#pride branding lets go

[wittness]

happy pride from hyperion, pumpkins <3.

[honeysweethol]

Inevitable Together 🌈

[scootersscooter]

So does anyone else think Dale's full name is Dimmsdale...or is that just me?

[zed-the-buggy]

rlly hate how the world has moved towards fast online shipping 4 everything bc i havent Personally moved into that philosophy at All

like im still in the mindset that like. if im buying smth online it should take on the scale of months to show up and cost 20 dollars to ship so i just never bother unless i dont need it right away and its really specific. so every time i order online i feel bad bc this thing i really dont need in such a hurry is being fast track flung across the Atlantic directly to my door in 3 calendar days and im just like please i dont even need this before the year flips.

but then for like normal items i just need i keep trying to find in-person locations that sell it and they just dont bc they have like 5 aisles and theyre all half empty like its the purge and if they do have what i need it's always like 15x more expensive than i can even afford despite being at a walmart.

especially when it comes to things i want to touch or look at before ever buying it really sucks bc sometimes there's just not in person options or only really bad ones

[rissouu]

no contact with gojo never really meant no contact. he’d still be at your apartment, waiting for you in his favorite bean bag that you’d bought just for him. you were sure you took his key away during the very first break up. how the hell did he keep getting in?

“satoru..?” you shook your head as soon as you walked in the door. of course he’s here, you should’ve known. if only you’d stayed at shoko’s for the night like you were planning to. the white-haired bastard sat in his usual spot, eyes shut, legs spread, and head leaned back on a pillow. almost as if he was sleeping and you were interrupting him, like he wasn’t the one breaking and entering.

the man perked up from his seat at the sound of your voice, finally you were back. he was waiting here for hours, it even crossed his mind to go track you down. he let out a low chuckle that eventually turned into a fit of laughter.

“you’ve got some nerve y’know?” he took one glance at you before licking his lips and running his hands through his hair. you were driving him crazy, dressed in that tiny little dress that barely covered anything. who knows how many creeps were staring at you while he wasn’t there, staring at what’s his.

“why’re you coming home this late (y/n)?” you scrunched your face at his question, resisting the urge to laugh in his face. no way he was really asking you this?

you shrugged your shoulders while throwing your purse on a random coat rack. “we’re not together anymore.. it doesn’t concern you,”

there he goes again. the burst of laughter, and random claps that went along with it. he made you feel like every word that came out of your mouth was a joke and you hated it. one of the very reasons you both weren’t together now.

he tapped his lap, signaling he wanted you there and now. the look on his face had an edge to it— showing he was clearly done playing games, though that still didn’t make you move an inch.

“nuh uh,” he kissed his teeth when you crossed your arms. “none of that shit. c’mere mama, don’t make me say it again okay?”

you didn’t know why, you didn’t even have time to register it but your body was moving on it’s own. it must’ve recognized the tone of his voice, and you didn’t realize what was happening until it was too late.

rough hands gripped your waist and pushed you down until your chest was hitting his. the two of you sat in silence as you nuzzled your head into his neck, the ink behind his ear catching your attention.

he had your name branded on his skin in a gorgeous red, big enough for all eyes to see. and you had his.. right on the lower part of your back, sitting pretty between your back dermals.

a hand wrapped around your neck and forced you to meet his icy glare. gojo smiled that beautiful smile before leaning to your ear, “ill kill anyone that tries to take you from me. y’know that, yeah?”

you knew better than to ignore him, causing you to give him a small nod. the hand on your neck shifted to your waist, then down to your ass where he ripped that fucking dress straight down the middle.

his thumb ran across the healed ink on your skin, a sense of pride filling him. “never forget what this means (y/n). you’re mine ‘til we both die, it’s too late to back out now.” he trailed off, tracing his name over all parts of your body.

“and get rid of these fuckin’ dresses too. only want you wearin’ them for me.” a chuckle fell from his lips, but you knew he wasn’t joking and you couldn’t help but to laugh along with him.

yeah.. maybe you were just as bad at no contact as him.

©rissouu 2024 (idk im jus in my toxic gojo era rn)..

[ofbatsandballads]

have this thing I wrote in a flash of pure, unadulterated love for Jason that I felt while doing my hair routine after my shower. never needed a fictional guy more in all my life and honestly this may be my personal favorite thing I’ve ever written.

Thinking about domesticity with Jason Todd. Building a home with him, a life. How ever so gradually mine and yours becomes ours.

You’re brushing your teeth one morning and decide to try out his toothpaste, the one he always buys from the bodega down the block owned by the little abuelita that loves him to death. It’s fresh and it’s minty and you swear it leaves your teeth whiter than the brand name stuff you buy, so you let your tube get used up and never buy toothpaste again. Jason, without question, simply starts buying it twice as often as usual.

You’re fresh from the shower together after a night off for both of you. You’re warm and you’re happy and you’re both so in love it almost hurts. You watch enraptured as he towel dries his hair, roughly scrunching the water from his inky curls. You don’t like how he lacks gentleness with himself, so you take the towel from him and gesture for him to lean down. Ever obedient to you, Jason complies and smiles softly as you dry his hair for him. You think suddenly that while his curls are always soft to the touch, they could do with being a bit more defined. They tend to get really frizzy and poofy by the end of the day. So you grab your curl cream and gel and just absentmindedly do your own routine on him. He raises his eyebrow in question only to quickly relent when he realizes it means you’re playing with his hair for longer. Your hunch is right; once his hair dries, his curls are so pretty you think you could get lost in the waves of them. Jason’s just happy cause now his hair smells like you.

The only clothes Jason has that are his now is his Red Hood gear. The rest of his closet has quickly become co-owned by you. His brain never fails to short circuit when you walk out in his hoodies, or his sweatpants, or his t-shirts, or his boxers. There’s not one piece of his civilian clothing that hasn’t been on both of your bodies at this point. Sometimes seeing you in his clothes has Jason blushing and his heart pounding with how much he loves you, how grateful he is to have this life with you. Other times seeing you in his clothes has him calculating the fastest way he can get them all off of you. You’re just disappointed that it can’t go both ways. But, alas, the struggles of having a massive boyfriend are that he’ll never be able to fit in your clothes. Whatever; it still does something for you when he finally wears the old Gotham Knights shirt that you’d stolen for months.

It’s also kind of funny sometimes. You two own a set of old, dark gray towels affectionately labeled “The Blood Towels”. The Blood Towels are only brought out after a really rough patrol or post-showering when you’re on your period. They came about after you’d nearly slipped while soaking wet from how quickly you’d tried to dry off to avoid bleeding on his good, fluffy towels. Jason just looked at you like you were a little ditzy, a flat “Do ya know how many times I’ve bled on these towels?” coming from his mouth. “I don’t care! I still don’t wanna ruin them!” you’d insisted. And thus, The Blood Towels were born.

Your bookshelf is never going to stop growing. You’ve actually had to go to IKEA more than once to get a larger one with how often you and Jay visit the old bookstore two blocks away from your apartment. Neither of you can resist a pretty cover, or a new annotated edition, or, heaven forbid, those rare, expensive first edition copies. At this point you’re not really sure which of the five copies of Pride and Prejudice first belonged to who, but really what does it matter when you’re both reading them anyways? And it’s always funny when you have to drag home a bigger bookshelf. You can never hold your laughter when Jason inevitably shouts “What the fuck! This wouldn’t be so goddamn hard if they actually gave you coherent instructions!” It’s also always nice to drag the old bookshelves to the apartment of the single mom downstairs whose kid loves reading. You both know she can barely afford the second hand books she gets him, so the shelves are happily given. You’re actually thinking of asking Jay if he’s willing to part with one of your first edition copies of Frankenstein for Christmas; the kid would freak.

All of this comes to a head with a cat. A big, fat, black cat that crawls up on your fire escape one night. You’d both been a little distracted–okay, a lot distracted by the feeling of being lost in each other's touch. You’d been making out for over an hour, just relishing in the intimacy of being together. It was definitely going to go somewhere until you heard the caterwauling of an animal outside your window. “The fuck is that?” Jason had asked as he pulled away from kissing bruises into your neck. “Sounds like a cat.” You’d begged, actually begged, Jason to let him stay. The next morning you came home with a grocery bag full of cat toys and bowls while Jason hauled a value-sized 40 pound bag of cat food on his shoulder. Atticus sits with you both while you watch TV now. Atticus still sometimes ruins the mood when he sees Jason sink his teeth into you and immediately swats his dad on the cheek. But Atticus is also undeniably your boy. And whatever, maybe you do start thinking about what Jason would look like with an actual baby in his arms when he’s cradling Atty as he shuffles around your home. But there’s time for that yet. You both know that. You know that beyond anything else, you’ll always have this life, this home together. It’s the best gift either of you have ever been given.

[fear-is-truth]

# BEING BRUCE WAYNE’S ❝SUGAR BABY❞ AND FALLING IN LOVE WITH HIM — HCs

warnings — slowburn. brief mentions of sex synopsis — being a broke college student that caught the attention of none other than bruce wayne a/n — this is the fluffy slowburn sfw version… the 18+ one is still in the works

──⟢  fear-is-truth — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.

it started when you were a broke college student in your early twenties, juggling classes, part-time jobs, and an unrelenting mountain of bills. bruce wayne, freshly thirty, was already a household name—gotham’s elusive billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist.

you first crossed paths at a charity gala, where you were working as a server, weaving through the crowd with a tray of champagne flutes. you’d only seen bruce wayne in tabloids before, so when you caught him leaning against a marble pillar, watching you, you simply froze.

“you seem a little… distracted,” his eyes flicked to the tray you balanced expertly. “nervous, or just tired of all this nonsense?” you gave him a polite, slightly weary smile. “neither. just trying to get through the night without spilling on anyone important. still got a paper to finish.”

his lips twitched in amusement, but he didn’t press further. at the end of the night, though, you found an obscene tip tucked beneath his empty glass—crisp hundred bills folded neatly, more money than you’d made all week.

weeks later, he appeared again—this time at a hole-in-the-wall café near campus where you worked part-time. it wasn’t his scene; he stuck out like a sore thumb in his tailored black coat, looking utterly out of place among the students.

he didn’t say much that first visit, just ordered black coffee and left another ridiculous tip. but he came back. again and again. sometimes he’d stay long enough for a brief conversation, other times he’d sit quietly in a corner, newspaper in hand. it wasn’t just the tips that stuck to you—it was the way he listened. bruce never made you feel small or dismissed your struggles, like so many others did.

when he first offered to help you financially, he did it with tact that left you room to preserve your pride. “you’re working too hard,” he said one evening. “let me take some of the weight off—just until things settle. consider it an investment in your future.” there was a sincerity in his voice that made it sound like a practical solution rather than a handout.

accepting his help wasn’t easy. you’d been so accustomed to clawing your way through life that the idea of someone else shouldering your burden felt unnatural. after days of hesitation, you finally agreed—but only on the condition that you’d pay him back one day. bruce had only nodded, though there was the faintest hint of a smirk, like he knew you never would.

he never made you feel indebted, though. if anything, he treated it like helping you was a privilege.

when your ancient car finally gave up, bruce didn’t even wait for you to ask for help. within the week, a sleek, brand-new model was delivered to your apartment, the keys tucked into an envelope with a simple note: you need something reliable. you tried to thank him, but he just waved it off. “just focus on getting where you need to go.”

your decrepit laptop, with its constant crashing and refusal to load anything on time, was next. one day, you came home to find a pristine, state-of-the-art model sitting on your desk, already set up and ready to use. you didn’t even have to ask.

bruce never demanded anything in return. the closest he came to asking for favours were the occasional lunches or dinners where he’d pick your brain about your studies, your ambitions, your dreams. he always seemed genuinely interested, never letting the conversation veer into anything too personal unless you led it there.

you realized over time that it wasn’t just the money, the gifts, or even the way he treated you like an equal—it was the steady presence he provided. bruce wasn’t there to fix your life or control it; he just wanted to make it a little easier. and somehow, that made all the difference.

when you stayed up late working on papers, bruce would sometimes settle on the couch nearby, a novel in his hands. he never intruded, but his quiet presence was a reminder that you weren’t alone. on particularly rough nights, he’d bring you a cup of tea without saying a word, setting it gently beside you before returning to his book.

on your birthday, he surprised you with a bouquet of your favourite flowers—something you’d mentioned in passing months ago—and a beautifully wrapped box containing a classic hermès birkin. the card attached to it read simply, “something to carry all those books in.”

his gifts were always thoughtful, never ostentatious in a way that would make you feel uneasy. designer coats, shoes, and bags—each impeccably tailored to your taste, yet discreet. the labels were always tucked away, hidden in folds and linings. they were things you could wear without being worried you’d get mugged. nothing about them screamed, “i have a sugar daddy.”

bruce never tried to “buy” your affection. you didn’t owe him anything—not in the transactional way most would expect. he just wanted to see you comfortable, to help you in ways that went beyond financial support. and, over time, you realized you cared for him too—not for what he could give you, but for who he was.

he had an uncanny ability to remember the smallest details about you. the way you took your coffee. the name of the professor whose lectures you dreaded. how the sound of rain on a window always calmed you. those little moments of attentiveness.

at first, bruce kept you at arm’s length emotionally, cautious about pulling you deeper into his complicated world. but as the months went by, as your late-night talks stretched into early mornings, it became clear that bruce didn’t see this as a favour or an obligation. he cared for you in a way that went far beyond surface-level kindness.

when you went through a bad breakup, he didn’t try to fix it or console you with empty platitudes. instead, he just wrapped his arms around you, letting you cry into his chest.

it wasn’t long before the line between benefactor and friend blurred entirely. he was no longer just footing your bills or buying you thoughtful gifts—bruce got greedy. he didn’t just want to take care of you financially; he wanted all of you.

one night, you were venting about your professors, frustration pouring out in a messy jumble of words. bruce listened intently, brow furrowed as he leaned back in his chair, giving you his undivided attention.

