#raw dogging language learning

[peanutalergy]

i have a list on my notes app of words that i don't know the meaning of but that sound very very cool and i want to someday use them somewhere

[orphicmeliora]

LETTERS UNSENT

SUMMARY: You have shared too much with Caleb— your childhood in middle school, your restless teenage years in high school, and the sleepless nights that came with training at the DAA. Through every phase of your life, you’ve loved him. Quietly. Desperately. While he loved someone else.

So you learned to endure it.

You swallowed your feelings and tucked them away in secret letters never meant to be read—letters inked with heartbreak, feverish longing, and fantasies too raw to speak aloud. From crooked handwriting to elegant script, each page was a confession of the love you hated to carry, the ache you never outgrew. And when Caleb vanished from your life after graduation without a word, you buried those letters in a box, and the box deep within yourself.

Years later, fate intervenes.

Caleb returns—broader, bolder, devastatingly handsome. And strangely focused on you. His touches linger too long, his eyes see too much, and his smile says he knows exactly what you’ve been hiding. He looks at you like you’re the one he’s been waiting for—and you can’t tell if it terrifies you or tempts you more.

You try to pull away. You’ve spent too many years surviving without him to fall now.

But Caleb doesn’t let go.

Because now that he’s seen the truth—every broken sentence, every filthy fantasy, every whispered ‘I love you’ you never dared say out loud—he’s not just here to catch up.

He’s here to chase you down.

And he won’t stop until you’re his.

WORD COUNT: 11.1k

NOTES: Takes place after the Main story supposedly ends. This happens far in the future. Caleb is older here, 28–29 maybe. Reader is NOT mc, keep that in mind. In this scenario mc is with another LI.

You used to love love.

Not just the idea of it—but the ache of it. The promise of it. The giddy, schoolgirl butterflies and the midnight hopes whispered into your pillow. Love was the secret language of your world, threaded through songs you hummed under your breath, the romance novels dog-eared to your favorite passages, the ink-stained pages of letters never sent.

You believed in love the way children believe in magic.

But you grew up.

And love? It grew fangs.

Now, you love to hate it.

You hate how it made a fool of you. How it made you wait and yearn and burn in silence, hoping he’d look your way and see you. Not as a friend, not as a childhood companion, but as someone worth reaching for. Worth choosing. But he didn’t. He never did. Caleb’s heart was always spoken for.

So you buried your own.

You’ve become good at pretending. You laugh at romance now, scoff at declarations, dismiss affection with a curl of your lip and a joke that lands just bitter enough to be believable. You’re not heartless—you’re just tired. Of hoping. Of hurting. Of wanting things that were never yours to begin with.

You fill your time with things that don’t require soft emotions. You keep your hands busy and your mind busier. You hum lullabies to yourself when the silence grows too sharp. You sleep with the light on sometimes—not out of fear, but because the darkness reminds you too much of waiting for someone who never came back.

And still…

Despite it all…

Sometimes, on quiet nights when your guard slips, you wonder what it would be like to be loved out loud.

To be wanted so much it’s terrifying. To be chosen first.

You don’t dare admit it aloud. You barely let yourself think it.

Because if love ever finds you again…

You’re not sure if you’ll run away from it—

Or straight into its arms.

You hear his voice before you see him.

Low. Smooth. A little deeper than you remember. It cuts through the background noise like gravity pulling everything toward it—pulling you toward it. You freeze mid-step, your spine going taut like a wire drawn too tight. You know that voice. You’ve heard it in dreams. In memories. In the echo of unsent letters you’ll never admit you still read.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Caleb.

Older. Sharper. Beautiful in a way that feels almost unfair. His body is broader now, sculpted with strength and silent discipline. His jaw is dusted with scruff. His posture, relaxed but alert. And those eyes—still storm-silver and searing, but steadier somehow. Knowing.

He sees you.

Really sees you.

And for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of you standing there like a collision waiting to happen.

A beat passes.

“...It’s been a while,” he says, and God—he smiles.

That same crooked, devastating smile that used to undo you in a single heartbeat. But there’s something different now. Less boyish charm, more… reverence. Like he’s looking at a relic he thought lost forever and can’t quite believe is real.

You swallow, throat tight. “Yeah. A while.”

There’s so much you could say. So much you want to say. About the years. The distance. The versions of yourself that broke and rebuilt in his absence. But your mouth is dry and your thoughts scatter like startled birds.

Caleb steps forward—close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him, smell the faint scent of metal and pine and something unmistakably him.

He looks you up and down slowly, like he’s taking inventory of everything time tried to steal.

“You look…” His gaze softens. “You look like trouble.”

You scoff—too sharp, too fast, your defense mechanisms kicking in like old habits. “And you still talk like you’re trying to land a date in a bar.”

His grin flashes wider. “Would it work if I was?”

God, he’s flirting.

Like you weren’t just background noise to him once. Like you didn’t spend years trying to scrape his ghost off your ribs.

You narrow your eyes. “Why are you here, Caleb?”

He leans in, the air between you charged, crackling. His voice drops—lower, rougher.

“Because I missed you.”

You blink. That wasn’t the answer you expected. Not from him. Not with that look in his eyes—part hungry, part haunted, all real.

And just like that, the careful walls you’ve built start to shake.

You hear the door creak open behind you before the sound of his footsteps catches up.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Caleb says, his voice deeper, richer than you remember. “You look... different.”

You don’t turn around immediately. The skyline looks safer than his face.

“Yeah, well. Years pass. People change.”

“Some people stay exactly the same,” he murmurs. “You still lean to the left when you’re uncomfortable.”

You whip around, heart doing a traitorous little jump when your gaze lands on him.

God. He’s unfair. Broader shoulders, sharper jaw, that golden tan that makes his white shirt look criminally good on him. His smile has mellowed into something more potent—less boyish charm, more devastating man.

You cross your arms. “You’re observant now. That’s new.”

He chuckles. “I’ve always been observant. You were just too busy avoiding my eyes to notice.”

Touché.

He walks closer—too close—and you catch a whiff of his cologne, spicy and dark, like danger disguised as comfort. His gaze drops to your lips for half a second too long before returning to your eyes with a glint that spells trouble.

“How long has it been?” he asks softly.

“Since you ditched our entire friend group without a word? Or since I gave up hoping for a message you never sent?”

His jaw tenses. “I deserved that.”

“You did.”

There’s a beat of silence between you, thick with all the things you’re too proud to say and all the things he suddenly looks desperate to.

You retreat into the safety of the couch, motioning for him to sit across—but no, of course not. Caleb drops beside you, hip pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“What about Emcee?” you ask, biting the inside of your cheek. “You two live happily ever after or what?”

His brow furrows. “Emcee? God, no. That was over before it ever started.”

Your heart skips. “Oh.”

“You sound disappointed.”

“I’m not.” Lie. “Just surprised.”

“Good,” he says, leaning in, his voice a husky whisper. “Because I didn’t come here to talk about her. I came here for you.”

Your breath catches. You laugh, shaky and forced. “Wow, Caleb. You’ve upgraded your flirting. What happened to your legendary cheesy pickup lines?”

He grins. “I could still use one, if you’re nostalgic. But I figured you’ve grown out of tolerating my bullshit.”

“Smart of you.”

And yet, the way his knee brushes yours every few seconds isn’t helping. Neither is the way his hand hovers just a little too close to your thigh when he reaches for his coffee.

You’re not sure what’s worse—that he’s this charming now, or that it’s working.

Later that night, after he leaves with a promise to “see you soon” and a gaze that lingers like heat, you retreat into your sanctuary.

Your room. Your old dresser. The box tucked under the drawer like a dirty little secret.

The letters.

