#hard chrome bar

[pxrxmoore]

out of the depths of fuckin nowhere while running a fever last night my torchwood obsession was re-awakened within me. and also apparently livejournal still exists and people still post there???????

[kamalshaftpvtltd]

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[undyingdecay]

pairing: robert reynolds x reader cw: smut, mentions of the void, overstimulation, dumbifiaction, sub!robert, usage of the term 'good boy'.

robert reynolds is a pervert.

not in a sleazy, frat-boy way. not the kind of pervert that leaves behind smudges on phone screens or searches for content that disappears after midnight. no—bob’s perversion was quieter. more intentional. it was in the way he read. the way he lingered. the way he looked at you like you were the first and last real thing in a universe he barely believed in anymore. the kind that reads neuroscience books with a glassy look in his eyes and one hand suspiciously low on his thigh.

he was draped over the big, circular couch in the middle of the common space—gray, soft, impossibly wide. you’d insisted on it after moving in. you’d pointed out the couch in some overprice magazine—something walker scoffed at—and bob had ordered it the same day without saying a word, just a gentle nod like he understood what you were trying to do. you made space feel like something worth staying in.

the bar stark left behind had made the place look like an empty bachelor pad—just black glass, chrome, and a monument to drinking problems. that didn’t feel like a home, especially not with yelena tossing back beers like water, and walker nursing bourbon while pretending to read his own press.

so you’d pushed for the couch. something cozy. something human. and now there bob sat like a statue come to life, long limbs sprawled across the upholstery, fingers curled around a paperback. “reaching down the rabbit hole.”

you’d brought him the book that rainy sunday. the tower had gone soft and quiet, raindrops streaking the long windows of the library. you’d wandered off, fingers trailing along spines, stopping in the neuroscience section—bizarre, given that everything there usually put you to sleep. but you remembered him talking about it before. how damaged brains lied to themselves, how some patients created entire lives out of nothing just to make their reality feel whole. you’d caught maybe every third word he said, too mesmerized by the way he licked his lips when he got excited explaining neurons misfiring like overloaded circuits.

now, he was devouring it. not quickly—no, he moved through it like a man savoring a final meal. eyes slowly tracking each sentence. sometimes mouthing the words. sometimes whispering them like they mattered more than he did.

you were behind him, mixing a drink in one of those glasses that were too thin to feel real. the ice had melted. twice. but you were still standing there, watching him as he shifted on the couch, his broad frame sinking deeper into the cushions, spine curling just a little. his thighs parted naturally, his sweatpants stretched over the lazy curve of his cock—noticeably half-hard, twitching slightly under the thin fabric. maybe it was the book. maybe it was you.

maybe both.

your fingers absently stirring a drink in one of the highball glasses everyone kept reusing because nobody wanted to admit they were too lazy to do dishes. the spoon clinked gently, ice long since melted into a lukewarm pool. you stood just far enough that he couldn’t feel you, but close enough that you could smell him—the subtle scent of ozone and storm-scorched pine bark that clung to him no matter how often he bathed. the scent of the void, perhaps.

every now and then he licked the pink of his lips, slow and plush, and shifted like he needed to make room for something—like the fabric of those soft gray sweatpants was suddenly too tight across his thighs. he took his time with each sentence, eyes dark and gleaming, mouth slightly open. he was dissecting it, you knew. reading it the way he wanted to be touched.

god, he was teasing you.

or maybe you were projecting. maybe it was you who was the pervert, letting your eyes drift down the hard line of his stomach, to the subtle bulge rising beneath that book. the way he kept twitching, rolling his hips against nothing, like the words themselves were getting him off.

it wasn’t fair—how every little gesture from him felt like an invitation. the way his fingers slid over the paper like he was stroking skin. the way he exhaled through his nose, low and humming. the way he moved his hips to get comfortable, drawing your eye back to the heat pooling in his lap.

when your spoon finally tapped the edge of the glass, the chime rang out like a siren, and bob’s head turned toward you, slow and fluid. his gaze locked on yours, eyes molten gold, pupils slightly blown. your breath caught. the look he gave you was lazy. knowing. like he’d been aware of your stare this whole time and was just letting you think you were sneaky.

something flickered deep in your core. the press of damp fabric between your legs now felt unbearable. your panties clung to you like second skin—soaked, hot, aching.

you were a pervert—but maybe bob was even worse for letting you touch him like this.

your hands wrapped snugly around his pretty, leaking cock, and he was bucking up into your palms like a man possessed. the shape you made with your fingers had him gasping, breathy and high, whimpering out what you thought might be your name—until it broke into a needy, guttural whine that came from somewhere deep in his chest. god, he whined so much.

you tightened your grip, feeling the slick warmth of his pre cum trickling down your fingers, and he sucked in a sharp breath before his head dropped back against the pillow. he looked ruined—beautiful. lips parted and pink, eyes squeezed shut. you swore you could see the gloss of tears clinging to his lashes, streaking faintly down his cheeks. his chest heaved, his throat worked visibly as he swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth.

you started moving your hand again—slow, deliberate strokes that dragged from base to tip with a little twist at the top, just how he liked it. the sound it made was obscene: wet, sticky, lewd, echoing through the room like it wanted to humiliate him.

you leaned down, pressed a kiss to the flushed column of his neck, humming low as you felt a desperate little “please” spill past his lips. you started moving your hand again, slow and tight. the slick, obscene sounds of it filled the room.

“baby,” you murmured against his skin, “you said you were gonna tell me what you were reading about, remember?”

“uh-huh,” he breathed, a thin, helpless sound—like the wind had been knocked from him. there was nothing left in him but pleasure, but you pulled back just enough to force his mind to scramble for the right words. desperate to keep your hand on him, he spoke.

“it was—fuck, wait—neuro—neurotransmitters,” he gasped, words tumbling over each other as his hips twitched again. “dopamine, mostly. i—i was reading about how it spikes during sex—fucking hell—and how just, just touching like this—oh god—it lights up the reward system, m-makes the brain think it’s dying or flying—shit, i don’t even know—”

his voice cracked into a moan, thick and raw. you watched his lashes flutter, lips trembling as he tried again.

“and oxytocin—‘s the bonding one, the cuddle chemical or whatever—jesus, your hands—baby, your hands—” he whined, nearly sobbing with it now, legs twitching as he babbled. “it makes you—mmf—makes you crave the person touching you. that’s why i can’t—why i can’t think when you—ah, fuck—when you do that thing with your thumb—!”

you obliged, dragging your thumb slowly over his leaking tip, watching his entire body jolt under your touch. he sobbed.

“please, i don’t—don’t even know what i’m saying anymore,” he hiccuped, voice breaking as he clenched the sheets, trying to stay grounded. “there’s this part of the brain—nucleus accumbens—that lights up like a fucking—fuck, a firework—when you touch me like this. i—i read that. i swear i read that, baby, i just—oh god.”

he squirmed under you, legs shifting restlessly, hips twitching up in search of more, always more. every little movement of your wrist pulled another moan from him, another soft curse or hiccuping breath. you watched the way his body responded—so open, so reactive. the way his thighs tensed, his belly fluttered, his toes curled. the way his throat bobbed again and again like he was trying not to choke on how good it felt.

you gave him more. your pace stayed slow, steady, torturously controlled. you gripped tighter, just a bit, and felt the tension in him spike. his cock was flushed red, veins standing out, the head swollen and slick with so much pre it coated your fingers, dripped down to your wrist. he was absolutely soaked.

your thumb swept over the sensitive ridge just beneath the tip once more and his whole body arched—his back lifting clean off the mattress, mouth falling open in a soundless cry. his hands clawed at the sheets, knuckles white, nails dragging lines in the fabric like he was trying to hold on to something—anything

you leaned down, kissed the underside of his cock, then the head, soft and slow like you were worshipping him. the taste of him stuck to your lips—salty and hot like honey drawn from a fever dream. you felt his thighs tremble again.

he was close.

your hand sped up just a little, slick sounds building louder, rougher, the friction bordering on unbearable. his head thrashed from side to side, hair clinging to his temples, chest heaving with every breath he couldn’t catch. he was unraveling—falling apart with nothing but your hand around his cock and your mouth praising every inch of him.

“you’re so smart, bobby,” you whispered, voice soft and adoring, your lips brushing the head of his cock before kissing it sweetly. his milky pre clung to your mouth like honey. and the praise—just like always—hit his cock first and his brain second. that broke him.

his entire body seized—legs locked tight, back arcing sharply off the bed, muscles pulling taut like a drawn bow. his mouth dropped open in a cracked, ragged cry that caught in his throat and splintered into a gasping moan. his cock gave a heavy twitch in your grip—then another—and then he came.

hot, thick release spilled from him in violent pulses, the first rope hitting your wrist with a warm, wet slap. it was creamy, almost milky in color, streaking across your hand and his lower belly in messy, uneven lines. he came hard—a lot—like his body had been holding it back for far too long. more followed in sharp bursts, painting his skin in long, slow ribbons that glistened in the low bedroom light. it clung to him, sticky and hot, catching in the fine trail of hair below his navel, smearing against his tense abdomen, dripping from the flushed head of his cock in long, glossy strands. your grip stayed steady, coaxing him through it with tender, unrelenting strokes. he whined—high and soft and pitiful—as his hips gave a last, desperate jerk, like his body still hadn’t caught up with the release tearing through it.

“good boy,” you breathed, voice low, thick with praise and want. “look at you, baby. that’s it. you made such a mess.”

the words hit him like a second orgasm.

he whimpered again, legs trembling, hands fisting into the sheets with weak desperation. his chest rose and fell in frantic, shallow gasps, sweat-slick skin glowing in the soft light, flushed pink across his cheeks, his chest, the tips of his ears. he looked utterly, exquisitely ruined—come-drunk, dazed, blinking up at you like he couldn’t remember how to speak.

you watched his release slowly slide down his skin—thick drops trailing along the curve of his hip, pooling slightly in the dip between his abs. you swiped your fingers through it, sticky and warm, then brought them to your lips and licked him clean, deliberately slow—letting him see it.

he groaned, eyes fluttering shut like he was about to fall apart all over again.

“…did you… retain any of that?” he asked between gasps, voice wrecked.

you laughed softly, “not entirely, tell me tomorrow—i want to learn.” and honestly you had, for whatever interested bob in its own way interested you.

you crawled up beside him, tugging the throw blanket from the back of the couch to wipe your hands, still warm and shaking from the intensity. bob curled into you, heavy and loose with post-orgasmic bliss. his head rested against your chest like it belonged there.

outside, the rain hadn’t stopped.

and in the space between seconds — the quiet hum of a god drifting into sleep — the world felt almost safe.

[traffys-heart]

hii!!! i’m literally obsessed w how u write so if it’s ok can u write smth abt op men and fingering?

one piece men + fingering | nsfw

i will probably start a masterlist soon, considering how many works i have cluttered my blog w. please bare w me until then, thank u (っ- ‸ - ς)

characters: monkey d. luffy, roronoa zoro, vinesmoke sanji, portgas d. ace, sabo, eustass kid, killer, trafalgar d. law

cw: lowercase, afab! reader, fingering, female receiving oral, public sex, virign! loser! law

monkey d. luffy

luffy considers fingering and eating ur pussy as a package deal. as far as he's concerned, hes only curling his knuckles and pressing up into that soft gooey spot inside of u so he can stuff his face in ur cunt right after and enjoy the meal u've left him. ever since he found out he just needs to fuck ur little slit w his digits to speed up ur orgasms he's been using the 'trick' thereafter. oh and of course like the glutton he is, he always makes sure to lick up ur webs that coat his hand after.

roronoa zoro

zoro needs to calm down and recollect himself before he gets his hands on ur tight ass cause he'll probably end up making a mess. this guy wants u bent over his weights bench and spreading ur pretty lips for him. he can't wait to stretch u and feel how u squeeze him as his fingers scissor ur walls, trying to expand ur cunt for his cock. zoro tries to go as slow as possible, but ends up loosing control and rapidly fucking u on his hand.

vinesmoke sanji

idk why but i'm plagued w the vision of sanji's face slowly rising from the side of bed w his signature perverted blown out expression ready to get down and dirty. imagine ur on ur bed, legs spred, panties discarded, and ur trying so hard to get off, but u just need sanji to finger u to completion. ur rubbing ur clit so fast, but it's his long and slender fingers that tickle ur insides so perfectly that make u cum. ugh he kisses ur stomach through it too.

portgas d. ace

ace would take u in the middle of a bar if he could. unfortunately u would never let that happen, so he has to settle for walking his heated fingertips up and under the hem of ur skirt, kissing promises of reassurance into ur ear while u make eye contact w whoever new just entered. his sneaky fingers slip past ur undergarments and rub ur wet slit that's been begging for attention ever since u left the ship. slow and deep thrusts cause u to almost loose balance while u cling to ur sly boyfriend and his sticky hands.

sabo

the high of completing a mission or liberating another island has always filled u w a sense of pride, on the other hand its always made sabo needy to fill u. the foreign texture of leather massaging the inside of ur pussy makes u want to crawl away and beg for more simultaneously. the gloved fingers fucking ur mouth keep u from escaping him tho. with a soft smack to ur wet cunt, sabo loosens his cravat and thinks abt how much better u would feel stuffed w his cock.

eustass kid

kid is so mean, sometimes he makes u ride his own fingers. so u could be there, bouncing away to ur hearts content, but he won't do a thing cause he likes seeing u get off on him. he especially likes seeing u get off on his metal arm. there is nothing more erotic than watching u stretch urself down on one of the the fat metal fingers of his hand. the dichotomy of skin and chrome molding into one almost makes him want to start doing work himself smh.

killer

my beloved beefy boy. if he could he would strip off his mask and have u sit on his face so he can get to know ur pussy up close and personal. yknow ask her questions abt her interests and hobbies. but until that milestone, he opts for fingering u until the point of over stimulation. whereas ur captain sat back and made u do all the work, killer will rub and pinch ur clit as well as thrust his fingers in and out of ur cunt. he wants u cumming all over him until his jeans have a new kind of acid wash.

trafalgar d. law

law has never been this close to pussy before so when u strip off panties for him and open ur legs, inviting the nerd in, his first instinct is to grab his glasses. (yes they fog up) he could spend eternity watching u touch urself, but when u spread ur slit and guide his fingers into ur welcoming hole he doubts he'll ever last long enough to make u cum during actual sex. in the end u never acc orgasm but law adds this to his top 5 memories ever.

[kumkaniudaku]

Creatures of The Night

Summary: Stack meets his match on a return trip home.

Pairing: Elias 'Stack' Moore x Black!Fem OC

Warnings: Smut (18+)

Word Count: 3,779

As much as Mississippi had changed, it was still the same. Vast rolling plains of farmland tilled by rough, Black and brown hands still carried the stench of oppression thought to be a relic of a different time. Poverty still touched communities loudly crying out for relief. Generations of families still lived in shotgun houses and small brick dwellings passed down from faces they'd only ever seen in photo frames grouped together on tiny altars as reverence for their tireless sacrifice. And, deep in the darkest parts of the city, when the sun went down and the moon illuminated deeds hidden in the light for decency's sake, a hole-in-the-wall establishment made room for all sorts of devils and demons to enjoy themselves in the dead of night. 

Beneath bright lights and a thick, impenetrable haze of sour weed smoke, Stack sat perched at the bar, sipping dark brown poison to mimic patrons around him. He hadn't had much taste for the stuff since the '30s, but it brought him comfort. The jitters of being so close to home were enough to stoke the flames of nervousness he thought he'd long relinquished to the past. He'd tried several times to go from Jackson to Clarksdale, pay his respects to loved ones lost, and disappear until the next time the supernatural pull of days past whispered for him to return. But something about the spruced-up warehouse fitted with leather couches bunched around small tables and platforms sporting chrome poles nearly touching the ceiling had a hold on him. Or rather someone.

She moved like water. Fluid and calming, capturing Stack's attention with minimal effort. Sable skin illuminated under blue neon reminded him of the young woman from the film he'd financed years back. Hip-hop was still nonsensical and watered down trash in his mind, but involvement had it's benefits – club environments, glitz, glamor, fame, fortune, and an endless supply of thick skulled idiots willing to do whatever necessary to live a life of fleeting pleasures forever. Then her. A beauty beyond compare, acting as a siren calling him to destruction on troubled seas. 

Stack's first visit to Dreams was by accident. The low rumble of bass knocking so hard against the wall he thought the doors might blow open from the force sucked him into a vortex he couldn't escape. An unexplained magnetism knocked him off his path and past a long line of patrons hoping for a few hours of illicit fun. A couple dollars, slick talk, and a kind request for entry helped him past unfriendly looking security and into a world in and of itself. And there she was. Walking through the crowd in white lace, leaving little to the imagination with a switch in her hips beguiling enough to earn his attention well into the wee hours of the morning. 

Lily is what the DJ called her from his booth alongside the stage. Fitting. In a room full of miscreants and hoodlums, she seemed like too perfect a flower for a place like this.

Night one, Stack only watched. Behind dark lenses in an even darker corner of the room, he gathered information like a student studying a master at work. Glossed lips curled into a smile, flashing bright white teeth at every man she encountered. While she spoke them into a slurring, lust-drunk stupor, they handed over wads of cash surely meant to take care of a family at home. A talker. Stack liked that. 

The second night, when he'd had some liquid courage, and the crowd was thin for a Thursday night, he noticed her already noticing him from her throne on stage. Every twirl around the pole produced an opportunity for intense eye contact lasting the full duration of her performance to Juvenille's 'Slow Motion.' As the song wound to a close, Lily left him with a wink, fluttering long lashes as her fingers wiggled a greeting in his direction. Stack never saw her again that night. But he felt her. She'd imprinted herself on his brain and all but dared him to stay in Jackson another night. 

Friday night, with nightcrawlers from far and wide filling every corner of the club, Lily and Stack made first contact. 

"Why you be in here by yourself?" Lily's down home alto came in loud over T-Pain's voice while Stack took sips of poor quality bourbon. 

A slow smile crept across his face. "Chillin'. I ain't from here." 

"You sound like you from here." When her veiled question induced little more than a chuckle, Lily tried a more forward approach. "Where you from then? You one of them rap niggas from Memphis?" 

Ever perceptive, Lily saw Stack's chains and rings the moment her suitor walked into the club earlier in the week. If he wasn't a rapper, he sold drugs. Either one worked just fine for her. Income was income, illegal or otherwise. She couldn't care less if she could put a few of his dollars into her pocket by the end of the night.

"Nah. From up the road a little bit." Stack's intentional lack of information made Lily smile as she nodded. 

No need for details. She knew less about other patrons, but that never stopped them from pouring 10s, 20s, and 50s into her g-string like water from the tap. "I can sit down?"

Lily teased a smile, hoping her charm would be enough for Stack to grant access to the castle he'd made for himself. He didn't answer with words. A half smile and a gesture toward the spot beside him was enough of an invitation. 

Sliding herself against worn leather, Lily tested the waters by scooting within an inch of his thigh. When no objection came, she deliberately caressed his knee with hers and leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table. 

"Where your ol' lady at?" Surely, there was a missus in the picture. 

Stack chuckled. "Your guess good as mine. Ain't seen her in a few years," he answered before taking another sip. A partial truth couldn't hurt. He knew where Mary had gone. It just hurt too much to say it. "Where your man?" 

"Your guess good as mine." Mirrored cheeky grins spread across their faces in tandem. Stack fought hard to keep the full spread of his lips at bay, hoping to conceal the true nature of his identity. Lily pretended not to take notice of the canines calling for her attention, preferring to live in the fantasy Dreams offered everyone who walked through the door. Lily scooched closer. "What's your name?" 

A name. The question caught Stack off guard. In all his travels, he had no problem proudly alerting anyone who asked that they were speaking to the last of the Smokestack twins. But here, so close to home and the fables that seemed to stick no matter the decade, too much information could crack the seal on problems kept bottled since he fled years ago. 

Stack took another sip to bide his time before setting the glass on the table and answering. "Eli. Yours?" 

"You know my name. Rico call it a hundred times every night. Much as you been in here, you had to have heard it by now." 

"So, you been keepin' tabs on me?" 

"I keep tabs on a lot of people. 'Specially the ones like you," she smiled, showing a gold framed tooth of her own. Without breaking eye contact, Lily reached for Stack's glass and pulled it closer to her side of the booth. 

He watched her with keen focus, noting how her lips parted slowly to invite a healthy sip of alcohol. Each swallow made her throat bob seductively as a subtle mating call that he couldn't leave unnoticed. A master at her craft. Stack couldn't help but admire the work, even if it was at his expense. 

When she slid the empty glass back over to him, Stack licked his lips to stop the trickle of saliva attempting to escape. "That wasn't free, baby girl." 

"Say my name right, Eli." Lily's sing-song command made Stack's stomach clench from arousal as her fingernails danced up his thigh beneath the table

He sat up straight and threw an arm over the top of the booth for stability. "That wasn't free, Lily," he corrected. "You owe me." 

"I always pay my debts. Come see me tomorrow, hm?" 

"What about tonight?" An eager inquiry, but he couldn't promise another day. Stack had to get moving. 

Lily opened her mouth to speak, preparing to offer a rebuttal, but found herself cut off by Rico from the DJ booth. 

"Y'all ready for Lily to come back to the stage?" 

Of course, they were. She was the biggest draw in town. Chatting up the secretive stranger on his third consecutive visit couldn't supersede getting to the money. 

Rolling her eyes, Lily began to exit the little corner of desire they'd built together. "Tomorrow. Come 'round three in the morning. I got something for you in the back."

"Y'all close at two," Stack countered, trying to snuff out Lily's endgame. 

"That's just what the police say. We open as long as the money comin' in." Finally free from the booth, Lily made a show of adjusting her all-white outfit and smiled. "Three o'clock. I keep my word, Eli. You just worry about gettin' here." 

Stack didn't intend to stay in Jackson, Mississippi another night. He had plans – moves to make, gravesites to visit, offerings to leave for souls long passed on. October 16th had come and gone with him shirking responsibility in the name of cheap thrills and a beautiful woman. In over 70 years, he still hadn't learned his lesson. 

At the worn-in bar, perched on a barstool with another glass of bottom-shelf bourbon in his hands, Stack watched the digital clock behind the bartender tick to the top of the hour. He didn't have much time. 'Get in and get out,' he coached himself as he adjusted the Michael Vick jersey on his shoulders and centered the Jesus piece on his chain. 

Sure enough, Dreams was still jumping with no end in sight. Stack's eyes slowly scanned the room behind his sunglasses, hoping for any sign of his target. Familiar urges tingled the base of his spine, begging for the green light to taste the focus of his desires. Turning Lily was a new development. Longing for a partner to walk alongside him in the curse known as eternal life hadn't left him since Mary's untimely demise. Lily fit the bill just right. She didn't need to continue showing herself for money. He'd take all that away and replace it with even greater riches if he could get her alone for a conversation.

As he searched high and low for his prize, a set of fingers danced up Stack's back before lips caressed the shell of his ear. "Welcome back, Eli. Follow me." 