“you’re too nice to me,” you blurted, the words slipping out like a spew of vomit. before doubt could creep in, you leaned forward and kissed him. it was a kiss that changed everything—as you half expected him to gently push you away, his hand came up to cradle your face, deepening it.

the kiss led to one thing, then another, and before you knew it, you were tangled together in his sheets, lost in his kisses, his touch, his quiet attention to your every reaction. bruce wasn’t just passionate; he was thorough in a way that unraveled you completely—it was hands down the best sex you’d ever had.

when you woke up the next morning, still tangled in his arms, a wave of uncertainty hit you. maybe it was nerves or overthinking, but you couldn’t stop wondering if you’d crossed a line you shouldn’t have. sensing your unease, bruce kissed your shoulder, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “i hope you know this changes nothing… we’re fine.”

and just like that, you became his official “sugar baby.” not that the dynamic between you two changed drastically—it simply gave bruce an excuse to really spoil you.

the secrecy was part of the thrill, but also a necessity. bruce wasn’t ready to let the world know, and truthfully, you weren’t either. the thought of being reduced to a tabloid headline or a shallow label like “sugar baby” or “sugar daddy” felt like a betrayal of the genuine connection you’d built.

he started sending you to your favourite spa on weekends, claiming you deserved a break from all the stress. when you protested that it was too much, he just shrugged. “self-care is important,” he said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.

your closet, which had been a collection of fast fashion and thrifted pieces, was slowly replaced with the row, max mara, burberry, and dior.

your jewelry collection grew as well. delicate van cleef & arpels bracelets, tiffany & co. pendants, and diamond-stud earrings from cartier found their way into your life. he gifted you a dainty rolex, understated yet stunning, with a cheeky note: “don’t be late to class.”

despite all of this, bruce was careful to ensure it never looked like you were “living large.” you stayed in your same modest apartment, though it was clear his influence was woven into the details: a state-of-the-art security system, upgrades to your furniture and appliances that made life a little easier.

dinners became a regular occurrence, whether it was a reservation at gotham’s most exclusive restaurant or an extravagant meal in his penthouse.

when you graduated, bruce was there, blending into the crowd in a simple black coat, inconspicuous among the sea of families and friends. you didn’t spot him at first—he wasn’t the type to draw attention when he didn’t want to—but when your eyes finally landed on his, he gave you the smallest of nods. after the ceremony, he approached you quietly, slipping a small velvet box into your hand. you opened it to reveal a key.

“what’s this for?” you asked, already overwhelmed, fingers trembling slightly. “your new apartment,” he replied simply. then, after a pause, “unless… you’d rather move in with me.”

from then on, everything changed. bruce wasn’t just your benefactor; he was your best friend, your confidant, and eventually, your lover.

[stnkiconverse]

Hii :3 could I have sum of the creep boys (Ej, Toby, Jeff, Masky and Hoodie) with a reader who likes marking (bites/cuts/hickeys) their thighs? Pls and thank u 💛

This has been collecting dust in my drafts for months, im so sorry bby, i just needed to have my masky and hoodie headcanons in place before posting this😭😭

Also- Ik you said thighs, but i did mention some other places, i hope you don’t mind :3

E Y E L E S S J A C K

Jack is surprisingly unbothered by your habit. He views it with a mix of curiosity and amusement, often analyzing your techniques silently. (like this = 🤨)

"Hmm. Is this an attempt at branding? Or is this just for fun?" His DRY ASS humor makes it hard to tell if he's teasing or genuinely questioning.

He’s not fond of pain but does not shy from it either. The marks don't bother him, they heal faster than you think anyway.

If you center the attack on his thighs, he'll arch a brow and say something quick and sarcastic, like, "I'm honored you've chosen me as your personal canvas."

Jack has super sharp senses, so he's super aware of your touch. If you bite or leave cuts near sensitive spots, hips, or neck, for example, he might tense for a moment but never stop you.

His favorite places for you to mark? His shoulders or his ribs. He finds the sensation grounding in a strange way, though he'll never admit it. (he moaned once)

If you tease him about it, he'll deadpan: "Just don't expect me to reciprocate. My claws aren't…delicate." (😏)

T I C C I T O B Y

Toby is a little awkward about it at first, not used to someone being so physically affectionate in such an intense way. But once he gets used to it? He's all in. (fucking weirdo 😒 / lovingly)

He doesn't actually feel pain like others do, (obv) so he lets you go wild without flinching. "You're gonna have to try harder than that to leave a mark on me," he'd tease, looking down later to grin at the faint bruises or bites.

If you target his thighs, he might giggle a bit, kicking his leg. "That tickles, stop- stop!"

Neck and collarbone marks fluster him the most. He'll try to hide them with his hoodie but secretly love that they're there.

Sometimes, he'll encourage you in his chaotic way: "Oh, you missed a spot. Try here!" and point to random places like his back or ribs, sometimes even shoving his wrists in your face 😭😭

If you ever leave too many marks, he'll grin like a maniac and joke: "Guess I'm your chew toy now, huh?"

J E F F T H E K I L L E R

Jeff would be cocky about it, but secretly flustered. He'd smirk and say something snarky like, "Didn't know you were that desperate to get your hands on me," but the redness creeping up his neck gives him away.

He doesn't mind pain and might even enjoy it a little. If you bite too hard, he'll laugh and go, "Is that all you've got? You're gonna have to try harder."

Loves when you leave marks on his neck, it makes him feel a twisted sense of pride. He'll strut around the manor like a smug idiot, showing them off.

His thighs are a sensitive spot, though he won't admit it. If you target them, he'll squirm slightly and mutter, "Don't get any ideas..." but he won't stop you. (bcs he likes it 😏)

If you leave cuts or scratches, he'll trace them with his fingers absentmindedly, secretly loving the way they look.

"You're turning me into your personal art project, huh? Not that I'm complaining."

T I M / M A S K Y

Masky (Tim)

Tim is not immediately comfortable it, especially if it's in a more vulnerable spot like his neck or inner thighs. He'll tense up and grumble, "What are you doing?" but he won't push you away :3

Over time, he warms up to it, especially when he realizes it's your way of showing affection. He won't admit it, but he finds it oddly reassuring :p

Marks on his shoulders or upper back are his favorite. He won't say anything, but you might catch him subtly glancing at them in the mirror (😏)

If you bite too hard, he'll sigh and mutter, "You know I have to cover that up, right?" while pulling on another layer of clothing (i love him guys)

Surprisingly, he doesn't mind if you mark his thighs when he's sitting or lounging. He might roll his eyes but secretly enjoys the attention.

"You're a little too into this, you know that?" he'd say with the tiniest smirk, though the faint blush on his face betrays him.

B R I A N / H O O D I E

Hoodie (Brian)

Brian is surprisingly chill about your habit and takes it in stride :D

He'll joke, "Do I look like a notebook to you? Or is this some modern art thing?"

He's not huge on pain, so if you bite too hard or draw blood, he might flinch and gently push you away. "Careful, I'm not indestructible."

Loves when you leave hickeys or gentle bites on his shoulders or chest. He finds them oddly comforting and will trace them when he's alone, smiling softly.

If you go for his thighs, he'll laugh and tease you: "That's bold. Didn't take you for a thigh person."

Occasionally, he'll play along and say something like, "You missed a spot," pointing to random areas just to see you flustered.

Brian enjoys the possessive nature of your markings but is too reserved to admit it outright.

Instead, he'll say something teasing like, "Guess I'm yours now, huh?"

I hope this was good enough!! :D

sorry to keep you waiting so long 😭

[lyssakinzzz]

Soft!Remmick caring for you but he still has a possessive streak but he's just caring and soft!🩷🦇

SMUT!

Breeding, jealousy sex, Praise kink if you look realll close, free use(damn I'm horny), dubcon, somnophillia, remmick being soft, but dark just a bit, prideful remmick, remmick being a tad masochistic, unprotected sex (wrap your willy before you nilly, guys), choking, remmick talking you through it in Gaelic, (Google translate Gaelic, I'm sorry the Irish didn't bring Gaelic to my island yall 😔), squirting!

Writing below cut!

You never thought dating a vampire could be so gentle, I mean Remmick was just so sweet! He was, truly. He tried courting you, for godsakes! He was an old soul, litreally and figuratively. You always bragged about how your man never got jealous or was threatened by any man, when you and your girlfriends would sit around for gossip and sweet tea. This was truly blissful.

So, you were confused when you woke up to your boyfriend lightly, choking you whilst thrusting into your aching cunt.

"Ahh..." you let out clawing at his back, your silver rings pressed down on his back as he hissed, just pressing deeper into you.

"Fuck s'tight." He grunted his eyes rolling back.

"Dont god move, sug. You're squeezing justtt right." He hissed as his breath hitched, as he pushed into your spongy entrance.

"Shitttt, he could never make you feel like this huh?" He muttered, choking back loud moans, shutting it tight in his throat like a Pandora's box that he didn't dare to open. You looked confused, but just nodded, breathlessly and mindlessly.

"No, baby. No..." you breathed out.

"Righttt...say it like you mean it, girl." He whispered, as he let out a little "fuck" while thrusting. You nodded, your eyes rolling back.

"Use your big girl words, c'mon, cher" He rasped, while gaining speed, you clawed at his back, your silver rings leaving burns on him, like you branded him.

He was yours.

You kept whining as your response, as remmick kept priding himself.

"Yeah, he'd never be able to fuck you like this, huh, Cher?" He grunted, going nice and slow, his soft head perfectly kissing your cervix, you arch your back into the soft mattress.

"M'gonna cum....Rem!" You whined as he continued his movements.

"Nuh fuck uh, you gon' promise, you'd never let him touch you, that you'd never let him fuck you as good as I do." He grunted, letting a few whimpers slip through his tough facade.

You whined, thrashing. You breathed heavily, you needed this.

"I'd never let him t-touch me...." you whined, obeying his request. He smirked as he let you cum as he talked you through your orgasm

"Sea, a ghrá. Tar ar aghaidh, tá sé ceart go leor. Tar ar mo shon, ní ghreimim." He moaned, gaining speed, but keeping his movements sensual.

"B’fhéidir dá mbeadh leanbh agam ionat, go bhfanfadh sé ar shiúl, ha? An mbeadh suim agat ann, sílim go mbainfeadh an cút beag santach seo taitneamh as, ha?" He grunted, as he kept going, your spongy walls, growing tighter for him with each thrust.

"tà sì..." He moaned as he watched, your cunt gush water for him.

"Ó, féach cad a rinne an cailín deas." He smiled as he pulled out and started lapping at your folds, trying to get a taste of your juices, mixed with his cum. When you finally stopped gushing he raised his head to your wreaked body, his lips red from sucking. He smiled and got up.

"I'm gonna' make some pancakes, ya seem hungry." He whistled as he walked to the kitchen, as you laid in bed.

[carnalcrows]

STAY QUIET

pairing: rockstar! male OC x male reader [faceclaim]

synopsis: The scandal should’ve ended with damage control. But when the video keeps resurfacing—and the trail leads back to a grudge older than Jiho’s debut—you realize this was never about bad PR. It was personal. Now you're spiraling, Jiho’s not letting go, and someone’s about to find out what happens when a scandal turns into strategy.

content warnings: 18+, idol/manager dynamic, bottom male reader(he’s tired, ok), jiho is younger and terrifyingly in control, mild yandere energy, fingering, p in a (reader receiving), possessive behavior in soft lighting, revenge plot, workplace betrayal, low-key emotional blackmail, they catch the guy but at what cost. also: sheets were changed after, i'm not a monster.

word count: 2.5k [pt 1 here]

You don’t tell anyone he stayed.

No one asks.

When you return to work the next morning, your pass still works, but you notice two things before you’ve even cleared the lobby.

Your name is no longer on the artist schedule.

The lady at the front desk doesn’t look you in the eye.

The building smells like cheap cologne and too much coffee. Somewhere upstairs, Jiho is probably already in makeup. You’re not technically supposed to be there, not on paper, but no one told you not to show up, just like no one said the scandal was real. Just like no one ever tells you anything directly.

You keep your head down and head for the second floor, hoping the PR director’s still out at the brand meeting.

She’s not.

She’s waiting in the boardroom with two people you don’t recognise and a company-issued iPad pulled up to the paused frame of the video.

You blink once. Twice.

“Have a seat,” she says. Not unkind. But definitely not kind.

You sit.

