowly, her gaze unreadable. “yeah.”

“it’s just… sometimes it’s exhausting,” you admitted. “everyone has expectations. everyone thinks they know me. and i feel like… if i stop being what they want, i’ll disappear.”

haerin was quiet for a moment, then she said, “you don’t have to be anything for me.”

you swallowed, your throat suddenly tight. “what if i don’t even know who i am when i’m not being something for everyone else?”

she thought about that, then said, “then you take your time figuring it out. and i’ll be here.”

you turned to look at her. her face was calm, but her eyes—her eyes held something deeper, something steady. she wasn’t saying it just to make you feel better. she meant it.

“has it ever been like that for you?” you asked. “like you’re expected to be someone you’re not?”

haerin hesitated, then nodded. “when i play piano. sometimes it feels like people only see me for that. they think i’m only the quiet girl who plays well. but there’s more to me than that. just like there’s more to you than what everyone else thinks.”

her words settled into your chest, grounding you. you looked down at your intertwined hands, at the way she held onto you like she wasn’t planning on letting go.

“thank you,” you murmured.

haerin squeezed your hand gently. “i see you. you don’t have to wear a mask around me.”

a quiet exhale left your lips. for the first time in a long time, the weight on your shoulders felt a little lighter.

haerin watched you, and something shifted in her expression—something almost imperceptible, but real. this was the moment she realized. that the way she felt around you, the way she wanted to stay, to understand you, to be the one you trusted—this was something deeper. this was something she couldn’t ignore anymore.

haerin seemed to feel more open towards you, like it was the most natural thing to just melt around you. your presence was a little intimidating—constantly surrounded by people and big names. but haerin knew better, she knew the language of your soul. she admired you and the melody that would ring in her ears every time you were near her.

haerin found herself in the music room, alone this time. she had no sheets to reference off of, just her heart and emotions. the thought of you carried her fingers around the keys. haerin played and she played, not stopping as she felt her soul overflowing at the thought of you.

then, a knock at the door. haerin turned around to see minji peeping through a crack in the door, her knuckles rested against the door.

“hey, can we come in?” minji smiled softly. haerin nodded, taking her fingers off the keys.

she watched minji step into the room, hanni following in from behind her. haerin watched as minji and hanni strolled into the music room, their expressions immediately turning mischievous as they took in the sight of her sitting at the piano.

“you’ve been playing without us?” hanni gasped dramatically, clutching her chest like she’d been personally betrayed. “the audacity.”

“not even a ‘hey guys, come listen to my soulful masterpiece’ text?” minji added, shaking her head in mock disappointment. “haerin, we thought we meant something to you.”

haerin sighed, already regretting letting them in. “i was just playing,” she said simply, fingers hovering over the keys before pulling away.

“you say that like you weren’t in here pouring your heart out or something.” minji teased, nudging hanni who nodded in agreement. “anyway, we wanted to ask you something.”

haerin raised a brow, waiting.

“you know the arts festival is coming up in a few months, right?” hanni started, plopping onto the chair beside her.

“they’re making it a big deal this year. they’re expanding it to include all kinds of performances—visual art, drama, music, stuff like that. are you gonna do something for it?”

haerin hesitated, fingers brushing lightly over the piano keys. “i might not.”

minji gasped, seeming actually offended. “what? why not? whatever you were playing before was, like, stupidly good.”

haerin shrugged, eyes flickering down to the keys. “it’s… personal. it’s not meant for an audience.”

minji and hanni exchanged a look before minji smirked. “ohhh, so it’s meant for a specific pair of ears?”

haerin shot her a glare, but the slight redness creeping up her ears gave her away. “shut up.”

hanni grinned, leaning in. “so it’s y/n, isn’t it?”

minji turned to haerin, wiggling her eyebrows. “you’re playing just for y/n now?.”

haerin rolled her eyes, but her ears tinged pink. “it’s nothing special.”

“awww,” minji cooed, clasping her hands together. “our little haerin is a romantic.”

“gross,” haerin muttered, shoving hanni’s shoulder lightly when she giggled.

“no, that lowkey is really romantic of you haerin,” hanni said, grinning. “but fine, whatever. just know that you’re wasting a perfect opportunity. imagine the school watching you perform, totally captivated by your artistry, utterly—”

“no,” haerin cut in flatly, shaking her head.

hanni huffed. “fine, be mysterious. but speaking of performances, i heard something interesting.”

haerin glanced at her, waiting.

“dani told me that y/n has something big planned for the festival. like, really big. and you know how word spreads—people are already talking about it.” hanni leaned in dramatically. “apparently, it’s supposed to be some artsy masterpiece or something.”

haerin’s fingers unconsciously tapped against the piano, her mind flickering to you. you hadn’t mentioned anything about showcasing art. she wondered what you had in store.

“sooo,” minji drawled, nudging haerin with her foot. “if y/n’s doing something, shouldn’t you? just saying, it’d be cute.”

“oh, so cute,” hanni agreed. “a romantic piano piece to match y/n’s grand artistic display? imagine the tension, the longing gazes, the—”

“you two are unbearable,” haerin muttered, shaking her head, but a small smile tugged at her lips. she wasn’t going to perform—but now, she was even more curious about what you were planning.

hanni and minji exchanged another glance before hanni grinned. “wow. you really are down bad.”

haerin groaned, shoving hanni off the bench. hanni yelped as she tumbled onto the floor, but her laughter filled the room as minji doubled over beside her.

“okay, okay,” minji gasped between laughs, “but actually, what if y/n’s showcasing something for you?”

haerin went silent at that. the idea had never crossed her mind before. hanni, still on the floor, smirked at her. “now that’s something to think about.”

the art room smelled like paint, faint traces of glue, and frustration—your frustration, specifically. you stared at the half-finished canvas in front of you, the colors all wrong, the lines stiff, the whole thing a disaster. you weren’t even sure why you cared this much—except, no, you did. because this was for haerin.

you sat at one of the tables, surrounded by scattered sketches, crumpled concept papers, and half-finished ideas that felt more like failures than progress. your head rested in your hands as you stared at your notes like they would magically form a coherent plan on their own.

"you know," yunjin started, chewing on the end of her pen, "you have, like, two months. why are you acting like this is tomorrow?"

"because it has to be perfect," you groaned. "i need it to be grand. i need it to be something unforgettable."

"who are you trying to impress?" danielle asked, smirking as she leaned forward. "or should i say, who are you dedicating this to?"

hyein gasped dramatically, putting a hand over her heart. "oh my god. y/n, is this a love confession?" she grinned, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

"no, i don’t want to woo haerin," you muttered, slumping over your sketchbook. "i just want to show my appreciation for her kindness."

"uh huh. i didn’t even mention a name," hyein drawled, exchanging a look with danielle. “just appreciation. totally not a secret grand romantic gesture or anything."

before you could argue, the sound of voices outside the art room made hyein perk up. she quickly got up and moved towards the door, peeking out before shutting it slightly.

"you’ve got an audience," she whispered. "why do people even hover around this room like it's a celebrity meet and greet?"

"because it is," danielle snorted, nudging you. "this is what you get for being you."

"can we focus, please?" you sighed. "ideas. i need ideas."

"what if you make a huge banner that says ‘thank you haerin’ and just drop it from the rooftop?" hyein suggested, grinning.

"or perform a full musical number dedicated to her with backup dancers and fireworks," yunjin added, clearly entertained.

"not helping! i’m a painter, not a serenader," you groaned, dragging a hand down your face. "i need something meaningful, something personal—"

before the conversation could go any further, the bell rang, signaling the end of the period. everyone groaned in unison before scrambling to gather their things. you grabbed your sketchbook and notes, shoving them into your bag with less care than usual.

"we'll brainstorm more later!" danielle called as everyone rushed toward the door.

but you were already gone.

weaving through the hallways, you dodged the greetings and voices calling your name, keeping your head down and focusing only on moving forward. you weren’t in the mood to be stopped, not when your thoughts were racing faster than your feet. but then—

"hey."

you skidded to a stop, nearly colliding with haerin in the middle of the hallway. her eyes met yours, calm as ever, but there was a flicker of curiosity behind them.

"hi," you breathed, trying to gather yourself. "uh—are you going to the art festival?"

"haven’t decided yet," she replied, tilting her head. "why?"

"because you should come," you said quickly. "i’ll have something ready for you. and i want you to be there to witness it."

haerin blinked. her expression remained unreadable, but you swore her eyes softened just a little.

"for me? what happened to miss l/n who didn’t like attention?"

"yeah—well—i wanted this to be different." you hesitated for a second before gathering the courage to continue. "and, um… would you want to accompany me personally on the day of the festival?"

she studied you for a moment, and for once, you couldn't tell what she was thinking. then, slowly, she nodded.