Simple instructions and chills manifesting all over his warm skin convinced Stack to follow the long-legged beauty through the throng of thrashing bodies and past a thick velvet curtain partitioning an area reserved for more private encounters. 

Blue lights were no more. In the quiet of backrooms sparsely populated with men willing to spend a little extra dough and dancers intent on milking them for more, red lights tinted everyone's skin into a hue reminiscent of Satan in his imagined form. 

Stack tried to mind his business as Lily tugged him along to the room at the end of the hallway. From the corner of his eye, he swore he saw a man's eyes roll back into his skull, mouth hung open in an unexplained trance while a young light-skinned woman whispered into his ear. There wasn't much time for Stack to make sense of what his mind had conjured. A second attempt at peering past the thick tinted glass was robbed just as Lily pulled him into their soundproof hideout. 

Low lights and black padded walls shielded the pair from outside influences trying to force their way into their fortress. Stack ran his fingers along the soft fabric, wondering just how effective it was at keeping all sorts of sounds from leaking out to the public. 

"You gon' sit down, or you came to do a dust inspection? Whatever you find, make sure you talk to Varis about all that." Lily's attempt at a joke received a cool, closed-mouth smile as Stack studied her body from head to toe. She pointed to the couch spanning the length of the room's back wall. "Sit down. It's me and you now." 

Good. The less prying eyes and intrusions, the better. 

Lily watched Stack take measured steps to the back of the room, studying the swagger in his walk and where his wallet bulged in his back pocket. Most men came with all they could spare without being caught by wives concerned about dwindling cash flow. Eli was different. Money seemed expendable to him. A real spend some and make it all back type. Perfect. 

A sure heel-to-toe strut carried Lily across the room to a decanter full of dark liquid and a pair of glasses resting on an empty bar cart. Stack watched her pour from the glass container, looking for something to comfort him in an unfamiliar predicament. He felt a rush of unexplained wind whip past his ear as a shiver manifested in his fingers. 

"Why's it so cold in here?" Stack questioned as Lily walked the drink over to him. 

She smiled but withheld her answer until she'd stopped her journey to stand between his legs. "When it's warm," she started with her arm extended to hand over his beverage. "Things get too soft. Ice cream, butter…" Once her hand was free, Lily eased her way into Stack's lap to plant her knees beside his hips. "Nipples. Dicks. You don't wanna go soft, do you, Eli? What we gon' do with that?" 

Lily's warm tongue tracing figure eights against the spot under Stack's left ear trapped a sound in his throat, leaving his body to betray his thoughts. Lily felt the quick contraction and release of his muscles, but remained committed to her task. 

"You should take a sip," Lily suggested as she switched sides to give Stack's other ear attention. "I owe you, remember?" 

Stack considered the advice, taking a slow look at the unfamiliar elixir. He'd learned a lot of lessons in all his years. Never trust a man saying 'trust me,' mind the business that pays you, and only drink the troubles you pour yourself. Lily embodied all things beautiful in the world, but wasn't that fine. A principled man was a man too difficult to manipulate. His brother taught him that. 

Stack took a second look at the glass and ultimately shook his head. "I'm good, baby. Trynna remember this one. Maybe next time." 

"Suit yourself." Her nonchalant nature almost made Stack change his mind and take a swig just for the taste. It couldn't hurt too bad. 

But, just as soon as he'd rejected her offering, Lily had pulled the cup from his hand and set it aside. 

Kisses against the throbbing vein counting each heartbeat disarmed Stack's guard and senses better than any drink or pull of cigarette ever could. A pretty face and the spark of danger were still his weaknesses. He'd battled for years to overcome the sinister draw of a woman's treasure, even going so far as to plan and follow through on a sham of a wedding in Las Vegas. He and Mary knew it wouldn't work, but it felt good. Being joined to each other by loose legal documents and cheap rings plucked from a sleazy jewelry store just before a chapel with only the spirits of loved ones there to witness their union felt right.

He wondered how Mary might feel now, knowing he'd fallen back into old habits instead of mourning her like a husband was supposed to. He'd slipped so deep into thought that he didn't register Lily's hands sliding into the front of his jeans until her fingertips grazed his shaft. 

"Can I repay you," she whispered against the scar on his neck. "You wouldn't take my drink. At least enjoy what the private room was made for." 

Stack let his heavy eyelids flutter closed and released a deep breath. "We ain't 'posed to touch back here, ain't it?" 

"I do what I want. Don't worry about the rules when you with me."

"You don't wanna turn on some music, at least? Can't be that quiet in here," Stack questioned, still trying to gauge their true level of privacy. 

Lily smiled against his neck. "Nope. Let 'em hear." 

Deft fingers and a delicate palm freed Stack's member from the confines of cotton and stiff denim, giving it room to stand proud between them. They watched together as she closed her hand around it and began to stroke. 

"Looks like the cold is helping, hm?"

"Fuck," Stack whispered into the ether. Her skin felt like fine silk enclosed around the part of him that ached for touch the most. He'd lost the battle. The only hope for redemption was to finish with his mind intact and leave Jackson, Mississippi without looking back. 

Slow kisses stole the last modicum of focus Stack had left. "You like that," Lily questioned in her seductive timbre. A murmured 'mhm' spurred her forward. "I wanna show you something else." 

Stack wished he would've asked Lily to elaborate. Maybe he would've given himself more time to prepare for her mouth to envelop him in a warm embrace. His hips jolted upward, pressing his tip to the back of her throat and receiving a soft gag as his thank you for a job well done. 

Pleasures belonging to another time flooded Stack's entire nervous system. He flew through boyhood, when fooling around with Mary was new and exciting. The audible slurp from saliva escaping the corners of Lily's lips took him back to a woman in Chicago sneaking to be with him when her husband chose to turn his attention to business and away from matters of the home. There was the time he'd snuck into the French Quarter, freshly turned and searching for a body to claim. Remembering her name would take too much of his rapidly diminishing brain power, but he'd never forget that pretty face and how she seemed to welcome his fangs sinking into her skin. Stack always wondered what happened to her and if she fared well after the turn set in. His mind tried to drift to something, anything to ward off his incoming completion, but each mental swipe through his memory's Rolodex became infiltrated by Lily as she pulled her mouth away from his lap.

"Can I tell you somethin'?" Lily's question barely registered as Stack curled his fingers against the couch. She kept her hands busy, smiling to herself while she watched his eyes roll into his skull. "I'm sort of like you. Sometimes, when I want to feel like everybody else, I pretend. It's fun, you know? Keeps me goin' until the next time somethin' excitin' happens." 

Stack felt his body struggle to come back to baseline. Every alarm bell in his head rang at once, screaming for relief. No luck. He was at her mercy, eyes still rolling as release became imminent. He groaned for help that no one would hear. 

Lily chuckled and shook her head. "I almost wish you wouldn't have come back. That's why I ignored you that first night. They still tell stories about Elijah and Elias Moore to this day, but I didn't believe 'em. Motherfuckers lie around here. Too much time on they hands." Balls tightening in her free hand while she continued to get him off signaled an approaching end as Stack attempted to will himself free of her clutches to no avail. Lily continued. "Them biblical names somethin', ain't they? Seem like the most evil people in the world named after somebody in the good book. Your brother, your old girl, you…" Lily trailed off before bringing her eyes up to meet her victim's face. "I didn't quite make the cut. Lilith still has a nice ring to it, though, right? It's memorable." 

The feeling of being watched, the magnetic pull, the men in a trance and passing out money like candy – it all came rushing back to Stack as he felt his body weaken with every quickening stroke. Succubus. Tales of their existence always sounded like more myth than tangible reality. Smoke chalked each story up to weak-minded men looking for someone to blame for their lack of focus and restraint. Stack thought it might be fun for a beautiful woman to use him as a sexual object for a night but sided with the wisdom of his older brother. He never expected to find out. But lust had won again. His fatal flaw had lured him to the edge of death once more.

Stack opened his mouth wider, trying to scream with no sound reaching the atmosphere. It wouldn't matter anyway. No one was coming. He wouldn't be saved. The witching hour had overpowered him a second time. 

"It's almost over, baby. Be good for me," Lily taunted, her eyes darkening as her once dazzling smile curled into something more sinister. 

Climax felt like a slow death. Stack prayed for something quick. An instant draining of his life force to make the misery worth it. He'd reunite with the ones who loved him on the other side. Unfortunately, natural deaths full of promise and peace no longer had a place. A second curse had been levied upon him. A forever damning to serve as the source of life for another immortal being until he served no purpose and could be discarded like waste on the highway. 

With her mouth back to work, Lily welcomed every drop of semen onto her tongue like a dog lapping for water in the hot sun. She'd been waiting for someone like Elias. Someone to provide an endless treasure trove of what lesser men provided in feeble quantities. Forever had come to her with little effort. What a gift with a beautiful host to sweeten the deal. 

When he was empty and heaving for a break, Lily relished in the slow creep of euphoria consuming her from within. Stack remained frozen, eyes wide with fear and his jaw slack. 

Nuzzling her face against his thigh like a feline does her trusted companion, Lily smiled with traces of her trophy still coating her lips. 

"Welcome back to Mississippi, Elias. Stick around this time, won't you?" 

------

No tags. Enjoy the one off! For now, at least.

[sunshineyuyu]

friends with benefits a roommate (p. sh)

★ summary: after hooking up with mingi, you wake up the next morning and share a coffee with his attractive roommate seonghwa. a one night stand suddenly turns into a recurring thing—is the sex with mingi really that great? or are the mornings after with the roommate even better? ★ pairing: seonghwa x f!reader (ft. mingi) ★ genre: fluff ★ word count: 3.2k ★ tags/warnings: consultant!seonghwa, grad student!reader, fem!reader, grad student/best friend!mingi, references to sex but no descriptions, references to drinking, corporate grind woes, intentionally lowercase ★ notes: beta'd by the bestie @starhwas-bunny. also this is my first time posting :') ★ masterlist

like most grad students, you like to work hard, play hard.

which is why you’re at the dingiest bar on campus with your cohort, drunk out of your mind and grinding against your friend mingi to some doja cat song. and once it ends, you tug on mingi’s arm to presumably get more drinks, but instead drag him to the hallway near the bathrooms and stand on your tiptoes to slot your lips over his.

(thankfully, he reciprocates.)

and so, stumbling and giggling, the two of you call an uber back to mingi’s place.

⋆⋆⋆

the first thing seonghwa notices about you are your legs.

after all, how could he not? when all that’s there to cover them is the frayed hem of mingi’s ratty old high school football shirt. and you’re not shy about it—the fact that you’re walking around the apartment in nothing but a shirt that barely reaches the tops of your thighs.

the second thing seonghwa notices about you are your eyes.

surprisingly big and round for so early in the morning, and the fact that they’re trained straight on him.

“‘morning,” he says casually.

“good morning!” you reply, seemingly cheered by his acknowledgement. you scamper to the barstools on the other side of the large kitchen island and plop down on one. “i’m y/n.”

seonghwa is a little surprised at the introduction. he’s used to mingi bringing home girls often after living with him all through college until now, but he’s not used to interacting with them beyond catching a flash of their hair as they make a hasty exit.

the name is also unique, yet familiar.

“oh,” seonghwa says. “mingi’s mentioned you before. you’re in his cohort, right?”

“yup,” you say, popping the p at the end. “we’re besties.”

seonghwa hums, and then realizes he hasn’t introduced himself. “i’m seonghwa. you want some coffee?”

“yes, please,” you say.

“an iced latte okay?”

“um—yeah…?”

seonghwa can hear the apprehension on your tongue. the unsaid question—can he make a latte?

it’s silent for a little while as seonghwa flits around the kitchen, fetching the bag of fresh guatemalan coffee beans he’d picked up only yesterday and meticulously grinding them down into a powder. he presses it in the portafilter and then locks that into place in the group head of his shiny chrome silver espresso machine. it’s a relatively new purchase—or investment, as he likes to call it.

mingi had been wary about the whole thing—understandably so, since buying an espresso machine on a grad student budget is frivolous to say the least—so seonghwa had paid for it. they’d reached a mutual agreement that while the machine belongs entirely to seonghwa, mingi can pay for the beans to earn his share of the coffee it produced.

regardless, the espresso machine is an immediate hit with you, who oohs and aahs as the machine whirs and espresso drips out into two small porcelain cups.

“so fancy,” you say dreamily. 

smiling, seonghwa opens the fridge. “milk?”

“do you have oat?” you ask.

“of course,” seonghwa says, pulling out the carton.

with practiced hands, he pours the oat milk into a metal cup and then takes it over to the milk frother attachment. afterwards, he portions the frothed milk into two glasses filled with ice, before topping them off with the espresso shots. from a drawer, he retrieves two glass straws and then slides the finished drink over the counter to an awed you.

“it’s like a personal coffeeshop!” you squeal. “hold on, i have to take a picture!”

you dash back into mingi’s room, and for a second the spell is broken. seonghwa remembers that you’d come home last night with mingi—that you’d presumably had mind-blowing sex with mingi, that you slept over in mingi’s bed.

when you return to the kitchen, seonghwa has already swirled his drink together and sips on it a little impatiently. you beam as you take a photo of yours, before following his lead. when you take a sip, your eyes brighten and widen and suddenly, seonghwa is back into it.

back into you.

“omygod!” you say.

“nice, right?” seonghwa says.

“delicious,” you moan. “what beans did you use?”

“oh,” seonghwa says, unable to hide the surprise in his voice at your curiosity. “it’s a new guatemalan blend. i know a guy.” he hands the bag over to you so that you can read the description on the sticker.

you laugh. “‘i know a guy,’” you mimic. “are we talking about drugs?”

“might as well be,” seonghwa says. “i definitely have a caffeine addiction.”

“that’s okay,” you say. “so do i.” you say it conspiratorially, and seonghwa likes the theatrics.

he likes you.

seonghwa’s current project at work has him traveling to utah during the week, and while he loves mingi, coming back on the weekends to a dude just doesn’t really do anything for him. and seonghwa’s been so busy for the past two years—working 70 hours a week and commuting across the whole continent—that he’s never taken the time to consider that maybe there’s something missing.

something like—

sharing a coffee with a pretty girl on an early saturday morning.

something nice. domestic.

something that makes flying back to new york feel like coming home.

but seonghwa is shaken from his out-of-character introspection by sloppy footsteps coming from mingi’s bedroom. the man himself slogs into the kitchen, wearing only low-slung sweatpants and yawning like a heathen.

“no coffee for me?” he pouts at seonghwa.

“didn’t expect you up so early, sleeping beauty,” seonghwa says.

“fucking rude,” mingi grumbles. he turns to you, “you staying for breakfast?”

you peer suspiciously at him. “can you cook?”

“he can’t,” seonghwa says before mingi can reply. “but i can.”

the grin that you flash him is so breathtaking that he has to set his glass down. 

“okay, then,” you say, clapping your hands. “i’ll stay!”

seonghwa hides his own grin by ducking into the fridge for the eggs.

over breakfast, seonghwa tells you about his glamorous (derogatory) life as a consultant, and you respond by enthusiastically explaining the research you do at the university. mingi interjects occasionally, but mostly he just scrolls through twitter on his phone.

seonghwa easily deduces that you’re close friends, but the vibe feels mostly platonic.

he wonders if last night was a one-off, or the beginning of something. if there’s any hidden unrequited feelings. 

he’ll have to sus it out of mingi later, but for now, he’s content with discussing the ethical sourcing of coffee with you.

⋆⋆⋆

two weeks later, after another two grueling visits to utah, seonghwa wakes up to the scent of coffee.

it’s pleasant, and then jarring, because seonghwa knows that mingi doesn’t have the patience to use the espresso machine on his own (he drinks the instant stuff when seonghwa isn’t around). seonghwa leaps out of bed, all thoughts on his precious, pristine espresso machine child.

but the scene he finds in the kitchen is very much the opposite of a catastrophe.

first he sees the afterthought of a bun. hair tossed carelessly into a topknot that bounces as you move.

and then he sees the underwear—baby pink and lacy—and the perfect, round ass sticking out of the fridge.

“oh shit,” he croaks, before clapping a hand over his eyes and spinning around.

he’s rewarded with tinkling laughter that makes his ears burn red. he could get used to that sound, but maybe under different circumstances.

“good morning!” you call.

“um, morning.” seonghwa removes the hand and opens his eyes, but doesn’t turn around quite yet.

“sorry, i would put on some pants, but i wasn’t wearing any last night,” you says. “i’m decent now, though!”

true to your word, your bottom is as covered as it can get with that godforsaken high school football shirt. seonghwa really wishes mingi would get rid of it, but he knows that making varsity is still one of mingi’s proudest accomplishments.

“sorry about that.” seonghwa has to cough to get all the words out properly. his throat hasn’t quite woken up yet (the rest of his body, though, is thrumming with adrenaline, and his brain is working overtime figuring out the morality of saving that image of your ass).

“no worries,” you say breezily. “coffee?”

having the script flipped on him—someone else offering him coffee in his own goddamn apartment—is unsettling. even more unsettling is how similar the scene unfolding is to his brief daydream of domesticity the last time he encountered you.

“you, uh, know how to use the espresso machine?” he asks stupidly. he registers belatedly how his question might sound condescending, but you seem to take it all in stride.

“i was a barista for a bit in college,” you say.

“nice,” seonghwa says, just for something to say.

“i hope it’s okay that i used it,” you say. “i just really needed some caffeine after last night.”

at seonghwa’s questioning gaze, you explain, “we went way too hard.”

“any occasion?” seonghwa says, sliding dutifully onto a barstool when he realizes that you really do know what you’re doing. you have the oat milk out on the counter, the same glasses he used last time—pre-prepped with ice—and the new bag of orange-infused coffee beans.

you hum as you froth the milk. “made it past our first thesis deadline.”

“that’s exciting,” seonghwa says.

“barely,” you sigh. “we’re just waiting around to get our asses handed to us during critiques.”

“oh, well,” says seonghwa sympathetically. “i can relate. i routinely get my ass handed to me. some internal organs too.”

it’s not his best work, but it makes you laugh, so seonghwa considers that a win. it’s been a long time since he tried charming someone, and he’s more than a little out of practice.

but he can barely mull over it as his brain finally moves past its previous mental exercise (that image of your ass is burned in his memory forever now, intentionally or not) and finds a new problem to turn over: if you’re here, in the morning, wearing mingi’s shirt, then you must have stayed the night. and if you stayed the night, then you must have—

“here! hope it’s as good as yours,” you say, passing the latte over the island to seonghwa.

the moan that he lets out is involuntary, and it makes you beam.

“what do you think of the new beans?” seonghwa asks.

“mm, it’s nice,” you say. “sweet.”

in spite of the alarms firing in his head, seonghwa ventures a: “is there full-service breakfast with the coffee?”

“ooo,” you say, “taking advantage of me while i’m the one in the kitchen, i see.”

seonghwa instantly regrets it, as he says, “oh, i was just joking. i can make—”

“oh no, mister,” you say. “you sit your ass down. i’m about to blow your mind. this girlie can do much better than eggs and toast. now, where’s the flour?”

over the next twenty minutes, seonghwa watches in awe as you prance around the kitchen, unearthing ingredients and kitchenware that seonghwa barely even knew existed in the apartment. you tsk at the state of the stovetop, manage to reorganize their poor smattering of spices, and utilize takeout chopsticks expertly as a whisk.

and at the end, you present seonghwa with a plate of fluffy pancakes and perfectly soft-scrambled eggs.

when he takes a bite, he’s transported instantly back to his childhood. to picturesque mornings, eating homemade sunday brunch with his family to the lazy twittering of birds and under the warmth of a midmorning sun.

it tugs at his chest as he drenches his pancakes in potentially expired syrup from the back of their fridge, pours hot sauce over his eggs—

a nostalgia and a fondness that he thought he lost to the corporate grind.

“how is it?” you ask.

“marry me,” seonghwa says.

and despite being more serious than he’s ever been, you laugh at him.

“the patriarchy really popped out there for a second!” you say, digging into your own pancakes.

seonghwa opens his mouth to explain that he really did mean it, but as per usual, mingi decides that now is the perfect time to ruin everything with his presence. he’s at least wearing a shirt this time when he emerges from his lair, and you pop up to throw together a plate for him.

“thanks, mommy,” mingi sighs as he slides into a barstool.

“ew,” you wrinkle your nose.

“not what you were saying last night,” says mingi, with a disgusting amount of scrambled egg shoved into his mouth.

“don’t listen to him,” you say to seonghwa, but seonghwa has already turned his attention to scrolling through the news on his phone.

“kinky,” he throws out casually, not even bothering to look up.

breakfast goes like that this time—seonghwa as the one glued to his phone, while mingi and you gripe about having to regrade midterms because of a cheating scandal.

⋆⋆⋆

by the fifth time seonghwa encounters you in his kitchen on a saturday morning, you’ve fallen into a routine. seonghwa makes coffee, and you make breakfast; seonghwa makes sure to keep the fridge well-stocked as you begin making increasingly elaborate dishes, and you gift seonghwa a package of your favorite coffee blend.

you enjoy these stolen moments alone, bustling around the kitchen to the soft crackling of whatever record seonghwa chooses to play that morning. the two of you have the first few sips of coffee, first few bites of eggs, first few spoons of porridge alone, until the smell finally draws mingi out of his bed.

and then there’s three of you sitting around the dining table. it’s always pleasant, always comfortable, but it always feels like just one person too many.

sometimes it’s mingi, who is hungover or tired or grumpy; sometimes it’s you, who doesn’t like star wars or follow sports; and most of the time, it’s seonghwa, who doesn’t go to grad school, who spends most of the week, month, year in a different city—

who falls asleep alone at night.

seonghwa knows he could ask just mingi about it. are you just hooking up? is it a situationship? does mingi have feelings for you?

but he won’t, because somehow ignorance is bliss, and he’d rather live in limbo than risk a dive into hell. anyway, he’s not around enough for anything to flourish; he can barely keep the small succulent on his windowsill alive, least of all a real, adult relationship.

and eventually, you always have to leave.

⋆⋆⋆

seonghwa is exhausted. 

his flight had been delayed three times, and it’s already almost midnight by the time he toes off his shoes in the entryway of the apartment. his watch buzzes furiously, and seonghwa knows that it must be either mingi or you, drunkenly asking where he is. a few days ago, he’d promised that he would finally go out with you two, but he’s far too tired for those frivolities now.

instead, he shoots mingi a brief but apologetic text and hops into the shower.

what he intended to be a quick wash turns into a long one, as he lets the warm water pelt him—he’s never gotten around to fixing the abnormally aggressive water pressure of the shower head. but it feels nice now. jolts some feeling back into his system.

when he steps out of the shower, he feels clean but oddly raw. he treats himself to his favorite set of silk pajamas and decides that he has just enough energy to do some of his animal crossing daily tasks.

before he can slip into bed with his switch, he hears a series of frantic knocks on the front door.

operating under the assumption that mingi probably forgot his keys at the bar or something, seonghwa doesn’t check the peephole and just unlocks the door. he doesn’t even bother opening it before turning back towards his room.

but the thing swings open so abruptly that it bangs against the wall.