The man beside her—suit, subtle luxury watch, no name tag—leans forward like he’s about to explain a security breach, not your job’s slow death.

“We’ve reviewed the clip. It’s clear there was physical contact that could be interpreted as inappropriate.”

You exhale slowly through your nose. “It was a collar.”

He nods like that’s tragic.

“We’re not here to accuse you. But the clip didn’t come from an audience member or a fan. It was internal. Shot from the floor’s restricted side angle. Only ten or so staffers have access.”

You freeze.

“You’re saying it was leaked on purpose?”

He doesn’t answer. That’s not his job.

The PR lead clicks her nails against the screen. “What we need from you right now is stability. Don’t escalate. Don’t comment. Don’t reach out to Jiho directly, even privately.”

“Why?” you ask, despite knowing better.

She tilts her head. “Because this isn’t about what happened anymore. It’s about what people think happened. And what they want to believe next.”

You leave the meeting with your jaw locked and your hands shaking.

The elevator’s slow. The hallway feels tighter than usual. Your phone buzzes once.

It’s Jiho.

Where are you?

You type out: Don’t. Not right now.

Then delete it. Then type it again. Then delete that too.

The elevator stops on the rehearsal floor. The doors open.

Jiho’s standing there.

He’s alone.

Hood up. Cap low. A water bottle dangling from his fingers like he forgot to let go.

You step back into the corner of the elevator without meaning to.

He doesn’t get in.

Just tilts his head. “Come with me.”

You should say no.

You don’t.

You’re not sure if it’s gravity or muscle memory. All you know is that by the time you’re halfway down the hallway, trailing a few steps behind him like it’s still your job, your pulse is up and your mouth is dry.

You don’t ask where he’s taking you.

Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s just easier to let him lead than to admit you’ve lost control of the narrative—of your job, of this… whatever this is. You just follow Jiho through the corridor like you’re still the one managing him. Like you’re not the scandal the company’s hoping will quietly phase out.

He doesn’t speak until the elevator doors close behind you.

Then: “They told you to stay away from me?”

You don’t answer.

He tilts his head, smiling like it’s funny. “So why are you here?”

You give him a look. “You asked.”

“That was a test.”

You scoff. “Of course it was.”

The elevator dings on the basement level. Not parking, not storage. The old staff lounge—the one the company stopped using after a remodel. It’s empty now, lights dim, couch still there with a rip in the armrest and one of Taeyang’s old hoodies folded like someone meant to come back for it.

Jiho walks in like he owns the place.

He sits. Doesn’t gesture for you to do the same. Just watches as you hover in the doorway like you’re waiting for a better option.

“What is this, Jiho?”

He shrugs. “Time alone.”

You press your fingers to your brow, exhausted. “You really don’t care, do you? About the fact that this could ruin your reputation, your future—”

“You.”

The word cuts through your sentence like a knife.

You stare.

He leans forward, elbows on knees, fingers laced. “It’s not about me. It’s not even about the company anymore. They’re not scared because I touched your collar. They’re scared because they think I might do it again.”

You’re quiet.

He continues. “They saw something they weren’t supposed to see. So did everyone else. That’s the problem. That I looked at you like that. That you looked back.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did.”

You open your mouth. Close it.

He stands slowly. Walks over until he’s just in front of you, blocking the doorway. Not touching. But close enough that your brain short-circuits the idea of leaving.

“I’m not going to make you do anything,” he says, voice low. “I don’t need to.”

You flinch. “What does that mean?”

Jiho looks at you like it’s obvious.

“It means I already have you.”

You don’t remember when you started shaking. Only that you’re still shaking twenty minutes later, in the stairwell, back against cold concrete, your phone buzzing in your pocket.

You answer on the third ring.

It’s Doyun.

“Hey,” he says casually. “You ghosting me or something?”

You glance at the wall across from you. Your brain’s still spinning. “I’ve been busy.”

“Yeah, I figured. PR’s been sprinting across the building since 9 a.m. I think someone cried.”

You rub your eyes. “Did they say anything?”

“Not officially. But you know how this place works. The stylists know everything before management does.”

You wait

Doyun exhales. “They think it came from inside.”

You go still.

“The clip,” he clarifies. “Not a fan. Not a leak through press. It was shot from the side—restricted angle. One of the old camera hallways that’s staff-only now.”

Your mouth goes dry.

“Was it… recent?” you ask, slowly.

“No clue. But it was posted through a dummy account with a weird handle. Someone’s been watching for a while, maybe.”

The hallway feels colder now. Too still.

Doyun hesitates. “You think Jiho knew?”

The question hangs in the space between you. You don’t know how to answer it. You don’t even know if you want to.

“No,” you say. “Probably not.”

Doyun doesn’t push. “Yeah. Probably not.”

But he doesn’t sound convinced.

And you aren’t either.

You’re called in on a Thursday.

No warning. Just a message from the assistant coordinator that says "9:45 a.m., 3rd floor. Bring your badge." You don’t ask what it’s about. You already know.

The room’s smaller this time. No full boardroom. Just the head of artist management, a legal rep, and your new handler—some fresh-faced guy from planning who speaks in phrasing like “potential optics challenges” and “staff-artist ambiguity threshold.”

They don’t ask you what happened.

They ask what you’re willing to say on record.

You sit there, palms flat against your jeans, wondering how the hell this became your life.

You don’t name Jiho.

You don’t need to.

They tell you that "a quiet, internal phase-out" might be the best path forward. You ask what that means. They say you'll still get paid. You ask how long. They don’t answer.

Then they tell you a second clip has been posted.

It’s shorter than the first. Just three seconds. From a different angle—shakier, a little out of focus.

But it’s still you.

Still Jiho.

He’s brushing past you in a hallway, hand grazing your back. It could be nothing. It is nothing. But the caption under it says:

“so they’re still seeing each other huh 💅🏻”

It has thirty thousand likes in under an hour.

You ask if they’ve traced it.

They say no.

You ask if Jiho’s seen it.

They don’t answer that either.

You leave the office with your head pounding.

You don’t go home. You don’t go to the studio. You end up at a small café four blocks away, the kind of place where no one looks at you twice if you stay too long and don’t order a second drink. You sit in the back corner with your phone face down and your thoughts crawling like ants in your skull.

You don’t know how long you’re there before someone sits across from you.

You don’t have to look up to know who it is.

“I was followed,” Jiho says quietly.

You look up then. He’s not wearing a mask. No hat. Just a hoodie and glasses and that blank expression that always looks like he’s either thinking too much or nothing at all.

“By who?”

“I don’t know.”

He sips from a plastic cup that you didn’t see him buy.

“They weren’t close. Just enough for a blurry shot. They didn’t care what I did. They just wanted to see where I went.”

You don’t speak.

Jiho leans in, elbows on the table.

“I went to see you.”

You close your eyes.

“You knew that would happen.”

“I hoped it would.”

“You—” your voice is too sharp, too loud. You swallow. Start again. “You’re being followed. And you still came here?”

He nods. “Now they know where to look.”

Your chest tightens.

“Jiho,” you whisper, “what are you doing?”

He’s quiet for a long time.

Then: “I’m making it impossible for them to erase you.”

---

You’re half-asleep when Doyun calls.

It’s not unusual—he’s the kind of person who only remembers you exist when the world’s ending. But this time, his voice isn’t teasing. It’s quiet. Measured.

“I know who leaked the clip,” he says.

You sit up immediately.

There’s silence on the line. Then: “His name’s Jisoo. Does that ring a bell?”

You close your eyes. “Yeah.”

Trainee. Cut just before debut. Replaced by Jiho.

You’d heard whispers, back when you joined—something about missed rehearsals, a bad attitude, internal tension. No one ever said it out loud, but everyone knew: Jiho took his spot.

Doyun exhales. “Apparently he still had access to the system. He’s been reposting the video from a buried staff login. PR’s keeping it quiet while they figure out how far it goes.”

You rub your eyes. “Why are you telling me?”

“Because I think he’s not done. And because I saw Jiho earlier. He’s not doing great.”

You freeze. “What does that mean?”

“I mean,” Doyun says carefully, “he looked like someone who’s about to make a problem permanent.”

You hang up without saying goodbye.

You find Jiho in the old green room. The one they stopped using after the remodel. He’s sitting on the floor, hoodie up, guitar untouched beside him. He doesn’t look surprised when you walk in.

“They know,” you say. He doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

You close the door behind you. “You could’ve told me.”

“I didn’t want you involved.”

“You got me fired,” you snap. “No,” he says. “They tried. I stopped them.” 

That shuts you up.

You sink into the chair across from him. The air between you is still sharp, brittle.

“Why did he do it?” Jiho finally looks at you. “Because I got his spot.”

“That was years ago.” He shrugs. “Some people hold grudges better than they hold choreography.”

You almost laugh. Almost.

Then: “We need proof.” Jiho blinks. “We already have it.”

“Yeah,” you say, “but we’re not the ones holding the company leash.”

The plan is messy.

You dig through the backend system and find the last IP log-in. Then you run a bait file through it—an early version of a sponsorship contract with a fake date and Jiho’s name highlighted like something’s off. Then you sit back and wait.

It doesn’t take long.

Thirty-seven minutes later, the file’s been opened. Duplicated. Shared to a Discord server you didn’t even know existed.

You bring it straight to legal.

They call you back the next day.

“It’s done,” they say. “We’ve locked him out. He won’t be bothering anyone again.”

You expect that to feel better.

It doesn’t.

You don’t even knock. He opens the door like he was already standing behind it.

Jiho’s not surprised. Not smiling, either. Just calm, quiet, eyes flicking over your face like he already knows why you’re here.

You walk in.

He closes the door behind you—slowly. No words. No questions. Just lets the silence stretch until it turns into something else.

Then: “Take your shoes off.”

You do.

You’re not even halfway through the hallway before he’s got a hand on your jaw, turning your face to his, breath warm across your lips.

“I’m not going to ask what this is, Hyung,” Jiho says, voice low. “I already know.”

And you should respond. You should say something—something level, something safe—but the way he looks at you strips that instinct clean. So you just nod.

That’s all he needs.

He has you stripped down before your head even hits the pillow. Every movement is intentional. Every touch calculated.

He kisses like it’s not optional. Like it’s permission and punishment all at once. Your pulse spikes the second his hand slips beneath your thigh, pulling you open, making space for him.

“Hold still,” Jiho says, just above your ear.

You try. You fail.

He moves slowly—not for your comfort, but for his own satisfaction. Like he wants to feel every inch of your body adjust around his cock. Like stretching you out means something more than just prep—it means possession.

The first thrust is too much. The second is worse. The third has you gasping, your fingers twisting in the sheets, legs trembling under the pressure of his pace.

Jiho doesn’t slow down.

He stays close—pressed to your chest, hips moving in a steady rhythm that makes it hard to think, let alone speak. His breath is hot against your throat. His grip unshakable.

“You feel that, Hyung?” he whispers. “That’s me.”

You groan—half pleasure, half disbelief.

He presses deeper. His body locks into yours like muscle memory, like a song he’s played a hundred times but only now gets to hear out loud.

You’re already close—your spine bowing, your mouth slack, your vision buzzing at the edges—and when he pulls your leg up over his hip, the angle makes everything shatter.

You’re gone.

You come like your body’s been waiting for it all week—hips stuttering, breath caught, eyes shut tight—and Jiho doesn’t stop. He keeps fucking you through it, pace tight and focused, until he’s cursing into your neck and spilling inside you with one final thrust that leaves your whole body pulsing.

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Just stays there.

Breathing hard.

Chest rising against yours.

Then he lifts his head. Looks down at you. Quiet. Sweaty. Still a little smug.

“You’re mine,” he says again, voice hoarse.

And this time, you don’t even try to deny it.

Later, you lie there tangled together, skin damp, hair in your eyes, breath slowly evening out.

Jiho’s arm is thrown across your waist, lazy but possessive.

“You think they’ll still try to split us?” you ask.

He exhales against your collar. “They can try.”

You close your eyes.

For the first time since it all started, you believe him.

© carnalcrows on tumblr. Please do not steal my works as I spend time, and I take genuine effort to do them.

Taglist: @axetivev @yyuinaa @zaynesyumei @sageofspades @onyxmango @puccigucii @the-ultimate-librarian @sooobiinn @sooniebby @i2innie @tintenka1@timaas-blog @darlinqvi @horrorsbeyondreality @rednugget @lysanderplume @leron1108 @kauo-writez @the0ishere @calgurl @kissenturine @bleedingbl0ssom @gayaristocrat @hyppernovva [comment to be added, or send an ask]

[zzbubblegumbitchzz]

congrats on 500! 🤍 may I please request smut #11 with Luke Hughes?

hi babe!! thank you, thank you!

Luke Hughes - smut prompt 11 - “holy shit. Is that for me?”

WC: 295 (a little guy)

CW: smut lol, mentions of branding (nothing crazy just a tattoo she got on her own free will), breeding kink, Lukes mouth. nsfw under the cut

Luke never had this urge to claim you. He was confident that you were his and his alone. He never worried when someone was near you in a bar or if you were skipping out of the wives seats to be closer to glass. He never once doubted you and your love for him.

So what a fucking surprise he had when he had gotten you home and his body was filled with nothing but pride. 