Every one of them stained with years of aching want and unspeakable need. A catalogue of your descent into hopeless longing, from childish hope to fevered fantasy. The kind of thing no one should ever read.

Especially not Caleb.

But fate, of course, doesn’t care what you want.

The first time he brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, it's under the guise of helping you with groceries.

“I’m perfectly capable,” you snap, snatching the bag from his hands.

Caleb just laughs, leaning in. “I know. Doesn’t mean I don’t want to help.”

His knuckles graze yours. You pretend not to notice. He pretends not to notice you pretending. Bastard.

—

The second time, you’re at your favorite café, the one with the uneven chairs and the cinnamon drinks he used to gag over. You’d brought him there as a joke, once. Now he takes you there seriously.

He’s seated too close, his thigh pressed against yours like a quiet claim.

“So,” he says, turning his head toward you. “No boyfriend? Fiancé? Star-crossed lover waiting in the wings?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s a no, then,” he says smugly, sipping his drink.

You glance at him, narrowing your eyes. “Why are you asking?”

“Just making sure I’m not stepping on any toes,” he murmurs, then adds, “when I kiss you.”

Your heart slams into your ribs. You scoff, rolling your eyes so hard they might get stuck. “You’re not kissing me.”

“Not today, maybe,” he says easily. “But eventually.”

You hate how warm your cheeks get. You hate him a little more for noticing.

—

The third time is worse.

You’ve both had a bit too much wine. Not drunk, but soft around the edges. He’s on your couch, lounging like he belongs there, like the time between now and then never happened.

He watches you over the rim of his glass. “Why do you keep flinching when I touch you?”

“I don’t flinch.”

“You do. Like you’re scared I’m not real.”

You take a sip of your wine and stare straight ahead. “I’m just trying to figure out what you want.”

His voice goes quiet. “You.”

The word hits you like a punch.

“You wanted Emcee for years.”

“I was stupid for years.”

You meet his eyes. They’re clearer than they’ve ever been—focused, almost painfully sincere.

“That’s convenient,” you say coldly.

He sets his glass down, leans in. “No. It’s fate finally letting me try again.”

His hand reaches up, brushes your cheek with maddening tenderness. He’s so close you can feel the heat of his breath.

You freeze. The ache in your chest roars to life again. This is everything you ever wanted—but you don’t trust it. Not yet.

You turn your head. Just barely.

Caleb’s jaw clenches, his hand falling away.

He sits back without a word.

—

The fourth time, it’s raining.

He brings you a coffee, his hair damp, his hoodie soaked at the shoulders.

“You didn’t have to walk in this weather,” you mutter, taking the drink anyway.

“I wanted to.” His smile is lazy, but his eyes are sharp. “You’re still not letting me in.”

“Would you trust someone who vanished for years without a word?”

His smile falters. Then, to your surprise, he nods. “I wouldn’t. But I’d want them to fight for the chance to be trusted again.”

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a familiar-looking charm—a bent paper star you made him in high school.

“I didn’t forget you,” he says, voice low. “I tried to.”

That might be the worst thing he’s ever said. Because it means he felt something. Because it means you weren’t the only one suffering in silence.

Because it means he’s telling the truth.

You excuse yourself before your throat gives way to the sobs you refuse to let him see.

He doesn’t follow.

But he waits.

He always waits now.

And that’s more dangerous than any of his old pickup lines.

You agree to go with him to the observatory.

Big mistake.

It’s late, the sky smeared with stars and promises, the air just crisp enough that Caleb offers you his jacket before you can even pretend to be cold.

You don’t take it.

So, naturally, he just drapes it over your shoulders anyway, like you’re his.

“It looks better on you,” he says, voice quiet as your fingers clutch at the sleeves that still smell like him.

“Don’t start,” you murmur, but there’s no real bite to it.

“Start what?” His smirk is all mischief. “Being nice? Can’t help it. You bring it out of me.”

You roll your eyes and turn your gaze to the sky, but he keeps watching you like you’re the constellation he’s been chasing all his life.

“I used to come here when I missed you,” you admit without thinking, and immediately wish you hadn’t.

The silence that follows is so sharp it could cut glass.

“When you missed me?” His voice is different now—serious. Dangerous. “How often did that happen?”

You laugh, tight and brittle. “Only every time I breathed.”

His head tilts slightly, like he’s not sure he heard you right.

Then: “Say that again.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll use it against me.”

He steps closer, slow and purposeful, until your back meets the cold railing. His hands cage you in, one on either side of your body, his expression unreadable but intense.

“Do you really think I’d take something that precious and weaponize it?”

“I don’t know what you’d do anymore.”

“Then let me show you,” he says, and for a terrifying second, you think he’s going to kiss you.

But he doesn’t.

His lips hover just beside your ear, the warmth of his breath teasing your neck.

“I dreamt of you too, you know. Every damn night.”

Your knees nearly buckle, but pride is a stronger drug than longing.

“Then why didn’t you do anything?” you whisper.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes burning. “Because I was stupid. And I thought you didn’t feel the same.”

You snort. “Well. You were wrong.”

“I know,” he growls. “I know that now. And you’re still keeping me at arm’s length.”

“Damn right I am.”

His smile is tight, hungry. “Fine. You want to make me work for it? I’ll work.”

“I want to be chased, Caleb. Not collected.”

He steps back, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin is pure trouble.

“Then run, sweetheart. I’ll catch up.”

You hate him for knowing exactly how to undo you.

And maybe you hate yourself more for wanting to be caught.

It’s late. The kind of late where even the shadows seem to sleep.

The old piano room is still your secret solace—dusty, dim, filled with forgotten echoes and dreams you never dared to say out loud. The acoustics are perfect. No one ever comes in here anymore.

Except for one person.

You don't hear him at first. You’re too wrapped up in the song, the way your voice trembles on the high notes, the keys trembling beneath your fingertips. It’s the kind of melody you never intended anyone to hear. Especially not him.

I didn't opt in to be your odd man out

I founded the club she's heard great things about

I left all I knew, you left me at the house by the Heath

Your voice breaks. You close your eyes, breathe, keep going anyway.

I stopped CPR, after all it's no use

The spirit was gone, we would never come to

And I'm pissed off you let me give you all that youth for free

Silence. One, two, three beats of it. Then—

“You always did sound beautiful when you were sad.”

You jump.

Caleb leans against the doorway like he owns the place. Like he owns the air in your lungs. Like he owns you.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” he adds, smile lazy, eyes sharp. “Old habits die hard, I guess.”

You blink. “You heard that?”

“I always do.”

Of course he did.

You feel your cheeks burn as he strolls in, gaze never leaving yours. “That song… it’s new?”

You clear your throat, try for nonchalance. “Just something I was playing around with.”

He hums. “Right. Totally not about anyone in particular.”

You bristle. “Did I say that?”

“Nope. But you don’t have to. You forget—I know your voice. I know when it’s for fun. And when it’s ripping you open.”

You glance away, fingers tapping nervously on the ivory keys. “You're being dramatic.”

He kneels beside the bench. Just like that, he’s too close again. Always too close.

“You used to do this all the time,” he murmurs. “Sneak away to sing where no one could find you. You didn’t know I followed.”

Your heart stutters. “You never said anything.”

“Why would I ruin it?” His gaze darkens. “Hearing you like that—it was the only time I ever got to feel like you needed something.”

“I didn’t sing those songs for you,” you lie.

Caleb tilts his head, eyes locked on yours. “Then why are your cheeks red?”

You shove away from the piano, muttering, “You're insufferable.”

He follows, not missing a beat. “You’re blushing, songbird.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You stop. He almost slams into you.

You glare up at him. “You think you’re so clever.”

He leans in, smirking. “No. I think I’ve waited too long to be this close to you, and now that I’m here, I’m not backing off.”