“jesus!” seonghwa says. “be careful with that—!”

except it’s not a drunk mingi standing in the threshold, it’s—

“you!” you say, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “you didn’t text me back. why didn’t you come out tonight?”

you look different tonight.

you’re wearing real clothes, for one. jeans and a top that makes your tits look great (not that seonghwa is focusing on that). 

your facial features look sharper, outlined and defined by makeup that’s usually washed away by morning. and you’re angry—eyes narrowed to near slits and hands on your hips. 

seonghwa sighs. “i just got back. i was too tired to go out. i told mingi that i’m sorry.”

“well you didn’t tell me sorry!” you huff, stepping into the apartment and letting the door shut harshly.

“sorry,” seonghwa says.

you square each other up just then. the smaller but furious you against the bigger but drained seonghwa.

“what are you doing here?” seonghwa finally tries. “where’s mingi?”

“last i saw, he was making out with sarah kim on the dance floor,” you say.

“oh,” seonghwa says. this must be why you are so mad. “i’m sorry.”

for the first time tonight, your anger drops just slightly. “for what?”

hesitantly, seonghwa says, “aren’t you mad?”

“well, yeah,” you say. “but not at mingi.”

and then before seonghwa can ask who exactly you’re mad at, you smack yourself in the forehead.

“oh my god, what was that for—?”

“seonghwa—do you think mingi and i are together or something?”

“well, you two have been hooking up for at least two months now,” seonghwa says.

“fuck,” you mutter, and then you round on seonghwa. “i’ve been trying to hang out with you, and we were supposed to tonight, until you bailed.”

seonghwa is so preoccupied with defending himself, that he barely picks up on the subtext of your words. “i told you—i was fucking tired! my flight was delayed, like, three—”

“the only i reason i was hooking up with mingi was to hang out with you!” you wail.

the statement is so ridiculous that all seonghwa can do is stare at you in stunned silence.

“you- what—?”

“and for the record! we never even really hooked up!” you continue.

faintly, seonghwa wonders if he’s having a heart attack. with every word that comes out your mouth, seonghwa can feel his heart rate spike dramatically. but none of this adrenaline is making its way to his brain, so his processing power is still slow.

“what are you saying?” seonghwa croaks.

your expression softens, and you take a step closer.

“i like you,” you say. “i really like spending the mornings with you, and i’d like to spend nights with you, too. but only if you—”

“yes,” seonghwa says immediately. “yes.”

the edges of your eyes crinkle as your face splits into a large grin. “so, you like me, too?”

seonghwa replies by surging forward and finally, finally kissing you.

⋆⋆⋆

the next morning, seonghwa and you wake up early, but you don’t get up to make coffee or breakfast. you stay in bed for as long as you can, until you hear timid knocks on seonghwa’s door.

“guys? how do you work the espresso machine?”

[urmommysfavkisserrr]

Sin Of Sunshine.

°•☆•° - Paige Bueckers x Ex-Wife Reader (Brazilian)

°•☆•° - No matter how long and stressful her day had been, she knows she could always come back home to you, even if you look like a goddamn sin in the sunshine.

°•☆•° - I’m procrastinating the new series, and I wanted to play around with this little family some more soooo. lowkey hate how this ended. like a lot.

°•☆•° - 3213 words,

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

Paige couldn’t remember the last time her body felt this tired, but she knew she couldn’t deny it. Her bones felt like they were made of lead, her muscles like jelly, ready to give in and fall to the ground at any given second. 

The added ten minutes to her drive home didn’t help at all. There were multiple moments where she’d stop at a red light and zone out so hard that the cars behind her would honk when it turned green again, but the second she walked into the house, it was all worth it.

The smell hit her first. 

Warm vanilla wafting through the entryway from what she noticed was coming from a candle she had gotten you back in college for a birthday, and an added hint of oranges from what she could have guessed was from a diffuser.

Then the sounds. 

Zahria’s giggles and breathless words as she tried to speak in your native language of Portuguese, with an added melody of some random song in the background, and your gentle corrections.

And as she followed the sounds down the hall and into the kitchen, she found the sight that made every ache in her bones worth it. She’d take every ounce of pain humanly possible if it meant she could come home to this every damn day. 

Zahria sat criss-cross on the island counter, hunched over a stack of notebooks. Most of them were homework from school, the others were homemade packets you had made for her to help her learn more about where you came from. It was an obsession that started when she was five and heard you speak in something that wasn’t English, but it made her heart feel warm.

Zolani was sitting in one of the four bar stools, hands playing with some odd purple sand that Paige had yet to figure out. The occasional lisped word falling from her lips as she’d try and repeat something that Zahria had just said in Portuguese.

And then there was you. Your back to Paige and the rest of the house as you stood behind Zolani. Carefully working product into her damp curls and braiding it good enough to not have to be dealt with for at least a week. 

You were in a plain burnt orange dress. Spaghetti straps, thigh slit, ruffled and dropped bodice. The same dress that your sister had given you after cleaning out her closet over a year ago.

Simple nude heels and gold jewelry. Stacks of it on every place where it could be put, your ears, neck, wrists, fingers, hell, you even had an ankle bracelet.

Your hair was down and in your natural curls, the style Paige loved so much that she spent days watching you do your routine just so she could do it for you when you were too tired.

Even your nails were done. Plain nude with gold chrome tips that shone in the right lighting. Something Paige had insisted you get done at least once a month after she saw you eyeing down some cheap ass press-ons in CVS one night. That was a big no in her books.

The blonde made her way to the far end of the island first, hands slowly slinking around the small body propped up in the high chair. Messy blonde hair, bright blue eyes, and a gummy smile beamed up at the blonde the second the baby realized it was Paige holding him. 

Andre Thomas Bueckers.

Andre after your older brother, and Thomas from Paige’s little brother. The one-year-old was a carbon copy of Paige and her ride-or-die partner in crime.

“Ah-Ah!” The boy babbled, hands clapping together before reaching out to touch the blonde's cheeks. 

The sound also alerted the three other girls to the new figure in the room, which ended up echoing into a blend of “Mommy!”, “Mommy’s home!”, and “Don’t ruin your hair, Zo!”

You sighed as the kids ran to swarm Paige, arms crossed as you leant your hip into the counter, head slightly cocked. You couldn’t help the small smile that curled on your lips at the sight, even if you knew your last hour of work on Zolani’s hair would get messed up. 

Paige knelt with Andre still in her arms and resting on her left hip. Zahria stood on her right, hands on her shoulder, while Zolani stood in front of her, babbling on about something with her lisp.

Zolani jumped up and down, her little arms waving by her sides as a wide smile took over her face, minus the two missing front teeth. “Mommy! Look! I lost my other tooth! Mama said I might get money from the Tooth Fairy if I go to sleep early tonight.”

“Mama’s right, babe. The Tooth Fairy only comes to see good little girls and boys, and only if you’re asleep.” Paige responded softly, using her free arm to gently grab Zolani’s to try and prevent her from accidentally hitting the baby or her sister before standing up.

“Go on, go back to Mama and let her finish your hair. I’m gonna go put little mister here in a clean diaper.”

The girl did as told, bounding back over to the island where you were and climbed back up into the chair, as Paige left the room and Zahria grabbed her packets and snuck up the stairs, most likely to her room. “Mommy said I had to let you finish my hair.”

“Did she now?” You hummed with a small smirk as you picked up the comb and gel once again.

Zolani nodded, crossing her arms with a huff. Something she claimed ‘helped her focus’, aka, just kept her from reaching out for other things to fidget with. “Mhmm. I wanna show her my pigtails.”

Your smirk immediately fell, along with your hands that dropped to your sides. “Pigtails? No, mama, we’re doing braids.”

The six-year-old had never spun around to face you faster than she just did. Her little hands clamped onto the back of the chair as she shifted onto her knees. “No! I want Piggys Mama!”

A deep sigh fell from your lips, rubbing your forehead with the back of your hand, the same hand that held the comb. “Babe, come on, we’ve talked about this already. If we do the braids, which I already started, then we don’t have to worry about it in the morning.”

“Piggys.”

“Zo.”

“Piggys.”

“Eu juro por Deus, eu vou machucar essa criança.” (I swear to god, I’m going to kill this child.)

“Mommy likes my curls, Mama!”

That earned another sigh from you, this one much more saddened yet understanding. “Is that what this is about? Mommy liking your hair?”

“...I just want her to smile at me.” Seeing that look in your youngest daughter's face broke something inside of you, your heart, maybe your soul.

You moved from behind the chair to the side of it, kneeling to be more level with Zolani. Your hand softly resting on her knee. “Baby, Mommy will always smile at you, she loves you. You’re the light of her life, just like your sister and brother are, okay? Mommy will like whatever you want to do with your hair. So, what do you wanna do?”

Zolani sat there for a second, eyes drifting to the messy pile of purple sand as the thoughts worked through her brain, and you let her. “The braids.”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. Cuz then I can have more playtime in the morning.” Zolani nodded firmly, that all too familiar sass coming back to the front. 

“That’s right, baby.” You hummed as you stood back up, moving to stand behind the chair once again and finally get these braids finished. 

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

It was later that night, after all the kids got put to bed. A soft, golden glow floated through the house that lit everything up as if it came down from heaven itself.

You stood in front of the sink, washing up the containers from the kids' lunches and any leftover dishes that couldn’t go in the dishwasher. Still in the same dress, same everything.

Your mind zoned out to the point of being locked in on what's in front of you, but unable to hear anything around you, a song you heard hours earlier on the radio playing over and over as if it was playing out loud.

And from the kitchen entryway, Paige swore she was about to bust. 

She has no idea how long she’s been standing there, just watching you. 

It’s creepy, yeah, but you were like a drug to her. Like a parasite in her brain. Like that dumb mouse from that kids' movie Zolani loved to watch, where he controlled the guy by pulling his hair.

The way you stood in that direct stream of glowing sunlight, like it didn’t bother you, the way it lit up every inch of your skin, your hair, your jewelry. It made you look like you didn’t even belong in this cruel world, like you were carved from marble and coated in gold.

Yeah, Paige was fucked. Completely and utterly fucked.

Hands sliding around your waist from behind is what brought you back to the present, a warm face nuzzling into your neck as your body leaned back into Paige’s without a second thought. The plastic plate slid from your hands back down into the soapy water.

“Hi, Mama.”

“Hi, Mommy.”

The blonde huffed, her hands sliding to rest over your stomach as she placed soft kisses on your neck. “How’re you feeling?”

You hummed, a smirk crawling up onto your lips. “You do know I had the baby a year ago already, right? You don’t have to fuss over me anymore.”

Paige did not like that. 

She brought her hands back to your hips before gently turning you around so now you faced her, and your back was to the sink. “I do. I do have to fuss over you. I want to fuss over you. I did with Zahria, with Zolani, with Andre, and I plan to do it again if we ever have another one, and until the day we die.”

Your head tilted with a knowing look, “You just like seeing me pregnant.”

And the blonde couldn’t deny your words. “That...I do. Yeah.”

“Mhm.”

She squeezed your hips to get your attention back on her, “But I also enjoy seeing you happy. I love watching you glow, Ma.”

You huffed, “Glow?”

“Mhmm.” Her hands roamed over your sides, eyes darting down to trace along your body before looking back up at you. “You glow when you’re happy, Mama, and god is it a sight. I’d die to see it forever.”

A soft laugh fell from your lips as you leaned forward, hands sliding from the blonde's shoulders to wrap around her neck as your head landed on her chest. “You’re so sappy.”

“For you I am.” And she tightened her hold on you, keeping you there for a beat before pulling back to eye you up and down again. 

Her eyes dancing over every inch of you, like she wanted-no, needed to commit it to memory. “Also, this fucking dress? Shit, Ma. Where you been hidin’ this shit, huh?”

Your lips curled, a faint blush blooming on your cheeks. “You like it?”

“Like it? Fuck, baby, I fucking love it. You look fuckin’ good. My god.” Paige couldn’t tear her eyes away from you.

You laughed again, louder and more genuine. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Nah, I’m turned the fuck on.” The blonde shamelessly admited, her eyes lingering on your boobs and hips, even your stomach. Part of her wondered what the dress would look like had you worn it a year ago, while you were still carrying Andre.

“Paige!”

She huffed, her gaze finally moving back up to look at you, after another lingering glance at your tits. “What? I’m serious. I’ve had the worst fuckin’ day, and I had to prepare myself to deal with screaming kids the whole drive here, yet when I walk in they’re all smiles and laughs and then there you are looking like a goddamn sin.”

“You say that about everything I wear.”

“Cuz it’s fuckin’ true. You could be wearing nothin’ and i’d still wanna fuck you down.”

A shocked laugh bubbled out of you, your hand swatting at her chest. “Oh my god- Paige, I just had a baby.” “So what?” The blonde just scoffed, like that would have no effect on her and what she wanted to do to you.

“So…I look different now.” You spoke hesitantly, that hint of insecurity flashing behind your eyes as you did.

Paige noticed, she always did.

She shook her head, hands tightening on your waist before loosening again. She knew the last thing you needed in this moment was to feel trapped, so she made sure her grip was loose enough that you could slip away if you wanted. 

“Nah, fuck that. You look good, so fuckin’ good. Fuck, baby, I could do so many things to you right now. I don’t care about none of that baby weight bullshit. You don’t feel pretty? I’ll fuckin’ remind you. I’ll do it all day, every day, till you believe it.”

She knew you didn’t fully believe her, you never did, but that’s okay. Because she was going to make sure you understood that you knew how she saw you, and that's all that mattered. 

“You looked beautiful before any of the kids, you looked beautiful after Zahria, after Zolani, even after Andre. Baby, you’re the most fucking stunning girl i’ve every laid eyes on, I swear on my fucking life.”

“Paige..”

Paige shook her head, grabbing her hand and already starting to walk out of the kitchen and up the stairs. “Nah, come on. Upstairs. I’m gonna show you how fucking beautiful you are.”

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

“You still with me, baby?”

Paige’s voice was the first thing that pulled you out of your blissful stupor, her now cool hands against your heated body being the second. “Hm?”

“I asked if you were with me, here on earth.” Her voice was soft, soothing. Almost guiding you back to that blissed out place, had you not wanted to hear more of it.

“...mhm.” You hummed out through slightly parted lips and closed eyes.

She laughed softly, her hands sliding up from your thighs to your hips, then waist, then the sides of your ribs. “You sure about that, Mama? You’re spacin’ on me.”

After a beat, you finally opened your eyes. Lazily blinking up at the blonde above you. Your words loose and heavy. “Just…feels good.” Paige’s lips curled, one of her hands moving to press into the sheets to hold herself up while the other gently brushed your hair away from your face. “Yeah? I bet it does. That’s what happens when we use our words and say what we want.”

You grumbled at the cockyness in her tone, your eyes slipping shut once again as your lips curled to a pout. “Shhh…”

“No, no. Hey, no. Stay with me, Mama. I gotta get you cleaned up, hm? You wanna get in the bath?” She tapped your cheek, not hard, just enough to break that sleepy daze you were in.

Your brows furrowed as your lips curled into a faint pout, “Wanna cuddle...”

“We can, we will. We just gotta get you cleaned up first, okay? Just stay there and look pretty for me, try to stay awake, okay?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, eyes still closed, and lips still pouted.

Paige softly huffed at your actions, her hand patting your hip once before she carefully got off the bed and padded into the bathroom. “Keep bein’ a good girl for me, yeah? You’re doin’ so good, baby.”

°•°•☆°•°•°•☆•°•°•°☆•°•°

You very much failed at being a good girl, because the next thing you remember was your eyes fluttering open as you were being lowered down into the tub full of warm water. Paige’s body carefully sliding in behind you. “Hmm..”

“Hey, there you are. Welcome back, baby.”

“Hi..” You mumbled, body melting back into the blonde’s front as your head fell to her shoulder.

Paige left soft and warm kisses on your jaw and cheek, her hands rubbing your hips and upper thighs. “You feel okay, baby? Was it too much?”

“Hmm...a little, but it was good. M’good. S’good.” Your eyes softly fluttered shut once again, just soaking in the moment.

Paige’s touch grew a little firmer at that. “You shoulda said somethin’, Ma. I woulda stopped, or slowed down. You know that.”

You faintly nodded against her shoulder, “I know…I know, but it was good. I liked it, needed it.”

“Oh. You needed it, hm?”

You could hear the smirk on her lips and the cockiness in her tone. “Mhmm...”

“You needed a reminder, or to feel good?” Her hands resumed their movements up and down your sides.

You hummed, “Both. A reminder, and to feel good. To just..let go ‘n trust for a little bit.”

Paige’s face softened at that, and so did her touch. “You can always trust me, baby. You know that, right?”

Hearing the hidden fear and vulnerability in Paige’s voice made your heart twist. You turned your head just slightly, enough to press a kiss on her jaw and leave your lips there as you spoke. 

“No, I know, I do. It’s just..” You sighed. “Zolani has been on this...kick...lately. Everything she does, she thinks about how it’ll affect you, how it’ll make you feel, if you’ll like it. She’s scared, P.”

Her head tilted, “Of what?”

Your eyes blinked open and landed on the blonde, looking up at Paige the best you could from the odd angle. “You. She thinks that if she does something wrong, you’ll leave again. That it’ll be her fault, again.”

Paige’s brows immediately furrowed, her body tensing. “What? Why would she think that?”

You sighed, guilt lacing every inch of your voice and face. “Zahria and I. We’d both talk about you. She’d see pictures. Eventually, she asked, and we told her. I explained how she wouldn’t remember you, cuz she was two when we split, and she was too young to remember when you’d still pick them up. So she thought you left because of her.”

“Oh…sweet girl...” Paige’s lips parted as she took everything in, her eyes trained on a single tile on the bathroom wall.

You hummed in acknowledgment, rolling your head to look up at the ceiling instead of Paige as you let the blonde think everything over. “She just started it after you moved in.”

Paige’s voice dropped to a whisper as the pieces started clicking together, everything suddenly making sense. “That’s why she’s been so moody.” 

Your lips quirked up just slightly as you thought about your earlier conversation with your daughter, then they dropped back down. “She wants to ‘see you smile at her.’  Her words, not mine.”

“I do smile at her.” Was the last thing you heard before you slipped out again, the mix of the bath and Paige’s body against yours was enough to put you right to sleep.

“She’s my light, and you’re my world.”

[softforsukuna]

Chrome & Curses

I am sleep deprived, used all my brain power on college assignments and this rn is the best i can do. i present biker! sukuna x fae(?) reader. no one knows if shes human, even i dont. fluff/crack fic.

tw: a corpse i think(is this even a tw)

word count: at least 3

• ──── ୨୧ ──────── ୨୧ ──── •

Sukuna had seen things. Cursed spirits, bloodied battlegrounds, the inside of a man’s skull (twice). Nothing shocked him anymore.

Until you.

He spotted you while speeding down the winding road outside the city, the scent of smoke and iron in his nose. You were in the middle of the lane, squinting at a squirrel like it was revealing the secrets of the universe. Your dress looked like it was made from tablecloths and stardust. Your hair was tangled in wildflowers. And your socks had clouds on them. Clouds.

He swerved hard, tire screaming against asphalt, stopping inches away from you. Helmet off, eyes blazing, tattoos writhing slightly with leftover rage — he was ready to unleash hell.

You tilted your head. “Oh. Are you a fire spirit?”

“…What?”

“Because you’ve got the vibe.”

He didn’t reply. Mostly because he was silently recalibrating his entire reality.

You introduced yourself like you were at a garden tea party, not nearly roadkill. And then you reached out and gently touched one of his tattoos like it was a butterfly, gasping in delight. “Ooooh, this one’s angry. Do they all have names?”

He didn’t punch you. That was the first clue he was in trouble.

Within a week, he’s picked you up from a “moss gathering” expedition, where you accidentally wandered into a biker bar and asked a man twice your size if he was a tree. Sukuna had to break a pool cue in half and growl something vaguely demonic to get you out of there.

You thanked him by putting stickers on his gas tank. (They're still there.)

You baked him cookies you swore were from a family recipe, but he’s 80% sure they were just mushrooms, glitter, and hope. He ate three.

He’s convinced you’re a fae. Not metaphorically. Genuinely. There is no way a human could survive the modern world with the amount of bewildered whimsy you exude. You don’t know what a QR code is. You think gas stations are “tiny spell shops.” Once, you offered a cop a pinecone “in trade.”

And yet…

He’s smitten. Not the slow, creeping kind. The crash-into-you-at-100-km/h kind.

Sukuna now:

* Teaches you how crosswalks work like a grumpy jungle guide.

* Hangs crystal charms from his handlebars because “they keep your aura clear.”

* Absolutely murders anyone who so much as looks at you sideways, then scowls as you hand the corpse a flower crown “for their next life.”

* Rides out to weird groves and forgotten shrines because you said the “trees there whisper funny.”

You, in turn, believe in him. Entirely. Without hesitation. You pat his terrifying tattoos like they're shy kittens. You call his curses “his little friends.” You talk to his bike like it’s alive (he’s starting to suspect… maybe it is, now).

One night, as you both sit by a campfire in the woods — you humming to the stars, him sharpening a blade for “reasons” — you curl up in his lap, tiny and warm, and murmur sleepily:

“You’re not so scary. I think you’re just… a thundercloud who forgot how to rain.”

And that’s the moment Ryomen Sukuna, King of Curses, Toppled God of Wrath and Leather, realizes:

He’s doomed.

And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

[jmdbjk]

He healed a lot of us, including himself.

It was like an oasis in the desert. For almost 2.5 hours he quenched our thirst and his as well to be in front of us. We've all missed him so much! It's been a just over a year since he said good-bye to us in his last live last December.

He kept looking around his new house, trying to get used to his new surroundings.

He gave us a tour of his new man cave deep underground in basement level 2. No complaining neighbors ever again! And that's a very extensive selection he has on his bar. Also, an advanced level DJ and noraebang set up. Comfy leather couches. His Hello Kitty plushie. Cozy scented candle.

He does like him some black leather, glossy black marble and chrome though...when I said man cave, maybe I should have said glam cave.

I was hoping we'd get a tour of his house eventually. Phew, never knew it would ever be this soon though! I bet we'll get to see his new kitchen eventually!

He told us he missed us over and over. He sang at least 30 songs including everything on Golden.

And he gave us some TMIs: He and Jimin are working hard and doing well. When he's done in the kitchen and they get personal time, he and Jimin wander off and practice singing. And, as I'm sure everyone knows now, they also sing together in the shower... my timeline is especially ecstatic over that li'l nugget of info.

But he was also open about being nervous and insecure about singing. He admitted his confidence level was suffering a little.

The military hasn't changed him much. I hope Weverse gets the english subs up quickly. I may be back with more.

[movingmusically]

Could there be a story where benny the biker is jealous of his gf's music professor who's played by harry styles? Benny knows she has musical prowess, but is harry's interest strictly scholarly? Y/N isn't really sure but she's kind of ashamed she doesn't mind being admired by two men that are so different

Word Count: 13.4k

Masterlist

Keys & Chrome

I was studying music by day, slinging cheap whiskey by night. That’s how it went—lectures and rehearsals at college, followed by shifts at a dive biker bar that smelled like stale beer and something always just about to catch fire. Rent didn’t care about Chopin.