He was taking his time with you, pressing wet kisses against your hip, ignoring the whines from you. “Quit it, let me celebrate my hatty how I want.” 

His eyes were focused on the goosebumps showing as he pulled the fabric off your legs. His movement stilled, eyes glued to your upper thigh. A tiny 43, right where he always left a mark.

“Holy shit. Is that for me?” His breath was uneven, and fuck. He had never been harder. He knew he wasn't going to last knowing you all but branded yourself to him. 

“Uh huh, got it a while you were in Michigan during break.” 

He moaned, he couldn't help it. His girl, was so fucking dedicated to him, she went and put him on his favorite spot. 

“Fucking hell, baby. You trying to kill me? You trying to take away all my fun? Trying to make me forget all my plans so i just,” he ran his fingers against her wet core. “Push these pretty panties to the side and bury myself in you? Happy to tell you. I love you so fucking much, but youre not leaving this bed until my mark is in you. Only fair huh? You walking around with me on you, should be able to walk around with my babies too.”

[xoxolaw]

Since the first time I’ve watched class 2 I’ve been thinking about that scene from episode 1 where Seongje bashes the guy’s head against the desk in the pc cafe but how about a story where he does so not because the guy talked shit about him but because he was being obnoxious and inappropriate towards reader who works in the pc cafe 👀

+ YOU BELONG TO ME

in which a poor guy attempted to touch someone seong-je would kill for.

Geum Seong-je x reader

fluff

The cyber café was mostly quiet that night — save for the usual click-clack of keyboards and the low hum of gaming marathons.

She moved behind the counter with practiced ease, headphones around her neck, hair pulled back in a messy clip. Just another shift. Just another night.

Except he was here.

Seong-je.

Back corner. Red blazer. Headphones on. But his eyes always strayed.

She pretended not to notice. Like she didn’t feel the burn of his gaze tracing her every time she bent forward to clean a desk or leaned over to adjust a monitor. Like she didn’t wait for his casual smirks or that stupidly attractive way he bit the inside of his cheek when she teased him.

It was a game. Always a game.

And she was good at playing.

“Aisle two, spicy ramen and Coke,” someone called from the front.

She glanced at the screen, confirming the order. A random guy, probably new — messy hair, worn sneakers, eyes that lingered a little too long when she scanned his login.

She carried the tray down the aisle with a polite smile, placing the bowl and bottle on the small table next to his keyboard. “Here you go.”

He looked up. Smirked. Then, as she turned to leave, his hand brushed way too close — grazing the back of her thigh.

“Hey,” he said low, leaning back in his chair like he didn’t just cross a line. “You always serve the snacks so sweetly, or am I just lucky?”

Her entire body tensed.

She stepped back. Straightened.

“That’s your last snack here if you try that again.”

The guy laughed, bold. “C’mon, no need to be cold—”

Bang.

The chair behind her scraped loud against the floor.

She didn’t need to look. She already knew.

Seong-je.

He was out of his seat. Stalking down the aisle like a warning wrapped in black cotton and quiet rage.

She said his name, low, warning — “Seong-je, don’t—”

Too late.

He grabbed the back of that guy's head, slammed his face forward — hard — right into the keyboard.

Again.

And again.

Keys cracked. “Q-W-E-R” shot across the desk like confetti.

The guy let out a choked groan. Seong-je pressed him forward again, voice calm, dark, possessive.

“You think just because she handed you food, you get to touch her?”

Blood dripped onto the spacebar.

“She’s not yours to flirt with. Not yours to look at like that. Got it?”

The guy squirmed. “Man—! What the f—”

“Say sorry.”

“I’m sorry!”

“Louder.”

“I’m sorry!”

Only then did Seong-je shove him back into the chair, eyes lit with a fury that made every other customer pretend they didn’t see a thing.

The guy stumbled out, clutching his face, dragging his pride behind him.

The café went silent.

Seong-je turned to her slowly, jaw tight, breath sharp.

“You okay?”

She nodded, pulse racing, emotions tangled somewhere between shock, rage… and something hotter.

“You didn’t have to do that.”

He stepped closer, eyes dark. “Yes, I did.”

Their bodies were almost touching now. The glow of screen light flickered over his face, casting him in shadow and heat.

“You don’t belong to him. Or anyone like that.”

Her voice trembled, defiant. “And who do I belong to?”

His breath hitched.

He lifted his hand, slow, like giving her time to stop him — but she didn’t. Fingers brushed her jaw. A soft, possessive touch.

“Me,” he whispered.

The word sank into her skin like a brand.

---

AUTHOR'S NOTE + MASTERLIST

The way I am writing all the requests and not studying for my exam 😭

[missadangel]

MAKE HIM DISLIKE LOVE YOU

Harry Castillo x Reader (The Materialists)

Chapter 3: Happily Never After

prev chapter series masterlist next chapter

Chapter Summary: They say the liar's candle burns until nightfall, and the truth eventually comes out. But if the liar had to say the lie without wanting to, can she ever be forgiven? Warnings: 18+ (smut, MDNI) kinda romantic comedy stuff, fluffy, angst, lying, soft and caring Harry Castillo, Lucy as his ex, John as Lucy's ex, wealth, expensive gifts, drinks, money, cars, language, sexual tension, oral sex, p in v sex, kissing, slow burn, power imbalance, I might have missed some warnings; I will update them in due time. Chapter Word Count: 8k, explicit MDNI, smutty, fluffy, and angst... authors note: I'm so glad you all showed so much love and interest in this story! Thanks a ton, everyone!

An elevator ride towards the topmost floor brought you to a spectacular view of the city below, glass panels surrounding almost every inch of the suite. The elevator’s soft ding startled your body into action. Stepping through, you couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement at the moment. Luxurious surroundings of rich blacks, silvery grays, and gleaming gold details captured your attention, soothing your nerves. However, it was merely a distraction that served nothing, not when you could feel his every movement, his graceful steps moving to and fro.

The suite was larger than you thought, and the hallway was strewn with flower petals. The shopping bags filled with clothes he had bought for you sat on the large table to your right. You stood there, -your gaze fixed on them but avoiding his face- feeling a wave of heat intensifying throughout your body. You were startled by Harry's gentle touch as he helped you remove your coat. He did it slowly and lingeringly, letting his fingertips glide along your neck and shoulders. You glanced at him shyly, your heart racing as your eyes finally met.

Damn.

His eyes burning you to the core.

You felt a lump form in your throat, but you took a deep breath and swallowed it down. Just as he was about to turn, you caught a quick glimpse of his lips moving—was he smiling? Crap, he must have picked up on how nervous you were. Of course, he did; you were acting all jittery like a bride on her wedding night. But this wasn’t a wedding night, and you weren’t a bride, so why were you feeling this way? It had been a while since you’d last hooked up, but that wasn’t what was stressing you out. You really needed to calm the chaos going on in your head, and fast.

His words echoed in your mind: "For now, just let it all out."

And you did.

In that moment, you made up your mind. Deep down, you admitted that you wanted him.

Yes.

You wanted him so badly that you didn't care about anything else, so badly that you swallowed your pride in an instant.

You turned to him and your eyes stayed glued to him.

To his back.

The way he moved, the way he touched, grabbed and placed your coat over the chair. The way his eyes locked with yours, and with just a look, he understood.

Then he lunged.

Brought your face into his, your lips melded as one, devouring one other, clashing with hunger released from the confines of your heart. You couldn't hold back this madness any longer, opening up so gloriously, so effortlessly to his probing tongue, tongue that feverishly explored every inch of your mouth, wanting, no, needing, to brand every inch with his taste. And you pushed back, wanting the same thing: for him to taste you. 

He pushed you back with even more passion than you did. You did trip, but he was agile enough to catch you before you fell, pinned you against a wall. His lips met your jaw, teeth scraping down to your neck while your hands fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel him, desperate to touch...

Your sudden growl got his attention, and he surged up, kissing your mouth again, helping you with the damn shirt. Once it came off, you wasted no time. Your hands roamed with eager curiosity, enchanted by the velvety warmth of his skin despite the strength of his body, at the solid ridges your palms found, the sculpted lines of his chest, the tightness of his rippling biceps, his abs.

He was a magnificent sight, a living dream, and you were completely committed to exploring every inch of him.

Then, with a swift and eager move, he found the zipper of the dress, lowering it until it finally gave way, the straps on your shoulder falling helplessly to their sides. He took a moment to appreciate the stunning sight of the dress gracefully cascading from your body, elegantly flowing to the floor and pooling at your feet. His gaze lingered on every detail, from your bare legs to the delicate strands of hair framing your face. A proud smile spread across his lips, accompanied by a playful growl of approval, clearly delighted by the breathtaking vision before him.

Eagerly, he reached out with his hand to help you step over the dress, and then he placed another burning kiss on your lips.

He was quick to grab you by the hips, quick to pin you against the wall again. One arm encased you within his grip, the other harshly split your legs open and found your clit beneath your panties. You gasped, bucked against him, against his hold, his crotch. He wouldn’t budge, his mouth scraping, tasting you, your neck despite your jewelry, leaving behind delicious bites that left your body mindless, numb to everything but him.

“You have no idea how much I've been hoping for this moment,” he finally said, sucking, biting your shoulder a little too hard, rubbed your clit a little too slow, and yet. You whined for him, because of him, craving all he had to give, indifferent to whether it was right or wrong. And despite how overwhelming it was, his fingers still moved so slow, so softly against your clit- you couldn't help the desperate moan that escaped your lips, in desire to get closer, to- He growled, “Just like this, kitty, I want you just like this. Pliant, desperate for more.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

His words didn't help; instead, they only made you squirm more. You knew he was doing it on purpose, yet damn it, you needed more; so desperate for this delicious torture to end.

“Please,” you said, whimpering.

“Please what?” He rubbed his nose teasingly against yours, a smirk dancing on his lips as he awaited your answer. With his grip, he pressed you against him a little more until your pussy was pressed against his clothed, hard cock. "Is this what you want?"

"Y-yes."

He laughed harshly.

You couldn't help it, you blushed hard after he said, "So you finally admit you want me.” He nibbled on your ear, whispered against it. "You will get what you want sweetheart, no rush. There’s something else I want to do first.” 

Without lowering you from the wall against which he was pinned you, he lifted you up and caught you in his arms. He wrapped your legs more tightly around his waist and carried you to the bed.

Gripping his shoulders, yourt heart racing. Maintaining eye contact, he leaned in and gently set you on the edge of the bed. You scooted back, feeling excited, biting your lips. "Not yet," he said, his voice low and husky as he quickly grabbed and pulled you by the thighs towards the edge. The way he slid you across the bed, this easy and a little roughly, took your breath away and was definitely a big turn-on for you. He leaned over, slipped his fingers into the hem of your panties and pulled them down your thighs too roughly, tearing your lace panties, but neither of you cared at that moment.

“I want to taste you, all of you,” he growled, and brought his mouth back to your core.

Thanks to this position you were completely exposed to his wanting mouth, and he fucking knew it, his fingers back inside your cunt, mouth insistently sucking on your clit.

"Shit!" You loudly exclaimed, back arching off the bed. 

He held you still by the hips with one arm while his other hand kept going, thrusting into your clenching pussy.

One hand gripped the sheets while the other held the back of his neck, fingers tangling in his curls, closing your eyes in utter ecstasy. The feel of his mouth devouring your pussy was a relentless, powerful pleasure unlike anything you'd ever felt before - the way he tore through your opening with his appendage, the way his nose bumped and his mustache tickled, the way his lips found their way to suck so sweetly on your clit. And God, the way it sounded - you would feel pretty embarrassed if you weren't overwhelmed by pure lust-, you were soaking his face, but neither of you cared enough to stop.

You forced your eyes to open, you didn't want to miss out on memorizing him kneeling before you, eating you out. The moment you managed to look at him, you realized it was a mistake.

He was looking at you.

At your face.

Your eyes.

Taking in your reactions. And goddamn, his eyes, were completely blown away in lust. He was more than enjoying having you all over his mouth. “Fucking delicious,” he grunted, diving his fingers back in.

It was your undoing.

You could feel yourself silently screaming with pleasure, your body trembling and mind blank, but for the waves of delight that kept coming through you, he hadn’t stopped his movements despite how tight your cunt gripped his fingers in your end.

"You're gorgeous," he purred, biting your calves and making you yelp. He licked away the sting once he'd marked you. In the haze of the moment, you felt the bed shake and his hands on your back, fingers unclasping your bra.

Before he settled, he took care of the rest of his clothes, impressive girth hard and throbbing and already wet with precum finally out of his pants.

The sight sent you reeling.

“Like what you see?”

Was he kidding?

He was fucking beautiful.

You bit your lip, nodded.

He smirked and was quick to get in position, harsh lips taking your breath away, body pushing you on your back. Holding onto him, you let him open you up, let him guide his cock right to your cunt.

Now the moment was definitely urgent.

He gave it a couple of flicks around your core, then he pushed in. He took you in, your gasp and moan filling the air. When he moved, it was a slow yet sure thrust that had you seeing stars, and you keened.

You mewled, "Yes."

He held you by the cheeks, lips barely a hair's breadth away, while his grip shifted and tightened around your waist.