The worst part? Your hands are trembling. Your knees are weak. And still, somehow, you want more.

But pride wraps around your tongue like a noose.

“You heard the song,” you say, voice low. “That’s enough.”

His eyes flick down to your lips. Then back up. He’s not smiling anymore.

“No,” Caleb whispers. “It’s not.”

You should have locked the damn drawer.

You don’t even know what made you check—but something prickled at the back of your neck the moment you stepped into your apartment. Like something sacred had been disturbed. And when you see the box in Caleb’s hands, your heart stops cold.

No. No.

His head lifts as the door shuts behind you.

And your world implodes.

He’s seated on your couch like he’s carved from stone, the soft golden lamp beside him casting long shadows across the muscles in his jaw and the heartbreak in his eyes.

He’s holding your soul in his hands.

The letters—dozens of them, hundreds, years of ink and agony and lust and grief—you recognize the crooked childhood handwriting, the shaky, angry teenage confessions, the flowing script of your adult longing. Pages of you. Laid bare.

Your breath catches. Your throat closes.

“I—That’s not—You weren’t supposed to—” Your voice cracks. Your knees are trembling.

Caleb stands, the box still in his grip. He looks wrecked.

“I read every single one,” he says softly.

“Put them away,” you whisper, voice hollow. “Please, just… put them away.”

“I can’t.”

You turn to bolt, pure instinct.

And that’s when gravity betrays you.

A weight presses against your body—not crushing, but firm, immovable, inescapable. His Evol. 

Your hands fly to the walls, to the floor, anywhere to push back, but you’re floating. Held in place. Suspended in the moment you never wanted him to witness.

“Caleb—!”

“I need you to hear me,” he says, moving closer. Slowly. Carefully. Like approaching a wounded animal.

Your back hits the wall.

He stops just inches from you, eyes devouring every inch of your face. His expression is ravenous, pained, like he’s starving and terrified that the meal in front of him will vanish if he breathes too hard.

“I didn’t know,” he says, his voice ragged. “I never knew.”

You shake your head. “You weren’t supposed to.”

His hand lifts. Hovers near your cheek. “I’ve been walking around blind, thinking I lost you back then. But you never stopped… You loved me. You loved me so much it hurt.”

Tears gather hot and fast in your eyes. “Caleb—don’t—”

“And I was in love with you,” he breathes. “All this time I thought I was chasing someone else, but it was you. It was always you.”

You look away. “You didn’t want me. You wanted her. You chose her.”

“I didn’t choose anyone,” he growls. “I was a coward. I ran. I shut you out and let you carry all that alone. I thought I was protecting you.”

“You weren’t,” you whisper. “You were destroying me.”

The look in his eyes breaks something in you.

“I memorized your words,” he says quietly, his forehead leaning gently against yours. “Every line. Every wish. Every desperate, filthy, aching thing you wanted to say. I felt all of it. Like I was there with you, through every goddamn year I missed.”

You tremble, caught in his pull, aching with the need to believe—but terrified to let yourself fall.

“I don’t know if I can forgive you,” you whisper.

“I’m not asking you to,” he murmurs. “Not yet.”

His fingers trail lightly over your waist, your hip, anchoring you. The Gravity around you loosens just enough for your feet to touch the floor again, but you don’t move.

His mouth brushes against your temple.

“I just want to earn you. All of you. Like I should’ve from the start.”

You don’t kiss him.

But you don’t pull away either.

You can’t.

Because suddenly, you're not cold anymore.

You’re burning.

He stays.

Even when you tell him to leave—quietly, then louder, then with trembling fingers pressed to his chest like a warning—Caleb stays.

“You shouldn’t be here,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes.

“I should’ve been here years ago,” he murmurs. “Don’t you get it? I’m not leaving again.”

You shove him.

He barely budges.

You shove him again.

This time, his hands catch your wrists mid-motion, fast, firm—calm.

You freeze. His skin is warm against yours, calloused where it should be gentle, familiar where it should feel foreign. Your pulse spikes in your throat.

“Let me go,” you say, breathless.

“No.”

Your breath hitches.

“No?” you echo.

His voice drops. “Not until you stop pretending you don’t want me to stay.”

You glare up at him, furious. “You think a few words and a couple of pretty promises erase everything?”

“No,” he says again. “But I’ll keep proving myself until they do.”

You twist out of his grip—nearly—before he suddenly pulls you in.

And for one terrible, brilliant second, your bodies align like they’ve been waiting for this moment your whole lives.

His eyes search yours.

And then, Caleb whispers, “Tell me to stop.”

You open your mouth.

But nothing comes out.

So he kisses you.

Not a soft, hesitant brush of lips.

It’s a claiming.

It’s all the years you spent alone, writing down your agony like confessions to a God who never answered. It’s every fantasy you denied yourself, every moment you watched him look at someone else and wished it were you. It's him—finally, truly, desperately—here.

Your fingers fist in his shirt like you’re angry, like you’re clinging to something you swore you’d never need again.

And when you break apart, gasping, forehead pressed to his, you say—

“I hate you.”

He smiles, soft and ruined. “I know.”

“I hate how much I wanted that.”

“I hope you did.”

“I’m still not making this easy.”

Caleb’s lips trail down your jaw, his voice a low rasp. “You’ve never made anything easy, sweetheart. That’s why you’re worth everything.”

And still—

Still, your heart trembles with the weight of old wounds, and you pull back just enough to see the truth in his eyes.

“You’ll have to fight for this,” you warn him.

His hand finds the back of your neck, possessive and reverent. “Then prepare to be relentlessly pursued.”

You never agreed to date him.

But apparently, Caleb’s taking “relentless pursuit” as a blood oath.

He shows up at your place the next morning with coffee—your actual order, down to the way you like the foam. He doesn’t say how he remembers. You don’t ask.

That night, he texts you at 2am.

Bastard: Thinking about that song you sang. Thinking about your lips too, but that’s not important (it is).

You throw your phone across the bed.

The next day, he’s waiting outside your building. Leaning against his hoverbike, all long legs and low-lidded eyes and that grin. You think he’s here for some kind of mission.

Nope.

Just here to take you to lunch.

“Don’t say this is a date,” you grumble.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, offering his hand. “But hold on tight anyway.”

You hate how your fingers slide into his like they belong there.

—

Caleb doesn’t just flirt. He weaponizes charm like he trained for it.

He gives you compliments with the kind of intensity that makes it hard to breathe.

“I love your voice. Especially when you don’t realize you’re humming.”

“You roll your eyes the same way you used to when I beat you in training. It’s kind of adorable.”

“You don’t have to pretend around me. I know what you sound like when you're honest. I miss that sound.”

He touches you too often. Hand brushing your lower back when he walks past. Fingers grazing yours when he hands you something. Sitting just a little too close on your couch, his thigh pressed against yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You hold strong—for a while.

Until he stays over one night, after watching some late-night sci-fi re-run and falling asleep on your couch like a smug golden retriever with abs.

You try to nudge him awake.

You fail.

Hard.

He catches your wrist in his sleep, pulls you down half-on top of him, murmurs your name like it’s a secret prayer, and buries his face in your neck.

You don’t sleep.

Your body is screaming.

But your heart?

It’s terrified.

—

When morning comes, you wake to him cooking in your kitchen like he belongs there, shirt half-unbuttoned, hair a mess, singing your song under his breath.

You freeze in the doorway.

He sees you.

And smiles.

Like you’re not the one who spent ten years hiding a love that almost broke you. Like he’s not here to crack it wide open.

“Morning, sweetheart,” Caleb says softly. “Stay.”

You almost do.

But you don’t.

Not yet.

You think you're doing a good job keeping him at bay.

You’re not.