"okay," she said simply.

and just like that, your heart was racing for an entirely different reason. you felt butterflies begin to flutter in your stomach.

the powerpuff girls

hanni HAEEEE R U STILL IN RHE MUSIC ROOM? haerin yeah i am are u going to come bother me? cuz if u are then im not here hanni ok thats so rude i cant hang out with my bestie anymroe? haerin im ur best friend?? 😿😿 thats honestly really sad for minji minji yeah cuz why is hae ur bsf what abt me dude 😡😡 hanni hey haerin did u hear smth? minji OK WOW RUDE ASL hanni what r u gonna do abt it jump me? music room in 5 come if u dare 😒😒 haerin leave the jumping out of the music room please i dont need u jumping each other in front of my piano minji MAKE THAT 2 MINUTES

haerin exhaled slowly, setting her phone down beside her on the piano’s polished surface. the screen dimmed, swallowing the unread message she had been staring at for the past few minutes. instead of dwelling on it, she let her fingers drift over the keys, pressing down softly as she eased into a quiet, familiar melody.

the room was silent except for the soft, melancholic tune that filled the space the gentle notes barely had time to settle in the air before the door to the music room swung open with a loud bang.

“there's no way she likes you more than me! i’m—like—120% cooler than you,” minji’s voice rang out, cutting through the silence like a blade.

haerin sighed through her nose, her fingers freezing on the keys. she turned just in time to see minji stride inside, looking thoroughly indignant, while hanni trailed behind her with a triumphant grin, sticking out her tongue in response.

haerin didn’t flinch. she simply let her hands fall from the keys, turning her head just in time to see hanni stick her tongue out at minji before sprinting forward, practically throwing herself onto the piano bench beside her.

"haerin, who's your favorite?" hanni demanded, eyes wide with faux innocence as she leaned in uncomfortably close.

haerin blinked, tilting her head slightly as if actually contemplating the question. she let the silence hang for a moment before finally nodding to herself, as if reaching a conclusion.

"you both suck," she said simply.

hanni and minji turned to each other at the same time, expressions mirroring each other's perfectly—eyes widened, mouths slightly agape, pure betrayal written across their faces. hanni gasped, clutching at her chest like she had just been fatally wounded, while minji scoffed, shaking her head in betrayal.

“wow. uncalled for,” minji muttered, crossing her arms.

before either of them could launch into more dramatic rebuttals, the door burst open again, this time accompanied by the sound of rushed footsteps and a breathless voice.

“hey, haerin, i think i forgot my sketchbook here—”

your breath was uneven as you bent slightly at the waist, one hand braced against the doorframe. it was clear you had rushed over in a hurry, strands of your hair slightly out of place from your run. as you straightened up, your gaze landed on the two unfamiliar faces in the room. your eyes flickered between them for a second before a polite smile crossed your lips.

"oh, hey guys! minji and hanni, right?" you greeted with a smile.

hanni brightened immediately. "yeah! i’m hanni and she's minji! nice to meet you too, y/n. we've heard… a lot about you from hae."

haerin, who had been sitting quietly at the piano, tensed slightly. her expression barely changed, but you caught the way her fingers curled against her palm in warning.

you chuckled softly at the sight. “your friends call you ‘hae’?”

haerin finally met your gaze, her expression as blank as ever. “yeah. it’s stupid.”

"i think it’s cute." you mused. "when can i call you hae?" you tilted your head slightly, letting your smile linger.

haerin let out a small scoff, rolling her eyes, but you didn’t miss the way her lips twitched ever so slightly—like she was fighting the urge to smile. minji and hanni exchanged looks again, subtle but not subtle enough to go unnoticed.

you cleared your throat, remembering the reason you had rushed over in the first place. "um… so, do you know where my sketchbook is?" you asked softly, scratching the back of your neck.

haerin didn’t respond right away. instead, she just stared at you, her eyes slightly narrowed in thought. then, without a word, she reached over to the side table, plucked up the familiar worn-out sketchbook, and held it out to you.

"you left it here last time. i figured you'd come back for it."

you took the sketchbook from her hands, flipping through the pages quickly before stopping at one in particular. you frowned slightly, tracing the lines of a half-finished sketch with your finger.

"i need this for the arts festival," you muttered more to yourself than to anyone else. "i was trying to come up with ideas earlier, but nothing feels right yet."

haerin watched you for a moment, taking in the way your brows furrowed in concentration.

"you have time," she finally said. "don’t force it. it’ll come to you."

you glanced up at her, something warm settling in your chest at the quiet reassurance. "yeah. maybe you're right."

“are you working on something for the art festival?” hanni asked, leaning in slightly as if trying to catch a glimpse of the sketches.

you hesitated for a second before snapping the sketchbook shut. “maybe.”

minji raised an eyebrow. “that sounds suspicious.”

you only smiled, tilting your head playfully. “it’s a secret.”

you could feel haerin’s eyes on you again, a quiet, unwavering presence. when you finally looked back at her, her expression was unreadable, but there was something about the way she was watching you that made heat creep up the back of your neck. the way haerin's eyes lingered on you made your heart skip a beat. there was something unreadable in her gaze—something soft, something knowing. before the silence could stretch on too long, you clapped your hands together.

you cleared your throat, suddenly feeling like you had overstayed your welcome. “i should probably head home.”

turning toward the door, you hesitated for a second before looking over your shoulder at haerin, ignoring the two lingering stares of her friends. you lifted a hand, fingers curling slightly in a casual wave.

"thanks for keeping this safe for me, hae. see you soon" you said, deliberately testing the nickname. then, with a slight smirk, you winked before stepping out the door. the soft click of the door closing left a lingering silence in the room.

hanni and minji slowly turned to each other, processing what had just happened. then, in perfect sync, they turned to haerin, their jaws slightly ajar.

“did haerin just bag a baddie?” hanni muttered, still staring at the door.

minji folded her arms. “wild.”

haerin let out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding. her fingers hovered over the keys, barely touching them, before pressing down on one—sharp, off-key, wrong. she didn’t correct it. instead, she sat there, unmoving, staring at the door long after you were gone.

it had been a week since the last time the both of you were in the music room. but today, as haerin walked down the familiar path home, she found herself thinking of you more often than usual. it was a quiet afternoon, the kind where everything felt almost suspended in time. the light drizzle from earlier had left a soft sheen on the pavement, and the air had that fresh, earthy scent that only rain could bring. haerin walked slowly, allowing the quiet to settle around her, her thoughts swirling like the leaves that occasionally brushed against her feet.

a butterfly suddenly caught her eye, its wings delicate and soft as it fluttered in front of her, moving almost lazily through the damp air. haerin stopped in her tracks, drawn to the butterfly’s graceful movements. it hovered for a moment, and she instinctively raised her finger, a silent invitation. after a few more moments, the butterfly fluttered toward her and gently landed on her finger. she held her breath, watching the small creature with a sense of wonder.

for a moment, the world felt incredibly still, the soft rain almost becoming a distant hum. haerin’s heartbeat picked up, not because of the butterfly, but because she could feel something—something familiar, and yet new—stirring in her chest. as she stood there, lost in the moment, a sound broke the silence. footsteps. steady and approaching.

“hey,” came a voice, warm and familiar, drawing haerin’s attention. she turned to find you standing a few paces away, a gentle smile already spreading across her face. the butterfly still rested on haerin’s finger, and your eyes softened as you looked at it.

“seems like you’ve made a friend,” you said, her voice light and teasing, but there was something more in your gaze. something quiet, almost tender.

haerin’s smile softened, and for a brief moment, she forgot about the rest of the world around her. her attention was fixed on the warmth in your eyes, the way you stood just a little closer than usual, how your presence made the atmosphere feel heavier, yet lighter at the same time. the butterfly, seemingly sensing the change in the air, fluttered its wings and took off into the cool breeze just as the first few raindrops began to fall.

“aww,” you sighed, your shoulders drooping slightly, “that’s a shame.”

you shook your head, but your smile remained. “i guess the rain really likes to see us together.”

haerin looked up at the sky, and the soft patter of the rain grew louder as it started to fall more steadily. you pulled out her umbrella from your bag, unfolding it with a flick of your wrist. you moved closer to haerin, holding the umbrella over both of you. haerin stepped in without a word, her shoulder brushing against yours as they began walking, side by side.

the rain was light, but there was a heaviness in the air, like everything was just on the edge of something. haerin was acutely aware of the proximity between you, of how the umbrella kept you just close enough, but not too close. you both walked in comfortable silence, the rhythm of your footsteps blending with the soft tapping of raindrops on the umbrella.

after a few moments, haerin broke the silence, her voice low and almost pensive. “did you know when it rains, butterflies seem to disappear?” she glanced at you—your gaze was focused straight ahead, a slight grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

“they hide and seek shelter, because the rain affects their ability to fly,” haerin continued.

you chuckled softly, your breath misting in the cool air.