“You feel so good," he breathed, speaking against the valley between your breasts.

Harsh, hungry hands on your breasts, on all over your skin made your flesh pleasantly crawl. Your breaths mingled when lips melded as one. Small mewls came from your throat while his hips moved against yours. And then he sped his movements while his mouth drank more of you up, the only air you took in his.

The only air he took in yours.

He tightened his grip, surely leaving marks where he groped. Harder, faster, not giving you a chance to take everything in and commit it to memory, he finally angled his hips differently.

“And you are tight, wet, warm,” he added, kissing you again.

When he heard you shout with pleasure, he made sure to keep going at it, hard and fast, so that you couldn't catch your breath, your body tensing up with the force of his hips, his cock stretching your pussy out so deliciously. You helped him by locking your legs behind his back, making him go impossibly deep, throwing your head back in ecstasy. It left your neck bare for his hungry lips and teeth, and he mercilessly marked you with them, soon after meeting your tits with his mouth again, showing them devotion while keep thrusting mercilessly, the sound of flesh against flesh was like a delicious symphony to his moans and groans, and your mewls and moans.

His lips released your breasts and trailed your jaw all the way to your ear. His pace shortened, quickened. So you begged him not to stop, not even thinking about it, and he promised he wouldn’t, couldn’t, not until he felt you gripping hard around his cock, not until he broke you.

He had a promise to fulfill, after all.

He growled the nickname he had given you, with fervor, with passion. He was close, and so were you but, you needed more, needed a bit of a push to send you reeling again. And you weren’t quite sure how, but he found your clit, and stroked it enough to give you just what you needed.

The bastard was an expert.

Your orgasm crashed through you, sight gone into utter darkness, muscles tight with tension released in such a perfect, bittersweet way, raking your nails down his back.

“Fuck,” he cursed loud and long, holding you in place while his own orgasm filled you up to the brim.

The raging fire was now extinguished, its gentle flame still brushing against your veins in slow, tender strokes. It was similar to the way you both touched each other, hands softly trailing up and down wherever they could reach. His touch felt different from before, while yours was a promise of what could be. A whispered kiss. Eyes brimming with post-coital contentment.

That moment was so special—the way all the passionate sounds of love just a moment ago faded into peaceful silence. You couldn’t fight off sleep anymore as he softened and pulled away, collapsing onto the pillow. Before you dozed off, you thought you heard him mumbling something, though you weren't really sure.

If you were more awake, you could have sworn he whispered, “Te amo.”

The morning light poured into the room like liquid gold, seeping through the tall glass panel and gently warming your face. The curtains, drawn only halfway, allowed the sun to flood the entire space, casting a soft, radiant glow that danced on the walls. From your position, you had a breathtaking view of the iconic Eiffel Tower, towering majestically in the distance, a reminder of the enchanting city around you.

You were lying with your back to Harry, and there was something strangely nice about the sound of his breath right behind you. It felt like forever since you’d woken up next to someone.

One of his arms was draped around your waist, resting on the sheet, and his warmth felt like a cozy shield. But even with the calmness of the moment, there was a twist of unease in your stomach. Last night had been incredible, full of passion, but the uncertainty about what was coming next hung over you like a dark cloud.

You were carrying this secret in your heart that felt like a heavy anchor, and you knew you had to face it eventually.

As Harry shifted behind you, his lips brushed against the top of your head. “You were talking in your sleep,” he said quietly.

You were taken aback—how long had he been awake? Wait, did he just say you were talking in your sleep?

“Are you serious?” you asked, curious about what you might have said. “You didn’t get it wrong, did you?”

“I definitely heard my name,” he said with a teasing smile.

“Okay, I didn’t know I even did that,” you replied, a little embarrassed. “Did I say anything else?”

“Sort of, and you even meowed a bit. You’re such a little kitty,” he laughed.

You rolled your eyes. “I think you’re just making that up.”

“Nope, not at all. It was real, just like you did last night. It was like; meow, meow, meow,” he joked, imitating a cat's sound.

Heat rushed to your cheeks. Those moments were fresh in your mind—he was right, ugh. You nudged him playfully in the chest.

“Come on. Stop exaggerating.”

“Want me to prove it?”

You gasped as the hand that had been wrapped around you slipped inside the sheet and between your legs.

“Don't, don't, don't, please,” you struggled, squeezing your thighs together with all your strength, resisting. His other hand found your armpit and tickled you, causing you to immediately release the pressure in your thighs.

Oh, that was too much.

He leaned over you and when his hand touched your folds, forcing his fingers inside, your heart began to race.

“Okay, okay, you win! I give up!” you giggled, punching his chest, and he laughed.

He playfully teased you for a little while longer as you both giggled. But then, your eyes met, and suddenly the mood shifted. With his gaze deepening, he leaned in and kissed you, sending a rush of warmth through your body. Just as the moment felt perfect, his phone began ringing. But he didn’t care; he kept kissing you. The kiss broke only when the phone rang insistently. He sat up, grabbed his phone from the bedside table, checked the screen, canceled the call, and tossed it back down.

“Maybe it’s important. Why didn’t you answer?” you asked.

He turned to you, “Nothing is more important than you right now.” He then pulled the sheet off you, and you quickly grabbed it to cover yourself.

“What are you doing?” you asked, surprised.

"We need a shower; we're a bit dirty, don't you think?" he replied, tugging at the sheet again, this time overpowering you.

You felt completely exposed, instinctively wrapping your arms around yourself. He chuckled, put his knee on the bed, and scooped you up into his lap.

“Stop! I can walk by myself,” you protested.

“Nobody said otherwise,” he grinned.

With a smug look, he carried you to the bathroom, clearly enjoying the moment. The bathroom was huge, with a big jacuzzi, a spacious shower, and a tall vanity cabinet. Harry set you down and followed you into the shower. It was nice that he was giving you so much attention, but it also made things trickier. You didn’t want to say anything that might hurt him, especially since you knew you’d have to come clean eventually. For now, you just had to play along until that moment came when there would be no more secrets.

After you both got out of the shower, he handed you a robe from the closet and slipped one on himself. You asked him to excuse you because you needed to use the bathroom. Finally alone, you settled onto the most luxurious toilet seat you’d ever sat on, putting your head in your hands and thinking. You knew you had to tell him soon; it was better for him to hear it from you directly. The longer this charade went on, the messier things would get. Sooner or later, you’d run into someone who knew -real- Melanie, and that scared you. Before last night, you weren’t worried about that, but everything had changed.

You could feel a strong connection between you two, and it scared you how intense it was.

It just didn’t feel right.

This had to end.

Suddenly, a sharp pang gripped your heart, urging you to stand up. You stood before the mirror, the figure in the robe felt like a stranger, unfamiliar. This life felt foreign, as if it belonged to someone else. But deep down, a hopeful part of you whispered that this could actually be your life, and that Harry would accept you just as you are.

You really wanted to believe that.

With all your heart.

But this was no time to be naïve; you had to think rationally.

You had to.

You turned on the tap, splashing cold water on your face to shake off the feelings. Just then, you heard a light knock at the door.

“Are you planning to spend the whole day in there?” Harry joked, his tone playful yet warm.

A smile spread across your face and you sighed deeply as you opened the door. Stepping into the room, you saw Harry already dressed in a cream long-sleeved shirt and black jeans - casual yet stylish, which suited him perfectly. As he put on his watch, he looked at you, "Breakfast will be here soon."

“Really? In the room?” you asked, your eyes lighting up in surprise.

He chuckled, clearly enjoying your excitement. “Yes, in the room.”

Just then, a knock on the door interrupted you two, and you both turned to see Oliver standing there, looking a bit flustered.

"Why didn't you answer the phone?" Oliver asked quickly, his eyes darting over Harry's shoulder to you.

Feeling uneasy under his gaze, you instinctively blushed and stepped further into the room.

"Is something wrong?" Harry asked.

“Well, I… I was just checking,” Oliver said, his voice trailing off awkwardly.

Harry raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Checking?”

Oliver cleared his throat. “I meant— if you need anything. Oh, and they called, they're expecting you today.”

“Awesome, thanks,” Harry said.

“No problem.”

"Anything else you want to say?"

“N-no, I’ll be in the lobby,” he replied, turning around.

As Harry closed the door behind Oliver, he turned to you, looking lost in thought.

“Is everything okay?”

He shrugged slightly. “It’s just Oliver acting a bit weird. But it’s probably nothing.” He looked at you and asked, “Why aren’t you dressed yet?”

“It’s just... the dresses you bought are gorgeous, but…” You glanced down at the shreds of your panties on the floor. “I need some new underwear.”

With a cheeky grin, Harry placed his hands on his hips. “Well, that’s my bad. But don’t worry; I’ll fix that.” He went over to the closet and came out with a white shirt. “Here, wear this.”

“But it’s your shirt,” you frowned.

“It is, yes.”

“You want me to wear this?”

“Absolutely,” he replied, still grinning.

“Why?”

“Because you’ve got no other option. Unless you want to walk around naked,” he smirked. “I’d be totally cool with that, though.”

You squinted as you took the shirt from him. “You’ll be waiting forever for that to happen.”

Just then, there was a knock at the door. He chuckled as he went to open it.

After enjoying a delightful breakfast on the balcony with a breathtaking view of the city, everything Harry ordered for you arrived in the room. After all, it was he who had torn your panties, so he owed you. You glanced at the bag, and picked up a stylish black lace bra; it was exactly your size.

He was behind you, leaning against the closet with his arms folded and watching.

“How could you possibly know my exact size?” you asked.

He opened his mouth to reply, but you silenced him with a gesture of your hand. “Don't answer that.”

He laughed. “Come on, get dressed. We need to get going.”

You shot him a glare. “Not with you watching—turn around!”

“Seriously?”

“What do you think?”

He frowned. ’I already saw all of you last night, what's the point of hiding it now?’

“That was last night,” you snapped.

He blinked in astonishment, clearly impressed. “You truly are an extraordinary woman.”

"Yes I am. Now turn around, Mr. Castillo,” you said, twirling your finger at him.

He sighed, a little defeated, but gave in. “Fine," he murmured. "But just so you know, tonight I’m going to make you beg me to take your clothes off.”

“Did you say something?” 

“Nothing at all,” he replied, a cheeky grin forming. His mind raced with bold ideas, and your attitude and stubbornness only fueled his eagerness.

It was a challenge, and he was ready to accept it.

"Oh my God!"

You almost fainted from excitement as you stared at the sports cars in all their splendor, your mouth agape. The welcoming team at the luxury rental place truly made you feel at ease, sharing in the exhilaration of these remarkable vehicles.

"Are you telling me I can drive one of these beauties if I want to?" you asked, still unable to take your eyes off the amazing cars. A huge smile spread across your face, reminiscent of a child who had just found a stash of candy.

Harry chuckled, "I've gotten you flowers, clothes, jewellery - but I've never seen you so excited about anything"

"I'm sorry, but how could I not be? Just look at them!"

He placed his hand on your shoulder. "So which one are you going to choose? I'm really curious."

Your eyes scanned the lineup until they landed on the car that truly stole your heart. You walked over, gently brushing your hand along the sleek bonnet, and declared, "This one—the Mustang GT500."

"American muscle, huh? Nice choice."

"You mean I can really drive this?"

"That's why I brought you here, kitty," he smiled.

He had listened to your many conversations about cars, enjoying your passion for them. Apparently, he never grew bored of your car talk, and he wanted to surprise you like this.

You felt unworthy of such a thoughtful man

As you gripped the steering wheel of the red Mustang on the track, a huge smile spread across your face - it had been a long time since you had felt this good. Every time you stepped on the gas, the engine roared and you took the corners like a pro, the tyres screeching on the tarmac. Harry looked a little nervous, but he couldn't help praising your driving skills, saying how well you handled the car.

When you reached the end of the track, you lingered for a moment, reluctant to say goodbye to this baby.

"Harry, thank you. That was even more amazing than I could have imagined."

"You've never driven a sports car before?" he asked.

"I have." It wasn’t entirely a lie. You had driven it once—Nate's Lamborghini. It was one of those days when you were cleaning up after Melanie. While Nate was in the backseat making out with her—they were both drunk, and sometimes it turned into lust—yes, it was really shitty and disgusting. But the only good thing about that day was that you got to drive his car. "But not for long."

"I'm glad I made you happy," he replied.

"Yeah, you definitely did. Thanks, Harry." It was the truth. As you looked into his eyes, he leaned in closer and whispered, running his fingers through your hair, "Be mine, and I’ll show up at your place in the morning with any car you want. Just think about it."

"Harry," you murmured.

"Listen, I don't want to pressure you, but I need a clear answer. I'm a straightforward guy—doubt and uncertainty aren't something I handle well. I've waited this long because of this undeniable feeling I have for you. My instincts have never led me astray, and I’m sure they won’t this time either. So tell me, don’t you think it’s about time? Don’t you think I deserve an answer?"

His brown eyes sparkled like gems. You wanted nothing more than to be with him always, to plead with him to never leave and to make you his. But there was something you had to sort out first.

"You deserve so much more," you said, your voice shaking a bit. You took a deep breath."Tonight, I’ll give you my final answer, okay?"