The first time I noticed him, he was sitting in the back corner—half in shadow, boots kicked up, shoulders loose but coiled like a held breath. Blonde hair messy from the ride, smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers. He looked like trouble, but the quiet kind. The kind that didn’t need to prove anything. He was young—my age, maybe a year or two older—but already had the kind of eyes that made you think he’d been through it.

Benny. Youngest of the Vandals.

He was always with the others—loud, leathered, obnoxious—but not like them. He didn’t shout, didn’t leer. He just watched. Not in that gross, lingering way I was used to, but carefully. Like he was clocking the whole room without moving a muscle.

He never spoke to me. Not until the night I had to tell some guy—for the third time—that no, he couldn’t walk me to my car. No, I didn’t want his number. No, I wasn’t “being shy.” He laughed in my face, leaned over the bar, and grabbed my wrist hard when I tried to back away.

“You’re too pretty to be this cold,” he slurred. “Bet I could warm you up. Bet you’d let me if we were somewhere quiet.”

I didn’t panic. I’d learned how to go still, how to keep my voice calm, how to make eye contact without inviting anything.

But before I could say a word, he was gone—releasing me with a muttered curse as another shadow stepped between us.

Benny didn’t touch him. Didn’t even speak. Just stood there, still as death, staring. And it worked. The guy backed off like he’d just realised he was about to pick a fight with something wild.

After that, Benny started walking me to my car after every shift. No big declarations. No asking. He was just there. Leaning against the wall when I locked up. Lighting a cigarette while I crossed the lot. Or hands in his jacket pockets like he had nowhere else to be. I never asked why. I didn’t need to.

One night, I came out to find him crouched next to the driver’s side, bare arms dusted with grease, tools laid out on the tarmac. His jacket was slung over the bonnet, and he was wearing a faded cut-off shirt that hung loose over his frame, sleeves hacked off to the shoulder. His forearms flexed as he worked—lean muscle and calloused hands, strong in that quiet, lived-in way that didn’t try to impress anyone.

“You had a busted mirror,” he said, not looking up. “Loose bolt. Wasn’t gonna hold much longer.”

“You always carry tools around?”

“I fix things.”

It made me laugh, and he looked up at that—just for a second. Like maybe he wasn’t expecting it.

His eyes were blue. Striking, even in the low light. And for a second, he just held my gaze like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. Then he went back to what he was doing, and neither of us said anything else.

After that, he started talking to me. Little things, dry comments while I poured drinks. Snark about the regulars. A smirk when the jukebox skipped to something too cheerful for a Tuesday. I found myself looking for him in the crowd, and I hated how obvious it felt.

Somewhere in there, I must’ve told him about school. I don’t remember how it came up. Maybe I was humming while I cleaned glasses, or maybe he just noticed things. He always did.

He didn’t ask dumb questions. Didn’t pretend to get it. But he listened when I ranted about composers, or complained about endless rehearsals and how no one ever wanted to programme women in concert lineups. He didn’t offer advice—just let me talk, nodding like it mattered.

Then one night, after close, I sat down at the battered upright in the corner. It was wildly out of tune, a few keys stuck if you hit them too hard, but it was still a piano, and I needed something that made sense.

I played something small. Simple. Something just for me.

I didn’t know he was still there until I finished.

He was standing by the jukebox, cigarette unlit, arms crossed, eyes on me.

“That was good,” he said.

I blinked. “Didn’t know you were still here.”

“Didn’t know you could make it sound like that.”

I smiled a little, fingers still resting on the keys. “I’m studying piano performance. It’s sort of my thing.”

He nodded, then said, quietly, “I like hearin’ you talk about music. Don’t always get it, but I like the way you say it.”

That was the beginning.

Now it’s been months. And I’ve got a boyfriend who smells like oil and Marlboros, who kisses me like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. Who pulls up outside on his bike with one hand on the throttle and a look that says get on. I ride with my arms around his waist, the wind tangling my hair, the world streaking past in golds and greys. Sometimes it feels like flying. Sometimes it feels like falling.

⸻

The rehearsal rooms on the top floor were always cold. Pale light spilled through the tall windows, catching on dust motes like a snow globe that had just been shaken. I liked this one best—big enough for the grand piano to breathe, quiet enough that I could, too.

Wednesday mornings were for tutorials. Two hours, just me and Professor Styles.

I was early. Again.

The piano bench creaked as I settled in, fingers already warming up on instinct. Major scales, then minor, then a slow drift into something more complex—a movement from my recital programme, still half-formed in my hands. I’d been working on it for weeks. I loved how it sounded when I got it right. And I hated how often I didn’t.

The door opened behind me with a soft click.

“Still the only student I know who shows up fifteen minutes early,” came the familiar voice.

I didn’t stop playing. “Still the only professor I know who notices.”

He laughed quietly—more a sound of agreement than amusement. “Well. There’s a reason I fought to keep you in my studio this year.”

I glanced over my shoulder as he entered. Professor Styles always looked like he belonged in a different century. Black trousers, wool coat left unbuttoned, shirt sleeves pushed up just enough to show the ink stain on his wrist. His hair curled slightly in the damp. There was a record tucked under his arm, as usual.

He set it on the windowsill, watching me with that particular kind of attention he always had—focused, but not overbearing. Like he was listening even when I wasn’t playing.

“You’ve been working on the Dutilleux,” he said, nodding toward the sheet music beside me.

“Trying to. It’s like learning to breathe backwards.”

His lips curved faintly. “That’s a compliment, for Dutilleux.”

He moved to the chair just behind me, not close enough to crowd, but near enough that I could feel the shift in air between us. He didn’t carry the scent of cologne, just paper and something woody—like old books and forgotten rooms.

“Go ahead,” he said. “From the top.”

I played. Slowly, then with more confidence as the piece unfolded. My fingers stumbled once—too much pressure in the left hand—but I didn’t stop. I’d learned not to stop. Professor Styles didn’t believe in halting just because you missed something. “Recover like it was meant to happen,” he always said.

When I finished, he didn’t speak right away.

Then: “You’re close. Not just technically. You’re… starting to let the music speak without getting in the way.”

I turned slightly. “That a compliment?”

He smiled. “Absolutely. You’re getting better at letting go.”

It was the kind of feedback that stuck with me. I liked that about him. He never handed out praise unless it meant something. When he said you were good, it was because you’d earned it.

I looked away, staring down at the keys. “Sometimes I feel like I’m chasing shadows. Like I know what I want the piece to say, but my hands haven’t caught up.”

“You’ll get there,” he said softly. “Your instincts are sharp. You just need to trust them more.”

There was a pause. Not awkward. Just long enough to notice.

He cleared his throat and stood. “Take a break. We’ll go again from the second movement.”

I nodded, letting my fingers trail off the keys.

He crossed to the window, adjusting the record slightly on the sill like it was some kind of habit. I watched him for a second too long before looking away.

It wasn’t like that.

Not really.

He was just my professor.

And I… I just liked being seen.

I packed up slowly after we finished, folding my sheet music with more care than it needed. He didn’t rush me—he never did. Just stood by the window, fingers brushing the edge of the record he’d brought in like it meant something. Maybe it did.

When I turned to leave, he glanced over his shoulder.

“You’re playing well,” he said, tone casual. “It’s coming together.”

“Thanks Professor Styles,” I said, shifting my bag onto one shoulder. “I’m trying.”

He nodded. Then added, almost offhand, “And you can call me Harry, by the way. ‘Professor Styles’ makes me feel about twenty years older than I am.”

I blinked. “Oh. Right. Sure.”

A small smile tugged at his mouth. “Don’t worry. You’re not the first student who’s looked like I just asked them to commit a crime.”

“You kind of did,” I said, trying to laugh it off.

He didn’t push it. Just gave another nod, softer this time. “Take care. I’ll see you in class.”

I left before I could think too much about how that landed. The echo of the piano still hummed in my bones as I pushed through the building’s heavy doors and stepped out into the street.

And there he was.

Benny, perched on his bike like he’d been born in that exact spot, one boot planted on the pavement, fingers tapping against the throttle in a slow, familiar rhythm. Wind-ruffled hair, oil-smudged denim, and a look that flicked to mine the second I appeared.

He didn’t wave or smile or call out. He didn’t need to.

I crossed the street and climbed on behind him, hands finding his waist like muscle memory. He passed me a look over his shoulder—checking, like always—and then the engine roared to life beneath us.

My world was split clean down the middle.

Grand pianos and bike engines.

Recital halls and back alley bars.

And somehow, I was balancing between them like I belonged in both.

Like I could keep it that way forever.

⸻

She came outta the building the same way she always did—like she had a purpose, even if it was just headin’ for me. Bag over one shoulder, hair a little messy from the wind, or maybe from pullin’ it loose after whatever lesson she’d just finished. Always looked a little different after. Like somethin’ shifted while she was in there.

She spotted me, and that small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. The one she didn’t give nobody else. Or maybe she did—I wouldn’t know. I didn’t follow her in. Wouldn’t fit, even if I tried.

She climbed on behind me without sayin’ a word, arms around my waist, chin just brushin’ my shoulder for a second. Like always.

Oughta feel normal by now. Routine.

It didn’t.

I kept my eyes on the road, hands steady, but my head was somewhere else. Caught on the same damn thought that crept in sometimes—quiet, like a leak I hadn’t patched yet.

I didn’t know what the hell she saw in me.

She was all sharp edges and quiet ambition. Played like she was built for it, talked like she’d swallowed a library. And me—

I fixed shit.

I hit shit.

I rode fast enough to feel like somethin’ was chasin’ me, even if I didn’t know what.

She never looked at me like I didn’t belong. Not once. But sometimes I looked at her and thought, You could have anyone. Why the fuck me?

And worse—How long until you realise you shouldn’t’ve picked me at all?

We ended up at this spot a couple blocks from the school. Real diner—chrome counters, red vinyl booths, eggs all day, no music ‘cept the hum of the fans and the clink of cutlery. She liked it. Said it was the only place that didn’t smell like espresso or try to sell her a five-dollar muffin.

We grabbed a booth by the window. I always let her sit facin’ the door. No real reason. Just habit. She slid her coat off, smoothed down her hair, and started diggin’ through a mess of paper in her bag.

“Lesson go alright?” I asked, like I wasn’t already lookin’ at her mouth when she bit her lip.

She nodded, kinda distracted. “Yeah. Same piece. Second movement’s still chewing me up.”

“Sounded pretty good last week.”

“Pretty good doesn’t cut it.” Then she smiled, and hell if it didn’t hit me like it always did. Warm. Sharp. Like bein’ punched and kissed at the same time. “But thanks.”

Waitress came by, dropped two menus and poured coffee like she knew the drill. I got a sandwich. She ordered a salad, then stole half my fries like always.

“So,” she said, twirlin’ her fork. “What about you? Vandal business this morning?”

“Stopped by the shop,” I said. “Corky busted the front end of his bike again showin’ off for some girls.”

She snorted. “Charming.”

“They weren’t impressed.”

“Smart girls.”

I grinned. She stole another fry.

It was always like this. Easy. Like we’d known each other longer than we had. Like we hadn’t spent the first month pretendin’ we weren’t watchin’ each other from across the bar.

I still remembered our first kiss.

She’d just finished her shift and I’d walked her to her car, like I always did. That night, she leaned on the hood for a second before unlockin’ it. Said her hands were cold. I offered her my jacket. She took it, looked at me, and said, “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you nervous before.”

And I was. Heart bangin’ around in my ribs like it was in the wrong damn body.

She kissed me first. Quick. Sure. Like she wasn’t waitin’ on me to get my shit together. I kissed her back—harder than I meant to, probably. Like I’d been holdin’ my breath for weeks and didn’t know what to do with the air now that I had it. She didn’t seem to mind. Just smiled against my mouth like she’d known I would.

And now here she was, across the table, eatin’ my fries and talkin’ about her music like this was normal.

Like we were normal.

But I didn’t feel normal with her.

I felt seen. And not for what I looked like, or what jacket I wore, or what crew I ran with. She looked at me like I was made of more than fists and silence. And the real kicker? I wanted to be. For her.

“You’re quiet,” she said, lookin’ up.

“Just thinkin’.”

“Dangerous,” she teased, nudgin’ my foot under the table.

I took a sip of coffee to cover the ache in my chest. “Yeah. Probably.”

⸻

The classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust and old wood. Not the kind of place where inspiration lived. Just rows of desks, open books, and stifled yawns. Music theory at 3pm on Friday had a way of thinning the soul.

I sat near the back. Not hidden, but not front-row eager either. I already knew most of what was on the board. Counterpoint rules. Voice leading. Dominant sevenths bending back toward home. I copied notes anyway. I always did.

Professor Styles moved through the lecture like he wasn’t trying to impress anyone—clear, efficient, never condescending. He didn’t use slides. Just spoke, occasionally scribbled on the board, and the room always quieted a little when he did.

Class ended with the usual shuffle of chairs and papers. People started filing out—some still half-asleep, some already talking about coffee. I was zipping up my bag when I heard it:

“Y/N—could you stay a minute?”

I looked up. His tone was casual, but it still made my stomach flip. A few people turned as they passed, but no one lingered. It wasn’t unusual. Not really.

I stayed in my seat as the room cleared out.

When it was just the two of us, he leaned against the desk at the front, arms folded loosely. No notes in his hands. Just watching me, not quite smiling.

“Just wanted to check in before Wednesday,” he said. “Our lesson.”

“Sure,” I said, standing slowly. “Everything alright?”

He nodded. “More than alright. I was impressed by your analysis today.”

I blinked. “You were?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Most students memorise the rules. You heard something different in that Brahms passage. Followed instinct. That’s rare.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Thanks,” came out before I could think.

“Don’t overthink it,” he said, with the faintest curve to his mouth. “It’s good to have a mind for structure. But the real magic happens when you start to trust your gut.”

I nodded, even though I wasn’t sure if he meant in music or… something else.

“I’ll see you Wednesday,” he said, pushing off the desk.

“Yeah,” I replied. “Looking forward to it.”

I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.

But I also didn’t correct myself.

⸻

By the time I reached the rehearsal room, the sun was just starting to warm the tall windows, the air still cold enough to raise goosebumps under my sweater. I was five minutes early, but he was already there, leaning against the edge of the piano, arms folded, eyes on the floor like he’d been thinking about something important and didn’t want to bring it into the room.

He looked up when I walked in.

“Morning,” he said, voice softer than usual.

“Morning,” I echoed, dropping my bag and rolling my shoulders. I hadn’t warmed up yet—hadn’t had time—but I sat anyway, fingers twitching to move.

“You look tired,” he said—not unkindly.

“Late shift,” I replied, flexing my hands over the keys.

“Another job?” he asked, stepping a little closer.

I nodded. “Yeah. Nights. A bar.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Busy?”

“Always.” I gave a dry smile. “Not glamorous, if that’s what you’re picturing.”

“Wasn’t,” he said. “Though now I’m curious.”

I glanced at him, then back to the piano. “It’s loud. Sticky floors. Jukebox that skips every third song. I pour drinks and tell men twice my age to keep their hands to themselves.”

He made a quiet sound, like disapproval caught in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it.

I shrugged. “Pays the bills.”

He didn’t speak right away. Then—

“I used to work weekends at a record shop.”

I looked up at him. That surprised me.

“Thought you were born in a tweed blazer,” I said.

That pulled a real smile out of him. “I wasn’t always a professor, you know. Just a kid shelving vinyl for minimum wage and stealing time on the shop piano when my boss wasn’t paying attention.”

“There was a piano in the record store?”

“Old upright in the back,” he said. “Completely out of tune. I loved it.”

For a moment, we were just two people, both with tired hands and old pianos in unlikely places.

I turned back to the keys and started in on the Dutilleux—soft, uncertain at first, then settling into something smoother. I could feel his gaze but didn’t look up.

Halfway through the second page, he moved beside me—closer than before—and reached out without warning to adjust my left wrist.

“Relax here,” he said, fingers brushing mine, light but deliberate. “You’re holding tension. It’s slowing you down.”

I faltered slightly, then caught myself.

“Thanks, Professor—”

I stopped, blinked.

“Harry.”

He glanced down at me, just for a second. Said nothing.

His hand stayed there a moment too long before he pulled back.

When we finished the piece, he moved to the windowsill and picked up the record he’d brought in earlier. He turned it in his hands, thoughtful, then looked over at me.

“Have you heard this one?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Don’t think so.”

“You’d like it.” He held it out. “Take it. Keep it for a while.”

I blinked. “You sure?”

“I’ve already played it to death,” he said. “Besides, it’s better in new hands.”

I took it carefully, the sleeve worn soft at the corners.

“And—actually,” he added, casually, “some friends of mine are putting on a small concert this weekend. Nothing formal. House show. Mostly composers and grad students. You might enjoy it. I could send you the details if you’re interested.”

I stared at him for a beat too long. “Thanks. I’ll think about it.”

His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “No pressure.”

When I left the room, the record was tucked under my arm.

And my hands still remembered the shape of his.

⸻

The bar had that warm, greasy glow it always got ‘round ten. Pool lights low, jukebox cracklin’ something slow, just enough noise to feel alive without leanin’ into chaos.

I was halfway through a game when one of the guys hollered over, beer in hand, grinnin’ wide.

“Hey Cross—how many stoplights was it again?”

I lined up a shot, didn’t even glance over. “They said seven, so…”

Laughter rolled through the room.

Johnny raised his glass. “So, what?”

I sank the ball with one smooth crack and straightened up. “So I guess that’s the number,” I said, tossin’ the cue up into my palm. “But it felt like more.”

That got a bigger laugh. Even Zipco cracked up from over by the jukebox.

Truth was, it had felt like more. Wind in my teeth, cops behind me, the whole world twistin’ sideways around the throttle. I didn’t do it for the thrill. I just needed to know how far I could push it before it all caught up with me.

Then I saw her.

Hair up, sleeves pushed back, tray of empties balanced like it didn’t weigh a thing. She passed by, caught my eye, tipped her head toward the alley door.

Break time.

I handed Wahoo my cue and followed her out back.

It was cooler outside, the kind of night that hinted at rain without deliverin’. She was already leanin’ against the wall, cigarette lit, the tip glowin’ warm against her mouth.

She passed it to me without lookin’. I took a drag and let the smoke sit in my chest a minute before speakin’.

“Wahoo says I ain’t allowed to win more than three games in a row.”

She smirked. “What happens if you do?”

“Says it’s bad for morale.”

“You are bad for morale.”

I exhaled, slow and amused. “Tell that to the state trooper who wrote me up for reckless endangerment and said I needed ‘professional help.’”

She laughed—quiet, real. That sound always knocked somethin’ loose in me.

We stood in comfortable silence for a while, passin’ the cigarette back and forth. I liked moments like this. No crowds. No noise. Just us.

Then she said it—light, casual, like it didn’t mean nothin’.

“Harry, my professor gave me a record after my lesson this week.”

I glanced at her. “Yeah?”

“Said I’d like it. Told me to keep it for a while.” She tapped ash off the end of the cigarette.

I didn’t say anythin’. Just took the smoke back.

“And he invited me to some composer thing,” she added. “Like a house concert. Grad students, mostly.”

I raised a brow. “That normal? Professors handin’ out vinyl and party invitations?”

She shrugged. “He said it was low-key. He’s… kind of like that.”

“Kinda like what?”

She didn’t answer right away. Then, “I guess I mean… he’s not formal. Doesn’t act like other professors.”

I handed the cigarette back. “You call him by his first name?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “He asked me to.”

I nodded once, slow. Watched the ember flare as she inhaled.

I wasn’t gonna say anythin’. Didn’t wanna ruin the quiet. But somethin’ shifted in my chest all the same.

I knew men. Knew how they moved when they were testin’ somethin’. I didn’t care if this one read music instead of engine gauges—he wasn’t subtle. And he wasn’t stupid.

She looked down at her boots like maybe she felt it too.

I didn’t push. Just said, “What’s on the record?”

She looked up again, smilin’ like none of it landed.

“I haven’t listened yet.”

⸻

The address Harry gave me was a townhouse off a side street I’d never noticed before. Narrow steps, cracked paint, lights glowing low behind the curtains. I stood on the pavement longer than I meant to, record in one hand, nerves in the other. I wasn’t even sure why I’d come. Curiosity, maybe. Or the part of me that wanted to prove I could belong here too.

The door was slightly ajar, and music drifted out—something dissonant and freeform, a little jazzy, a little odd. Not the tidy string quartets we analysed in class. Inside, the air smelled like clove cigarettes and old wood, and the furniture didn’t match. A baby grand was wedged into the corner, half-surrounded by people in denim and flannel, shoes kicked off, instruments balanced on laps or propped against the wall.

Not quite bohemian. Not quite beatnik. Somewhere in between. Less berets, more frayed hems and opinionated laughter.

I hovered in the entryway until Harry appeared, smiling like he’d been waiting for me.

“You made it,” he said, and the way he said it made something behind my ribs pull tight.

“Yeah,” I managed. “Wasn’t sure what to wear.”

He laughed softly. “There’s no dress code here. Just ears and an open mind.”

Then his hand brushed the small of my back as he guided me inside, light but deliberate. My pulse flickered. It didn’t mean anything. Not really.

He introduced me around—composers, grad students, a couple of visiting alumni. Each time, he spoke just a little too highly of me. “One of the most intuitive pianists I’ve taught,” he said once, and I had to force myself not to flinch. It was too much.

He stayed close as the performances started. There was a makeshift set-up: a guy with a modular synth, someone else bowing a saw, a girl singing without words into a loop pedal. It wasn’t bad. Some of it was beautiful. But I didn’t know how to react—how much was supposed to move me, how much was meant to challenge me.

Every time I shifted, I felt Harry’s eyes. Watching me instead of the music. Leaning in to say something about the phrasing, or how this performer had just premiered a piece in Berlin, or what he thought I’d find interesting about the structure. His voice was low. Too close. And I realised, after the third or fourth time, that no one else’s professor was sitting next to them like this.

At some point, I let myself wonder what it would be like.

To belong to this world.

The one with mismatched chairs and open chords and quiet conversations that spiralled into theory at midnight.

To be the kind of woman who fit here. Who could talk about contemporary French composers and knew what year each recording of Mahler’s Fifth was released. Who would end up with a man like him—refined, articulate, brilliant. Who’d sit beside him at recitals and open wine with one hand and manuscripts with the other.

And maybe that would’ve been enough.

But then I thought of Benny.

I thought of the sound of his laugh cracking across a smoky bar. The way he always walks me to my car, like it’s just what you do. How he fixes things without asking, like it’s second nature. How the other Vandals—rough, crude, loud—look out for each other like brothers, and nod at me now like I’m one of theirs.

I thought about the way he rides—fast, reckless, like the wind belongs to him.

There’s no piano in his world. No professors. No theory debates over coffee.