“that’s like… common sense, though,” you teased, her voice light. but then, without thinking, your words drifted out, almost absent-mindedly.

“well, my butterflies don’t disappear when i’m around you, even in the rain.”

haerin froze for a split second, her heart suddenly hammering in her chest. she looked at you—flushed a deep shade of red, clearly realising what you had just said. haerin blinked, trying to collect herself.

“what did you just say?”

your face turned an even brighter shade of red, and you stammered. “huh? um, nothing! i… see you later, hae! i gotta—i have to… go home!”

you thrust the umbrella into haerin’s hands and, before haerin could respond, you turned and dashed off into the rain, disappearing into the mist of water and air.

haerin stood there, rooted to the spot, the umbrella still in her hands as the rain began to fall heavier. she stared at the space where you had been, her heart still racing. did she really just hear that? did you really just say that? the words echoed in her head, and she couldn’t help but giggle softly to herself.

“huh… so she’s really stuck with calling me hae.”

the umbrella, still in her hands, seemed to grow heavier by the second. haerin stood there for a moment longer, her mind spinning as the sound of raindrops drowned out everything else. maybe you were more like her than she realised. and maybe, just maybe, haerin was starting to understand why she felt so different around you.

as the rain continued to fall, she couldn’t help but smile to herself, a quiet, soft smile that she kept hidden under the umbrella.

you bolted inside, slamming the door behind you as you strip off your wet clothes, already cursing your decision to run home in the rain. great. now you’re soaked, and the chill is creeping under your skin. you hurried to the bathroom, throwing your damp clothes in a pile by the door and stepping into the shower. the hot water hit your back like a relief, a sharp contrast to the cold rain you just ran through. you let out a sigh, closing your eyes and letting the water relax your muscles, but your mind kept replaying the same moment over and over.

that moment with haerin, the way she was so close to you under the umbrella, how her fingers brushed against yours, and that stupid butterfly. but mostly that comment. "well, my butterflies don’t disappear when i’m around you, even in the rain."

you groaned inwardly, slapping your forehead, even though you knew no one can see you. ugh, why did you say that? you can't even begin to explain why it slipped out, but the warmth on your cheeks is making it pretty obvious: you’re so not over it.

when you finished your shower, you wrapped yourself in a towel and made your way to your room, settling down at your desk with a determined look. you needed to focus. you grabbed your sketchbook and opened it to the page you’d been working on. the art festival was coming up, and you’d decided that you were going to dedicate your project to haerin. she deserved it, right? after all, she’s the one person who’s treated you like you’re just you. not some celebrity, not some spoiled rich kid—just a person.

you started sketching out more ideas, but before you can really settle into the work, your phone buzzed on the desk. the groupchat.

“hey, what’s up?” you answered, trying to sound casual, but you could already hear the teasing tone in yunjin’s voice.

“so,” she drawled, “why are you making a painting for haerin again? honestly, i still don't get it."

you paused, flipping through your sketchbook to find the page you were working on. "well. i just wanna say thank you for treating me like a normal person, you know? not like some… god or whatever."

hyein snorted on the other end of the line. "so basic human decency, huh? is that all she did for you?"

"yeah, pretty much," you said, a little embarrassed but not backing down. "i mean, not everyone does that."

“wait, wait,” yunjin interrupted, her voice shifting to something a little more serious. “are you sure there’s nothing more to this? like, you’re not making this whole painting for her because you’ve got a little crush, do you?”

your face burned again. a crush? you knew exactly what she’s talking about, and the thought made your stomach do that little flip again, the one you definitely don’t want to think about.

"ugh, no. it’s not like that at all. i’ve told you before—she doesn’t care about all the popularity, and that's—that's really refreshing, you know? i just want to repay her for making me feel like just another person. nothing weird about it."

“okay, so your grand gesture is painting a whole canvas for her and leaving it on display for everyone to see? cool, cool,” yunjin teased. "what’s next, are you going to hang it in the school hallway or put it on the main stage?"

you laughed awkwardly, trying to hide the fact that she’s kinda right. “yeah, well, it’s not like i need attention, you know? i just want people to recognise me for my art, not for my family’s money or popularity or whatever.”

“okay, but why is it your way of ‘repaying her’?" you heard from danielle, her voice cutting in.

you started doodling absentmindedly in the corner of your sketchbook, rolling your eyes.

"well, i mean, just because my parents own a large company doesn’t mean i should be treated like some kind of charity case, you know? people are always like, ‘oh, y/n’s so lucky,’ and i want to show them who i really am. i want them to see that i have my own talents. something that’s mine. i want people to see my art, not my family’s reputation."

you felt the weight of your words. maybe you had never actually said them out loud like this before. it felt good to get it off your chest. danielle didn’t let you stew for long.

“and it’s not just for the fame, huh? it’s because there’s something about haerin that makes you feel like she gets it, right?"

"yeah," you said, quieter now, your focus shifting back to the sketchbook. “she does. and i want to be seen for who i am. not what people think of me. it’s like—art can do that. it’s my way of showing who i really am. it’s not about the attention, it’s about the expression.”

“and the ‘expression’ is for haerin, huh?” yunjin chimed in with a teasing tone. “sure, sure, we believe you.”

you sighed, leaning back in your chair, feeling the weight of your friends’ words but also feeling more grounded in your reasons. "can’t you just let me do something nice for once? this is important to me."

“oh, we’re letting you,” hyein said, speaking up. “but if this ends with you making heart eyes at her every time you see her, we’ll be here for that too.”

“as if she doesn’t already do that,” yunjin added.

you couldn’t help but roll your eyes, but the smile that tugged at your lips was a mix of embarrassment and warmth.

“whatever, i’m gonna hang up on you guys if you keep talking about this.”

you heard all your friends express their protests before changing up the topic. they talked about nothing in particular and everything all at once. you didn’t need to focus too hard on the words—they were just there, comfortable in the background as you worked. the conversation flowed easily, like it always has, and the sound of their voices kept you grounded.

you realised that hours had passed before any of you say goodbye. it wasn’t a deep or life-changing conversation. there were no major revelations. but it didn’t matter. what mattered was the feeling of belonging that washed over you as you stayed on the call with them. their voices, full of familiarity and warmth, wrapped around you like a blanket. no pretences. no expectations. just a bunch of friends, talking until the early morning, as you lost track of time.

the time between planning for the festival to the actual day passed by in a flash. the festival was in full swing, and the atmosphere in the gym was a perfect mixture of excitement and the mild chaos of last-minute preparations. the walls were lined with bright banners, and tables were covered with an eclectic mix of artwork, ranging from paintings to sculptures, each representing the unique creativity of the students. the hall buzzed with voices, the sound of laughter, and occasional clinking of display stands being adjusted. amidst it all, you and haerin worked together, preparing for the final touches of the day.

"so," haerin glanced over at you as she adjusted a banner, "what exactly do you have prepared?” she glanced at you sideways, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"it's a secret!" you grinned, nudging her playfully with your elbow. "but i promise it'll blow your socks away."

haerin raised an eyebrow, clearly amused, but she didn’t press further. you could tell she respected your desire for mystery. and despite the teasing, a warmth bloomed in her chest knowing that you had something so special in store. something just for her, even though you hadn’t outright said it. the two of you moved around the room, hanging up more banners, adjusting stands, and occasionally laughing at some of the more outlandish pieces. you were so caught up in the movement of it all, in the chaotic beauty of it, that the time seemed to slip away unnoticed.

"i’m sorry you had to get caught up setting up with me, hae," you murmured as you fixed a row of chairs, trying to sound casual.

she shook her head, not a hint of annoyance in her voice. "no, don’t worry about it," haerin replied easily, shooting you a soft smile. "this just gives me more time to spend with you."

the words hung in the air for a moment, a subtle tension building between you. it wasn’t the first time she’d said something like that, but it still made your heart race. there was something in the way she said it, as though it was so easy to be with you.

the atmosphere around you seemed to shift as you both found yourselves in a rhythm, preparing for the festival together. it was simple, but it felt like an intimate dance—the kind of unspoken understanding that only existed between the two of you.

periodically, your friends would pop by to help, tease, and joke, and then just as quickly disappear again, leaving the two of you alone. there was an unspoken comfort in the silences that settled between you, the rhythm of the day and your company blending seamlessly into one long, warm moment.

the two of you stood on opposite sides of a large display, hanging up a last-minute banner with vibrant colours and abstract designs. as you worked, haerin's hand brushed against yours, and it sent a shiver down your spine. you tried to keep your focus, but her presence was magnetic—there was something about her that made everything feel a little more significant.