Because Caleb is everywhere now.

He’s in your kitchen again, humming off-key as he steals bites from your cooking. He’s draped across your couch like it’s his favorite place in the world. He’s in the way he looks at you like you invented gravity, like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded.

You keep your walls up.

But he keeps coming.

Like he knows you’re lying every time you act unaffected.

—

One night, after a long mission and even longer silence, he shows up unannounced. Eyes shadowed. Mouth grim. Shoulders tense with something unspoken.

You open the door.

He doesn’t say a word—just walks past you, breath ragged.

You follow him into your living room. “Caleb?”

“I thought I lost you again,” he says, voice low.

Your stomach drops. “What?”

He turns to face you, and it’s like the air shifts. Thickens.

“I heard your name over the comms. Brief moment of static. No confirmation you made it out. Just radio silence.”

You cross your arms. “I made it out fine.”

“I didn’t know that,” he snaps. “And for a second, I thought—” He cuts himself off, jaw tight.

You exhale. “I’m used to people not checking in.”

“I’m not people.”

He stalks closer.

You step back.

He follows.

“I don’t care how many times you push me away. You don’t get to disappear on me.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” you throw back. “Pretend like none of this hurts? Like I didn’t bleed for you in silence for years while you played hero somewhere else?”

“I know.”

“Do you?” Your voice cracks. “Because I can’t let myself fall again, Caleb. Not if you're just gonna walk away when it gets hard.”

He grabs your wrist.

Not rough. Just certain.

“Look at me.”

You don’t.

So he tips your chin up with two fingers.

His eyes are burning.

“I am not going anywhere. I don't care how long it takes. You can scream, you can run, you can tell me you hate me. I’ll still be right here.”

“Why?” you whisper, eyes glossy. “Why now?”

“Because I’ve loved you longer than I even understood what that meant,” he breathes. “And I’m done pretending I don’t want every single part of you.”

His other hand slides to your waist, slow and reverent.

Your breath hitches.

You can feel his heartbeat through your palm. Fast. Desperate.

The heat between you is unbearable.

One tilt of your head and you’d be kissing him again.

You want to.

God, you ache to.

But instead, you whisper, “This changes nothing.”

He leans in, nose brushing yours.

“Wrong,” Caleb whispers, his voice rough with restraint. “It changes everything.”

But he doesn’t kiss you.

Not this time.

He lets you go.

And it’s infuriating—because now you want him even more.

The first thing you notice is the light—soft gold spilling through your curtains, catching on floating dust motes, warming the edges of the sheets tangled around your legs.

The second thing you notice is the heat.

Not the weather. Not the blanket.

Him.

Your breath stills.

Because Caleb’s wrapped around you like he owns you.

Which—he doesn’t.

He shouldn’t.

And yet here you are, cocooned in his arms, his entire body molded to yours like you were sculpted to fit him. Your head is pillowed on his chest, right over the steady, heavy thump of his heart. One of his hands is buried in your hair, fingers gently tangled, the other gripping your waist in a possessive clutch that hasn’t loosened even in sleep.

You remember falling asleep with your back to him.

You do not remember signing up for this full-body cuddle trap.

Then there's his thigh—wedged between your legs like it lives there.

Your cheeks burn.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “Time to get out before you completely lose your mind.”

You try to slip away quietly.

You wiggle.

No movement.

You nudge his hand.

His grip tightens.

You try prying his fingers from your waist. It’s like wrestling a bear. A warm, unfairly smug bear.

You let out a frustrated sigh and attempt to roll away—but the second you shift, Caleb lets out a low, sleepy groan. His body shifts with yours, tightening the hold, his thigh sliding higher. His lips brush your neck, parting slightly—

And then he nibbles.

You whimper.

It betrays you instantly.

That quiet little sound. The one that escapes before you can swallow it.

Caleb hums. The vibrations rumble through his chest, into your cheek.

And then—

“Mm... morning,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and delicious.

You go still.

“Caleb,” you say, your voice a warning.

His lips find your pulse point. “You smell good,” he slurs, still half-asleep, tone thick with something dangerous.

His thigh rocks just slightly forward. Pressure, heat.

You squeak.

His arms tighten like steel bands.

He’s caging you in.

“C-Caleb, get off—this is—this is not appropriate!”

Another sleepy groan. His lips ghost along your jaw. “You’re so warm.”

Your brain short-circuits.

“You’re dreaming,” you say, trying desperately to breathe like a normal person. “This is a dream. You’re dreaming. Let me go.”

He chuckles—chuckles. A deep, lazy sound against your neck. “If I’m dreaming, I’m never waking up.”

Then his hips shift. Just barely.

But enough.

“Caleb!”

His eyes snap open.

You expect guilt.

What you get is heat.

Raw, focused, and dangerous.

He blinks once. Then twice. Then—

His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back. His nose brushes yours.

“I was trying to be good,” Caleb murmurs. “You have no idea how hard it’s been.”

You do, actually.

Because it’s been hell for you, too.

You’re seconds from giving in—completely, helplessly—when you shove at his chest with both hands and scramble out from beneath him.

You’re standing, heart racing, cheeks flushed, breathless.

Caleb just smirks from the bed, messy-haired and golden in the morning light. “What? You gonna pretend you didn’t enjoy that?”

You throw a pillow at his face.

“Out,” you snap.

He catches it effortlessly. “No breakfast first?”

You march to the door.

“Fine, fine. But next time?” He swings his legs over the edge and stands, gaze searing into yours. “You’ll beg me to stay.”

You slam the door in his face.

It doesn’t stop your knees from buckling.

It happens fast.

Too fast for logic. Too fast for the walls you’ve spent years constructing around your traitorous heart.

One moment you’re arguing—again. Another stupid quip from him, another reckless flirtation that turns your blood to fire. You’re trying to hold on to the last shred of distance between you, snapping something half-hearted and defensive—

And then Caleb moves.

He grabs your wrists, spinning you with dizzying ease, and slams them gently but firmly against the wall. Your back hits the cold surface. His body follows.

You gasp.

His eyes meet yours.

They are ravenous.

“I can’t do this anymore,” Caleb says, voice low, feral, shaking with restraint. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to devour you.”

Your breath catches.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Not sweet. Not tentative.

Possessive.

Like he’s claiming what was always his.

Your body jerks with the force of it, your wrists still caged in his hands above your head. You try to twist free—not to escape, but because it’s too much, all-consuming, desperate.

He doesn’t let you go.

He presses closer instead, chasing your mouth with his own, drinking in every gasp, every shuddering moan you try to swallow.

You break away for air—just for a second—and he follows, mouth trailing your jaw, nipping your throat, sucking a mark into the skin just below your ear.

“Caleb—” you manage, but it comes out a whimper.

His pelvis grinds into yours, deliberate and aching. The friction draws a strangled sound from your throat.

“Oh god��”

“That’s it,” he groans against your skin. “That sound. I’ve imagined it every night. Every. Damn. Night.”

His hands leave your wrists—only to slide down your arms, your sides, until they’re clutching your hips like he might fall apart if he lets go. He lifts you onto the wall, thigh pressing between your legs, grinding again.

Your fingers tangle in his shirt, yanking him closer even as your brain screams to stop this.

But your body?

Your body is already his.

“Tell me to stop,” Caleb breathes, forehead pressed to yours, chest heaving.

You don’t.

You can’t.

There’s no pretending anymore. No wall to hide behind.

Because the truth is—he touches you like a man starved, but worships you like you're divine.

His lips return to yours, slower this time but no less intense, and it feels like every missed moment, every unsent letter, every buried ache is burning through the kiss.

His self-control shatters.

And you let it.

Because there’s no going back now.

There’s a moment—barely a breath—after that kiss.