He brought your hand to his lips and kissed it. "All right," he said, smiling as he brushed his lips over your knuckles.

When you got back to the hotel, it was dark, and you couldn’t stop thinking about how you were going to deal with tonight. It was making you super nervous. Harry was outside, talking on the phone, while you were in the lobby, buried in the couch and lost in your thoughts. Oliver noticed you were alone and came over to talk to you.

“Is there something you want to tell me?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” you replied, caught off guard.

“Look, I found out everything; the dating agency called me.”

You froze.

“Don’t worry, I know it’s not your fault, but this can’t go on. You understand that, don’t you?”

You nodded, tears beginning to well in your eyes.

“I wanted to talk to Harry, but he’s way too attached to you. I think it’s better if you tell him yourself. He has a reputation to maintain—you know he’s well-known. The longer this goes on, the more it messes with his image. Just tell him before things go further, or I’ll have to, and the head of the matchmaking agency might get involved. And trust me, that’ll hurt him a lot more. He should hear it from you.”

“I’ll tell him, I promise. Tonight.”

“Thank you. Oh, he’s coming. Wipe your tears,” he said, handing you a tissue from the table before standing up.

What?

Were you actually crying?

You took the tissue and quickly dried your eyes, sniffling while trying to pull yourself together.

“Melanie, look who’s here,” you heard Harry’s voice.

You almost had a heart attack when you turned around. Jack, Melanie’s dad, was standing right in front of you with a forced smile that screamed trouble.

“I just ran into Jack,” Harry said, looking at you. But then his face changed as he noticed how frozen you were, shaking a bit. “Are you okay?”

“Harry, can you give me and my daughter a minute?” Jack said, still staring at you.

Harry paused, frowning as he sensed something was wrong. Oliver put a hand on his shoulder. “Let’s give them some privacy,” he suggested.

Harry nodded, looking unsure, but his eyes were still on you. “I’ll be in the room,” he said, clueless about what was really going on. He thought it was just a father-daughter thing. You wished it was that simple.

As they walked toward the elevator, Jack made sure they were out of earshot and pointed to the seat behind you. “Why don’t you sit down? We need to talk.”

“Jack, I—”

What were you even going to say?

Damn it.

“Sit down, please.”

You did as he said, and he sat across from you, looking at you. “I know everything.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How?”

“Do you think my daughter has someone handling her secret affairs and I don't know about it?”

Of course, he should have. Jack was smart and clearly one step ahead of you.

“But if you knew—”

“Why didn’t I stop you?” He sighed. “I wanted to handle this when I got back to New York, but then I found out you were here. I was already in Marseille, so I flew in last night to talk to you.”

“Why didn’t you just tell him?”

“Harry? I could have, but honestly, it’s embarrassing for me. I’m not mad at you; it’s my dumb daughter who messed everything up. I can only be upset with you for not telling me sooner. We wouldn’t be in this mess if you had.”

“Jack, I’m sorry.” Your voice cracked.

"No, I don't blame you. But you have to take responsibility for this. You need to finish things with Harry—trust me, it’s for the best. Go talk to him right now and just explain.” He stood up. “I’ll be outside, waiting for you. Just go and do what needs to be done.”

You watched him walk away, your head spinning with thoughts, and didn't even notice Oliver coming over.

"What did he say?" he asked.

"The same thing you told me earlier. He said I should just end things with him."

"Are you going to do it?"

You looked at him, wiping a tear from your cheek with your hand. You nodded firmly.

He nodded back. "He's in the room, waiting for you," he said. You were glad he looked at you like a friend, the last thing you wanted was pity.

You felt enough pity for yourself; you really didn't need any more.

Harry was pouring himself a whisky when his phone rang. He took a sip while glancing at the screen. It was a number he didn’t feel like answering. When it rang again a moment later, he shook his glass, listening to the ice cubes jingle, and finally sighed before picking it up.

“There you are,” said the voice on the other end.

“What do you want, Lucy?”

“Hey, slow down! I’m only calling because I’m worried about you. I just found out what happened; it’s horrible.”

Harry paused, taking another sip. “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the mess with the matchmaking company. That’s what you get for choosing someone other than my agency. You should really sue that woman.”

“Wait, what are you talking about? What woman? What mess?”

At that moment, you opened the door and walked in. Harry’s back was turned to you as he was still on the phone. When he heard you come in, he turned to face you, his expression hardening.

"What the... Didn't you know? I'm talking about the girl who pretended to be Melanie Johnson and tricked you. Given your social status, her intentions were pretty obvious. People like her are dangerous; you should get rid of her before something bad happens. Oliver should have informed you by now; I can't believe he didn't. Maybe you need a new assistant. And just so you know, starting a new dating service would be a good idea—something like that would never happen with my---" He hung up angrily, keeping his eyes fixed on you. The intensity of his gaze startled you; you had never seen him like that before.

“H-Harry,” you stammered.

“Is it true?” His voice was cold.

You swallowed hard. Had he found out everything?

He took a step toward you. “Your name isn’t Melanie. Is that true?”

You closed your eyes and sighed. “That’s right. I’m not Melanie Johnson. I’m—”

“Why?” he said, taking another step closer. “Why did you do it? Is this what you’ve been hiding from me? All this time you’ve been lying to my face. But why?”

“Harry, let me explain. I—”

“What a fool I was. I thought there was something special between us. I thought it would be different this time, but it was all a lie.” He seemed to be speaking to himself.

You stepped closer to him. “Let me explain. I am—”

“Get out."

You froze. “W-what?”

His eyes were icy as he looked at you. “Didn’t you hear me? Get out.”

You frowned. “You said you'd listen to me. Why won't you let me explain?”

In a fit of rage, Harry threw his phone against the wall, and it shattered into pieces upon impact. Startled, you watched as he opened the door and pointed outside. “Get out now.”

Frustration bubbled inside you as you fought to suppress the tears threatening to fall. You walked to the door and glanced back at him, but he wouldn’t meet your gaze. “I knew you'd break my heart. Thanks for proving me right,” you said in a cracking voice before leaving the suite.

He slammed the door behind you with a loud bang, making you jump, but it only urged you to run toward the lift. You had to get out of there immediately.

You ran out of the lift and hurried to the hotel’s exit. You couldn’t stop sobbing, and people turned to look at you, but you didn’t care. Your mind was spinning; all you wanted was to escape, to disappear forever. Oliver recognized you and started to call your name, but he didn’t even know it. Instead, he just watched as you dashed out through the hotel’s revolving door, then headed to the lift to check on Harry.

As soon as you were outside, you kept running, desperate to get away from the hotel. But after a few minutes, the cold wind hit you, and you realized something terrible: this wasn’t your city, New York; it was a completely foreign place. You didn’t know the streets, didn’t know the people. The short dress you were wearing left your shoulders exposed, and without your coat, you shivered. Passersby looked at you strangely, their gazes lingering on your expensive dress, high heels, flashy necklace, and earrings. You wanted to shout at them, “I’m just an ordinary girl with an empty wallet!”

Suddenly, Jack came to mind; he said he would wait for you outside. “Oh, what an idiot I am,” you thought.

Forcing yourself to ignore the stares, you walked back toward the hotel street, searching for Jack. Where was he? Then, suddenly, you heard a voice behind you. A man spoke to you in French, but it was clear from his tone that he wasn’t friendly.

When Oliver walked into the room, he was shocked to see pieces of a smashed phone and glass all over the floor. Harry had his back turned, staring out the window at the city. Oliver approached him carefully, knowing deep down that his worst fears had come true. Harry caught his reflection in the glass and turned his head slightly.

“Why didn’t you just tell me?” he asked, sounding frustrated.

Oliver had been expecting the question, but he didn’t know how to answer. “Man, I’m really sorry. I found out yesterday and was going to tell you, but I thought it would be better if she told you.”

Harry turned to face Oliver. “You should have told me, Oliver. I should have heard it from you, not from my ex, dammit.”

“What did you say? Wait a minute, did Lucy call you? God damn it, I thought she was the one who told you.”

“What difference would it have made?” Harry shot back, his voice tinged with anger. “She’s a crook—a serpent in disguise who’s deceived me all this time. How did she pull it off? She even fooled Jack. What exactly was her scheme? Is she a gold-digger or something?”

“What do you mean? She didn’t give you the full story? They spoke to Jack, and she was supposed to fill you in.”

“Does she know him?” Harry asked incredulously, disbelief etched on his face.

“Of course she does. She’s working as a housekeeper at his house. Jack’s daughter, Melanie, forced her into this. The real Melanie didn’t want to meet you face-to-face, so she used her friends to hack the system. Jack must have been too embarrassed to come down here himself. But like me, he wanted her to tell you—”

In a sudden burst of emotion, Harry seized Oliver’s collar, their eyes locked in an intense stare. “What did you just say? What do you mean she was forced?”

“You heard me. The poor girl is like Melanie's puppet; she had no choice in the matter. It’s all part of a twisted game to keep you from marrying Melanie I guess. She’s trapped in it.”

Time seemed to freeze for Harry as he absorbed the weight of Oliver’s words. “What have I done?” he muttered himself, his heart ached.

“But I thought she told you. Didn’t she?”

Harry shook his head, his heart sinking. “She was going to, but I lost it—I was furious, and—”

“Dude... What have you done?”

Harry squeezed his eyes shut, a wave of regret crashing over him, as if he were drowning in his own foolishness. “I told her to get out,” he muttered.

“Geez, isn’t that a bit harsh? No wonder she ran out of here in tears."

He shot Oliver a sharp look, panic flashing across his face. “What? Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. She just bolted from the hotel and disappeared into the streets."

Harry's gaze darted to the coat abandoned on the chair, a symbol of the moment he now regretted. He snatched it up, determination igniting within him, and rushed toward the door.

“Hey! Where are you going?” Oliver called out, his voice filled with worry.

“I’m going to find her!” Harry shouted back, his heart racing as he sprinted toward the elevator, desperate to make things right.

“Look, dude, I don’t get your language. Just back off, alright?”

But the guy kept closing in on you. You didn’t need to understand him to figure out what he wanted. As you stepped back, your heel caught on the cobblestone, and you went down. At that moment, a fancy car pulled up, and a man got out and walked over to you while the other guy turned around and took off. The man in the suit offered you his hand.

“Are you a New Yorker too?” He smiled.

You took his hand and got up. “Yeah, you too?”

“Yeah. I heard your accent when you told that guy to ‘back off.’”

You chuckled nervously, saying, “He really freaked me out; he was coming right at me.” 

“But you were ready to fight him. I guess it’s not the first time you’ve had to run from creeps, right?” he replied with a grin. 

“True,” you laughed. “There were definitely some in New York.”

He chuckled and offered his hand again. “I’m Alan.”

You shook his hand. “Thanks, Alan.”

“Aren’t you going to tell me your name?”

Just then, someone called your name from behind. You turned and saw Jack.

About time. You felt a wave of relief wash over you.

“I’ve been searching everywhere for you! Where have you been?” He was worried.

“I—I got lost and—”

“Jack?”

“Alan!”

They hugged, and you were surprised to see that they knew each other. Jack turned to you and said, “You get in the car, and I’ll be right there.”

You nodded and did as he instructed. Alan watched you intently while getting into the car, then turned to Jack.

“I thought you were in Marseille,” Alan said.

“I was, but then I came here. I had some urgent matters to take care of,” Jack replied.

“Is this pretty lady your daughter or something?” Alan asked.

Jack sighed. “I wish she were, but no. Let’s just say she’s someone I know. Listen, Alan, I really have to go now. See you.”

“See you, man,” Alan responded.

Jack hopped into the car beside you and instructed the driver to head to the airport, where his private jet was waiting to take you back home. Your phone buzzed insistently; it was Harry calling -actually it was Oliver's number but you knew it was him-.

You ignored all the calls.

“Do you have feelings for him?” Jack asked, his tone direct yet gentle.

You looked straight at him, then averted your gaze, unable to deny the truth in your heart. He picked up on the unspoken words and nodded slowly.

“Don’t,” he said. “Don’t go there if you care about yourself, you silly girl.”

You nodded.

“What about him? Do you think he has feelings for you?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think so. Even if he did at one point, he doesn’t anymore.”

Jack nodded. “I’m sorry about what happened. But when we get back, I can’t let you work in my house anymore. You understand why, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,”  you murmured.

“I want you to know I’ll provide a good severance package for all your service up to now and for everything you’ve been through. If you ever need help in the future, you know my number.”

Jack was hot-tempered but had a noble soul. He considered those he trusted as family, regardless of their social status. You looked at him, feeling grateful.

“Thank you, Jack,” you said with a smile.

He nodded. “Sure.”

All the while, your phone was ringing insistently, and you were ignoring Harry’s calls.

Why the hell was he calling?

Did he want to curse at you or something?

Finally, Jack held out his hand. “Give it to me; let me talk to him.”

You hesitated at first, but eventually, you handed it over. As he spoke on the phone, you looked out the window, feeling nervous about hearing his voice.

"Harry, it's Jack. Please stop calling her; I will be your point of contact on this matter from now on. I'd like to invite you to an apology dinner when you return to New York, and I'm willing to provide compensation as well. I'll be in touch with you soon." Then he hung up.

“Damn it, Jack,” Harry snarled.