"are we done here?" you asked, tying off the final end of the banner.

"think so," she replied, eyes glancing over the space. "when’s your painting going to be displayed?" haerin asked, her gaze flitting over the pieces.

you grinned at her, watching the way her face softened when her gaze landed on yours. "it’ll be uncovered later," you replied with a wink, crossing your arms, "just be a little patient." your words were playful, but there was something deeper in them, a promise that this moment, the reveal of your art, would mean more than just a piece on display.

"so it’s like the main course, huh?" haerin laughed, but you could tell she was intrigued. "alright, i’ll wait." then, without missing a beat, she suddenly grabbed your hand, tugging you gently. “come on, let’s go kill time somewhere else.”

you blinked at her in confusion. "where are we going?"

"music room," she said, her voice a little too nonchalant. "i want to play something for you."

"why?" you raised an eyebrow, still unsure. "i mean, i did the painting because i wanted to. you don’t have to play something for me."

"oh, but i do," her smile deepened, something soft lighting up in her eyes "besides, it’ll be something just between us."

you let her pull you towards the music room, your thoughts swirling in your head. what did she mean by that? but you didn’t have time to dwell on it before you were both in front of the music room.

the room was quiet, the kind of quiet that felt almost sacred. soft sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a golden glow across the grand piano at the far side of the room. haerin walked over to it, her fingers brushing the edge of the keys as if she were weighing her options. she glanced back at you, a soft smile on her face.

you watched her, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on you. she was so composed, so confident, and yet, something in her posture, in the way she touched the piano, felt fragile. it made you ache. you wanted to reach out, to tell her everything you were feeling, but the words stuck in your throat.

"you don’t have to play if you don’t want to," you said, but it came out too soft, too unsure.

she met your eyes, and for the first time, you saw something unfamiliar there—vulnerability. "no. i want to." her voice was quiet, almost shy, and it made your heart skip a beat. "i just—i need to."

she sat at the piano bench, turning slightly so she could face you more fully, but her fingers hovered above the keys, almost hesitant. you moved to sit beside her, watching her delicate hands press against the keys. then, the first note filled the space—a slow, haunting melody that seemed to reverberate through your chest.

haerin played like she was lost in the music. her fingers danced across the keys with ease, the soft, delicate notes flowing together in a beautiful, rising crescendo. the melody was slow at first, almost mournful, like a whisper of a secret. but as the piece continued, it built up, each note gaining strength, as if the music itself was reaching for something more. you watched her, entranced, as the sound seemed to echo the very feelings that had been growing between the two of you, feelings neither of you had dared to say out loud. as she played, you felt as though the music itself was speaking to you, telling you stories you didn’t have the words to express.

you could feel the tension between you, the air thick with unspoken words, but all you could do was listen to the music. haerin was completely immersed in it, her eyes shut as her body swayed slightly with the rhythm, the emotion of the piece pouring through her in every note. but then, as if she could feel your gaze burning into her, her fingers faltered. the smooth flow of music stumbled, and a frustrated curse slipped from her lips. she froze, her hand hovering over the keys for a moment.

"sorry," she murmured under her breath, her voice laced with frustration.

she noticed you sitting so close to her, your eyes never leaving her. you hadn’t realised how intensely you were looking at her until she looked back at you.

her breath hitched, and for a moment, the world around you seemed to slow down. haerin’s gaze flicked from your eyes to your lips, then back to your eyes again, and she leaned in just the tiniest bit, as if drawn by some magnetic force. you felt your pulse quicken, and before you could stop yourself, you were leaning in too.

"that was beautiful," you said softly.

"but i made a mistake," she replied, still looking at the piano keys, clearly embarrassed.

"so what? everyone makes mistakes," you said, your voice reassuring but shaky. "it doesn’t take away from how incredible it was."

haerin looked up at you, her eyes locking with yours, and in that moment, the air between you two seemed to crackle with tension. her eyes dropped briefly to your lips, and you felt your own gaze drift to hers. without thinking, you leaned in, and before you could pull back, haerin was leaning in as well.

you kissed her—soft, tentative at first, as if testing the waters. her lips were warm, familiar, but there was an underlying uncertainty to it, a tension that neither of you could resolve.

but before it could deepen, the door creaked open. as soon as haerin pulled away, she avoided your gaze. her expression was unreadable—eyes darting to the piano, to the floor, anywhere but at you.

"hanni," she muttered, her voice barely above a whisper. "minji—"

"they need you out there," hanni interrupted, her voice too loud, too insistent. "they’re about to unveil your painting, y/n."

your mind was still spinning from the kiss, your lips tingling, but reality crashed down like a wave. you stole a glance at haerin, searching for any kind of reaction, any sign that she felt the same rush, the same breathless urgency you did. but she just sat there, hands clenched into fists against her lap, shoulders tense.

"right," you said, your voice coming out hoarse. "i—i should go."

you hesitated, lingering for a fraction of a second longer, hoping—waiting—for her to say something. to stop you, to look at you. but she didn’t. you caught the way her fingers gripped the edge of the piano, the way her lips pressed together as if she were holding something back. you couldn’t tell if she was angry, confused, or just as scared as you were. she just nodded, barely, like she was bracing herself for something she couldn’t face.

“are you—um—are you coming out too?” you stammered. you watched haerin finally look into your eyes with her own sharp ones—her eyes filled with uncertainty.

“yeah, i’ll be there. you can go ahead, i’ll catch up,” she nodded.

you stepped forward, taking one last look at her, but the moment was slipping away, just like the fleeting feeling of connection you’d had before the interruption. the entire walk back to the gym felt off. your heart was still racing, but not from excitement—something heavier sat in your chest. haerin’s voice echoed in your mind, the hesitation in her words, the way she looked at you like she wasn’t sure of what just happened. you wanted to turn back, to see if she was still sitting at the piano, still lost in thought. but you didn’t. instead, you kept walking, each step feeling like you were leaving something unfinished behind.

haerin sat in the music room, still frozen, her fingers lightly touching her lips. the softness and warmth of your kiss lingered there, and she couldn't quite wrap her mind around it. it felt like a dream, a beautiful one she wasn't ready to wake up from. the fact that it had actually happened hadn’t quite sunk in yet. you had left maybe a minute ago, disappearing out the door with hanni and minji, and haerin remained, staring off into space, lost in the memory of the kiss.

after a moment, she snapped out of it and realised she was supposed to be at the gym. a slight panic rushed through her, and she jumped to her feet, deciding to run there rather than take her time. she didn’t want to miss anything—your painting was going to be uncovered soon, and haerin wasn’t about to let that moment slip by.

as she entered the gym, the scene of the kiss flashed in her mind again, and a goofy smile spread across her face. she couldn’t help it. her chest was full of that warm, fluttery feeling, and she had no idea what to do with it, except smile. she took a moment to calm herself before walking further into the gym, where the crowd had already gathered.

haerin spotted hanni and minji, who were talking near the side. they waved her over, and she joined them. just as she was about to speak, hanni grinned, raising an eyebrow.

“so,” hanni began, her voice teasing, “what was that about?”

haerin’s smile widened, her cheeks flushing slightly. “we kissed,” she said, almost shyly, but there was a gleam in her eye. she couldn’t quite hide how happy it made her to say it aloud.

minji scoffed, but her smile was playful. “what happened to you not being a romantic?”

haerin shrugged, looking at both of them with a smug grin. “have you seen y/n? who wouldn’t be a romantic for her?”

she said it with so much sincerity that hanni and minji fell silent for a second, exchanging a knowing look.

“fair enough,” minji muttered, but there was no denying the softness in her voice.

the crowd grew quiet as you stepped onto the stage, and haerin felt her breath catch in her throat. her eyes were fixed on you, watching as you made your way to the podium. she couldn’t help the way her heart skipped a beat. her friends' teasing faded into the background as she watched you, her gaze soft and full of something unspoken. she heard hanni and minji snickering at her reaction, but she couldn’t tear her eyes away from you. she was in awe, a heart-shaped smile spreading across her face.

you began to speak, your voice unsure but steady. “i don’t really think my painting should be the main focus of the art festival,” you said, a nervous laugh escaping you.

“there are so many other amazing pieces already up for display, and i—i guess it feels a bit strange to have mine displayed last.” you paused, glancing down at the floor for a moment before looking up again.