His forehead presses to yours, both of you trembling, not just from adrenaline but from something deeper. Something that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff after running your whole life just to avoid the fall.

He whispers your name like a secret, like a vow. It breaks you a little, how he says it. Like he’s tasting the weight of it for the first time.

Then he moves.

Your legs wrap around his waist without thought—instinct meeting inevitability. You're holding on to the only thing in the room that feels real. He lifts you as if he was made to, the heat between you palpable, a pulse that beats beneath your skin, echoing every missed chance and quiet longing.

The kiss deepens. Desperate, molten, tasting of years swallowed down and swallowed whole. His hands are everywhere—anchoring, memorizing, shaking just slightly from how hard he’s holding back.

He carries you through the house like a man possessed. Not with lust, but with ache. The bedroom door shuts with a thud behind you, and suddenly the air is full of promises, unspoken but heavy. When your back meets the mattress, he follows—solid and unyielding. Not crushing, but overwhelming in the way only someone you've loved for too long can be.

His weight is warmth, his gaze all hunger and reverence. His hands slide beneath your clothes, not to strip, but to feel. His palm over your heart. His fingers brushing your ribs like counting the years apart. Every touch says: I missed this. I missed you.

“You still gonna pretend you don’t want this?” he murmurs, his voice low, scraping over the tenderest parts of you.

You try to breathe out a laugh, but it catches on something in your throat—emotion, maybe. Want, definitely.

His mouth presses to your skin in a trail that’s less possession and more devotion. His touch follows, mapping you slowly, like he's rediscovering a land he once called home. You feel yourself arch into him, answer him without words, because words were never big enough for this.

He whispers things you’ll remember later—soft confessions and raw need laced with regret for every year wasted. You shiver when his breath touches your skin, when his fingers slide across bare inches you didn't mean to offer but couldn't deny.

And then... silence. Not because the moment ends. But because it begins.

Everything else fades.

There are no sharp lines, only sensation—heat and trembling limbs, quiet gasps, and the way your fingers fist into his shirt like you’ll fall apart without him there to catch you.

You lose time in the haze of it. In the rhythm of closeness, of skin against skin, of hearts beating so loud they drown out thought. You feel unraveled. Revered. Completely undone. Not by action, but by intent.

After, when the quiet stretches between you and your breath finally slows, he doesn’t let go. He stays draped over you, face buried in the crook of your neck like he’s terrified you’ll vanish if he opens his eyes.

“This isn’t over,” he says. His voice is hoarse, a whisper etched with everything he’s never said aloud. “I’m not letting you go. Not this time.”

And for the first time, you let yourself believe it.

Not because of what just happened.

But because of everything that didn’t need to.

You lost track of how long ago the sun set.

The air is heavy with heat and sweat, your skin slick against the sheets. You’re boneless, trembling, lips swollen from kisses too deep, too desperate. Every nerve is raw. Every breath you take shudders.

And Caleb?

Caleb is still going.

He hovers above you, eyes dark with something starved—like he’s been waiting his whole life for this and now that he has you, he doesn’t know how to stop. His hands roam as if relearning the shape of you again and again, like the memory alone will never be enough.

“We’re not done,” he murmurs, brushing hair from your damp forehead. “Not yet.”

You try to protest, but all that leaves you is a soft, aching sound.

He smiles—soft, wicked, reverent.

And leans in to kiss you like it’s the first time all over again.

You're floating.

Barely conscious, held together by the fragile thread of Caleb’s body wrapped around yours, his breath a soft rhythm against your neck.

Your limbs are jelly. Your thighs ache. Your lips are kiss-bitten and bruised, and you're so sensitive that every inch of you shivers when he so much as adjusts beside you.

And yet—even now, even after hours—he won’t stop touching.

Not in the same feral, frantic way as before. No. Now it’s worship.

He kisses the curve of your shoulder, the back of your neck, your spine. His fingertips trace lazy, possessive patterns into your hips. He murmurs things—some unintelligible, some far too intimate.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers against your skin.

“I missed you.”

“I’ll never let you go again.”

You’re too tired to reply. Your voice is hoarse from screaming, from moaning his name over and over, but your heart responds like a bell rung too hard. It throbs.

Eventually, he gets up—only to return with a warm towel, water, a fresh shirt. He tends to you with gentle hands, murmuring apologies each time you flinch from how sensitive you are, pressing soft kisses to your forehead, your temple, your knuckles.

When he finally slides into the shower with you, your body instinctively leans into his. The water is hot, soothing, washing away the sweat, the stickiness, the evidence of your complete and total unraveling.

But not the ache. Not the possessiveness.

He sits on the tiled bench and pulls you into his lap, your legs straddling him, head tucked under his chin. You’re exhausted, wrecked—and he’s still hard beneath you.

You give him a look that’s half horror, half disbelief.

He smirks, eyes dark and gleaming. “I told you, I’m not finished.”

“Caleb—”

“I owe you,” he says, voice dipping low. “For every year I didn’t touch you. For every time you cried over me in silence. For every word in those letters I should’ve read sooner.”

Your breath hitches.

And then his lips descend again—slow, tender, reverent. As if he’s trying to memorize this version of you, water-slicked and trembling in his arms, yours at last.

Back in bed, you collapse into his chest, body boneless, heart hammering.

And just when you think he’s finally done—

He shifts again.

Rolls you beneath him.

“You’re not going to let me sleep?” you rasp.

His fingers trail down your body, between your thighs, making you jolt.

“No,” he breathes against your ear. “You’re not sleeping until I’ve claimed every inch of you. Until you can’t think of anything but me.”

You should tell him to stop.

You don’t.

Because the truth is: every part of you belongs to him already.

And now?

He’s going to make sure you never forget it.

The morning after feels… dangerous.

Not because you’re in any real peril—but because it’s blissfully quiet, and the man who wrecked you within an inch of your life is humming softly in your kitchen, shirtless, wearing nothing but sweatpants slung far too low on his hips, looking like the devil himself in domestic drag.

You barely make it through the doorway, each step a careful negotiation with gravity and sore muscles. Your thighs ache. Your back aches. Everything aches. But the moment Caleb glances over his shoulder and smirks at your limp?

Oh, you want to punch him.

Or kiss him.

Or both.

“You’re up,” he says, voice as smug as the day is long.

“I tried to stay asleep,” you deadpan. “But someone kept me up all night.”

He chuckles—low and wicked—and sets a mug of coffee on the counter for you.

“Consider it payback.”

You squint at him. “For what?”

His eyes drop to your hips, the curve of your throat, the faint marks blooming on your skin like war medals.

“For every letter you wrote and never gave me.”

Your stomach drops.

The mug clatters slightly when you set it down too fast.

You’d almost forgotten. Almost managed to push aside the mortifying knowledge that he read everything.

And yet, here he is—utterly unbothered, possibly turned on, casually flipping pancakes like he didn’t spend the night wrecking you with the very fantasies you'd penned in lonely bedrooms and late-night heartbreak.

“You read them all,” you say, not quite a question.

He looks at you over his shoulder. “Memorized. Studied. Jerk—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Caleb.”

He only grins wider.

You try to be casual, sip your coffee, lean against the wall like you’re not reliving every desperate, depraved word he’s now got locked and loaded in that beautiful head of his. But he’s already watching you too closely. Reading you like one of those letters.

“There's one you missed,” you murmur before you can stop yourself.

He freezes.

Slowly, slowly, he turns. “Where?”

You bite your lip.

“The drawer by my bed. Bottom one.”

He’s gone before you even blink.

Your heart is pounding.

By the time you stumble after him, he’s already sitting on the bed, letter in hand. It’s the last one. The one you wrote when you thought you’d never see him again. It was raw, feral—filled with longing so thick it could drown you.