But there’s something else. Something real. Something that feels like home even when it’s messy.

And I felt it then—the shame. Hot, creeping.

Because I’d come here. Because I’d been flattered. Because I’d let Harry’s hand rest on my back for too long without stepping away. Because part of me wanted to be admired by two very different men who lived in very different worlds.

Even if I never planned to do anything with it.

I stayed a little longer. Long enough not to seem rude. Long enough for one more performance. Harry leaned over to ask what I thought of it, and I mumbled something noncommittal. I didn’t trust my voice not to betray me.

When I finally stood to leave, he followed me to the door.

“Thanks for inviting me,” I said, and handed his record back.

He looked at it for a second—just a beat too long—before taking it from my hands.

“You sure?”

I nodded. “Yeah. It was… interesting.”

“I meant it,” he said, voice lower now. “You belong in rooms like this.”

He didn’t touch me again. But he didn’t have to.

I stepped out into the night air and exhaled like I’d been holding something in.

I didn’t know how to name what I was feeling. Just that it stayed with me on the walk home—rattling around beside the silence and the heat still low in my chest.

I hadn’t done anything wrong.

But I didn’t feel clean, either.

And that was the part that stuck.

⸻

I was late.

Only by five minutes, but it felt like more when I spotted her already outside, halfway down the steps, not alone.

There was a guy with her. Tall, wiry. Had that sharp, unbothered look some guys get when they’ve never been punched in the mouth. Coat open, sleeves rolled. Voice low, easy. He wasn’t facing’ me, not fully—but I could see the way he leaned in when he talked, like he wanted her to lean back.

She didn’t. But she smiled at somethin’ he said. Brushed her hair behind her ear the way she does when she’s bein’ polite but don’t quite know what to do with it.

I slowed the bike to a crawl and coasted to the curb. Couldn’t hear what he said, but I saw the way he looked at her.

It wasn’t sleazy. Would’ve been easier if it was.

Nah, this was different.

Calculated. Patient. Like he thought he already knew how it’d go. Like he was settin’ the stage and enjoyin’ the wait.

That was worse.

I killed the engine and stepped off. Sound must’ve cut through, ‘cause she turned fast—eyes liftin’, smile changin’. That one was mine. The real one.

He looked too.

And I knew.

He didn’t know who I was. Not yet. Just saw some guy in leather crossin’ the street like he meant it, and didn’t like it. He straightened up. Hands outta his pockets now.

I got close enough to see the crease in his brow before he ironed it out.

“Hey,” she said, steppin’ toward me a little. Not away from him—just into my orbit.

My hand brushed her back. Easy. Natural. And just like that, she turned to face me.

The guy cleared his throat. “Didn’t realise you had someone picking you up.”

Y/N glanced between us. “This is Benny.”

I didn’t say nothin’, just looked at him.

“Hi,” he said, stickin’ out a hand. “Harry Styles. I teach here.”

I looked at the hand. Didn’t take it. “Yeah,” I said. “I’ve heard.”

A beat passed. He let it drop. His eyes flicked to my jacket. My boots. Then to her. “I was just catching Y/N before she left,” he said.

I nodded. “Looked like it.”

Her voice cut through the air between us. “Harry was just heading out.”

He held her gaze a second too long for my likin’. Then smiled—tight and polite. “Right. Of course.”

He turned toward the building. Didn’t say bye. Didn’t nod. Just let his eyes flick one last time to my arm at her back, then walked inside like he already made up his mind about me.

Soon as he was gone, she let out a breath like the air’d changed.

“He just came out to—”

“I know,” I said. But it came out flatter than I meant it to.

We stood there for a beat, then she reached for my hand. I let her take it.

“He’s not—he wasn’t—”

“I know,” I said again, softer this time.

I gave her hand a squeeze. “Come on.”

We walked back to the bike together, her hand still warm in mine.

She climbed on behind me, arms around my waist, chin brushin’ my shoulder. Same as always.

But the way he’d looked at her—that calculation, that pause—sat heavy in my chest the whole way home.

The ride home was quiet.

Not the good kind—the kind where the wind fills in the blanks and you both fall into it easy. This was the other kind. The kind where every gear shift felt louder than it should, and her arms around me were the only thing keepin’ me from flyin’ straight outta my own head.

She didn’t say nothin’. Just held on, steady as ever, but I could feel the way her cheek pressed against my back a little tighter than usual. Like maybe she felt it too.

I dropped her off at home. Didn’t go in. Just waited while she climbed off, hair wild from the ride. Her eyes searched mine like she was about to say somethin’. But I beat her to it.

“I’ll see you at the bar tomorrow,” I said, voice too low, too flat.

She hesitated. Then nodded. “Okay.”

I didn’t kiss her goodbye.

⸻

The bar was louder than usual. Not wild, not dangerous—just buzzing in that Friday night way, all cheap laughter and jukebox static and the sound of pool balls cracking like bones. I moved through it easily, carrying a tray of drinks, weaving around the regulars like it was second nature. It was. The sticky floors, the hazy lights, the smell of cigarette smoke clinging to the curtains—this place lived under my skin now.

I spotted Benny the moment I came back through the swinging door from the back. He was near the pool table, cue resting against one shoulder, face unreadable. Quiet, which wasn’t unusual. But this kind of quiet—closed-off, stormy-eyed—was.

Corky elbowed me gently as I passed, jerking his chin toward Benny. “Your boy’s in a mood.”

I gave a noncommittal smile. “Yeah?”

“Nearly laid out a guy at the gas station this mornin’, hasn’t said five words all night.” he said, swiping his drink. “Wahoo offered him the next game, and he just shook his head.”

That wasn’t like Benny. He never turned down a game. Even when he lost, he liked the play.

I caught Cal watching him too, leaning back in his chair with a beer bottle resting on his chest. “You want us to talk to him?” he asked, not unkind.

I shook my head. “It’s alright. I got it.”

I made the rest of my rounds, but my eyes kept flicking back to him. The shadows he wore weren’t about a bad day or a busted engine. They were heavier than that. More personal.

When my shift finally gave me a break, I headed straight for him.

He was leaning against the wall near the back, where the light didn’t quite reach. Not drinking. Just watching the room like it was moving without him.

I walked up slowly, letting him see me first. He didn’t smile, didn’t shift. Just looked down at me with those storm-cloud eyes.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” I asked, soft but firm.

He shrugged, barely a movement. “Nothin’.”

“Right. That’s why you look like someone ran over your bike and then pissed on your boots.”

His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but didn’t quite make it. I stepped in closer, tipping my chin up.

“Is it about—” I hesitated. “What happened outside school the other day?”

He didn’t answer.

I reached out, fingers brushing the side of his jacket, just a light touch to say I was here.

“He’s no one,” I said.

That made something flicker behind his eyes. “Doesn’t act like it.”

“He’s a professor,” I said. “That’s all.”

Benny looked away, jaw tight.

I stepped between his legs, placing a hand flat on his chest. “You really think I’d trade leather and engine grease for a man who talks in semicolons?”

That earned the ghost of a grin. Still, he didn’t say anything.

I leaned in a little closer. “You wanna know what I was thinking while he was talking about tempo and tone and all his Very Important Thoughts?”

He looked down at me. “What?”

I smiled. “That I missed the sound of your laugh.”

And there it was—just like that. The smallest huff, the tiniest lift at the corner of his mouth.

I tapped my knuckle lightly against his sternum. “There it is.”

“You’re annoyin’,” he murmured.

“But you like it.”

His hands found my waist like they belonged there, and for a second, I thought he might say something. His mouth parted—then closed again.

Instead, he kissed me.

Right there against the wall, with the din of the bar around us and the jukebox cracking into a new track. It wasn’t hungry. It wasn’t desperate. It was a kiss that said I see you. I still want this.

When he pulled back, his eyes had softened, just a little.

“Still mad?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Little bit.”

I grinned. “Good. Keeps you interesting.”

He rolled his eyes and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “You ever shut up?”

“Only when I’m busy kissing you.”

He kissed me again.

And this time, he smiled.

⸻

The room was too warm. Not in a comforting way—just stifling. The radiator had two settings: off and furnace, and today it was firmly in the latter. I peeled off my sweater halfway through the class and tried not to shift too much in my seat.

Professor Harper handed back essays with a distracted nod, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She paused when she got to mine, hesitated like she might say something, then placed it on my desk with a faint smile.

“Excellent work,” she said. “Your analysis of the Prokofiev was… really perceptive. Thoughtful.”

I muttered a thanks, kept my eyes down. I could feel the shift around me before I looked—someone clearing their throat a little too loudly. A small snort from the row behind. A quiet murmur, half-laughed, that I couldn’t quite catch. I didn’t need to.

They weren’t cruel. Not outright. Just… comfortable. And I wasn’t.

After class, Emma and Theo caught up with me in the hallway, the way they always did. I liked them—easy to talk to, always quick with a joke or a half-whispered complaint about deadlines. It never felt like I had to try too hard around them. Most days, I didn’t even think about the gap between us.

“You killed that paper,” Emma said, nudging me. “Seriously. I was staring at the page like, ‘cool notes, scary chords,’ and you’re out here writing dissertations.”

I laughed a little. “Thanks.”

Theo was digging around in his bag, muttering about being out of pencils again. “Anyway,” he said, “we’re heading to Colorado over break. Skiing, maybe snowed in. Honestly just hoping to survive a week with my cousins.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “I’m going to our lake house. It’s like this frozen ghost town in winter—kind of beautiful, kind of creepy. Total escape.”

They both looked at me then, casual and curious. “What about you?” Emma asked. “Any plans?”

I shook my head. “Just staying local.”

“Oh, nice,” Theo said. “Honestly? Jealous. No travel stress.”

I smiled, but something in my chest tugged a little sideways. They meant well. They always did. But just like that, the line was there again—quiet, invisible, undeniable.

The truth was, I hadn’t been home since I moved to the city. I didn’t plan to. I’d left for a reason—and staying away felt like the only way to keep what I’d built.

By the time I got home, my chest felt tight in that familiar, unspoken way. Like the walls had shifted a few inches closer without asking.

The studio was small—barely enough space for the bed, the tiny kitchenette, and a secondhand piano wedged into the corner. But it was mine. And I didn’t have to answer to anyone here.

I changed into something soft, sat on the edge of the bed, stared at nothing for a while. Eventually I curled up, an old film playing quietly on the TV. Something black and white. I wasn’t really watching.

Just as I was about to reach for the light, I heard it—his boots on the stairs, then the knock. One low tap. Then another. No rhythm, just familiar.

When I opened the door, he didn’t say anything. Just looked at me with that quiet, steady way he had—like he’d already figured something was wrong and wasn’t going to press until I let him in.

He toed off his boots and shrugged off his jacket, then followed me to the bed. No questions. No small talk.

I climbed up first, settling against the pillows. He stretched out beside me, close but not crowding and I let my head tip to his shoulder.

We didn’t talk. Not right away. The TV was still humming in the background but I wasn’t watching it.

After a while, I felt his hand shift. The lightest touch against my knee where it was tucked beneath me. His thumb moved in slow circles through the fabric. Grounding. Quiet.

We stayed like that for a while, not saying anything. Just sharing the space. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm. Like something solid I could lean against. Eventually, I curled closer. He adjusted slightly, his arm came around me slow, steady, his chin brushing the top of my head.

He didn’t ask what happened.

I felt the slow rise and fall of his chest. Heard his breath catch just a little when I turned into him.

I didn’t need him to talk. I just needed him close. And Benny… he always knew the difference.

He kissed the side of my head. Just once.

And then we stayed like that. Quiet. Close. A little broken, but less alone.

⸻

I hadn’t planned on goin’.

She’d told me about the performance—talked about it for weeks—but never said, you should come. Maybe she didn’t think I would. Maybe she figured I wouldn’t want to. But I remembered—how her hands moved when she talked about it, the way her eyes lit up, then dimmed again like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to be proud.

So I showed up.

Didn’t belong there.

Small recital hall near campus. Dim lights. Old wood floors. People in soft coats with soft voices, sippin’ wine like it meant somethin’. I came through the back, didn’t sit. Just stayed in the shadows against the far wall. Arms crossed. Jacket zipped. Boots still scuffed from the ride.

My colours. Always.

Then she walked out.

Simple dress. Hair tied back. That quiet kind of calm she gets right before doin’ somethin’ that matters. Sat down at the piano like she owned it.

And then—

Hell.

She was somethin’ else.

Not just good. Not just real good. Brilliant. One of those performances that makes people stop breathin’ without realisin’ it. I didn’t know the piece, didn’t know the theory. Didn’t matter. Every note, every breath—hers. And the worst part?

She looked like she belonged.

When it ended, the applause was loud. Deserved. I clapped too—quiet, quick—then slipped further into the dark.

The professor stood right away. Harry. Front row seat. Of course. He headed for the side of the stage, waitin’ there like he’d earned it.

She stepped off, still glowin’, flushed and smilin’. He leaned in. Said somethin’ close to her ear.

She laughed. Bright. Tired.

Then he hugged her. Close. Too close.

My jaw tightened.

I moved.

Didn’t think. Just… moved.

Found a side hallway, stayed outta sight near backstage. I didn’t know what I was doin’—only that I had to see.

Had to know.

She was surrounded now—people like her. Students. Friends. The kind who knew all the right words.

I stayed in the dark.

Listened.

“Let’s get drinks,” some guy said—tall, blazer, clarinet player earlier. “But not at that dive bar she works at. I’m not trying to lose my shoes to the floorboards.”

Laughter.

Another voice:

“Yeah, I’m good on dodging a knife fight with her biker boyfriend.”

More laughter.

Then Emma—her friend—nudged her. “Come on. You can’t seriously like hanging out with those guys. They’re sweet, sure, but rough doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

Y/N smiled. Too fast. “They’re… yeah. Not exactly concert hall material.”

She didn’t sound cruel. Just… tired. Like she didn’t have it in her to argue. Not tonight.

That was enough.

I turned and walked.

Didn’t wait to hear the rest.

Didn’t hear her say, not five seconds later, “But it’s not what you think. They’re actually kind of great.”

Didn’t see the way she smiled talkin’ about the jukebox, or Wahoo and Corky arguin’ over pool.

Didn’t hear her voice go soft.

I was already gone.

Out into the cold.

Leather creakin’. Boots loud on pavement.

Breath tight in my chest.

It wasn’t jealousy.

It was somethin’ meaner.

The fear I didn’t belong in her world.

And the worse fear—

Maybe she was startin’ to see it, too.

⸻

The meet was out at the edge of the racetrack. Old rally grounds where the Vandals had been parkin’ up for years—long enough that nobody questioned it, even when some of the new crews started sniffin’ around.

Sun was high, air sharp. The lot was full—bikes, boot prints, leftover smoke from a drag run still curlin’ across the field. I was sittin’ on the hood of a beat-up car with Brucie, a beer cold in my hand, not really listenin’ to what he was sayin’.

I should’ve still been thinkin’ about the night before.

She’d been somethin’ else. Even now, I could see her under that light—fingers flyin’, spotlight catchin’ the edge of her jaw, that little flicker in her eye like she was proud but tryin’ not to show it. It stuck to me like smoke. I’d barely slept, hadn’t talked to her yet. Didn’t know what I was s’posed to say. Didn’t know if she’d wanna hear it.

But that thought vanished the second I looked up and saw Johnny.

He was standin’ across the field, real still, squared off with some guy in a patched jacket I didn’t recognise. Another club. Mouths movin’, shoulders stiff.

Gail said somethin’, maybe a warnin’, but I didn’t catch it.

I was already on my feet.

I don’t remember movin’.

Just the feel of gravel under my boots and the way my knuckles cracked as I swung. My fist caught him clean in the jaw—one hit, full force. He went down hard. I didn’t stop.

Didn’t think. Just kept goin’.

Next one came at me. I slammed him against a car and went for his ribs—but he shifted. My hand went straight through the window.

Didn’t feel it at first.

Then I saw it.

Glass stickin’ out of my knuckle. Deep. Glintin’ red. Whole world blurred for a second—noise, motion, the cold air like a slap. I grabbed it, yanked hard.

Blood hit my cheek. The car. Maybe him. Didn’t care. Just stood there a beat, watchin’ it drip, heart hammerin’.

Then I saw him again. The guy.

Took him down.

Blood—mine, his, whoever’s—started flyin’. Boots hittin’ ribs. Fists hittin’ faces. Roar in my ears so loud I couldn’t hear nothin’. Didn’t want to.

Someone grabbed me from behind. I fought like a fuckin’ dog, teeth bared, body wild. Elbowed back. Hit a gut. Didn’t care whose.

It was Johnny.

Arms wrapped around me, tight. Haulin’ me back like he’d done it before. He was shoutin’—my name maybe. Maybe nothin’.

“Benny—hey—hey, that’s enough—”

I wasn’t listenin’.

Couldn’t.

I tried to twist free. He held tighter. Like if he let go, I’d tear the whole goddamn place apart. We hit the dirt hard. Wind knocked outta me.

Didn’t fight after that.

Just laid there. Chest heaving. Blood in my mouth. Eyes wide.

The others were quiet now. Not ‘cause it was over—‘cause of me.

Johnny didn’t say a word. Just stayed next to me in the dirt.

Waitin’ for me to come back.

I didn’t.

Not all the way.

⸻

It was one of those nights where the bar buzzed without tipping into chaos—warm lights, jukebox skipping between blues and static, the usual crowd packed around the pool table with beers in hand. My apron was already damp with spilled whiskey, and my feet ached, but I kept scanning the door like an idiot.

Benny wasn’t here.

Not that he came every single night. But he usually showed up at some point—even just for a smoke out back or to lean against the wall and wait until I finished. A nod from the doorway. A glance across the bar. Something. But tonight? Nothing.

I tried not to let it bother me. Wiped down the counter. Collected the empties. Laughed at some guy’s half-decent joke about the jukebox skipping every Ray Charles song. Normal stuff. The stuff that made the hours pass.

But then I heard it—one of the guys near the back, loud and already three beers in, retelling a story like it was the best thing that’d happened all week.

“Man, I’m tellin’ ya,” he said, eyes wide. “He flew outta nowhere—just clocked the guy right in the face. Didn’t even wait. Didn’t even ask. Bam.”

The others broke into laughter, hooting and cursing and clinking glasses.

“Johnny had to drag him off,” another chimed in, shaking his head. “Never seen him go off like that, not even back in Lakeside.”

“Think he mighta knocked the guy’s teeth out,” someone added. “Whole side of his face was swellin’ up like a damn peach.”

I paused mid-pour, listening. My stomach turned.

Corky caught me looking and grinned. “You shoulda seen it, Y/N. Your boy snapped like a live wire. Was kinda beautiful, in a messed-up way.”

“What happened?” I asked, wiping my hands on a towel, trying to keep my voice even. “Where?”

“The Springfield rally,” he said. “Some guy got mouthy with Johnny. Wasn’t even Benny’s fight, but he just lost it. No warnin’.”

My hands stilled. “Is he okay?”

Corky shrugged. “Physically? Sure. Mentally? I dunno. He’s been different lately.”

Brucie leaned in from the side. “Reckless,” he said simply. “Like he’s tryin’ to burn the edges off himself.”

They went back to their drinks like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t sticking in my throat.

I didn’t ask any more questions. Just nodded, quietly, and went back to serving drinks, heart thudding too loud in my chest. I tried not to picture it—Benny’s fists, Benny’s face, the way he looked when something finally broke inside.

It wasn’t like him. Not like that.

Later, after last call, I was restocking the fridges when Johnny came around the back of the bar. He didn’t say anything at first—just grabbed a stool and sat like he’d been waiting to speak.

“He’s alright,” he said, voice low.

I didn’t ask who he meant.

“But he’s… off.” Johnny rubbed a hand over his jaw, like he was still working through whatever happened. “Kid’s always had a fuse, you know that. But this? It was more than temper. Was like he wanted to hurt.”

I swallowed hard. “Why?”

Johnny looked at me. Really looked.

“I was hopin’ you’d know,” he said. “He listens to you. When he’s not listenin’ to the ghosts in his head.”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because all I could think was: Why wasn’t he here tonight?

And what the hell was going through his head that made him go looking for blood?

⸻

The road didn’t give a damn how fast I went. Didn’t care my knuckles were still split from the fight. Or that my chest’d been tight for two days straight. Asphalt just stretched out in front of me, long and dark and cold, the kinda straight that dared you to keep pushin’.

So I did.

Throttle wide open. Engine screamin’, shakin’ like it wanted to buck me clean off. Wind tearin’ past so loud it stripped the world away.

Didn’t matter where I was headin’. Didn’t even clock what highway I’d taken. Just rode. Fast. Hard. Like if I pushed it enough, maybe I could outrun the sound of her laughin’ with him. The way she smiled when he pulled her in.

The way she hadn’t said nothin’.

—

I turned up for my shift the same way I always did—coat pulled tight, boots still wet from the snow slush outside. The bar was already humming, half-full, jukebox skipping tracks every so often like it was drunk too.

No Benny.

I didn’t panic. Not yet.

He wasn’t always early. Maybe he’d had something to fix. Maybe he was out back.

I started wiping down the bar. Checked the clock again. Poured a round. Still no sign.

Then I heard it—one of the guys, near the pool table, laughing with his drink sloshing a little too wide.

“—you should’ve seen him, man. Took off like the damn devil was chasin’ him. Didn’t even slow at the turn. Thought he was gonna eat it.”

“Worse than usual?”

“Hell yeah. Thought he was always nuts, but lately he’s got that look again.”

I froze. Dried glass halfway in my hand.

—

I don’t know how far I went. Just tore down the highway, past city lines, past anything familiar. Didn’t care. Didn’t even look. Wind stung my face raw. Just the cold and the engine and the sound of my own thoughts gettin’ louder the longer I ran.

Eventually I pulled off at some nowhere exit. Didn’t recognise the place. Didn’t want to.

Old motel with a busted sign. Neon flickerin’. Place smelled like wet smoke and cheap plastic.

I didn’t go inside. Just killed the engine, parked under the busted streetlamp, and leaned back against the seat. Cold air in my lungs. Exhaust tickin’ as it cooled.

I didn’t wanna go home. Didn’t wanna ride past her place. Didn’t wanna slow down enough to see if her light was still on. If she was thinkin’ about me. If she’d stopped.

And fuck, I missed her.

Not just the way she looked or how she felt when she curled into me at night. I missed her laugh when somethin’ caught her off guard. The way she talked with her hands when she got goin’. The way her fingers twitched like they were always lookin’ for a piano. Even when there wasn’t one around. The way she always knew when I was comin’ apart and didn’t ask. Just got close. Just stayed.

I missed her, and I was the one who left.

—

The bar felt colder now. Like something was missing from the air and I couldn’t get warm.

I tried asking Johnny casual. Just, “Hey, has Benny been around today?”

He didn’t lie, but he didn’t say much either. Just shrugged one shoulder like maybe it hurt to move.

“He’s layin’ low,” he said. “Ridin’ a lot. Out toward the edge of town, I think.”

“Why?”

Johnny looked at me, then looked away. “He’s just figurin’ stuff out.”