He stood in front of the hotel’s front door, then something glittering on the floor caught his attention. He bent down and picked it up; it was one of your earrings—the one he had given you as a present.

“She must have dropped it while running,” he muttered.

Oliver came running toward him from across the street, panting. “They saw Jack leaving, but I couldn’t find any trace of the girl. Did you manage to reach her?”

Harry continued to stare at the earring in his hand. “Ollie.”

“Yeah?”

“Call the pilot; we’re heading back to New York.”

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lots of love

[chuluoyi]

✎ sick days

- gojo satoru x reader

who holds the fort when you fall sick? of course, it's your lovesick husband and baby!

genre: fluff, fluff, fluffff. basically, your baby is adorable, gojo is your husband and not only is he lovesick with you, he humors your baby so much it’s making me— sighs

note: based on this post! hi hi chu is back from vacation and here’s another dad!gojo fluff indulgence and we stan domestic men okay🤭

a part of gojo's love entries

general masterlist

It's plain sight that Gojo Satoru is a highly attractive individual, and now that he has a son, it's fair to say that he’s the hottest dilf on the block.

With one hand twirling a famous brand of flu medicine box and the other propping his baby son at his hip, he garnered curious eyes, even in drugstore near his home.

“Hmm, why is it so cheap? Suspicious…”

Satoru let out a light hum, studying the orange and pink boxes, as well as glancing at the other purple box with bold labels claiming its effectiveness in halting cold symptoms, and then looked at his son.

His baby's big, crystal blue eyes blinked in wonder at the vibrant colors, and he reached out with grubby hands towards them. “Bwah!”

Suddenly, he got an idea.

“Hey, kiddo. Which do you think is better for mama?” he asked the baby, gesturing at the all three medicine on the rack with his jaw. “You choose.”

As if on cue, the little ball of fluff that was his son immediately reached out for the purple box, the more expensive out of all three displayed before him. Without missing a beat, he also seized both the orange and pink boxes in quick succession, holding them close to his chest.

Satoru broke into a hearty laugh, a wide grin split his face, as he affectionately tousled the boy's head with pride.

“That's my boy! Splurging is allowed—after all, we're rich!”

When the first signs of cold manifested in you, Satoru was already worried. He had warned you to take more rest, but typical you, you brushed it off as a mere fatigue.

And when this morning, you woke up to sudden coughing fits and hot-and-cold spells, which ended up with kicking him out of your shared bedroom in fear of spreading the virus, like the doting husband he was, Satoru promptly headed to the pharmacy with your baby in tow to get you some help.

"Oh my, sir, your son is so adorable!" the female cashier gushed when he got over to pay, finally voicing what other customers thought in their heads. He could sense the discreet glances from those around him even now.

As the baby clung to his shirt, Satoru tightened his grip on him and responded with a self-assured grin, ensuring those nearby heard his words, "Of course he is! My wife is pretty as heck too, shame she's down with fever today."

"Aww! Such high praise, you must adore your wife!"

"Mm-hmm!"

Ah, so he still has a wife. The other customers went about their day, some disappointed that the dilf was still evidently devoted to his wife. They could only wonder just who could the lucky woman was.

Moving on— after the short trip to the drugstore, Satoru went back home. He promptly checked on you in your master bedroom, inquiring, "Hey, how are—"

But he immediately halted upon seeing you nestled so comfortably under the blankets, sleeping soundly. For a moment, he simply stood, blinking and observing your serene slumber.

Strange that something inside him both softened and lurched at the sight. You were just that precious in his eyes. Stupid as it was, he was quite miserable to go through the day without your nagging and nitpicking. And above all, he never liked seeing you in any kind of discomfort—it made his protective instincts soar.

Hence his thought— there is nothing I wouldn’t do for you, even if it means sacrificing heaven itself.

“Myah!” A hard shove on his arm and his baby’s babbling snapped him out of his trance. Satoru shifted his baby to his other hand, let out a questioning hum, and affectionately pinched his mochi-like cheeks.

“Hmm? You can’t be hungry, I—oooh,” a sheepish expression of realization appeared on his face, his blue eyes widened slightly as his baby glared at him. Then, chuckling like the goofball he was, Satoru patted him on his head to appease his grudge, “I haven’t fed you since this morning, eh?”

“Fwah!”

“Pfft! There, there… Me is sorry~ Now let me whip something up for you and mama, yeah?”

Now, he wouldn't claim to be the best chef, but he could certainly cook to save himself. Rolling up his sleeve, he went to the kitchen after leaving and stuffing his baby boy with a pacifier on his high chair.

“Hmmm, baby food for the minion and… congee? Yeah, congee should be good.”

Next task was feeding his already seething baby after he mixed together his baby food. He was a fussy eater—mostly with him, but surprisingly not so much with you (apparently, that's just his way of showing who he favors between his parents, heh). But when he managed to get the food in, with every spoonful, his son’s smile gradually widened, and so did his happiness.

Satoru thought then that he was the cutest thing he had ever created. His son was clearly a mini-him, but his reactions were definitely so you.

“Is it tasty? It is, isn’t it?” he cooed with baby voice, earning a delightful giggle in response from his son. Pushing his luck, he added with a suggestive grin, “Papa is the best, isn’t he?”

“Bwah...” The joyful expression on his baby's face faded instantly, dissolving into an unamused pout, prompting Satoru to righteously click his tongue.

“Why are you so against me?!”

After he was done with his fill, Satoru picked your baby up to the master bedroom to bring you something to eat. Seated on the opposite edge of the bed, he silently adored your sleeping form once again.

Right at that moment, the baby in his arms wriggled, reaching out for you. Acting on a sudden impulse, he put him on the bed, facing you.

“Now, go to mama, would you?” he whispered gently, grinning and giving his bum a light pat. “Go!”

Your son was also Gojo Satoru’s son, therefore he was an adept crawler even at barely seven months old. With remarkable agility, the little soldier steadily moved towards you, his diapers jiggling with each motion. He stopped right in front of your face, clearly recognizing you as his mother.

And your husband swore that even his logic-driven heart melted at the sight of your cute baby suddenly leaned in and clumsily smooched your nose.

Simply just the two most treasured loves of his life.

“Mm?” you let out a soft grunt, feeling the dryness in your throat as you cracked your eyes open, surprised to find yourself face-to-face with your baby. “Oh… why are you here? Don’t get too close…”

“He’ll be fine.” Satoru picked your son up, placing him on his knee and steadying him with one arm. Having moved next to you on the bed, he brushed hair from your forehead. “What about you, hmm? Feeling better?”

Your eyebrows creased into a frown. “Yeah, I think, but more than that, Satoru, I’ve told you, don’t let him—”

“Yes, yes, sweetheart. He won’t get sick, look, he’s as healthy as he can be~” and to make a point, he turned his baby over and lightly smacked his bottom, prompting a whimper from the little one and a gasp from you.

“Don’t spank him!”

“Ehh? Then can I spank you instead?”

“Satoru, you’re a little piece of—!”

Just you and him, as well as the little treasure that was your son. This little family was enough reason to live. To win.

And Gojo Satoru once again thought, that being the strongest didn’t really mean that much anymore because with his world in his hands, nothing else matters.

Epilogue

“You’re so silly, why did you buy so many?” you grumbled at the sight of three different brands of cold medicine your husband displayed in front of you. “One is enough, do you want me to overdose?”

Satoru snickered. “Don’t blame me, blame your kid. He’s the one picking all of them.”

You totally didn’t get what he meant at all, but yeah, your husband was the silliest human ever and that’s that.

“Hey, don’t you think it’s a bit smelly here?” Satoru suddenly asked, wearing a quizzical expression.

You took a sniff of the air, glancing at your baby blinking innocently and sitting calmly on your husband, and a realization struck you. “Uh, Satoru...”

Following your gaze, as if sensing an omen, Satoru hastily scooped up his son, letting out a bewildered gasp as he felt a slight wetness where the baby had been sitting on him.

“Did he just poo on me?!”

[jijournal]

LOVE ME AGAIN | D.M

Part 2 of Love Me Loud

Summary: After walking away from the boy who couldn't choose you, fate brings you face to face with Draco Malfoy once more. The feelings are still there, truths remain unspoken, and the question lingers—was it ever really over?

Word Count: 3k

Warnings: Just get your tissues ready.

A/N: Part 2 of 'Love Me Loud' is here!! Hope everyone love this! 🫰

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

Draco Malfoy had always believed silence was safety.

Until you walked away—and the silence screamed louder than anything he'd ever known.

The morning after the Quidditch match, the castle moved on as if nothing had happened. Students buzzed in the corridors, gossiping about the game, praising Draco’s win like it was a badge of legacy. But he didn’t hear them.

All he heard was your voice, raw and trembling in the cold air of the Astronomy Tower.

“I needed you to fight for me.”

He hadn’t.

And now, you were gone.

The weeks that followed were hollow.

You avoided him effortlessly, without making it obvious. You didn’t speak his name, didn’t glance his way in class, didn’t even acknowledge the shared air between you anymore.

Draco thought the silence would kill him.

Every hallway he turned into felt like a trap laid with memories. Every classroom you both shared was colder without your warmth beside him. Even the dungeons, once your quiet sanctuary together, felt empty.

You’d sit in Potions now with Ernie Macmillan. He laughed too loud, made too many mistakes—but he looked at you the way Draco wished he still could.

With pride.

With ease.

Without shame.

Draco still passed you ingredients sometimes, his fingers brushing yours like they used to—but now you didn’t flinch or look up. You just thanked him softly. Politely.

Like a stranger would.

By sixth year, the war outside had begun bleeding into the castle’s stone walls. The tension was no longer whispers—it was screams, in shadows, in headlines, in conversations that stopped when professors walked by.

And then came the Mark. Branded into his skin like a brand on cattle. Like ownership.

He hadn’t been asked.

He’d been chosen.

Because Lucius Malfoy had failed. Because the Dark Lord was cruel. Because Draco still hadn’t learned how to say no.

He stopped smiling after that. Not that he had much to smile about anymore.

He was losing weight. Losing sleep. Losing control.

You still hadn’t looked at him.

Not once.

Until that night in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom.

The door creaked open and you stepped inside. Your wand was drawn, expecting trouble, ready for a duel.

You weren’t expecting to find Draco—collapsed against the porcelain basin, his breathing uneven, eyes vacant and glassy.

Your heart stopped.

“Draco?”

He didn’t look at you, his voice low and almost brittle as he muttered, “Go away.”

But you didn’t.

Instead, you knelt slowly, cautiously. Your movements were deliberate, as if you were approaching something fragile—something broken. Because that’s what he looked like. Broken. Wounded. Not dangerous.

You reached for his arm, your fingers brushing his sleeve. He flinched, jerking away, but the movement was weak, like he didn’t have the strength to push you away. His face was pale, and his eyes were distant.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, but his sleeve was soaked in blood—a clean, straight cut running across it, crimson staining the fabric.

“No, you’re not,” you whispered, your voice gentle, steady despite the shock twisting in your chest. “Let me help.”

For the first time in months, he looked at you. Really looked at you. His gaze met yours—raw, vulnerable—and suddenly, everything that had been buried came rushing back. The way you always saw through him, the way your eyes softened when everyone else turned away. Even now. Especially now.

You didn’t hesitate. You healed him in silence, your magic warm and soothing. It was steady and sure, but your hands shook slightly from the nerves you hadn’t known you still had. His gaze never wavered from you, as if he couldn’t tear himself away from the girl who had once cared for him. Who still might.

When you finished, you set your wand down, the soft glow fading as you sat beside him. Your knees were pressed to the cold stone floor, but you didn’t move. You both sat there for a long while, the silence thick between you.

Finally, he broke the stillness, his voice quiet, rough. “You shouldn’t be here.”

A faint, tired smile pulled at the corners of your lips, bittersweet and full of something both old and new. “Neither should you.”

His eyes dropped to the floor, guilt weighing him down. “I never meant for it to end like that.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t need to. The hurt was still too fresh, still too close, and words would only cheapen it.

“You saved me today,” he said, almost as if he were speaking to himself, his voice thick with an emotion you couldn’t quite place. “Why?”

You glanced at him, your heart pounding in your chest. And then, in a voice barely louder than a whisper, you answered.

“Because I loved you once,” you murmured, your words fragile and broken, “and part of me still does.”

There were no more words between you after that night.

But something shifted. Something that neither time nor silence could undo.

The next time you passed him in the hallways, he didn’t look away.

And for the first time, neither did you.

⸻

The Battle of Hogwarts came without warning. The night burned with fire and fury.

Spells crashed through stone and air alike, the world split between blinding light and crushing darkness. Screams echoed down the corridors, and the floor was littered with dust, broken wands, and shattered pieces of the castle that once felt like home. You ran, lungs aching, heart a thunderous drum in your chest. Every turn of the hallway was another battlefield, every corner another gamble.

You hadn’t seen him since he left for Easter Holidays.

You told yourself you were over it. That the war had made you stronger, sharper. That you’d let go of the boy who let go of you.

But it wasn’t true.

When you rounded the corner into the Transfiguration corridor, wand raised, ready to fight, and you saw the Death Eater turn on you, his wand already mid-curse—you knew this might be the end.