He reads it silently. His jaw tightens. His Adam’s apple bobs hard.

When he finishes, he just looks at you.

You’re not sure what you expect.

But you do not expect him to throw the letter down and stand up like that.

“I’m going to ruin you again,” he says, voice low. “And this time, it won’t stop until you beg me to believe you’re mine.”

Your knees buckle.

But he’s already crossing the room.

Already crowding you against the wall, hands gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly until your back hits wood and your legs wrap around him like muscle memory.

“Caleb—” you gasp, but he silences you with a kiss that’s pure possession.

“No more running. No more letters.” He grinds against you, voice rasping. “You want to scream my name? Do it now. Right here. Where I can answer every word.”

And you do.

God help you, you do.

—

You don't know how you made it through round... whatever number that was. Your body's a puddle, your skin still humming, but Caleb is finally calm. Sated, for now. The hunger in his eyes has simmered down into something deeper—something dangerous in its quiet intensity.

He’s seated now, bare chest gleaming faintly in the afternoon light, legs spread with an unmistakable air of ownership. You’re half-draped across his torso, wearing one of his shirts that swallows you whole. He holds you with one arm looped securely around your waist, the other hand delicately unfolding that last letter. The most intimate one. The one you never meant anyone—especially him—to see.

You try not to squirm as he reads it again, slowly, as if committing every line to memory.

You can feel his eyes on the page—but his attention is on you.

“You wrote this two years ago,” he says softly, thumb brushing idle circles against your inner thigh. “I was at the edge of the solar belt. Couldn’t sleep that night. I felt… off. Like I was missing something.”

You glance down, ashamed. “Don’t romanticize it.”

“I’m not,” he replies simply. “I’m aligning timelines.”

Your heart stutters. His hand stills.

“Do you want me to stop reading?” he asks, genuine this time.

You consider it. Swallow. Then shake your head.

He nods, kisses your temple.

Another beat of silence. The room smells of skin and paper and sunlight.

Then, quietly, with a low chuckle, he murmurs:

“I should have known,” he mutters, “you liked being chased. You always did, even as a kid. Remember all those games of tag?”

You remember.

And you remember how he’d always let you win—just enough—before pulling you back into his arms with that sly smile of his, the one that made your heart race and your stomach flip.

You squirm, face heating. “That’s different.”

“It was always you,” he says softly. “Even when I didn’t know what I was looking for. I’d follow you through fields, parks, school halls. You’d run, I’d chase. Every time.”

His voice dips, husky but no longer carnal. “You were never hiding from me. You were waiting for me to catch up.”

Your throat tightens.

“And I did.” He sets the letter aside. “Finally.”

The intensity softens into something almost unbearably tender. His fingers curl beneath your chin and tilt your face up.

“No more letters,” he murmurs. “If there’s something you want… tell me. If you need something… I’ll listen. If you feel too much—good. So do I.”

You try to look away, but he won’t let you.

“You’ve already stripped yourself bare,” he whispers, brushing your hair back. “Now let me carry the weight.”

And just like that, your defenses crumble—slowly, quietly, like a dam leaking at the seams.

You rest your forehead against his. His lips ghost over yours. There’s no urgency. No fire.

Just heat. Banked and waiting.

And when he pulls you closer, tucks you against his chest, and lets out a slow breath—you swear you can feel his heartbeat echo your own.

The world outside is quiet, but inside your home, chaos reigns.

“Hey! Give that back!” you shout, laughing breathlessly as you chase after Caleb, who’s casually sauntering around your kitchen—your kitchen—holding your favorite coffee mug high above his head like a trophy.

Bastard. 

“This?” Caleb grins, the morning light making his messy hair look unfairly golden, like he just strolled out of a dream. “You mean our mug now. Community property.”

“That’s not how this works!” You make a wild grab for it, but he just shifts it higher, smirking like he’s enjoying this a little too much.

Maybe it’s the fact that he’s only in a loose pair of joggers, the drawstring barely tied, his chest bare and warm and still a little damp from his earlier shower. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you—like you’re the only thing in the world worth teasing, worth chasing. Whatever it is, your heart flutters violently in your chest.

“Caleb, I swear—” you lunge for him again.

He catches you effortlessly, laughing as he spins you around until your back is pressed against his chest, trapping you in his arms. The mug dangles in front of you tauntingly. His scent envelops you—fresh soap, coffee, and something that’s just him.

“Say please,” he whispers into your ear, his breath warm, sending a shiver racing down your spine.

You wriggle in his arms, only managing to grind yourself back against his hips in the most scandalous way. Caleb’s arms tighten, his low groan rumbling against your back.

You freeze, heat flooding your cheeks. Damn him.

Caleb chuckles, feeling the way you stiffen. “Careful, sweetheart. You’re playing with fire this early in the morning.”

“You started it,” you mutter, glaring over your shoulder.

He grins lazily, shameless. “I’ll finish it, too.”

Before you can retort, he finally, finally relinquishes the mug, setting it gently on the counter. You think you’re safe—until he sweeps you off your feet in one effortless move, carrying you bridal style toward the couch.

“Caleb! Put me down!” you yelp, pounding your fists against his chest, but he’s unbothered, humming a tune under his breath like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“Shhh. We’re doing Sunday properly,” he says, plopping down onto the couch and settling you firmly on his lap, caging you in with his arms. “Coffee. Couch. Cuddles. Mandatory.”

You open your mouth to protest, but his hand cups the back of your head, gently guiding you to rest against his shoulder. His touch is slow, deliberate, almost reverent.

You can feel the tension humming between you—thick, electric—but somehow, it doesn’t feel urgent. It feels… safe. Warm. Like you could fall asleep right here and Caleb would keep the whole world away from you.

You sigh, feeling your body relax against him despite yourself.

“This isn’t fair,” you grumble.

“What’s not fair?” he asks, voice low and teasing as he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“You being so… so…” You gesture vaguely, words failing you. How do you describe this? Caleb being infuriating and sweet and annoyingly perfect, all wrapped up in one stupidly handsome package?

“So what?” he presses, feigning innocence. His hand strokes lazily up and down your spine, his touch feather-light.

You groan into his chest. “Everything.”

He laughs—really laughs—and the sound rumbles deep in his chest, vibrating against you. You can’t help the small smile that creeps across your face. You hate how easy it is to be soft with him. How easy it is to fall harder when you promised yourself you’d be careful.

“You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart,” Caleb says, dropping his forehead against yours, his eyes shining with something raw and unspoken. “Might as well get used to it.”

Your heart thuds painfully against your ribs, and for once, you don’t have a snarky reply. Just this—this impossible, chaotic, beautiful morning. His arms around you. His laugh in your ears. His heartbeat steady beneath your hand.

Maybe you are stuck with him.

Maybe you want to be.

And when Caleb presses a soft, lingering kiss to your lips—tender, warm, unbearably sweet—you know you’re completely, hopelessly, irreversibly his.

And judging by the way he smiles against your mouth, he's known it all along.

Your lunch is burning.

You know it is—because you can smell the faint scent of charred vegetables—and yet, you can’t do anything about it.

Because Caleb.

Because Caleb, who has one arm lazily wrapped around your waist, caging you against the counter, a spatula abandoned nearby. Because Caleb, who keeps murmuring absolutely mortifying things against your ear in that deep, smug voice of his, his lips brushing your skin with every word.

Because Caleb, who somehow—somehow—has memorized every single humiliating word you ever wrote to him.

You try not to die of embarrassment right there.

“You know,” Caleb drawls, his voice a slow purr against your ear, “you were really dramatic back in middle school. I believe it went something like—” he clears his throat exaggeratedly, clearly having way too much fun, “‘Dear Caleb, I hate you so much I hope you trip and fall into a mud puddle in front of the entire school. Maybe then you’ll stop being so full of yourself.’”