“but i couldn’t imagine not showing it. it’s—it’s something i had to do.” you exhaled, as if gathering your courage. “this painting is an expression of myself, and i really hope people can see its meaning.”

you hesitated, muttering under her breath, “that probably sounded cheesy, but—well—here it is.” with a quick movement, you pulled the cover off the painting, and the crowd collectively gasped.

the room fell silent as everyone took in the masterpiece before them. the painting was grand—bold, intricate, and full of life. at the centre, the piano was fragmented, yet fluid, its keys fading into the background as though the music itself was still vibrating through the air. and beside it, almost floating, was a butterfly—its pastel green wings delicate and soft, blending into the canvas, as though part of the melody itself. it was beautiful, fragile, and full of meaning. haerin’s breath hitched in her throat. she knew instantly—this was your heart laid bare.

it was everything you had ever felt but hadn’t been able to put into words. the butterfly, fragile yet growing, spoke volumes about what they shared, what you had been too afraid to say, but haerin could feel it in the art. it was her. it was both of you. it was everything.

haerin stared at the painting, eyes wide with awe. she felt an overwhelming sense of pride—and something more—that she couldn’t quite put into words. she glanced at you, standing awkwardly at the front of the stage as the crowd admired the painting. your face was uncertain, but the warmth in her eyes couldn’t be hidden. haerin watched as your gaze flickered over the crowd, but your eyes never seemed to land on her. haerin’s heart sank slightly, but she tried to hide it, focusing instead on your words.

you bowed, stepping off the stage, your eyes scanning the crowd once more. they lingered for a moment, but haerin remained unseen. haerin watched you walk back toward your group of friends, the small pang of disappointment in her chest growing. still, she smiled to herself, proud of you and the painting. it spoke volumes, even if it hadn’t been fully understood yet.

hanni and minji noticed the way haerin looked at you, her gaze full of something—pride, affection, maybe more. haerin wasn’t sure. but she felt it.

it had been a few days since the festival, and you felt like you were floating in some kind of limbo. the day after the unveiling, you tried to shake off the sense of disappointment that settled in your chest, but it clung to you like a heavy coat. haerin hadn't been there, and you couldn’t help but think it was a sign. sure, your friends—yunjin, hyein, danielle—were by your side, trying to distract you, but it wasn’t the same. none of them seemed to get it, and it was hard to explain when they never truly saw you.

they all knew about your art, sure, but they didn’t know what it felt like to paint a piece of your heart and then expose it to the world. they didn’t know how it felt to try to show something raw and vulnerable to someone who was supposed to understand, only for them to disappear when it mattered. your friends tried, but you could tell they just couldn’t get it. yunjin kept cracking jokes about your painting like it was no big deal, and hyein was always pointing out how everyone else at school was talking about it. but none of it mattered.

you were starting to feel the weight of being popular again. people recognised you in the halls, always smiling, always asking for a piece of your attention. it wasn’t real. not the way haerin had been real. she hadn’t cared about the attention you got—hell, she hadn’t even cared about you being popular at all. she just... saw you. and now that she was gone, you felt like you were slipping back into the noise, back into the role you hated, the one where everyone just saw the image of you, not the person underneath.

but haerin—haerin was different. she’d looked at you with those quiet eyes that saw you, really saw you, in a way no one else had. she hadn’t been impressed by your popularity or your art; she’d simply been there, quietly present. and now, after that moment between you two, that kiss you still couldn’t quite process, you couldn’t help but wonder if you had misread everything.

you hadn’t talked to her. not once. and she hadn’t talked to you either. and it wasn’t like you could’ve just gone up to her and asked, could you? not with everything that was left unsaid. her absence during the painting unveiling had felt like a silent rejection, and you had done what you always did in those situations—shut down.

maybe it was easier this way. if she didn’t care, if she didn’t want to talk to you, then you could just go back to being what you always were: the popular girl who didn’t want to be popular. but it wasn’t working. not anymore.

the silence between you two was suffocating. every time you walked down the hall, you would catch sight of her, only for her to look away too quickly. she never tried to start a conversation, and neither did you. and every time you found yourself thinking about her, your friends would nudge you, pull you back into whatever they were talking about, but it never really reached you. your mind always drifted back to haerin.

you tried to focus on your friends, but every time you saw yunjin laughing or danielle trying to get your attention, it didn’t feel the same. they didn’t get it. none of them got it. you knew they cared, but it wasn’t the same as having someone who really understood you.

as you sat in class, you couldn’t stop replaying that moment—the way her lips had felt against yours, soft and warm. it made your chest tighten, but also gave you this kind of ache that you couldn’t shake. you wondered if it had meant anything to her at all.

you felt the tension build, especially whenever your eyes found her in the halls, only for her to look away, like she was hiding something. did she even like you? or had it all been a mistake? all you wanted was a sign. anything. just to know that you hadn’t misread it all, that she still wanted you in some way, even if it wasn’t the same as before.

your friends—yunjin and hyein—noticed the way your attention would drift whenever you were near haerin, but they didn’t push. they knew you were processing something, but they didn’t understand what. danielle, though, she seemed to catch on. she’d asked you more than once if you were okay, but you always brushed her off, not wanting to admit that the reason you couldn’t stop thinking about haerin was because you were scared of what it all meant.

the worst part was that you didn’t even have her number. if you could just text her, you might feel a little less lost. but you didn’t. you were just stuck, suspended in this endless loop of overthinking.

and that silence between you two? it was deafening.

your friends noticed it, of course. they noticed how you’d look over at haerin when she passed by, your eyes flicking away too quickly when she caught you staring. yunjin would nudge you, a teasing smirk on her face. "you’re still thinking about her, aren’t you?" she'd say, but there was no real teasing behind it. more like concern, something you couldn’t quite shake off.

haerin’s friends, hanni and minji, were just as observant. they’d make little comments about how haerin would act when she looked at you, how she’d blush or smile a little too softly.

hanni liked to joke, casually dropping your name in conversations just to see haerin’s reaction. "have you seen y/n’s new painting? it’s gorgeous. you should go talk to her about it," she’d say, her voice light, but there was an underlying edge, like she was pushing haerin without saying it outright. minji wasn’t as bold, but even she would raise an eyebrow whenever haerin would go quiet after hearing your name.

it was clear to everyone around you that something had changed. the playful teasing, the nudges, it had all turned into something more intense, something that wasn’t so easy to ignore anymore. but neither you nor haerin had made a move. you were both stuck in this limbo, waiting for the other to take the first step.

one afternoon, when the school day had just about ended, you found yourself in the art room, absentmindedly cleaning up your supplies. you didn’t expect to see haerin there. she had a few friends in the room, but it was mostly quiet, everyone packing up to leave. and then, just like that, it happened. the two of you were left alone in the room.

the silence was thick, but not in the comfortable way it used to be. it was different now, loaded with the weight of everything you hadn’t said, all the things that hung between you, invisible but undeniable. haerin stood at the other end of the room, fiddling with her bag, but her gaze would drift over to you every few seconds. you could feel it, even though she didn’t say anything. her eyes would meet yours for the briefest of moments before she quickly looked away, like she wasn’t ready to face what was right in front of her.

you wanted to say something, anything. but nothing felt right. your throat felt tight. haerin shifted, as if she was about to speak, but then she just didn’t. the words stayed stuck, unsaid.

finally, after what felt like forever, your phone buzzed in your pocket. you pulled it out, half-relieved to have an excuse to break the tension. it was from yunjin.

"you need to talk to her, y/n. you’re being ridiculous. just text her."

it wasn’t until later that evening, when you were sitting with your friends, trying to brush off the awkwardness of the day, that your friends began to really push.

“you’re being stupid,” yunjin said, not bothering to hide the frustration in her voice. “you’re making all these assumptions about haerin, but have you even tried talking to her?”

you stared at her, your heart racing in your chest. “what if—what if she doesn’t want to talk to me?” you muttered, more to yourself than anyone else. “i don’t want to make it weird.”

hyein rolled her eyes. “she’s keeping her distance,” she said. “but you’ve been avoiding her too, right? at this point, it’s already weird.”

the tension in your chest tightened even more. it wasn’t just in your head, then. the distance between you and haerin was real, and it was making everything feel more complicated. and as much as you hated it, you couldn’t ignore it.

you glanced over at haerin, who was sitting with hanni and minji, looking almost lost. the thought made you ache, but there was nothing you could do about it. not yet, anyway.

you hadn’t meant to shut them out, but somewhere along the way, you had. your friends were always there, always asking how you were, but you felt distant. not from them, exactly, but from yourself. it was like your mind was always somewhere else—somewhere that wasn’t here, somewhere where haerin might be. and no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t shake that feeling. that yearning. but today, your friends weren’t letting you hide.

it started with yunjin. she had been quiet all day, but as soon as you were all sitting together in the corner of the cafeteria, she spoke up.