That didn’t sound like Benny. Not the version I knew. Not the man who’d walk me to my car even if it was raining sideways. Who sat with me when I didn’t want to talk. Who showed up without asking just to hand me a greasy sandwich after class.

My chest felt tight. My eyes burned a little.

When my shift ended, I drove home slower than usual. Let the streets stretch out longer than they needed to. Took the long way—past the diner where we used to sit side by side in the booth, split fries and talked like the rest of the world didn’t matter. Past the garage where the Vandals always hung out, light still on, door half open like someone might still be inside.

I glanced toward the back, hoping maybe I’d see his boots sticking out from under a bike, hear his voice teasing someone through a cigarette haze.

Nothing.

At my apartment I parked and sat in the car for a while. Just… thinking.

Then I went inside and left the lamp on.

Just in case.

—

I didn’t go back the next day. Or the day after.

I thought about it. A thousand damn times. Thought about walkin’ in, seein’ her behind the bar. Thought about her askin’ where I’d been—and me standin’ there with nothin’.

’Cause how do you say that?

How do you tell someone you saw their life from the outside and didn’t think there was a place for you in it?

I didn’t have the words. Not the right ones. Not ones she deserved.

So I kept ridin’.

And when I stopped, I stayed outside. In the cold. In the quiet.

’Cause that hurt less than showin’ up and seein’ it in her eyes—that maybe she’d started wonderin’, too.

—

The bar was closing. I stepped out into the alley and looked down the street one last time.

Still no bike.

No boots. No knock.

I stood there with my hands in my pockets, coat pulled close, and thought about how easy it had been—how natural—for him to always be here.

And how heavy it felt now that he wasn’t.

I didn’t know what changed.

But something had.

And I wasn’t sure if I’d be the one to fix it.

⸻

With school out, I was picking up extra shifts, staying late without worrying about dragging myself through a morning lecture. The nights stretched longer, but I liked the hum of it—the clatter of glasses, the familiar weight of routine. It gave me something to do with my hands, something to focus on when my thoughts tried to drift somewhere they shouldn’t. Somewhere like Benny.

The bar was slower than usual tonight, but not empty. The regulars were still here—same old boots, same old orders—but the cold had kept most folks close to home. Wind howled every time the door opened, snow sticking to shoulders and boots like it belonged there.

Paul had been behind the bar when I came in, grumbling about the boiler at his place making weird noises again.

“Think it’s the pilot light,” he muttered, wiping down a pint glass. “If it goes out, I’m screwed. Pipes’ll freeze by morning.”

“Want me to close up?” I asked before he could get around to asking. “You go. Check on it.”

He blinked, like maybe he hadn’t expected the offer, then gave me a grateful look and tossed me the keys from behind the register. “You’re a saint.”

I wasn’t. Just didn’t mind the quiet.

By midnight, most of the regulars had trickled out. A few stayed longer—Corky and Zipco slow-playing a game of pool, arguing over rules they both knew—but eventually even they bundled up and called it a night.

The place settled.

Low lights, low hum. I turned off the jukebox, stacked the last of the glasses, and took a long breath behind the bar. I didn’t mind nights like this. The stillness after the noise. The soft echo of boots long gone.

I was halfway through checking the back door when I heard it.

The front door creaked open.

My heart jumped before my mouth caught up. “We’re closed,” I called, loud enough to carry, trying to sound more certain than I felt.

No answer. Just the click of the door shutting again. Slow, steady footsteps across the floor.

I stepped out from behind the bar—and stopped.

Benny.

Standing in the half-dark like something the storm had dragged in. Snow melting off his shoulders. Hair damp. Eyes fixed on me like he wasn’t sure I was real. Or maybe like he’d been hoping I wasn’t.

And for a second, neither of us moved.

He looked rough. Hollow in a way I hadn’t seen before. Dark circles under his eyes, hair damp from the snow, boots tracking melted slush across the floor like he hadn’t noticed. Or didn’t care.

But it was his hand that stopped me cold—right one, curled tight at his side, knuckles split wide open. A deep gash between the middle two, red and raw. Like he’d dragged it through something he shouldn’t have. Like it hadn’t quite healed because he hadn’t let it.

“Jesus,” I breathed, stepping forward before I could think. “Benny—what the hell happened to your hand?”

He glanced at it like he’d forgotten it was bleeding. “Nothin’.”

“Don’t give me that.”

He looked at me—really looked—and something behind his eyes sparked. Defensive. Closed.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he muttered.

“Well, I am,” I snapped. “I work here. Remember?”

He flinched like the words hit harder than I meant them to.

I crossed my arms, trying to hold steady. “You’ve been gone for days. Everyone’s saying you’ve been riding like a maniac, starting fights, blowing through stoplights—”

“Why do you care?”

That stopped me.

His voice was sharp. Accusatory. Like I was the one who’d vanished.

“Why do I—are you serious?”

He didn’t answer.

“You disappear. You nearly get arrested at a rally. You’ve still got glass in your goddamn hand—”

“I didn’t ask you to worry.”

“Well, tough shit. I do.”

Silence cracked between us. I saw the clench of his jaw. The flicker of guilt he didn’t want me to see.

“You think I haven’t been going out of my mind?” I said, voice rising. “You think I haven’t been looking for you everywhere we used to go? You think I didn’t wait up, hoping maybe you’d come knock on my door like you always do?”

“Maybe I figured you had better things to do,” he muttered.

“Like what?”

He looked away. “Like bein’ with people who fit in a fucking recital hall.”

And there it was.

My chest tightened. “This is about the recital?”

He didn’t answer.

I blinked. “You were there?”

He scoffed, eyes hard. “Course I was. You talked about that piece for weeks.”

Something cracked open in my chest.

“I didn’t know,” I said, voice suddenly small. “You didn’t say anything.”

“Yeah, well. I saw enough. Heard ‘em laugh at me like I was a joke. Like I was somethin’ you’d outgrow.”

“You were there—and you left before I—” My voice cracked. I swallowed it down. “I said good things, Benny. I told them they were wrong. That they didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.”

He didn’t move.

“I talked about the jukebox,” I said, softer now. “About Corky and Wahoo fighting over pool rules. I smiled. I was proud.”

He looked at the floor like it might open up and swallow him.

“You didn’t stay long enough to hear it,” I said. “You left before I could make it right.”

A beat passed.

Then: “He hugged you.”

The words were quiet. Shaky.

“He touched you.”

I stared at him. “You’re pissed about a hug?”

“He looked at you like he knew somethin’ I didn’t.”

“Well, he doesn’t.”

“I saw the way you smiled at him.”

“You saw half a moment and made up the rest.”

His fists curled again, and I could see the blood welling fresh between his fingers.

“And you know what?” I said, stepping in closer. “You don’t get to talk to me like I’ve betrayed you when you’re the one who ran off and didn’t even give me a chance to explain.”

His jaw worked. “I didn’t run.”

“You did. You saw something that scared you and you vanished. Like you always do when you think you’re not enough.”

Silence.

I didn’t mean to say that part out loud. But I didn’t take it back either.

His voice was a whisper. “I’m not.”

My breath caught.

He let out a breath, like it hurt, and looked away, jaw clenched. “Look at me. I’m all fucked up. Ain’t got a house. Ain’t got a real job. Just pick up shifts at the shop when they need me. I don’t care about none of that grown-up shit—it ain’t me. Never has been.”

His eyes flicked back to mine. “I didn’t wanna come back ‘cause I didn’t wanna see it happen. You figurin’ it out.”

“Figuring what out?”

“That I don’t belong with you.”

The air left my lungs.

“Benny—”

“I don’t got plans. I don’t got a future. But you do,” he said.

“Music. People who speak your language.”

“Don’t do that,” I said.

“Do what?”

“Write me off like I’m one of them.”

“I’m not writin’ you off.”

“You are. You think I’m gonna wake up and realise you’re not worth it. But I already know you’re worth it.”

His eyes flicked up, meeting mine.

“I didn’t grow up like them,” I said. “You think I belong in that world, but I never have. Not really.”

He didn’t move. Just waited.

“My mom was on welfare,” I said. “Worked just enough to keep us in the system. She drank. Had a new boyfriend every month. Half the time, I didn’t know their names.”

His brow furrowed, gaze sharpening.

“When I got older, one of them started looking at me weird. Not touching. Just… watching. And I knew. I knew I had to get out.”

Benny’s shoulders shifted—just barely—but it felt like an earthquake.

“I threw myself into school. Every subject. Every paper. Every late-night study session just so I had something to use when the time came. And somewhere in there, a teacher sat me at a piano, something clicked. I got here because I worked my ass off and got a scholarship. Because music gave me something to be good at. Something that was mine.”

I shrugged. “That’s it. That’s why I’m here. Not because I grew up with money. Not because I fit.”

I swallowed. “I’m in this in-between space where I’m not enough for them, but sometimes I worry I’m too much for you.”

He flinched.

“You’re not,” he said. Quiet. Steady. “Fuck, Y/N… you’re not.”

He stepped forward, finally closing the distance between us, slow like he didn’t know if he was allowed.

“I just… I didn’t know what to say,” he exhaled, shaky. “When I saw you there, in that world. I kept thinkin’… what if she figures it out? What if she wakes up one day and sees what I really am?”

I reached for his hand—the one that was torn up—and took it gently. Felt the way his fingers trembled, just slightly.

“You’re mine,” I said. “That’s what you are. And I’m yours.”

His eyes searched mine. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

A beat passed.

Then he stepped closer—slow, unsure—like he wasn’t sure if the ground between us had really settled. Like maybe he thought it would crack open again if he moved too fast.

I closed the space for him. Wrapped my arms around his waist, pressed my face into his chest, and held on.

His breath hitched.

Then his arms were around me—tight. Desperate. Like he’d been carrying the weight of it all alone and only just remembered he didn’t have to. His hand came up to the back of my head, fingers curling in my hair like he didn’t quite believe I was real.

“I missed you,” I whispered.

He pulled back just enough to look at me. Snowmelt still clung to his lashes. His lips were parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t decide what.

So I kissed him.

Soft at first—just a press of mouths, steady and slow, like a question. He answered it with a sigh, with the way his hand tightened on my hip, with the way he kissed me back like he’d been holding that need in his chest since the night he walked away.

I felt it all in that kiss. The apology. The ache. The fear he hadn’t known how to name. And I gave it back—every part of me that had waited, every breath I’d held hoping he’d come back.

The kiss deepened—heat rising, mouths opening, tongues sliding. I felt his fingers skate under the hem of my sweater, rough palms on bare skin, and I shivered. Not from the cold.

He broke the kiss, just long enough to rest his forehead against mine, breath ragged. “You sure?”

I nodded, already pulling him back in. “I don’t want space tonight.”

He kissed me again—harder this time. Hungrier. Like he was trying to replace every second we’d spent apart. His mouth moved to my jaw, my neck, open-mouthed and warm, and I let my head fall back, heart thundering.

We stumbled backward until I hit the bar. He didn’t stop. One hand slid into my hair, gripping gently but firm, tilting my head just enough to keep me looking at him. The other stayed locked around my waist, pulling me flush against him as his hips pressed into mine—slow, deliberate, unmistakable. I could feel him, thick and hard through his jeans, heat and want radiating off him like a pulse.

My hands found the lapels of his jacket, pushed it off his shoulders, then went to the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with clumsy fingers. He was still cold from the ride, but his skin was hot underneath. Real. Alive. Mine.

“Here?” he murmured against my throat, voice low and rough.

“Unless you want to wait till spring.”

He huffed a laugh into my skin. “Fuck, I love you.”

I pulled back just enough to look at him, hand against his cheek.

“Say it again.”

He did. Without hesitation. “I love you.”

His mouth returned to mine before I could say anything else, hungry and sweet and rough around the edges. He pushed my shirt up, pulling it over my head, dropping it somewhere behind him without looking. I reached for him, finished the job of unbuttoning his shirt, dragging it down his arms and tossing it aside.

His skin was flushed, marred with fading bruises and old scars, and the sight of it—all of it—hit me hard. I tugged at his belt, fumbling with the buckle, and he let out a low groan against my mouth like he was holding back too much for too long.

“Easy,” he murmured.

“I don’t want easy,” I breathed.

That made something flicker behind his eyes—something dark and tender and burning all at once.

His belt hit the floor with a clatter. I got his jeans open, fingers slipping beneath the waistband just enough to feel the heat of him—hard and twitching against my palm. He kissed me again—rougher now. Desperate.

One hand tangled in my hair, the other yanking my skirt up with something close to urgency. His knuckles grazed my hip, still bleeding, still raw, but he didn’t seem to notice. Or didn’t care. He groaned when he found how wet I already was for him, fingers slipping under the fabric of my tights and into my panties like he needed to feel it for himself.

His fingers slipped free, dragging slow over the seam of my tights like he didn’t want to let go. Then his mouth found mine again—breath hot—and he pressed in close, voice gravel rough against my ear.

“Turn round.”

I didn’t hesitate.

Hands on the bar, legs shaking a little, breath catching in my throat as I felt him come up behind me. He slid my skirt higher, fingers curling in the waistband of my tights and panties in one sharp tug—down to my knees, then lower, pooling at my boots.

His hand came to my back, steady, grounding. Then his thigh nudged between mine—firm and deliberate—urging me open until I was spread for him, trembling and ready.

I braced my elbows against the bar, hips tipping back instinctively. “Benny—”

He lined up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against me once, twice—then he pressed in, slow at first, a long, delicious stretch that made me gasp.

He leaned over me as he bottomed out, forehead to my shoulder, hand gripping my hip so tight it bordered on bruising. He didn’t move for a second—just stayed there, buried deep, breath ragged.

Then he pulled back, snapped his hips forward—and I moaned, loud and unfiltered, head dropping between my arms.

He found a rhythm—rough, raw, perfectly desperate. Every thrust punched a sound out of me, pushed me harder against the bar. His hand slid around my front, found my clit, and circled tight and fast until I was choking on his name.

“This what you want?“ he growled.

“Yes—god—don’t stop—” I was already close. Too close.

And when he slammed into me again, angled just right, his fingers relentless, I shattered—hips jerking, cry muffled in the crook of my arm. He fucked me through it, hips never slowing, until he groaned deep in his chest and came hard, thrusting once, twice, then burying himself as deep as he could go.

We stayed like that for a beat—panting, still, wrecked.

Then his arms came around me from behind, pulling me back against his chest. I felt the rise and fall of him—heart still racing, breath catching—as we stood there tangled in each other, not ready to let go just yet.

His mouth brushed the curve of my shoulder, soft and warm. He didn’t say anything at first—just held me tighter, like he was afraid I might slip away if he loosened his grip.

“I didn’t mean to leave like that,” he said finally, voice rough against my skin.

“I know,” I whispered. My fingers found his and laced them together, holding him there. “But next time, just come home.”

He let out a shaky breath. “You are home.”

I turned in his arms then, slow and careful, until I was facing him again. His hair was still damp from the snow, curling a little at the ends. The gash between his knuckles had opened up again, blood drying along the edge, and I took his hand in mine, lifting it gently.

“This needs cleaning,” I said, voice soft.

He nodded, but didn’t let go. “You first.”

“What?”

He brushed my cheek with the back of his knuckles. “You’re shakin’.”

Only a little. But it was true. The adrenaline hadn’t quite faded. The rush of everything—of losing him, of getting him back—still thrummed through me like a second heartbeat.

“I’m okay,” I said, even though we both knew it wasn’t just about tonight.

He looked like he wanted to argue, then thought better of it. Just leaned in, kissed me once—slow, lingering—and let his forehead rest briefly against mine.

“Come on,” I murmured. “Let’s lock up.”

We moved in sync. Quiet. Careful. I pulled my tights back up, adjusted my skirt, found my sweater where it had landed near the jukebox. He shrugged into his shirt, buttoned it and put his jacket on while I grabbed the keys.

By the time the door was bolted and the lights were off, the storm outside had softened—snow still falling, but slower now. Gentle. Almost forgiving.

He reached for my hand again as we stepped into the cold.

Didn’t let go.

The ride back to mine was quiet—engine loud beneath us, snow biting at our cheeks, but neither of us seemed to mind. I held onto him tighter than usual, not because I was cold, but because I could. Because I wanted to. The night felt softer now, like the worst of it had passed and left something quieter in its wake.

We didn’t say much when we got inside. Boots kicked off by the door, jackets shrugged loose and hung up still damp. I switched on the lamp in the corner, warm light pooling across the tiny studio like a sigh.

Benny stood in the middle of the room, glancing around like it looked different somehow. Or maybe he did.

“Sit,” I said gently, nodding toward the bed. “I’ll get the first aid kit.”

He obeyed, quiet and still, watching me with those wide, tired eyes as I rummaged through the cupboard under the sink.

When I came back, he’d rolled up his sleeve. His hand rested on his thigh, the gash between his knuckles raw and angry, blood dried in thin rivers along his skin.

“This might sting,” I said, kneeling in front of him.

He smirked—barely. “You think I haven’t heard that before?”

“I mean it.”

He didn’t flinch when I cleaned the wound, but I felt the way his muscles tensed beneath my touch. I worked slowly, carefully, the way you do when something matters.

When I was done, I wrapped the bandage snug, smoothing it into place with both hands.

“There,” I murmured. “Good as new.”

“Not quite.” His voice was low. “But better.”

He looked at me then—really looked. Like maybe it had just hit him that he was here, that I was too. That we’d come through the worst of it and were still in one piece.

“I meant it,” he said quietly. “Back there. What I said.”

I met his eyes. Reached up to his face, cupping his cheek, thumb stroking gently across the bruise-shadowed skin.

“I know,” I said. “I love you too.”

Something in his expression softened. Like it was the last piece he’d been holding out for, even if he hadn’t said so.

He turned his head just enough to kiss my palm—slow, deliberate—like it mattered. Like it meant everything.

I climbed up beside him on the bed, curling my legs under me. He shifted, leaned in, and I let myself melt against his side, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me like it belonged there. Like we were made for this.

Outside, the snow kept falling—soft and slow and endless.

Inside, we didn’t need to say anything.

He kissed my hair.

I closed my eyes.

The heat kicked on.

His hand found mine beneath the blanket—a quiet promise, steady and warm.

We were still bruised. Still mending.

But we weren’t doing it alone.

⸻

She breathed soft against my shoulder. Eyes closed. Warm all over.

I didn’t move. Just watched the snow through the window, watched the way it caught the light.

This was it.

Not the bar, not the bike, not the noise in my head.

Her.

And maybe I’d never be the kind of man who fit into her world easy.

But she made space for me anyway.

And fuck if I wasn’t gonna try and stay.

Taglist:

@thefallofthedamned @saturnsdaughtr @bellesdreamyprofile @butlerrizz @myradiaz @chocolatetree222

[sxvual]

act three • the depression

a/n: I would repeat myself, but all these chapters are heavy, not gonna lie and this propably one of the most severe tear jerkers.

cw: angst, child loss, severe depression, anxiety

word count: 6.1k

————————————————————————————

The building is nearly empty, bathed in the soft hum of fluorescent lights and the distant whirr of a floor buffer somewhere down the hall. Roman sits behind his desk, sleeves rolled up, collar undone, reviewing a contract he’s read three times without absorbing a single line.

It’s the laughter that distracts him.

Not loud—just soft, humming, and so out of place in his meticulously ordered world. He stands, moves toward the open office area, and there she is. Sunny. Sitting cross-legged on the floor by the copier, talking to herself while trying to fix a paper jam with a pencil, of all things.

“I swear this machine has it out for me,” she mutters, then giggles like she told herself a secret joke.

She doesn’t see him watching.

Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun. Her oversized cardigan slipping off one shoulder. She hums as she works, some old country tune mixed with a nursery rhyme. And despite the exhaustion etched into her features—he sees it, though she hides it well—she’s still smiling. Still glowing.

Like she belongs in the sun. Not here, in the cold glass and chrome of his world.

He clears his throat. She jumps, then beams when she sees him.

“Oh! Mr. Reigns. I was just—um—the printer ate the quarterly reports. But I think I’m winning.”

“You’re here late,” he says, folding his arms.

She shrugs. “Didn’t want to leave a mess for the morning.”

There it is again—that sincerity. That relentless optimism. He wants to find it annoying. He wants to call it naïve.

But he can’t.

Because in a world of fake smiles and curated agendas, she’s real. Messy, inexperienced, stubborn—but real. And he hadn’t realized how much he missed real until she showed up in his office with the wrong coffee order and a smile that didn’t ask for anything in return.

Roman exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I’ll have IT look at the printer tomorrow,” he mutters, then adds without thinking, “You don’t have to fix everything yourself.”

She grins, that sunshine grin. “Too late. Fixing things is kind of my thing.”

And that’s when he realizes—she’s not just in his space anymore.

She’s in his head.

And worse—somewhere deep beneath all his armor and edges—he doesn’t mind it.

The bar was dimly lit, low jazz humming in the background, glasses clinking in the distance. Roman sat in the far corner booth, back to the wall like always, one hand wrapped around a sweating beer bottle he hadn’t lifted in several minutes. His cufflinks were undone, the sharp lines of his tailored suit softened and wrinkled, like he’d been tugging at the collar for hours. His hair was still pulled back, but his whole presence radiated a kind of disheveled storm—contained, but volatile.

Jimmy and Jey flanked him—blood and bone and history. The three of them had known every version of each other, from boys scraping knees on pavement to men carrying titles, burdens, grief.

Tonight, the grief was thick.

Jey was the one talking, lighthearted, trying. A story about some fan interaction gone sideways, the kind of thing that would’ve normally had Roman smirking, head shaking. But Roman’s eyes were glassy and unfocused, staring through his beer like it held the answer to a question he wasn’t brave enough to ask.

Jey caught on and fell quiet.

Jimmy shifted. His jaw ticked. He'd been holding it back all night, but he couldn’t anymore.

“We been quiet too long, Uce,” Jimmy muttered, voice low, rough like gravel and whiskey. “And it ain’t doing nobody any good.”

Roman didn’t look at him, just gave a tired blink.

Jimmy leaned in. “You keep showin’ up to life like this. Drownin’. And I know why. Hell—we know why. But—man—what happens if you don’t come back up?”

Jey stayed still, watching Roman. Neither of them pushed hard. They never did. Not with him.

“You know what it did to us too, right?” Jimmy said after a long pause. “Losing her. That was our niece. Our family. We were there when she was born. I held her before she could even open her eyes.”

Roman’s jaw tightened.

Jimmy’s voice cracked, just once. “You think we’re not gutted too?”

Roman finally moved—his head tilted back against the booth, eyes closing. The beer bottle slipped from his grip and landed on the table with a quiet clink.

"But she was my fucking daughter, mine—" his words were sharp and cutting like a knife into both the men at the table, they painfully winced as he continued. "You have your kids, both of you—Jimmy you have your babygirl. They're here, mines isn't and I will never know why!"

Neither man took it personally but the beat of silence after was still tense all the same. Roman's nostrils flared with unkept anger, and Jimmy's eyes burned with unshed tears, he was the mos emotional of the two twins about the situation. Jey adored Yara, but in the few months she was here—her and Jimmy really clicked.