“Avada—”

“Protego!”

A body slammed into yours, sending you both crashing to the stone floor as green light flew over your heads. The world tilted. You scrambled to your elbows, heart hammering, wand still clutched tight.

And then you saw him.

Draco.

Panting. Pale. His robes torn and smeared with ash and blood.

He stood between you and the masked man like a barrier—trembling slightly, but steady, wand raised.

The duel didn’t last long. Draco’s spells were fast, relentless. And when the Death Eater finally fell back, fleeing into the smoke, you were left staring at him, breath caught in your throat.

“Why did you save me?” you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

He turned to face you slowly, his face raw with emotion. “Because I still love you.”

The words struck you like a curse—sharp and unrelenting, rattling everything inside you. You froze, your breath catching in your throat as the weight of his confession pressed down on you. For a moment, disbelief swallowed you whole, and all you could do was stare at him.

“Then why did you let me go?” your voice cracked, just barely.

Draco's gaze dropped to the broken floor beneath him, his shoulders sinking as if the weight of his words was too much for him to carry. He seemed smaller, fragile.

“I…” His voice wavered, breaking on the single syllable, as if he couldn’t quite believe he was admitting this out loud. His fingers clenched into fists at his sides, and for a long moment, the only sound in the room was the your steady breath and the distant chaos of the battle raging outside.

“I wasn’t brave enough,” he said, his voice rough and raw, a confession soaked in regret. His eyes closed briefly. When he opened them again, his gaze met yours, and there was something different in it now—something that wasn’t the cold, distant shield he had worn for so long. It was filled with a sorrow so deep that it felt like it could swallow him whole.

“I wasn’t brave enough to fight for you,” he whispered, his voice a strained breath. “I thought I could hide behind my family, behind my name, behind all of it... I thought it was easier to keep my distance—to push you away.” His eyes flickered with a flash of pain, and he exhaled shakily, as if the words had physically hurt to speak.

You watched him closely, your own heart aching at the sight of the boy you’d once known—strong, proud, full of arrogance. This Draco, though? This Draco was fragile. He was broken in ways he hadn’t let anyone see before.

“I let fear control me,” he continued, his voice barely audible now. “Fear of my father’s anger. Fear of losing everything I thought I needed. And I let that fear keep me from fighting for the one person who I actually needed.”

His chest rose and fell rapidly, like he was fighting to breathe through the weight of his admission. He took a hesitant step closer, as if testing whether the distance between you would close the space in his chest, too.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice thick with something unspoken—something deeper than the apology he couldn’t seem to finish. “I’ve spent years regretting it. The silence. The things I didn’t say. The things I never had the courage to do.”

The silence between you stretched, thick with everything unsaid. You looked at him—really looked at him—and you saw it. Not the boy who sneered across Potions class. Not the son of Lucius Malfoy. Just Draco. Scared. Honest. And completely undone.

But before either of you could speak again, voices shouted down the hallway—calls for help, orders, spells. Another part of the castle was collapsing.

Draco’s eyes flickered to the danger, then back to you. There was a moment—one second where it felt like maybe, just maybe, you would run together this time.

But he took a step back.

And you did too.

No words. Just that one last look.

And then the war tore you apart again.

⸻

It had been three years since the war ended—since that night of fire and silence, since the last time you saw him disappear into smoke and rubble. Life had moved on, though not without effort.

Draco never reached out. Not once in those three years did he spare a moment to write you a letter. You, on the other hand, wrote to him every month for a year after the war—letters filled with things left unsaid, with questions you were too afraid to ask. But you never sent them. Fear held you back—fear that he didn’t want anything to do with you, that the silence between you was deliberate. That was two years ago. You haven’t written since. You stopped letting yourself hope.

Now, you stood in the quiet warmth of your flower shop—your sanctuary, your dream since the first time Herbology had made you feel like something in the world could grow just for you. The air was rich with the scent of lilacs and lavender, sunlight spilling through the windows like a blessing, and for once, everything felt steady. Peaceful. Almost enough.

The bell above the shop door chimed softly.

You looked up from your counter, hands still wrapped around a freshly tied bouquet of pale hydrangeas. The scent of eucalyptus drifted through the air, mingling with the gentle charm you’d enchanted to keep the daisies from wilting. Sunlight filtered through the window, casting golden stripes across the polished floor.

He stood there. Like a ghost you’d tried so hard to bury.

Draco Malfoy.

No longer the boy with the haunted eyes, but a man. Taller, a little older. His hair shorter, his face sharper, more composed. But the storm in his eyes? Still the same.

“I didn’t know this was your shop,” he said quietly, stepping inside. “I was just passing through.”

You looked up from the bouquet in your hands, the ribbon still dangling between your fingers. For a second, you thought the air left the room. “It is,” you said, voice careful. “Been open for a while now.”

He nodded, slowly taking it in—how the light fell on the mahogany shelves, the soft hum of magic keeping the roses from drooping, the handwritten labels tucked into tiny pots. His gaze lingered on the charm above the door, the one that softly sang when someone entered.

“This place…” he said after a beat, “It’s beautiful. Feels like you.”

Your fingers tightened around the ribbon. “That was the idea.”

He moved further in, his footsteps soft against the wood, like he didn’t want to disturb anything. His eyes traced the petals of hanging lavender, then drifted to the tiny jars of Baby's-breath that floated just above the shelves. His fingers hovered near a jar, brushing the side, barely touching.

“I always thought you’d end up somewhere like this,” he said. “Somewhere gentle.”

You raised a brow. “After everything? I wasn’t sure I could be gentle anymore.”

He looked at you then, eyes heavy. “You always were. Even when the rest of the world wasn’t.”

The quiet between you stretched, weighted and warm. The scent of jasmine curled between the silences, familiar and almost cruel.

He took a deep breath. “I passed by here last week,” he admitted. “Saw the window. Saw the name on the sign. I wasn’t sure it was really you.”

You managed a small smile. “It’s me. Just… older. Wiser, hopefully.”

His lips twitched like he wanted to smile, but didn’t quite know how anymore. “You always had a thing for violets. Still do?”

You gestured to the arrangement in your hands. “Some things don’t change.”

He moved a little closer, standing just across the counter now, where the distance felt both unbearable and too much all at once.

He was quiet again. His fingers tapped the wood of the counter once, then stilled.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he admitted, his voice barely a breath.

You nodded. “I didn’t think you’d want to.”

“I didn’t think I deserved to.”

Your throat tightened. You looked away, pretending to fix a petal that didn’t need fixing.

And then—so softly it was almost a thought more than a sentence—he said it.

“I missed you.”

You felt the words catch in your throat. The familiar ache of longing twisted inside you, but it was quickly smothered by the armor you'd built over the years.

You tried to keep the walls up, but the weight of his confession shattered something inside you. Your hands shook slightly as you set the bouquet down, the soft scent of the flowers mixing with the tension in the air.

You forced your gaze back to him, meeting his eyes—eyes that seemed to have never fully left you, despite everything.

For a moment, you almost said nothing. You almost pretended you hadn’t heard him, hadn’t felt the weight of the years between you. But the truth was, his words had cracked something open inside, something you’d buried deep for so long.

You exhaled a shaky breath. “I missed you too, Draco,” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. It wasn’t just the words, but the way they felt—the vulnerability in them. A rawness you hadn’t allowed yourself to acknowledge until now.

For a moment it felt like nothing had changed. Like the years between the war and this tiny shop had never happened. Just the two of you. The ache still there, the words still fragile.

“Do you want to, maybe go with me to the Leaky Cauldron?” His voice cracked just a little, like he didn’t quite believe he had the right to ask. “We could—”

You cut him off, gently but firmly. “If you want us to get back together, I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

His face drained of color. “What? Why not?”

You didn’t flinch. This time, you met his eyes without wavering—calm, resolute, and heartbreakingly sure.

“Draco… I’m getting married.”

He froze.

His mouth opened. Closed. And for a second, he looked like that boy again—lost, undone, silenced by the weight of a moment he wasn’t ready for.

You turned, reaching for a small arrangement of daisies and forget-me-nots you made earlier that morning—soft blues and whites, bound in a silk ribbon.

Forget-me-nots, for the memories that clung to your soul—enduring love that had once burned quietly between you. Daisies, pure and bright, symbolized release. Letting go. Letting go of him, and of the life you once imagined.

They were your way of saying goodbye without words—of embracing a future without him in it.

You turned back to him, eyes soft but resolute, and held the bouquet out.

“I made this today,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “It reminded me of us. I didn’t know why, until now.”

He took it slowly, his hand brushing against yours. The contact was fleeting, but electric with unspoken memories. His fingers trembled as they closed around the stems—his walls cracking under the weight of a thousand things he never said.

“I hope you’re happy,” he said at last, his voice low, hoarse. Strained. He couldn’t meet your eyes.

“I am,” you whispered. “I had to learn how to be.”

Your words weren’t meant to wound. But they did. You saw it in the way he blinked too slowly, as if keeping tears at bay. You saw it in the way his shoulders tensed—like he was preparing himself to carry the pain away with him.

Draco nodded once, slowly. His lips parted as though he wanted to say more, but no words came. He turned to leave. The silence between you felt heavy, sacred.

He reached the door, then paused. You could almost hear the battle in his chest, the weight of everything he couldn’t undo.

And then—he looked back.

And this time, you didn’t look away. You met his eyes, steady and brave.

You weren’t angry anymore. You weren’t lost. You were just… finally free.

Because this time… you weren’t the one who walked away.

⊱ ─── ⋅ʚ♡ɞ⋅ ─── ⊰

A/N: I hope the ending wasn't too disappointing. I went for a more realistic approach. I hate to say this, but I feel like this is what Draco would realistically do. Hope you liked it!

masterlist!

taglist: @ladycaramelswirl @kammafffffff

[rafesangelita]

♡ kook!sweetheart!reader walks her first runway for her own lingerie brand, and of course rafe has to have a front row seat.

warnings: rafe being a supportive bf, suggestive ending

you couldn’t believe the day was finally here. ever since you started your lingerie line, you wanted to have a runway show to showcase the beautiful pieces, and all thanks to rafe, he was able to make that possible. while your boyfriend insisted on being backstage with you, you told him to wait until you walked out for the finale, wanting to surprise him in full glam and a set you have yet to release. to say you were excited would be an understatement— you were literally having your very own victoria secret show.

with fashion bloggers, magazine editors, and most importantly; rafe, the man who believed in you more than yourself, being in attendance, you just wanted everything to take place smoothly. “oh my god, you look amazing!” you glanced up from the small vanity mirror, meeting kelce’s girlfriend’s gaze. “me?!” your eyes widened as you shot up from your seat. “look at you! kelce is going to lose his mind.” you laughed, admiring the way her makeup sparkled under the studio lights.

“you think so?” she smiled, both of you swallowing nervously when you heard a ‘okay, we’re on in five!’ over one of the staff’s walkie talkie’s. “oh, god, just what i needed to hear.” you joked. she hugged you before joining the rest of the girls in line. outside in the crowd, rafe was already taking pictures like a proud facebook mom, shushing kelce and topper once the lights dimmed and the music started. the intro to britney spear’s ‘gimme more’ began playing, the crowd letting out a series of ‘oooh’s’ and ‘ahhh’s’ when the first model walked out.

rafe was only recording for your sake, his eyes strictly set on his hands as he patiently waited for your entrance. everything that the models were wearing was something he had already seen on you behind closed doors. rafe couldn’t help but feel his chest bloom with pride as he looked around the beautiful venue. despite him paying for everything, you were the one who worked with the planner and coordinator to bring your vision to life.

and what a vision it was.

you had spotlights lining the runway, glitter littering the glossy flooring. various props were also placed on the sidelines. “look, here comes y/n!” rafe arched a brow at his friend, kelce clearing his throat awkwardly. “don’t get too excited, now..” rafe grumbled, eyes locked on your silhouette. the music reached it’s final bridge, your lingerie clad body illuminating the stage. rafe had no words. you were wearing wings like the angel you truly were, the rhinestones and embellishments on your set reflecting under the now multicolored lighting.

“you’re beautiful, babygirl!” rafe shouted, his eyes widening as you got closer. you looked ethereal. not one hair was out of place, your makeup done flawlessly to enhance your natural features. you caught sight of him, sending a wink his way before blowing him a kiss. “she’s getting it tonight.” he held a hand over his heart, watching the way your hips swayed as cameras flashed from every direction. rafe stayed standing up until you disappeared behind the stage, his smile reaching from ear to ear.

“now that’s a show..” he adjusted himself in his pants, posting you on his instagram with the caption; ‘she’s perfect.’

eventually, the event came to a star strucking end, your boyfriend meeting you soon after with a huge bouquet of pink roses. you couldn’t help the sudden wave of emotions from washing over you at the sight of him. “oh, rafe!” you threw yourself into his arms, being careful not to ruin your makeup. “you were so amazing out there, baby.” he rubbed your back. “yeah?” you pulled away, pecking his lips. “fuck yeah.” his voice dropped a few octaves, his hand finding the curve of your ass. “can you take those angel wings home?” he whispered.

“yes.. why?” you smiled mischievously. “cause i need you to walk for me again. naked this time.”