“y/n,” she said, her voice softer than usual, “you’ve been distant. we’ve been noticing it for a while now.”

you looked down at your lunch, trying to ignore the weight of her words, but you knew she was right. the silence stretched out, and the others—hyein and danielle—exchanged glances before hyein spoke next.

“it’s like we’re right here, and yet you’re somewhere else,” hyein said, her tone more frustrated now. “you’re not seeing us, y/n. you’re not seeing what we’re trying to do for you.”

you shifted uncomfortably, your heart sinking in your chest. "i don’t mean to—"

“we know you don’t,” yunjin interrupted. “but you’re letting all this focus on haerin take over. it’s like you’ve forgotten about us.”

danielle’s voice was calm, but it carried an underlying sadness. “we’ve always been here for you. from the beginning. even before everything with haerin. we’ve always seen the real you. the y/n who hates the attention, the one who feels lost in all the noise.”

your eyes were starting to sting, and you swallowed the lump in your throat. “i don’t know what you want me to say...”

“we just want you to see us too,” hyein said quietly. “we’ve been here for you, just like haerin was. and we’re still here. we’re still your friends, y/n.”

danielle reached across the table and placed a hand on yours. “you don’t have to carry all of this alone. we’re not going anywhere. and you don’t have to be this popular person all the time. you can just be you. the real you. the one we’ve always seen.”

the words hit harder than you expected. you’d been so wrapped up in what you had with haerin, in the way she made you feel seen, that you had forgotten the people who already did that. who had always done that, no matter how much you hated being in the spotlight. they didn’t see you as the image everyone else had built for you—they saw you for who you were. the real you.

for the first time in a long while, you took a slow breath and allowed yourself to really listen to them. they were here for you, through all of it. they had been the ones to see you for who you were before all this, the ones who didn’t care about the attention or popularity. they cared about you. the real you.

“i’ve been focused on the wrong things,” you murmured, your voice quiet but steady. “i think i got lost in everything with haerin—but i shouldn’t have.”

“you don’t have to apologise,” yunjin said gently. “we get it. but don’t forget about us. don’t forget about what we’ve always done for you.”

you nodded, a heavy weight lifting off your chest. they were right. you hadn’t been thinking of them, of their support, of everything they had always been for you. but now, in this moment, you realised how much you had taken them for granted.

danielle’s voice brought you back to the present. “you don’t need to have it all figured out. just take a step back, breathe, and start with us. everything will be okay. you’ll see.”

you felt the corners of your mouth twitch into a small, genuine smile. it felt like the first time in a while that something didn’t feel so heavy. maybe it wasn’t about fixing everything all at once, but taking things one step at a time.

“thanks,” you said quietly. “i’m sorry for shutting you all out.”

“it’s okay,” hyein said with a soft smile. “we’re still here. always.”

danielle gave your hand one last squeeze. “and when you’re ready, haerin will be there too. i’m sure she still cares, y/n. but before you try to fix whatever miscommunication you have with her, you need to pick yourself up first. you need to focus on you, because that’s what matters right now. take care of yourself, and everything will fall into place.”

the mention of haerin made your heart twinge, but danielle’s words were clear. you couldn’t keep waiting for her to make a move. maybe you had to make your own first step, not just with haerin, but with yourself.

you met their eyes, and for once, you didn’t feel so lost. your friends saw you. really saw you. and for the first time in a long while, that was enough. maybe it was time to start seeing yourself again too.

and maybe, just maybe, when you were ready, things with haerin would work out too.

after a few weeks of observing the tension between you and haerin, danielle and hanni decided to grab a coffee together, hoping to talk things through and figure out what to do next. they sat at a small table, the hum of the café providing a comfortable background to their conversation.

“so, how’s y/n doing?” hanni asked, stirring her drink casually. she’d been noticing the shift in you too—the way you seemed more present lately, but still distant when it came to haerin.

danielle leaned back in her chair, thinking for a moment before answering. “she’s better, i guess. a little more... herself, you know? not as withdrawn, but there’s still this underlying tension. y/n hasn’t forgotten about haerin. not by a long shot.”

“but she’s not actively thinking about her, either,” hanni observed. “it’s like... she’s in a better place, but still kinda stuck.”

“exactly.” danielle gave a small smile. “i told her to focus on herself first. she needed to get back to a place where she’s not defined by how everyone sees her. she’s doing better, but... i think there’s still some stuff she needs to work through.”

hanni frowned slightly, clearly deep in thought. “yeah... but haerin’s been pulling back too. she’s barely said anything about y/n lately. do you think y/n even notices that?”

“i’m sure she does,” danielle said, taking a sip of her coffee. “but y/n’s been avoiding haerin as much as haerin’s avoiding her. it’s like neither of them knows how to make the first move, but they both probably want to. they just don’t know how to get past the silence.”

hanni tapped her fingers on the table, her expression thoughtful. “i don’t know, dani. i think they’re both a little scared. it’s like they’ve convinced themselves it’s easier to just keep their distance than face whatever it is that’s standing between them.”

danielle nodded in agreement, looking out the window for a moment. “i get that. i told y/n that she needs to focus on herself first—on being okay without haerin. only then can she figure out if she wants to fix things with haerin or if it’s just too much now.”

“that’s smart,” hanni said, leaning forward with a grin. “you always know the right thing to say. so... do you think she’s ready for that? for talking to haerin again?”

“i think she’s getting there,” danielle replied, her voice soft but firm. “but it’s gonna take some time. she’s making progress, but it’s slow. it’s up to her to find the courage to fix things, not just with haerin, but with herself first. and i hope she gets there soon.”

hanni leaned back in her chair, looking over at danielle with a mischievous glint in her eye. “so... when do we make it happen?”

danielle laughed softly, shaking her head. “you’re not going to rush this, are you?”

“i mean,” hanni said, with a playful shrug, “they’re both just sitting there, waiting for the other to make a move. we can’t exactly push them, but... we could make it a little easier for them to see what they want.”

danielle chuckled, raising an eyebrow. “like... subtly, you mean?”

hanni grinned. “exactly. no one’s pushing anyone into anything. just a little... encouragement.”

danielle smiled, her tone warming. “i think that’s a good idea. they both need to realise that it’s okay to want this. and maybe... just maybe, it’ll give them the push they need.”

haerin had started noticing something she wasn’t sure she wanted to see: you slowly coming back to life. at first, it was just small things—laughing more easily with your friends, joining in on conversations, showing up more at events. the glow of your usual vibrancy, the thing that haerin had admired from the start, was beginning to return.

it was hard not to smile at the sight of it, knowing that you was still able to find joy, even after everything that had happened. but there was a sting in haerin’s chest every time she saw it. she didn’t want to admit it, but it hurt to see you so happy—happy without her. it made her wonder if, somehow, the kiss and everything that followed had faded into the past for you, a fleeting moment that meant nothing in the grand scheme of things.

haerin couldn’t help but feel like maybe she was being forgotten. you were surrounded by your friends, who adored you, who were always there to support you. but haerin? she seemed to be slowly disappearing from your world. the silence between the two of you was growing louder, and every time haerin tried to reach out—through a glance, a word, anything—it felt like you weren’t looking back anymore.

she had considered reaching out, countless times. but each time, something held her back. what could she say? how could she break the silence that had stretched on for so long? was it even right to reach out when you had been so distant? haerin told herself that she needed to respect your space, that she had no right to force herself into your life when things were so complicated. she didn’t want to make things worse, didn’t want to push you away further.

but the longer this silence dragged on, the more the uncertainty gnawed at haerin. she didn’t know what you were feeling, but she could feel the distance between you growing wider. and the worst part? haerin wasn’t sure if you even cared enough to fix things anymore.

hanni and minji, as usual, couldn’t ignore the tension in the air. they had always been the kind to tease, but their comments now had a sharper edge. haerin tried to laugh them off, but it was getting harder to pretend that everything was okay. the teasing started to feel less like fun and more like pressure. every time she looked over at you from across the room, she could practically hear their teasing echoes in the back of her mind.

one afternoon, while the three of them sat together, hanni casually dropped a bombshell that made haerin freeze in her tracks.

“you do realise she probably thinks you don’t like her, right?”

the words were so simple, yet they hit haerin like a tidal wave. she hadn’t even considered that, not once. all this time, she had been giving you space, afraid to overstep, afraid of making you feel suffocated. she hadn’t thought that her silence might be sending the exact wrong message. that you could be sitting there, wondering if haerin had forgotten about you, wondering if maybe the kiss hadn’t meant anything to her at all.