“I don’t know how to breathe without her,” Roman said. It was barely a whisper, as if saying it too loud might break him. “I don’t know how to look at Suniva without feeling like I failed them both.”

“You didn’t fail her,” Jey said firmly. “You lost her. And none of us were ready. No one ever is, and I know it's not the same but when Kiara had a miscarriage them years ago man I was tore up, but you gotta keep living.”

Jimmy leaned in again, more serious now. “You gotta talk to someone, Uce. Hell, both of you do. Sunny too. Ain’t no shame in that.”

Roman scoffed faintly. “You think I haven’t tried? I can’t even get her to look me in the eye anymore, let alone sit in a room and talk about it.”

Jimmy reached for his glass, took a breath. “Then start with you. Not for her. Not even for Yara. For you. Because if you don’t… I don’t know how much more of this you can carry. And I don’t know if I can watch you collapse under it.”

The table fell quiet. The weight of it all hung in the air.

Roman blinked down at the table. His knuckles were still scabbed from the bag he’d beat senseless in the gym days ago. His whole body ached with exhaustion, but it was the kind that sleep didn’t touch.

“You think it’ll even help?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” Jimmy said. “But doing nothing sure as hell isn’t.”

Roman looked up. His eyes met his cousin’s. Honest. Raw. Fractured.

"I'll try, but I don't know with her.."

Roman didn't speak much after that.

Roman didn’t respond right away.

He just sat there, staring into the neck of the beer bottle like it might whisper back the answers he’d been chasing for four hollow months. Jimmy and Jey fell silent beside him, giving him space the way only people who’d loved you long enough knew how to do.

His chest rose slowly, then fell.

Therapy. He never thought he’d need that word in his vocabulary. He’d spent a lifetime being the strong one. The provider. The protector. The man who walked into any room with purpose, who kept his circle small and his emotions tighter. But now?

Now all he had were questions.

Could talking really help? Could it rewind the clock to when Sunny used to curl up next to him and trace the tattoos on his chest while whispering their baby’s name with reverence?

Could it bring her back to him?

Roman dragged a hand down his face, the scrape of his beard grounding him. He still remembered the sound of her laugh in the mornings, breathless and unguarded, usually at something dumb he’d said. God, he missed that sound. He missed her. Not just her body beside him, or the memory of the warmth they used to share, but her, the way she used to see him—like he was something good. Something steady. Safe.

But now, she looked at him like he was a stranger.

No—worse. Like he was a ghost. A haunting reminder of the moment their world ended.

He couldn’t blame her. Not really. He’d pulled away too. Closed off. Shut down. Spent nights on the couch pretending it was to give her space, when really it was because lying next to her, so close and so impossibly far, hurt too much.

Still, even through the silence, the fights that weren’t really fights, the small kindnesses neither of them acknowledged—he loved her. And God help him, he wanted her back. Not just physically, not just in their house, but in that way where she smiled up at him and touched his face like he held her whole heart.

He wanted to wake up and not feel like they were pretending.

Wanted to hear her say good morning and I miss you too.

He missed the girl who used to steal the covers and complain that his big body took up the whole bed. He missed the woman who made him believe he could be something other than just a fighter—that he could be soft, and joyful, and worthy of the kind of love that lit you up from the inside.

They’d had that once.

Now… he wasn’t sure if it was dead, buried beside the little girl they never got to watch grow up—or just lost beneath all the rubble.

Maybe therapy wouldn’t fix it. Maybe nothing could.

But he knew this: if he didn’t try, he’d lose her completely. And for everything he had already lost—that was something he couldn’t survive.

He looked up, finally. His voice was rough when he spoke.

“I don’t even know if she’ll come with me.”

Jimmy tilted his head. “Then start alone. Show her it matters to you. Maybe… maybe she’ll follow.”

Roman nodded slowly, dragging in a deep breath.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Maybe she will.”

The front door clicked shut behind him with a softness that didn’t match the war raging in his chest.

Roman stood in the entryway for a long moment, keys in hand, unsure if he was supposed to move or breathe or crumble right there on the marble floor. The house was still. Dim. He didn’t bother turning on the lights. He knew the way by heart.

His shoes echoed quietly across the floor as he walked past the photos they hadn’t taken down yet—one of Sunny mid-laugh, her head thrown back with joy, the curve of her belly cradled by his hand. Another, just above the entry to the living room, of tiny Yara wrapped in a blush-pink blanket, her fist curled against his chest while he looked down at her like she was the most delicate, sacred thing in the world.

Because she was.

He paused there, under that picture. Swallowed hard.

Some nights he still reached for her bottle on instinct. Other nights he thought he heard her crying, only to be met with silence that hit like a brick to the chest.

Roman sighed and kept walking.

His tie hung loose around his neck, blazer slung over one shoulder. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, like he couldn’t stand the constraint of being pulled together anymore. Not here. Not in this house where nothing made sense.

The couch greeted him like an old habit. He sank into it, not bothering to turn on the TV. Just sat in the quiet, the dark, nursing a dull ache in his chest that never fully went away. He looked up at the ceiling. Then closed his eyes.

Therapy.

The word echoed again.

He tried to picture saying it to Sunny. Sitting her down. Reaching across the table and telling her he didn’t want to lose what was left of them. That he couldn’t lose her too.

Would she even listen? Or would she look at him the way she had so many times lately—with glassy eyes, guarded shoulders, like she didn’t know who he was anymore?

He didn’t blame her for the distance. He felt it too. Like their grief had split them down the middle and they were both too hurt to cross the divide. But maybe therapy could be the bridge. Or at least the start of one.

His head dropped back against the cushions. He stared at the ceiling like it had answers.

“I miss you, Sunshine,” he whispered.

He wasn’t even sure if he was saying it out loud or just thinking it again and again and again. I miss you. I miss us. I miss the life we were supposed to have.

His phone buzzed on the armrest beside him.

A message from Jimmy.

You don’t gotta do it all at once. Just start somewhere. Don’t wait too long, Uce.

Roman stared at the message.

Then, slowly, he typed a reply.

Looking into it tomorrow.

It was small. A whisper of effort in the avalanche of their grief. But it was something.

And maybe something was better than nothing.

The stillness of the living room had begun to settle over Roman like a blanket—thin, but heavy. He sat, unmoving, save for the slow rise and fall of his chest. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the house, the distant tick of the clock echoing time neither of them seemed to be living in.

Then—

A harsh, retching sound shattered the quiet.

Roman shot up.

The sudden violence of it—raw, guttural—seized his gut with dread. His long legs carried him down the hallway with quick, sure strides, panic building under his skin. He barely needed to think. His body moved before his mind could process.

The bathroom door was ajar, light spilling through the crack like an unwanted truth.

He pushed it open and froze in the doorway.

Suniva was hunched over the toilet, her thin frame trembling, the stark white of her nightshirt clinging to her spine. Her arms braced against the seat as another wave of sickness overtook her. Her hair, once so full and glowing, hung limply, sticking to her damp cheek. The sound of her gagging, followed by a choked sob, cracked something in him.

Roman stood paralyzed for just a second. One heartbeat. Two.

Then he moved.

“Sunny—”

He was on his knees beside her before she could respond, gently gathering her hair away from her face with one hand and rubbing small circles into her back with the other.

“I got you,” he murmured, voice thick. “I got you, baby.”

She didn’t speak—couldn’t. Her body was still wracked with dry heaves that seemed more like grief expelling itself than anything physical. Each wrench of her torso sent a tremor through her, and all Roman could do was hold her as she came apart.

His palm splayed across her back, fingers moving in slow, careful motions. His other hand cradled the back of her head when she collapsed sideways into his chest, too weak to hold herself up any longer.

She sobbed into his shirt—raw, broken cries that tore through the silence like glass underfoot.

Roman bowed his head over hers, his nose brushing the top of her hair, holding her like she might vanish if he let go.

“I miss her too,” he whispered, barely audible. His voice cracked. “God, I miss her too.”

For a long while, they didn’t move. Just stayed there—on the cold tile floor, wrapped around each other, grief bleeding out between them. Roman could feel the sting of his own tears falling, trailing down his jaw as her breath hiccuped against his chest.

She was so small in his arms now. So fragile. And for the first time in weeks, she let herself fall into him.

He didn’t try to fix it. Couldn’t. He just stayed.

Held her like he used to. Like he still wanted to. And somehow, in the sorrow, something quiet passed between them. Not healing. Not yet.

The silence that followed her breakdown was fragile, hanging like mist in the air. Roman didn’t move right away. He just sat there, holding her, listening to her breath gradually steady against his chest. When he finally pulled back, it was only enough to tuck a damp curl behind her ear, his eyes scanning her pale, drawn face.

“You should lie down,” he said gently, barely more than a murmur.

He expected resistance. A protest. A shake of her head. But instead, Suniva nodded—small, almost imperceptible. Wordless. And then, slowly, she pushed against the floor like she meant to stand.

Roman was faster.

“No, no—don't,” he said, scooping her up into his arms before she could fully rise.

She made a feeble sound of protest, a weak flutter of her hand against his chest as if to argue the gesture. But the strength wasn’t there. Emotionally. Physically. And she knew Roman—knew once he’d made up his mind, there was no point in fighting him. Not when he carried her like she weighed nothing, like she was still his entire world.

Her head found his chest, and her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as her body softened in his hold. She let him carry her out of the bathroom, down the hall, and into the soft light of the living room.

He didn’t say anything as he lowered her gently onto the couch, his movements tender and deliberate. He adjusted the cushions behind her and reached for the soft fur throw she loved, draping it over her body and tucking it around her with the care of someone handling something precious.

Suniva blinked up at him—eyes rimmed red, lips slightly parted like she wanted to say something. But she didn’t.

Roman brushed her forehead with the back of his fingers before retreating to the kitchen.

He knew exactly what he was looking for.

The tea bar sat in the far corner, pristine and untouched for weeks. When they'd first moved in, he’d spent weeks perfecting it—organizing the shelves by leaf, blend, fruit, and floral notes. Every container labeled in her flowing script. Glass jars lined up like sacred little apothecaries.

It had been his surprise housewarming gift to her.

She’d squealed when she saw it. Lit up the room with her excitement, pulling him down into a kiss and gushing about the care and detail he’d put into it. They'd spent that entire first night trying different blends, rating them with laughter and sleepy smiles. Roman had hated every one. But he’d drank them anyway, for her.

He reached for the fennel tea she always used when she had nausea. Measured it carefully. The scent of anise rising to meet him as he scooped the leaves into the sleek black tea press she'd picked out on their first trip to that overpriced kitchen boutique she loved.

As the water heated, he glanced back toward the living room.

She hadn’t moved.

Just lay there, eyes closed, wrapped in the blanket like a fragile thing thawing from frost.

His throat tightened.

Roman turned back to the kettle as it clicked off, pouring with precision and care. His movements slow. Intentional. There was no grand fix. No right words.

But this? This, he could do.

He could make her tea.

He could love her quietly, patiently—even if she wasn’t sure she could receive it yet.

Even if they were strangers in the same bed… he remembered what it felt like to be more.

And he wasn’t ready to give up on that. Not now. Not ever.

The couch felt too soft beneath her.

Or maybe she just felt too hollow. Like a paper shell sinking into something meant for weight and presence, not this kind of ghostly absence.

Suniva didn’t open her eyes, even though she knew he’d left the room. She could still feel the shape of his hands—the way they’d held her so carefully, like she was something rare, breakable. The blanket he’d tucked around her still held the heat of his body. It made her ache in a way she didn’t have words for.

She used to live for his touch.

Now she didn’t even know how to respond to it.

Her fingers clenched slightly in the fur throw, the scent of it vaguely familiar—lavender and something warm. Their daughter used to nap here. Right on this couch. Right where she was laying now.

Yara would curl up against her chest, tiny and warm and safe. Suniva could still feel the ghost of that weight sometimes when she closed her eyes.

God, she missed her.

And she missed him.

Even now, with Roman only a room away, she felt the distance like a canyon carved deep and wide between them. Grief had a way of separating even the most unshakable things. It hadn’t just taken Yara. It had taken everything.

But then she heard the soft sounds again. The clink of the kettle. The gentle pour of water. The muted scrape of the tea press he hated using.

And something fluttered.

She remembered the night he’d surprised her with the tea bar—how giddy she’d been, how much effort he’d put into a ritual he didn’t even care for. How he drank every cup she handed him, no matter how bitter or floral, just to make her happy.

That man—the man she was supposed to marry—he was still there. She felt him in those quiet gestures. In the way he carried her like she was still his whole world, even after all this time spent apart in the same house.

She hated how much she’d shut him out. But she hadn’t known how to let him in when everything inside her felt so... dead.

And yet, here he was. Making her tea. Still trying.

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye before she could stop it. It slid down her cheek, disappearing into the blanket.

She didn’t move.

Not when she heard the soft pad of Roman’s feet returning to the living room. Not when he crouched down beside her with the delicate cup in hand.

“Here,” he said, voice low, just for her. “I made your favorite.”

She opened her eyes, blinking against the burn. His face was shadowed, tired, and something about it made her chest pull tight.

Her fingers brushed his as she took the cup.

“Thank you,” she whispered, hoarse.

Roman didn’t smile. But his eyes softened in that way they used to—quiet, full of unspoken things.

They sat there in silence, the faint aroma of fennel rising between them. She sipped once, let it settle in her chest like warmth she didn’t realize she needed.

Roman sat on the crisp white sofa next to her, elbow resting loosely on the edge of the couch, his eyes on the mug she held close to her chest. The tea was still too hot to sip again, but she clung to it like a lifeline.

The silence between them stretched long, but not empty. It was fragile. Heavy with things unsaid.

He watched her closely—her drawn face, the trembling of her lip, the way her fingers curled tighter around the mug with every passing second. He didn’t want to push her. But he couldn’t ignore what he’d seen. The way she’d clung to the toilet, sick and sobbing like her body was rejecting something.

Roman cleared his throat softly. “Are you coming down with something? Did that make you nauseous?”

Suniva shook her head.

“Something you ate?”

Again, she gave the barest shake of her head, her eyes never leaving the mug.

He hesitated. Swallowed hard. “You used to only get sick like that when… you were pregnant.”

The words hung there, bare and raw and unintentionally cruel.

Suniva didn’t flinch. Didn’t answer.

He shifted closer, lowering his voice. “What happened, baby?”

For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t respond.

But then her lips parted—just slightly—and when her voice came, it was so soft and cracked that it hardly sounded like her at all.

“I had a dream.”

Roman straightened. His heart caught somewhere in his throat. He didn’t move, afraid to break whatever spell was allowing her to speak.

“Or maybe it was a nightmare,” she whispered.

He waited, eyes locked on her face.

“It was morning,” she said, voice distant like she was still half there. “And I could hear birds outside… and the sound of cartoons. You know that faint echo of them when the volume’s low but you know exactly which ones are playing?”

Roman nodded slowly, the image forming painfully clear in his mind.

“And I smelled breakfast. Sausage, maple syrup… your eggs. The way you make them with too much butter even though I always get on you for it.”

His throat tightened. She was remembering something that hadn’t happened. And yet it felt more vivid than most real memories.

“I got out of bed,” she continued, tears beginning to pool in her lashes. “And it wasn’t hard this time. My legs weren’t heavy. My chest didn’t ache. I didn’t feel like I was going to break all over the floor.”

Her voice caught, and Roman’s jaw clenched.

“I walked into the living room. Here.” Her gaze finally drifted from the mug to the room around them. “You were sitting right there… on the couch. And she was with you.”

Roman’s heart stopped.

“And she wasn’t a baby. Not anymore. Maybe five, six. Beautiful. So beautiful. She looked just like you—same dark eyes, crooked little smile. But she had my curls and my nose."

Suniva’s voice cracked on a breath. “She was laughing, Roman. Just… belly laughing at something on the screen. Holding a little fork in her hand with pancake on it, like it was the best thing in the world.”

Roman’s eyes began to sting.

“She looked up at me. Smiled like I’d been gone too long. And she said…” Her voice broke completely, and the tears spilled over. “She said, ‘C’mon, Mommy. Join us.’”

Suniva sobbed into her sleeve, her whole body curling in on itself.

Roman leaned forward instinctively, reaching for her, but she wasn’t done.

“I smiled back,” she gasped, shaking her head, as if she could still feel the dream dissolving. “I stepped forward, ready to sit with you both. I felt the joy. I felt it.”

A pause.

“But just before I could reach you, I woke up. And she was gone. Just… gone.”

Roman closed his eyes, his head bowed. His breath came in shallow pulls, the pain in his chest blooming like a bruise.

“I tried to go back to sleep,” she whispered, voice shaking. “Tried so hard. I wanted to stay there. I didn’t want to be here without her.”

Her hand trembled as she wiped her cheek, her voice ragged. “And I remembered. I remembered everything. That she’s not here. That she’s gone. And it made me sick. It made me so sick, Romie.”

His heart clenched not only at her painful revelation, but the nickname she so affectionately called him. More affection than he remembered her having for him in what felt like years.

She finally looked at him—and what he saw there, the depth of grief in her eyes, shattered whatever piece of him was still holding on.

A strangled sob caught in his throat. He blinked fast, looked away, but the tears came anyway, hot and relentless.

“I miss her,” Suniva whispered. “I miss her so much it hurts to breathe.”

Roman crawled up onto the couch beside her, pulling her into his chest, one hand cradling the back of her head as she buried her face in his shoulder.

“I know,” he rasped. “I miss her too.”

They cried together, wrapped in each other, broken in different ways but bound by the same wound.

And for the first time in weeks, they weren’t alone in their grief.

The morning light began to creep in through the blinds, painting soft golden stripes across the living room. The TV had long gone black, the tea now cold on the table. Wrapped in the thick fur throw, Suniva lay curled against Roman’s chest, their legs tangled, their bodies instinctively folded into each other like muscle memory—like home.

Roman was awake.

He hadn’t slept much. Not really. The comfort of her breathing against his skin was the only thing that kept his eyes closed. Every time he started to drift, he’d hear her breath hitch, or feel her fingers twitch against his chest, and the loop in his mind would start all over again.

Yara’s laugh. Yara’s cry. The way she’d looked swaddled in his arms. The last time he’d held her. The silence after.

It was never-ending.

Suniva stirred gently, blinking into the light with swollen eyes and a slow, dazed blink. She was disoriented for a second. Then Roman’s arms shifted around her, holding her a little tighter, and she remembered.

She didn’t pull away.

Instead, she buried her face deeper into his chest.

“…I hate mornings,” she murmured hoarsely.

Roman rubbed her back in slow, steady circles, not saying a word. Letting her take her time. He didn’t want to scare away whatever little door had opened in her last night.

“I used to love them,” she whispered. “I’d get up early just to beat the sun. Make my coffee. Light a candle. Wash my hair. Just… be a person.”

He swallowed hard, waiting.

“Now…” her voice cracked, “…there are days I feel like I can't even lift my head.”

She slowly shifted to lie on her back, staring blankly up at the ceiling, her voice void of judgment, just full of quiet truth. “It’s like… there’s a weight on my chest. Not metaphorical. Real. Like something’s sitting on me, pressing down.”

Roman turned on his side to face her, his hand never leaving her.

“I cry so much I feel lightheaded,” she went on, her voice small, “like I’m floating half the time. Like I’m not really here.”

She turned her head toward him. “I used to love getting my hair done. Loved sitting under that stupid dryer. Loved how I felt when I walked out of the salon like a bad bitch.”

That made him exhale softly through his nose, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

She didn’t smile back.

“I can barely wash it now. I stand in the shower with shampoo in my hands and I just… I just stare.”

Roman’s eyes burned again. He reached for her hand and laced their fingers together.

“I don’t care about anything, Ro. Not the way I used to. Not even me.”

She looked at him, her voice barely audible. “But you… you get up. You get dressed. You go out. You still live. Sometimes I envy you.”

He shook his head immediately, lips parting with a breath that trembled. “Sunny…”

“You do,” she insisted, though there was no accusation in her tone—only aching honesty. “You keep going. You smile for people. You check your emails. You take calls. You function.”

"I'll have you know I don't smile at anyone." Finally a small and barely noticeable grunt, resembling laughter came from the woman atop him.

“I survive,” he said, his voice hoarse. “That’s all.”

She frowned.

“You think I’m not breaking?” he asked, voice low and tight. “You think Yara’s not in my head every second of every damn day?”

Her lips parted slightly, stunned.

“I see her everywhere, Suniva. In every pink sock left behind, in every lullaby that plays on a commercial, in the middle seat of my truck where her car seat used to be. I see her when I brush my teeth. When I fold a towel. When I walk through the front door and realize it’s too quiet.”

His hand trembled as he brought it to her cheek. “You think I don’t want to stay in bed and disappear, too? But if I stop… if I stop, I don’t think I’ll come back from it.”

"And we'd be broke." It was too much to think things were on the up and up from here, but Roman savored the little bit of the old Sunny that peeked out with such crass humor.

"Far from it, girl. But still, getting out of bed and functioning is the only control I feel like I still have."

She blinked rapidly, her tears returning without warning.

Roman leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers, their breath shared in the small space between.

“I’m not stronger than you,” he whispered. “I’m just breaking slower.”

She let out a cracked sound—half sob, half exhale—and curled into him again. This time with arms wrapping around his torso and face pressed into his chest like she needed to hear his heartbeat to stay grounded.

They lay like that in the quiet morning, grief a third presence in the room—but no longer unspoken.

Just shared.

The house was still quiet, but the heaviness had shifted.

Not gone—but no longer suffocating.

Roman watched from the hallway, leaned against the doorframe as soft steam curled from the bathroom door. It had been his idea, worded with care and offered with patience—just a shower. Just some warm water. Just a moment to feel human again.

She hadn’t said anything in response. But after a beat, she nodded, stood up, and let him walk her to the bathroom.

Now, he could hear the faint splash of water. The creak of the pipes. The subtle click of bottles being opened. The rhythmic drag of a brush pulling through tangled hair.

It wasn’t much.

Not her usual twenty-minute playlist and coconut oil pre-poo. Not the scent of her vanilla and hibiscus body scrub that used to linger for hours after she passed by. Not the hum of her voice singing in a pretty falsetto to herself like she used to when she thought no one was listening.

But it was something.

He swallowed against the lump in his throat.

When she emerged, she looked… different. Not fixed. Not okay. But different and still beautiful.

Her face was bare and pale, her eyes still puffy, but her hair was damp and pulled into a loose ponytail that revealed the elegant slope of her neck. She wore a fresh set of soft cotton lounge clothes—Roman recognized them as the ones Yara had spit up on once that she refused to throw away.

Suniva didn't say anything, but when their eyes met, something unspoken passed between them. A fragile acknowledgment.

He smiled gently, lifting his hand in a silent thumbs-up.

Her lips curved just slightly, barely there, but real. Then she dropped her gaze and padded softly into the bedroom.

Roman lingered behind, letting the moment settle in his chest like a stone. He hadn't realized how long he’d been holding his breath until now.

That was a step.