You groan, shoving your sleeves over your face, mortified. “Stopppp.” You’re basically trying to melt into the counter at this point.

But Caleb’s laughing, warm and delighted, peeling your sleeves down to expose your burning face. He lives for this now, clearly. Every time you squirm, he looks like he’s won the lottery.

“And then—then,” he continues gleefully, ignoring your protests, “in high school, when I got a little popular… You wrote, ‘Congratulations, Prince Charming. Maybe one day you’ll notice the loyal commoner you left in the dust. But no worries. I’m totally fine. Totally. Absolutely fine. Not like I ever cared anyway.’”

He recites it with dramatic flair, clutching his chest like a wounded lover. You are dying inside.

“Oh my God, Caleb,” you hiss, trying to hide your face again. “Shut up! I was, like, fifteen! I didn’t know anything about anything!”

He laughs again, low and fond, his chest vibrating against your back. “You knew enough to break my heart, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and you feel the serious undercurrent beneath all the teasing—the raw affection.

You twist in his grip, attempting to shove him away, but he just effortlessly manhandles you into his lap instead. One strong arm loops around your waist, the other sneaks into your hair, stroking it slowly, tangling his fingers through the strands.

You pout at him, cheeks still on fire. “You’re so annoying.”

His grin softens into something devastatingly tender. His eyes burn bright and molten as he stares at you, like you’re the only thing in the entire world.

“Not done yet,” he murmurs.

Your stomach drops.

You already know what's coming. The worst part.

Caleb leans down, nuzzles against your temple, and in a low, sinful voice, whispers, “And then there were the ones where you couldn’t stop thinking about me at night.”

You jerk, mortified, but he tightens his hold on you, trapping you snug against him. His lips graze your ear.

“You had so many thoughts about me,” he says, voice dropping impossibly lower. “About what you wanted me to do to you. About what you wanted to do to me.” He chuckles darkly when you squeak and try to wriggle away.

“I can quote those too, if you want,” he teases mercilessly. “Maybe I should start with the one where you described me tying you up with my DAA-issued tactical belt—”

“CALEB!!” you shriek, smacking his chest as he throws his head back laughing.

You bury your face in his shoulder, absolutely vibrating with secondhand embarrassment, whimpering, “I’m going to die. I’m actually going to die.”

“No, you’re not,” he says, pressing kisses to your hairline, your forehead, your temple, over and over again until your trembling subsides into quiet giggles. His arms are warm and unrelenting around you.

You risk peeking up at him—and freeze.

He’s staring down at you with a look so filled with adoration it physically steals the air from your lungs. His hand cups your jaw so gently it makes your heart ache.

“You’re my life,” Caleb says, voice rough with feeling. “You’ve always been my life. You just didn’t know it yet.”

You blink up at him, stunned, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest.

Slowly, shyly, you rest your forehead against his, your hands sliding up to his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palms.

Caleb exhales shakily, as if the moment is too big even for him.

The smell of burnt food lingers, the sun pours golden light across the kitchen, and you sit there, tangled up in him, the most chaotic, beautiful, utterly yours thing you’ve ever had.

“Guess I’m stuck with you, huh?” you whisper, a teasing glint in your eye.

Caleb’s smile turns crooked, boyish.

“Forever, sweetheart,” he murmurs.

And then he kisses you, slow and deep and soft, like a promise he’s waited a lifetime to keep.

—

Later that night, you're curled up on the couch together, tangled in a heap of limbs and fluffy throw blankets, a low movie playing in the background.

You’re half-dozing, feeling deliciously warm and safe against Caleb’s chest, his heartbeat lulling you into a haze. His hand strokes lazily through your hair, fingertips dragging slow, lazy patterns against your scalp.

You’re just about to slip under completely when—

"Sweetheart?" Caleb’s voice, deceptively casual.

You hum in response, not even bothering to open your eyes.

"What's this? Another letter?"

You tense immediately.

No.

No no no.

Your eyes snap open in horror just in time to see Caleb, that absolute devil, pulling out one of the more battered, worn pieces of paper from somewhere.

You gasp, trying to grab for it, but he holds it way above your head, smirking like the cat who caught the canary.

"Caleb!" you shriek, flailing. "Put it away! You can't—!"

He just laughs and pins you down easily with one hand on your waist, straddling your thighs to trap you in place.

“I think the people deserve to hear this one,” he teases, that wicked glint in his eye. “Specifically, me.”

He clears his throat dramatically while you writhe helplessly beneath him.

"‘It’s not fair,’" Caleb reads aloud, smirking as he drags his gaze down your squirming body. "‘It’s not fair how he fills out his uniform. How his gloves tighten around his fingers. How I can’t stop thinking about what those hands would feel like on my skin. How I dream about him tying my wrists, whispering filthy promises against my neck—’"

"CALEB!!" you wail, smacking your hands against his chest in a feeble attempt to stop him. Your face is boiling hot.

But Caleb, the menace, the absolute menace, just grins wider, loving every second of your humiliation.

"And it goes on," he says gleefully, ignoring your mortified whimper. "‘How I'd let him do anything to me. How I'd beg him to lose control. How much I crave him, every breath, every heartbeat, like I'm dying of thirst in a desert and he's the only water I'll ever want.’"

Your soul tries to physically leave your body.

You slap your hands over your face, wishing for death.

"Please," you moan into your palms, "Caleb, please stop—"

But he just chuckles darkly, leaning down until his nose brushes yours, his voice dropping to a sinful murmur.

“You really should have mailed this one, sweetheart,” he says, eyes smoldering. "Would’ve saved us a lot of time."

You whimper, still hiding your face. He peels your hands away from your burning cheeks gently but firmly, making you meet his gaze.

Caleb’s smile turns unbearably tender as he cradles your flushed face between his palms, thumbs brushing over your cheekbones.

"I memorized every word," he says softly. "Every single one. They're engraved into me now. Just like you."

Your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

You can't look away from him—those devastating sunset eyes drinking you in like you hung the stars.

He dips his head lower, kissing the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent.

“You’re mine,” Caleb murmurs, voice rough with possessiveness and love. “You always were.”

You melt completely, boneless in his hold, helpless against him—as you’ve always been.

"Caleb..." you whisper, voice trembling.

He smiles that slow, infuriating, dangerous smile—and promptly starts tickling you, laughing when you shriek and try to wriggle free, your earlier mortification forgotten in a burst of chaotic laughter and flailing limbs.

You scream his name, half furious, half in love.

Caleb just laughs like it’s the happiest sound in the world.

It’s late.

Not the deep velvet of midnight, but that quiet hour when the world seems suspended in hush. The city hums softly beyond the windows, and the room is awash in the muted amber of a bedside lamp. You're tangled together beneath the sheets—not in passion this time, but in something far more dangerous.

Vulnerability.

Caleb lies on his side, propped up on one elbow, watching you with that look again—the one that's too tender, too knowing. His fingers trail lazily across your arm, like he can’t stop touching you even now. Like he’s making sure you’re still here.

“I should’ve reached out sooner,” he says.

You stay quiet. Not because you're angry. Because you're afraid of what might come next.

“I didn’t date her,” he adds, so casually it nearly slips by.

You blink.

“What?”

“She wasn’t mine,” he says. “Never was. I thought…” He hesitates. “I thought she might be the only person who could understand what I was becoming. The training. The pressure. But it was never romantic. Not even close.”

Your throat feels tight. You shift, pulling the blanket up like armor.

“Then why didn’t you call? Or message? Or—anything, Caleb? You just vanished.”

He exhales, slow and jagged.

“I was afraid,” he admits.