“wait... i never thought of it that way,” haerin murmured, her voice small, barely audible. she stared at the table, her hands suddenly feeling cold. “but... i don’t want to hurt her. i just—i didn’t know what to do.”

hanni and minji exchanged a look, their usual teasing smiles fading into something a little more serious. they could tell haerin was genuinely struggling, and it wasn’t hard to see that both haerin and you were caught in the same cycle of hesitation, unsure how to bridge the gap between them.

“you’ve got to talk to her,” minji said softly, her tone gentler than before. “you both need to figure this out, before it gets worse.”

but haerin just nodded absently, feeling her heart race. talking to you—was she ready for that? could she really break the silence without making things more awkward? all she knew was that, whatever she decided, she couldn’t keep pretending that nothing was wrong.

the café hummed with the quiet chatter of other patrons, the soft clink of cups and the low murmur of background music creating a cozy, familiar atmosphere. you sat at your usual corner table with your friends, a little less talkative than usual, your gaze flickering to the window every now and then. you felt like you were caught between two worlds—one that was more comfortable with your friends, and the other... still lingering with haerin, somewhere in the past.

the silence between sips of coffee felt heavier today, and finally, you broke it.

“i’ve been thinking,” you began, your voice tentative, “about talking to haerin. i mean... maybe i should just reach out, see if we can figure things out.”

the table went still. yunjin was the first to react, setting down her cup with a soft clink. her eyes studied you carefully, concern lining her features. “are you sure you’re ready for that?” she asked gently. “i know things have been a little... tense, and i don’t want you to feel like you have to do this just because it’s been a while.”

you fiddled with the sleeve of your sweater, looking down at the table for a moment before meeting yunjin’s eyes. “i don’t know. i guess it just feels like i can’t keep pretending like everything’s fine. things are... still kind of weird between us. i don’t want to keep carrying it around.”

hyein, who had been quietly watching you, leaned in slightly, her voice laced with a touch of hesitation. “so you’re thinking you’ll talk to her? like... now?”

“not right now,” you said quickly, shaking your head. “i don’t know... but soon, maybe. i just feel like i need to say something. it’s been so weird, and i don’t know how long i can just let it go.”

there was a long pause as yunjin and hyein exchanged looks. yunjin opened her mouth like she was about to say something, but hyein beat her to it, her tone thoughtful.

“i get it, i do. but... are you sure that’s what you want, y/n? to fix things with her? or are you just trying to get closure so you can move on?”

you paused, your gaze flickering to the window again, unsure of how to answer. “i think... it’s both. i just want to know where we stand. i don’t want to keep carrying this weight if it’s something i can fix.”

danielle, who had been quiet until then, leaned forward, her voice warm but steady. “y/n, if you think talking to her is what you need to do, then i say go for it. i think it’s been a long time coming. you’ve been through a lot, and you’ve been really strong about this. but sometimes, it’s okay to reach out. if you think it’ll help you feel better, then do it.”

you glanced up at danielle, her words ringing in your mind. for a moment, you felt a little lighter, but also a bit unsure. “do you really think it’s okay? like... i don’t want to make things worse, you know?”

“it’s not about making things worse,” danielle said with a gentle smile, her voice soft and understanding. “it’s about giving yourself the chance to find peace. if you’ve been holding onto this for so long, maybe it’s time to finally say what’s been left unsaid. don’t keep letting it weigh you down.”

yunjin nodded slowly, though still cautious. “i get that. just... are you sure that now is the right time?”

“whenever you’re ready, it’ll be the right time,” danielle replied firmly. “there’s no rush, but don’t let fear stop you. if you’re feeling like you need to make the move, then do it. you’ve spent enough time focusing on everything else. maybe now is the time to focus on you—and whatever happens with haerin, it’ll work out as it’s supposed to.”

you sat back in your chair, feeling a little overwhelmed, but in a good way. the weight of the decision felt lighter, but still present. the silence stretched for a beat before you spoke again, this time with a little more certainty in your voice.

“i think... i think i’ll do it. i’ll talk to her. soon.”

there was a quiet moment as yunjin and hyein looked at each other, and then both of them gave small nods, though there was still a hint of hesitation in their eyes. “just make sure you’re really ready,” yunjin said softly. “you’ve been through a lot. don’t do anything unless it’s what you really want.”

you nodded, feeling the weight of your friends' concern but also their support. “i will. i’ll make sure it’s what i need.”

danielle leaned back in her chair, her eyes soft and understanding. “good. you don’t need to rush it. just... take your time, but don’t let this sit in your heart forever. it’s okay to go after what you need, y/n. even if it’s a little scary.”

you smiled, more to yourself than anyone else, the idea of talking to haerin suddenly feeling less daunting. “thanks, dani. i think i needed to hear that.”

“anytime,” danielle replied with a wink. “just... do what feels right for you. and when you’re ready, talk to her. but remember, you’ve got us. you’re not alone in this.”

there was a small pause, and then you sighed, feeling a sense of relief, even though the uncertainty still lingered. “i think... i think i’ll be okay. thanks, guys.”

yunjin smiled softly, squeezing your hand. “of course. we’ve got your back.”

as the conversation turned to lighter topics, you couldn’t help but feel a small sense of peace settle over you. you didn’t know what would come of talking to haerin, but you knew you had the support of your friends, and for now, that was enough. maybe it was time to take that first step, not just toward haerin, but toward something that felt like moving forward.

the school bell rang, the last one of the day. the hallways were crowded with the rush of everyone scrambling to pack up their bags and head home. the air was thick with the sound of shoes clicking against the floor and the bustle of excited chatter as people walked out of the building, eager to escape the day.

haerin stepped outside. the moment she stepped into the open air, she felt it—the rain. not just a drizzle, but a downpour, cold and heavy. she didn’t have an umbrella, and for a split second, she cursed herself for not checking the forecast. as she stood there, watching the rain blur the world around her, the people around her quickly unfurled their umbrellas, shielding themselves from the rain.

she stayed under the cover of the school’s entrance, waiting, hoping the rain would let up soon. but it didn’t. not even slightly. it was one of those rains that made you rethink your choices, and haerin stood there, feeling the frustration build inside her. she was waiting for something, anything, to change the stillness of the moment.

as she watched people bustle by with their umbrellas, her eyes caught a familiar figure. you were walking across the courtyard, your umbrella above you, and as soon as haerin saw you, it felt like a wave of relief washed over her, even though she wasn’t sure why.

you noticed her too, your gaze catching hers as you approached. she didn’t have to wait long before you were standing in front of her, the rain pouring down heavily around you both. you didn’t hesitate, your umbrella now wide open as you moved closer to her.

"do you not check the weather forecast or something?" you joked, your tone playful, but there was something underneath it. something unspoken.

haerin looked at you for a moment, feeling the weight of your words hang between you. haerin’s expression was soft, the smallest of smiles tugging at her lips. there was a tension, a kind of silent understanding, but neither of you was ready to address it yet. she felt herself pull away slightly, but your offer, your gesture, felt like a chance—a chance to finally talk, to finally clear the air.

“you should’ve brought an umbrella, you know,” you said quietly, the smile on your face slipping into something more serious. “it’s best if we walk and talk, right?”

there it was. the invitation. not just for the walk, but for the conversation that both of you knew was overdue. the sound of the rain was loud around you, but somehow, the silence between you and haerin was louder. you could feel the weight of it, like an invisible wall that neither of you knew how to break.

haerin didn’t reply right away, but after a second, she stepped forward, gliding beside you as you both walked into the rain. your umbrella hovered between the two of you, keeping you both dry, though you were leaning into each other just a little more than usual, like it was something that needed to happen.

the tension between you two was palpable at first, but it softened as you walked in silence for a while. the raindrops splashed against the pavement beneath your feet, and it felt like the world had quieted down just for the two of you.

as you walked together, the distance between you started to feel less about physical space and more about everything that had been left unsaid. “i guess we really do need to talk,” you said softly, the words finally breaking through the tension.

haerin glanced at you, her gaze unsure but warm. “yeah. we do.” her voice was barely above the sound of the rain, but there was something in the way she said it that made you feel like she meant it. like she was ready.

"i’ve missed this," you said softly, voice just above a whisper. "us. talking. being... together."

haerin glanced at you, her eyes warm but guarded. "me too. but... we’ve been avoiding each other, haven’t we?"

you sighed, your fingers tightening around the handle of the umbrella. “yeah. i’ve been so... confused. i didn’t know what to say. or how to fix things.”