Small. Miniscule, even. But forward.

He exhaled slowly, closing his eyes for a beat.

That dream she told him about still echoed in his head—the image of Yara as a five-year-old, curls bouncing, eyes bright. Her voice calling out, "C’mon, Mommy."

The ache it left in its wake hadn’t dulled. But it was what followed that had rattled him more.

The way Sunny spoke about the weight on her chest. The emptiness. The stillness. Her apathy toward herself. It was more than grief. It was more than sadness.

It was depression.

And not the passing kind. Not the “bad day” kind. This was the kind that whispered things in your ear. The kind that convinced you the world would keep spinning without you. The kind that cloaked you so thickly you forgot what it felt like to be warm.

Roman ran a hand down his face, exhaling sharply.

Jimmy had been right.

They couldn’t keep doing this alone. He couldn’t love her out of this. He could carry her when she stumbled, hold her when she cried, hell—he’d catch her every time she fell if that’s what it took. But this? This was deeper. It needed help.

He’d been trying to stay strong for her, to hold everything together, to keep them afloat through sheer will. But holding it all in hadn’t saved her. It hadn’t even touched the darkness she was drowning in.

They needed more.

She needed someone to talk to. Someone trained. Someone who could give her the tools to climb out, not just survive the fall.

Roman pressed his thumb against the bridge of his nose and breathed in deeply.

He had to bring it up. Not today—not yet. But soon. Carefully. Gently.

He couldn’t lose her too.

He wouldn’t.

————————————————————————————

Tags 🏷️:

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Let me know if you would like to be added to the tag list !

Ask always open 💌

[kamalshaftpvtltd]

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[hells-wasabii]

Can you do a husk reader pretty please like when he starts falling for the reader

A/N: I really liked this one, I'm a huge sucker for the actual falling-in-love part of romance.

Character: Husk

Type: Drabble (Husk x reader, fluff, "Catching feelings")

You were a regular at Husk’s bar, not that there was much better to do at the critically acclaimed Hazbin Hotel.  A damned soul who needed somewhere to unwind, especially from whatever crazy bull shit the princess of hell decided they needed to do. ‘Redemption exercises she called them. Honestly, you still weren’t sure you believed the whole ‘anyone can be a good person if they just try’. Wasn’t being a good person supposed to happen naturally or something? But anything was better than out there, you had come to realize. Redemption sure sounded a whole lot better than eternal damnation.

He wasn’t sure when it started, but now that it was in motion, Husk wasn’t sure he could stop it even if he wanted. He was falling in love.

It wasn’t exactly hard to figure out, either. An innocent question or comment that made him overthink. A fond smile he finds a little too infectious. The way his heart skips a beat when you laugh at something he said. Or maybe it was the way you gave him butterflies any time it was his name on your lips.

Looking down at the bottle in his fist, he paused, the gears turning in his head. With a sigh, the fallen overlord closed his eyes, setting the bottle in its place on the wrack behind the bar.

You hadn’t been by, the fallen overlord realized. Not today, or yesterday for that matter. Now that he thought about it, Husk hadn’t seen you around the hotel at all. He would later find out that you had been sent to a different city on some spur-of-the-moment business on the hotel’s behalf.

As if on cue, the doors burst open, revealing you no worse for wear with a bag slung over your shoulder. 

“Hey, Husk! Here, got you something from Imp City.” Well, that explained where you had been at least. , as you dug something from your pocket. Before the bartender could react you had already reached over the counter and taken his hand in yours, pressing something into his palm.

Confused, but appreciative nonetheless, Husk accepted the little gift. Much to his surprise, it was a playing card, a metallic one at that, set in chrome with black and red accents. A suit in each corner, he realized. But there was something stuck on the back. 

Turning the metallic card in his hand he was surprised to see a sticky note with a handwritten message. Pulling the note off, Husk read it, his eyes softening as he did. ‘To the best listener I know, the one who truly cares’. He looked back up, his eyes catching yours as you shot him a grin before making your way up the stairs.

Maybe being in love wouldn’t be so bad, Husk decided with a smile.

[ryusuisloveinterest]

Hi, it's 🦋anon again. You cannont believe how happy I was to read your headcanon!

This time let's do an easier one. Ryusui/Tsukasa/Chrome x reader at an amusement park (would they go on rollercoasters/other rides or not, who would be screaming/laughing to hide their nervousness, etc.)

Hope I'm not littering the mailbox😅 Just really thirsty for some (mainly our greedy boy Ryusui) content.

my New Year’s resolution is to ACTUALLY finish these request lolll. Thank you for the request 🦋 anon! You’re never littering feel free to request whatever! I hope you like it!

Ryusui, Tsukasa, and Chrome at an amusement park 🎀🩷

Ryusui:

I’m being real with you he probably owns an amusement park💀

So you have the whole park to yourselves!

Unless there’s somewhere else you really want to go

He hates waiting in long lines, that’s why he built his own lol

But once he gets on the ride he’s stoked 

Immediately going to the back or wherever is the scariest on the ride

You have to beg him to put his hands on the bars so he doesn’t fly out

Gets all romantic with the slow rides like the tunnel of love or the Ferris wheel

But as soon as they’re over he’s zooming over to the next ride

Only good at a couple of games

The amusement park gets rich from the amount of money he spends to get you ONE prize

He’s such a crackhead it’s so funny💀

Tsukasa:

Definitely much calmer than Ryusui

He just likes to follow you around to whatever ride you like

Slow rides, fast rides, nothing really bugs him

Except

For the drop ride

I feel like that’s the ride that would destroy him

He wouldn’t yell or anything, but as soon as the ride’s over you look at his face and it’s just dead and white

He hates that one so much

A legend at the games

Wins you every prize 

He likes going on the Ferris wheel when the sun starts to set

He thinks it’s romantic 🥰 

Chrome

In actual awe when he firsts goes to an amusement park

“Y/N DID YOU SEE THAT??? ALL THOSE PEOPLE WENT UPSIDE DOWN AND DIDNT FALL OFF!!! HOW DID THEY DO THAT????”

But when he actually gets on one of the coasters he’s petrified 

Literally looks like a lifeless body just walking around the rest of the park

You either have to progressively make your way up to the scary coaster (like start your way from the carousel or the tea cups before going on the super crazy ones)

Or you just let him learn the hard way and try your best to help him afterward

Dude’s a big back and will tear up the food there

“OH MY GOSH Y/N DID YOU TRY THIS??? ITS A FRIED OREO STUFFED IN A FRIED PICKLE STUFFED IN A FRIED CHICKEN LEG!!!!”

At the end of the day, you two will be on the Ferris wheel and he’s smiling when he says, “thanks for the fun day y/n! I loved being able to hang out with you all day. I just love you so much!”

[missmarveledsblog]

Not just a flower child huh? Part one ( logan howlett x reader)

Summary : the xmen are sent to rescue mutants in a lab , only find an unconscious young woman and couple of kids , when they bring her back to the mansion she is recognised by one of the residents . She awakes and finds out she and kids been saved wondering if it was all too good to be true ?

Warning: angsts , mentions of mutant children being abused , it's alot but there some fluff in there too , she has multiple "gifts " due to the lab . Google translated Russian so I apologise in advance if anyone has corrections feel free to leave them , grammatical errors too

It was in shambles , the outside looked desolate, void of any life and yet they knew it wasn't. The professor was never wrong with these Things . But looking at the place it looked abandoned ready to crumble To the ground into a pile of rubble and dust. Jean crouched with the rest of them she was seeking out the mutants that were held in the broken walls of the place . Shit it even had logan feeling certain Way when Charles called them to break Down the Mission . Four possibly five Kids held in a cage used like lab rats to try make their mutation Into so serum. It was always kids , parent sending them off into the world Because They were different or it scared them he never cared for the excuses , there was never an excuse to abandon or sell off your child because of something they were born with . It never sat right with him and it never would.

“ ten of the guards are heading down the basement fully loaded , we need to get in there now “ Jean Stood concerned Eyes watching every direction of the house til the sound hit , a hail of gun fire sounded off and yet not one bullet coming Near them only signal The true intent. “ we need to go she can't hold them off much longer” Jean called Running towards the house as the other followed

Logan had the door pulled out it was stronger than it appeared, and if it wasn't a race against time, they would be impressed at the faux exterior of the place . Inside was like high-end laboratory. It was also full of guards coming towards them Jean grey could easily hold them as storm Send them to the floor in a spasm before they went unconscious as logan and Scott were able to knock and sent them down to the ground with hard thud. The alarm rang out as they were Running down the hall and down the stairs into the basement , Scott was able to break the door easily with his beam sending a smirk at logan . The basement fit the exterior it was dingey and dirty , smell of mould and damp . It was not a place even a rat would stay in too Long . Right in the center was a large Cage thick metal Bars that connect From the floor to the ceiling that was not the part that surprised them . It was the thick almost tree Like vine Wall that was in the cage.

The guard turned only for Jean to raise their Own gun in the air and pull them down hitting them on head Sending them to the ground.

Scott stood forward hand at his visor ready to shoot when the redhead Stopped him , stood in front of him

“ there's kids in there, you could hurt Them “ she waved. Only as the others began To try think Of a way logan claws began cutting through the vines making Them weak enough to pull them away To see the kids all standing protectively in front Of another … Was it a woman .

“ we're here to help , we're going to take you somewhere safe” storm smiled softly holding her hand out letting the sparks flicker to show They were one of them.

“ помоги нашей сестре ( help our sister)” one finally Spoke moving So they could see the woman laid out of the ground they couldn't tell if she was breathing or not Til logan lifted Her up . She was almost lifeless But their Was a faint flicker of a pulse , a small thump of a heartbeat.

“ we need to go , get chrome Dome Ready to translate I don't think they can speak English” logan gruffed as the kids hesitantly Followed still Unsure who these strangers where but they had their sister and they had kind smiles.

The jet ride back they were able to get colossus To translate And explain to the kids they were safe but in the whole thing they didn't care all they cared for was Their sister if she would be ok , she kept them safe made sure no harm came from them.

“ she Said she made sure the bad men never got their chance To hurt them so they tried to get rid of them” even the big strong man that colossus was , they could hear that slight waver in his voice .

“Do we know who these kids are?” ororo Asked.

“ professor is working On it , he'll know more once they are here , how is the woman” .

“ barely hanging On , she dehydrated. Malnourished God only know how long she's been there ” logan said seeing how bad of shape She was in. He seen shit like this before captives During war times and shit she made them look healthy.

“ it gonna be hard to get them to Leave her” they watched as kids stood at her side once again in a protective stance.

They were right moment they got back to the mansion The kids didn't want to leave Her side as colossus came and explained It wasn't a prison they could visit her once she was checked over , once they were check Over. That still didn't work til they were brought With her. And one even went to attack when they saw Jean had a needle . It took hours for them to leave just to get cleaned up and check over .

“ their underweight but not by much ask them did they eat much” ororo asked.

“сестра следила за тем, чтобы у нас была еда и вода, и даже давала свои, если мы были голодны. ( sister Made sure we got food and water , even gave hers when we were Hungry)” one spoke up .

“ you can understand English ? Can you speak it” she asked looking at the girl who must of been no more than ten years old .

“ a little sister Teach me, so we can ask for help” she nodded .

“ do you know your names we can try find out about you guys” ororo Looked at them .

“ I'm Ana, this is lia , Henry and luka , sister is Y/N , safe here?” Ana asked softly.

“Y/n?” colossus asked looking like he'd seen a ghost before rushing out the room.

“ very safe no one will hurt you here” ororo crouch down only for Ana To flinch away.

“ we are lucky , the others were not , that made sister sad”.

“ what others ? Ana honey what others?” .

“ our other siblings they did Not make it, they took them when we sleep , sister Made them pay” Ana sniffled as ororo held Her hand.

He ran down the hall , his heart beating fast as it felt like it echoed through the walls. He nearly ran into multiple people on his way a quick sorry til he got to the medwing opening the door.

“ hey kids ok” logan asked only for piotr to ignore the man completely his eyes only looking at the bed seeing her , she was a lot different but time would do that in still in away she Looked like the same little girl he remembered .

“ hey you ok, you know her don't you ?” Logan stood coming to his side.

“ she is my little sister” he said holding her hand in his it almost looked tiny . Then again she was always tiny , she was reason his mutation happened he was saving her when a tractor almost hit her. He joined x men in hopes of settling in america bring her there then his parent told him she was in boarding school then it was she was missing then it was she was dead . He regretted that his whole life not taking her with him at first .now here she was going Through hell and back and she was alive.

It was weeks the kids became Comfortable Turned out their parent sold them to the lab they were kept in. Took hank a long time to secure them visa but he got them even for y/n who lay unconscious still. She was a mystery , they knew who she was , her age , height but as far as powers and everything else well the lab didn't go into detail on her or they couldn't . From the kids recollection she was defiant , never bending to their will they all wondered how she lasted so long or why they kept her so long . Piotr or Peter he let some call him , she was nine years old when his parent sent her away or sold her away it was too hard to even think of it , to think he left her to face all of this . Jean told him she was like him the way she put those kids before herself , how she almost killed herself to save them . A soft nod he headed off to check on the kids who knew little English and meant more to his sister than life itself he could at least make sure they were taken care of and not alone.

Bright was first thing that came to mind , it was bright before her eyes even open and when they did it stung and took a little longer to adjust . It was bright but it was clean , she wasn't tied down so it wasn't the lab … the lab … the kids . She stood uneasy at first maybe she was out longer than she thought. Looking around the room for some indication to where the hell she was , where were the kids closing her eyes and searching them in her mind she could let sigh in relief they were here . She walked to the door ready to break it down only for it to open itself her head tilting in confusing she grabbed the long doctors coat giving she had tank top and underwear on . She could sense someone approaching , the smell of whiskey and cigar filled her nose as she hid at the corner. The footstep coming to her as she lifted her palm slammed the man to the wall vines holding him in place.

“ woah at least buy me dinner first bub” he chuckled .

“ where are the kids” she glared .

“ the kids are safe , let logan go he won't hurt you , follow my voice” it called in her head making her turn and let the man drop to the ground .

“ kids safe?” she asked through her mind the walk breaking into a run. She didn't care that it was potentially a trap if it meant a sliver of hope those kids where safe. She felt the hardwood under her feet , the lab coat bellowing behind her not noticing the eyes that followed Her or the other kids around. She stood Outside a big oak door slowly opening It waiting for a trap.

“SISTER" Ana and the other ran knocking her to the ground Not that she cared . She kissed each of their heads looking at the faces that looked alot Better Before She passed out.

“ may I have a word with your sister , you can have the rest of day off to Reconnect and we can continue our lessons Tomorrow” that same voice she heard in her head now out loud and in the form of a bald man in a wheelchair. She looked to see the words on the board English Lessons , the books on the shelf and the kids outside Playing around.

“ иди я буду только на минутку ( go i'll only be a moment)” she nodded softly as the reluctantly left.

“ my Name is Charles xavier , it is good to see you up and well Y/N .

“ would Say the same but I've no Clue who you are Charles , where am I?” she walked around keeping her distance button the lab coat giving her lack of clothes .

“ my school For gift youngsters a safe Haven for people like us mutants , it's not the lab the only tests we do here are academical” he chuckled. “ my team found you and the children brought you to safety here , the kids Are very protective of you almost attack the team to keep you safe , you done Well to Take care of them” he said a sympathetic look in his eyes she could only nod at .

“ there is someone here who is eager to meet you we can talk More when You are ready truly we are only here To help” he smiled just as a Knock on the door made Her jump. ‘“ oh my dear you need not worry of money but maybe if you want you could help out with the greenhouse again if you want” Charles spoke up as she hesitantly walked to the door opening it .

Her eyes widened , her heart fell into her stomach as she looked into a face she never thought she would see again . He stood like a giant over her and yet he looked like a nervous little boy . Her hand shook as it came tracing the features of his face , he was a man now but then again she wasn't the little girl she once was either . A whurlwind of emotion that rumbled inside her she took her hand back only to close it and connect it to his face sending him down to the ground as the place went silent. She looked up to see that man again the smug one she tied up.

“ not the reunion you were expecting huh?’’ he helped him up .

“ no I was expecting this” piotr groaned rubbing his jaw.

“ ты придурок, ты бросил меня ( you're an idiot , you left me)” she yelled.

“ мне сказали, что ты в безопасности в школе(they told me your were safe at a school)” he reasoned.

“ они продали меня (they sold me)” she growled.

“ они сказали, что ты убежал и умер, я думал, ты умер, прости меня, пожалуйста ( they said you ran and you died , I thought you were dead forgive me please)” she hated how his voice broke and truly it wasn't his fault , he was young himself so she nodded and pulled him into a hug holding Him Tightly.

“ I think they made up” logan chuckled ruffling Henry's Hair .

“ sister they feed us here everyday few times its nice food ” Ana Spoke up only for her to turn see the kids looking Up .

“ cookie too” Henry beamed

“ your English is a lot better” she smiled .

“ Mr professor teach us everyday” Luka said Excitedly.

" just picking up where you left off is all " xavier bowed his head

“ hey look at you, nice to see your awake , would you come with me for a second ” a red head woman called making her head tilt stand back .

“ its ok y/n this is jean grey she is one of the teachers and one of people that rescued You” piotr whispered .

“ your the voice that day” y/n clapped Her hands looking at the woman .

“ I Can show you to your room and get you some Clothes “ jean smiled Only for y/n to be aware of how she was dress or therefore Lack of clothes with a blush to her cheeks she nodded following after the woman . “ so your like me ?” Jean asked.

“ sort of I mean I was pumped full Of stuff I don't know what else I can do” she winced.

“ well we can help with that here , when your ready” .

“ this place doesn't Feel real” she laughed looking around .

“ well It home for along as you want it to be , your not a prisoner anymore” Jean Stopped holding her hand in hers . Y/n turned her face only to see that man watching her intently before looking away .

" isn't she an interesting one " logan muttered, watching her heading up the stairs.

part two

[drewsbuzzcut]

Wake For The Glory

Mat Barza x model!fem!reader

A visceral in doses fic

Warnings: mentions/alludes of sex and alcohol consumption (this is only slightly edited)

This takes place in present time (pre kids)

“You’re so sexy.”

“You played so well tonight.”

“I’m so proud of you, hotshot.”

You heave out those words in between the kisses being planted on Mat. He willingly takes your assault, thriving in the attention you’re providing him.

If you weren’t so distracted by your boyfriend, you’d feel bad for the driver who has to listen to your moans and the smack of your lips on Mat’s. You’re not on his lap, yet, but you do have a leg tossed over his and your body is pressed into his side. Between every breathless lip lock exchange, you try to guide your core over his pant clad thigh. Almost silent whines of discontent escape your throat when your efforts prove to be fruitless.

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper in Mat’s ear, giggling when you feel him shiver.

“You’re going to have to wait, pretty girl,” he mutters into your open mouth kiss.

You pout at him and before you can argue, you’re nothing being ushered out of the car and into the bar. You’re immediately greeted by Sydney and Alexa, making you forget all about your hot commodity of a boyfriend.

“You changed?” Alexa asks, noting you’re no longer donning your Barzal jersey and black, leather pants. Instead you’re in a mini skirt and a sheer, black sleeveless turtleneck.

“Yes! I had to make the backseat my changing room,” you explain. It’s not the first time you’ve had to change in the backseat of a car. It’s actually happened a lot more than you’d think, but that’s because you’re a model and sometimes you have to make quick changes.

“You’re literally my favorite it girl,” Sydney grins, pulling you and Alexa into a group hug.

“Please. I can only wish to be as cool as you when I grow up,” you say sincerely. You admire Sydney so much.

“Let’s go get some drinks!”

After a quick five minutes at the bar ordering drinks, you and the girls make your way to an empty pool table. You laugh and chat as you three move around the table.

“What’re your plans with Mat for the offseason?” Alexa asks as she spies Mat behind you, staring you down without you even realizing.

“Italy for a month, Canada for I’m not sure how long, and maybe Bahamas. I’m for sure going to the Bahamas because I have a photo shoot scheduled, but I’m hoping Mat will come with me,” you respond, getting ready to take your next shot at the game.

You grab your pool stick and get into position to shoot the cue ball. You lean down to get eye level and calculate your next move.

“Of course I’m going with you. I’d never miss an opportunity to see you in a bikini,” Mat whispers hotly in your ear. His body cages you in from behind, his hands settling on the edge of the table and the whiskey on his breath invading your senses. It makes you completely miss your shot as you feel a pulse of excitement spark deep in your core.

“You messed up my shot,” you groan, ignoring his words but turning around to face him.

You give him a playful shove to his chest, trying not to laugh at his infectious cackle. Your chrome, islanders blue nails scratch at the nape of his neck. You smile at his relaxed state, eyes closed and lips spread out in a grin.

“I’m going to need you girls to stop stealing my girlfriend away from me,” Mat teases his teammates’ significant others.

He wraps an arm around your neck and glues his lips to your flushed cheek. You’re happy to rub at his muscled torso.

“Oh hush. I needed some girl time,” you respond.

“That’s not what you were saying in the car,” again he whispers in your ear, his teeth nipping at your lobe and making you squirm.

It’s so hard not to fall into your own little bubble when you’re around Mat. He just makes everything disappear. You wrap both arms around his neck and pull him into a kiss. Mat holds you at the waist as his tongue swirls around yours, pulling soft moans from your throat. Sydney and Alexa snicker at the both of you, but it’s not enough to grab your attention.

“Do you hear the song? I think it’s a sign for us to go home,” Mat says against your lips. Your ears catch the opening of “Tempest” by Deftones. It’s one of the songs on your sex playlist.

“Nope. You’re the one that has to wait now, hotshot.” Your lips drag against his and with your last word, you bite and pull on his bottom lip.

The look in your eye is dangerous and alluring, Mat feels like a moth to a flame. Your hands are even worse as they tease the hem of his jeans and the zipper covering his thickening cock.

You peck his mouth and turn around, so your back is to his chest. His hands grabs ahold of yours and he moves your body along with his to the beat of the song. Your ass grinds against his groin and his large hand takes up your entire abdomen. Even though you’re on the taller side, Mat easily makes you seem much smaller.

It doesn’t even dawn on the both of you that you’re dancing in a bar when no one else is. You and your boyfriend are just simply enjoying the moment and teasing each other until you’re dragging one another to the restroom. You lean your head back against his shoulder and let your doe eyes gaze into his darkened stare. Images of him fucking you to the song swirl in his irises.

Lifting your chin, you suck on the sharpness of his jaw. You continue your path until your lips are next to his ear.

“Stare at the ceiling and switch back to your time. Just go ahead now, try and taste it. I know it should be ripe,” you rasp the lyrics and your voice -albeit you’re not a singer- hypnotizes him like a vicious siren call.

You know exactly what you’re doing and you’re smug about it. Your devious smirk alerts him of your teasing and he can’t help but be in awe of you. Especially when you willingly follow him into the restroom after the song concludes.

a/n: This is just a random thought I got this morning! It was very needed as I’ve been stuck on the other fics/blurbs for them. Anyways I hope you all enjoy!