"it’s not about fixing anything, y/n," haerin murmured, her voice just a little strained. “it’s about understanding, about... figuring out why we both acted like this.”

you nodded, feeling a knot in your stomach. "i just... i didn’t want to lose you. but i think i’ve been holding on to all the wrong things. and you probably feel the same."

haerin looked at you then, her gaze soft but steady. she didn’t say anything for a while, and you both walked side by side, each step bringing you closer to something you hadn’t been sure you were ready to face.

as you walked through the rain, the two of you close together under the same umbrella, the weight of everything that had been left unsaid slowly began to lift. there was a soft kind of tension in the air, but also an undeniable sense that things were finally on the verge of changing.

"i don't know what happened between us," haerin murmured after a few minutes, her voice barely audible over the sound of the rain. "but i felt like i had to give you space, y/n. i didn’t want to crowd you, especially after everything that happened. after the festival… i didn’t know how to act."

you nodded, your own thoughts swirling in a mix of confusion and guilt. "i thought… i thought you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. i didn’t see you at the painting unveiling, and i guess i took it as a sign you were done with me."

haerin’s gaze flickered to you, and you could see the realization hit her. she stopped walking for a moment, looking down at the pavement before glancing back at you, her expression filled with something soft, vulnerable.

"i wasn't avoiding you, y/n. i just thought… maybe i was overwhelming you. maybe you needed time. but i should’ve known better. i should’ve reached out. i’m sorry."

the words hung in the air between you two, and it felt like an unspoken weight had been lifted. you both stood there, drenched from the rain but finally able to breathe a little easier.

"i should’ve reached out too," you replied, your voice thick with sincerity. "i didn’t mean to push you away. it’s just… with everything happening around me, i didn’t know how to deal with my own feelings. and the kiss… i couldn’t even explain it."

haerin looked at you, her expression softening even more. "you kissed me. and it wasn’t just a kiss. it felt like something… real. and i didn’t know how to handle that. i guess i was scared too." she sighed, her fingers brushing through her wet hair before she continued. "but i think i understand now. that kiss wasn’t just some impulsive thing. it was you telling me something. telling me you cared. and i guess i needed that more than i realised."

you stopped walking, turning to face her fully, your heart pounding. "is it really so unbelievable that i just... wanted to kiss you?" you asked, suddenly feeling incredibly shy. your face flushed as you looked at her, hoping she didn’t see the nervousness in your eyes.

haerin blinked in surprise before her lips curled into a soft, affectionate smile. her eyes were gentle, as if she understood everything you were trying to convey without you needing to say another word. "no. it’s not unbelievable. i just… i guess i was too caught up in my own fears to see it."

you looked at her, your blush deepening as her gaze softened. "i didn’t know if you felt the same, haerin. i didn’t know if you wanted me to kiss you."

haerin’s eyes softened, a tender smile forming on her lips. "you’ve always been my inspiration," she said quietly. "every time i play, it’s like the piano brings me closer to you. whenever i touch those keys, it’s like your presence is in every note. you inspire me to play more passionately. you’ve been with me in every song, even when you weren’t around. you’re like a fine melody—everyone hears it, but only i get to play it. only i know it."

you stood there, taking in her words. it was the most poetic thing anyone had ever said to you, and it made your heart swell with warmth. "i think it’s a little obvious, but you’re my inspiration too," you admitted shyly, your voice barely a whisper. "everything i do, every painting i make… you’re always in it. and i never wanted to admit it, but the butterflies still don’t go away when i’m around you"

her eyes widened slightly, but the soft, shy smile never left her face.

"not even in the rain?" she whispered back, her voice filled with something so pure it made your chest ache with affection.

“not even in the rain,” you repeated. you looked at her, completely immersed in her words and presence. the moment felt like a soft, steady rhythm, and everything around you seemed to fade into the background.

"your performance for me," you said quietly, the memory of the intimate moment you shared in the music room coming back to you. "it was… amazing. so personal. it was like you were telling me everything without saying a word. it made me feel seen, haerin."

her cheeks flushed slightly at your words, but she just shook her head, her eyes sparkling with sincerity. "it was only for you. because you’re the only one who truly listens. the piano… it’s my way of showing how i feel, of expressing everything i can’t put into words."

you both stood there for a while, in the rain, just taking it all in. there were no more walls between you two, no more distance. everything felt open, and though the rain soaked you both to the bone, neither of you cared. you had finally reached a place where the silence was no longer uncomfortable. it was peaceful, knowing that you both felt the same way.

"i’m glad we talked," you said softly, smiling shyly at haerin. "i don’t think i could have gone on without knowing where we stood."

haerin smiled back, a tender warmth in her eyes. "me neither. and i’m glad it’s us, y/n. we’ll figure everything out together."

you nodded, feeling more at peace than you had in a long time. "together," you repeated, your voice a little more sure than it had been before.

the rain continued to pour, but you both knew that this moment was the beginning of something beautiful, something real. you walked for what felt like hours, the rain showing no signs of stopping, but you didn’t care. neither of you did. you were too wrapped up in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence, the absence of words speaking more than anything either of you could say.

after a while, you realised that you’d somehow walked all the way back to your place, your house looming in front of you. haerin didn’t seem to realise it either, her attention focused entirely on the conversation and, you imagined, on you.

"i... i guess this is where i live," you said softly, feeling a little silly for stating the obvious.

haerin looked around, surprised. "oh. i didn’t realise we walked this far."

you both reached the front door, seeking shelter from the rain. the downpour was relentless, the sound of it hitting the ground surrounding you both. you hesitated for a moment, unsure of what to say next, the atmosphere thick with unspoken feelings.

you couldn’t help but smile back, the tension easing just a little. “you can come in, if you want. i mean, i’m not going anywhere, and... it’s still raining pretty heavily.”

haerin shook her head, offering a small smile in return. "i can’t. i should go home."

"are you sure?" you asked, your heart thudding in your chest. "it’s raining pretty heavily, haerin."

she glanced at the umbrella in your hand, then at you, a small, almost apologetic smile on her lips. "i’ll be fine. but... can i take the umbrella?"

"of course," you said, your voice quiet. "but... stay safe, alright?" you continued, the words coming out before you could stop them. but there was something in your voice, something deeper, that made haerin pause.

she nodded, giving you a soft smile. "thanks, y/n. i’ll be okay."

you stood there, watching as she turned to walk away, your heart suddenly heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. she was walking away, and you were standing there, feeling like something wasn’t quite right.

as she walked away, you stayed rooted in place, watching her disappear into the rain. there was something about this moment, about everything, that made you feel like the distance between you both couldn’t be bridged. your heart suddenly heavy with something you couldn’t quite place. she was walking away, and you were standing there, feeling like something wasn’t quite right. the weight of it all, the way she walked away, the fact that you were still standing there, unsure of what to do next, made you feel lost.

"wait! haerin!" you called out, your voice almost lost to the sound of the rain.

you quickly stepped out from under the cover, the rain soaking you immediately. your heart was pounding in your chest, a mix of fear and something more intense—something that made you want to chase her down, to stop her before she could disappear completely.

when you reached her, you were breathless, drenched through, but you didn’t care.

"you’re amazing, haerin," you blurted out, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. "you’re so... real. you don’t let anything get in your way, and i’ve just been... i don’t know, scared,” you said, your voice trembling with a sincerity you couldn’t hide. “i’ve been scared to tell you everything, to tell you how much you mean to me. but i can’t stand this distance anymore. i want to be with you. i don’t want to lose you. i just—i need you to know how much you mean to me."

haerin was still, her expression softening as she watched you, a flicker of something in her eyes. for a long moment, you both stood there, letting the rain fall around you, feeling the intensity of the moment but not knowing what to do with it.

finally, you spoke again, the words slipping out before you could stop them. "can i kiss you?"

there was no hesitation in haerin’s gaze. she simply nodded, her eyes closing for a brief second, as if to gather herself.

you didn’t wait any longer. in one quick motion, you leaned in, and the kiss was everything. soft and gentle, but there was so much wrapped up in it. everything you hadn’t said. everything you had been too afraid to admit. and in that moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning. all that mattered was you and her, and the way your heart was finally in sync with hers.

when you pulled away, the silence between you wasn’t awkward. it was calm, full of understanding, of something new beginning. you were both soaked, the cold water soaking through your clothes, but none of it mattered.

“i think i’m going to be okay,” you whispered, your voice barely audible above the rain.

haerin smiled softly, her eyes shining brighter than ever, a warmth that cut through the storm. "me too," she whispered back.

#bombikki 彡☆#newjeans #newjeans x reader #newjeans haerin #haerin x reader #kang haerin x reader

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