You glance up, surprised.

He stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched. “Not of the missions. Not of the fleet. I was afraid that if I talked to you, really talked to you, I’d drop everything just to be near you. I was already teetering. One video call and I would’ve been done for.”

Your heart twists painfully.

“You idiot,” you whisper. “I would’ve taken you. In any form.”

“I didn’t want you to take less of me.” He looks at you then, eyes bare, voice rough. “I wanted to be worthy of what you wrote in those letters. Of the way you looked at me when we were kids.”

You want to scream. Or cry. Or maybe just bury your face in his chest until the years melt away.

“You were worthy, Caleb. You just… didn’t believe it.”

A silence settles. Not heavy. Just real.

He pulls you closer. One hand cradling your head to his chest, the other tangled in your fingers beneath the sheets. You listen to his heartbeat again.

Stronger now.

Steady.

“For the record,” he murmurs, “when I read the one about the lake—when we were sixteen—I nearly lost it. I remember that night. I didn’t know what to do with the way I felt back then.”

You squeeze his hand. “You pushed me into the water.”

“You screamed my name so loud, half the neighborhood heard.”

You smile despite yourself.

Then softer, quieter:

“I used to dream about that moment, you know? If you ever found the letters. If you ever came back.”

“And now that I have?”

Your smile fades. You tilt your head up and find him waiting. Bare. Present.

“I don’t want dreams anymore,” you whisper.

“Good,” Caleb says, leaning down until his lips barely brush yours. “Because I’m not leaving this time. And I don’t need letters. I have you.”

And when he kisses you, it’s not a claim.

It’s a promise.

The shuttle touches down with a soft hiss, and before the hatch even fully opens, you're hit with the scent of your hometown—familiar, grounding, sweetened by nostalgia. The air is different here. Softer. Like time slows down just enough to let you breathe.

Caleb steps out behind you, his duffel slung lazily over one shoulder. His eyes sweep over the old landing port, the cracked pavement, the overgrown grass curling at the edges of fences long forgotten. He doesn't say anything for a moment.

Then, quietly: “It’s smaller than I remember.”

You huff a laugh. “Because we’re bigger now.”

He looks at you—really looks. “You are.”

There’s a weight to those words you don’t touch yet. Not here. Not now.

The town unfolds before you like a photograph—faded but warm. You walk the familiar streets side by side, shoulders brushing, passing your old school, the corner store where you used to pool pocket change for sweets, the park where you’d play tag until dusk.

“I remember this tree,” Caleb murmurs, stopping beneath the one with the warped trunk. “You used to climb it like a gremlin.”

“You fell out of it once,” you remind him. “Cried for hours.”

He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “And you didn’t leave my side.”

A beat of silence.

“You always stayed,” he says.

You glance at him, the late afternoon sun haloing his profile. “You just didn’t always notice.”

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, his hand brushes yours. Then lingers. Then takes it fully.

You don’t let go.

The path takes you past your childhood home. Your heart kicks up. The windows are still the same. The porch swing still crooked. You half expect to hear your mother calling you in for dinner. Caleb pauses beside you.

“I remember sneaking out through your window,” he says with a crooked grin. “You made me carry that squeaky chair so we wouldn’t get caught.”

“You always stepped on the wrong floorboard anyway,” you mutter. “We always got caught.”

“Worth it,” he murmurs. “Every single time.”

You don’t speak again until you're standing at the edge of the lake—the one you wrote about. The one where you screamed his name across the water. It looks just like it did then.

The sun dips low, painting the surface gold.

You watch the light scatter across the waves, lost in thought.

“I didn’t know you loved me then,” he says, voice quiet. “But I felt it. In every laugh. Every fight. Every stupid dare. I felt it. I just didn’t have the words.”

Your throat tightens.

“I didn’t either,” you say. “So I wrote them instead.”

He turns to you slowly. “No more letters,” he whispers.

Then, gently, reverently, Caleb cups your face.

You close your eyes.

The kiss is soft this time. Not a promise or a possession. Just a memory, coming full circle.

Just two people who finally stopped running.

NOTES: guys I'm so embarrassed, I can't believe I posted the unedited version!!! I didn't like how instead of talking through their issues these two went to bang instead, AHHH this is so embarrassing!!!

[foldingfittedsheets]

Truly, one of the greatest love language is someone agreeing to eat something atrocious for your benefit.

My first experience with this was in college. My friend Charlie invited me to a jazz club. One would think he’d learned his lesson. I thought nothing of this and agreed to a fun night with a guy friend. We arrived and I saw nothing romantic in the outing.

The menu at the club was very traditional date food- steak, oysters, romancey food. But still, I didn’t catch on. This food didn’t sound like what I wanted. In fact, what I wanted was a hummus plate. Charlie took this turn of events with a slight wince but ordered one for us.

The hummus plate arrived. Sitting politely on the corner of the garlic bomb was a spicy pepper. Laughing, I teasingly dared Charlie to eat it. You see, this kind of rough humor was common among buddies. I thought we were in Buddy Rules. But Charlie was operating under Date Rules; eating the pepper would be a romantic test of his bravery.

He bit the pepper.

His skin was almost as pale as mine and he went bright red instantly, tears stood in his eyes as sweat broke out across his whole body in protest. He barely managed to swallow as he began coughing, his body reflexively trying to spew forth the poison in his mouth.

I was doubled over with laughter and didn’t feel bad until a few days later when Brendan informed me it had been a date. I scoffed initially and only slowly realized Charlie had been intending it as a date. I repented the pepper and promptly dated Brendan in self defense.

Charlies act of romantic heroism went unappreciated but the spirit was there.

Many years later when I’d given up on boys I was dating my beloved wife. Together we took a trip to Taiwan. One of the wonderful things about new places is the food. I still dream about the food in Taiwan. Even the humblest train station cream puff was several orders of magnitude better than any I’ve ever had in the states.

But one place we went was like. Italian food as interpreted by Taiwanese cooks. Some of the combos were as bizarre to me as many Italians probably feel American Italian food is. Specifics escape me, but it felt like I was dreaming some of the menu at the time. At the end we decided to get a chocolate fondue, because why not. We were on vacation.

The liquid chocolate was served with all the things one would normally expect, strawberries, sweets, the usual chocolate accompaniments. And then we saw the tomatoes. Tomatoes and chocolate. We all stared at the tomatoes in horrified fascination.

Now, I hate tomatoes. I can stand a tomato sauce but raw tomatoes and I have nothing to talk about. So I knew that if I tried it I’d find it as repugnant as I’ve always found tomatoes. But I was haunted by the idea that someone who actually liked tomatoes would like tomatoes in chocolate.

My beloved loves tomatoes. And chocolate. I turned the biggest puppy dog eyes on them and begged to know if the combination was actually somehow delicious. My wife insisted that it would be heinous. Still, they speared a tomato sacrifice and coated it in chocolate, for me. For me, they ate it.

It was so wretched that their face collapsed into instant regret. But they didn’t spit it out. They knew I got sick if people spit out half chewed food. So they soldiered on and swallowed the cursed chocolate fruit.

Their devotion utterly delighted me, and even years later I adore that they suffered that tomato to reassure me that indeed, it was bad.

[endofthelinegang]

the witchy type

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  thunderbolts x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  in a world frayed by shadows and war, each Thunderbolt finds an anchor in a witch whose magic threads through their wounds, memories, and buried humanity. love blooms quietly—in blood-soaked silence, stolen rooftop sunsets, and the spaces between survival and surrender.

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ none besides bad words

John walker found himself with a Hex-Witch (combat-based, sigil-driven magic; rooted in practical mysticism and battlefield protection)...

At first, John doesn’t trust you. Not because of the “witch” thing—he's seen weirder—but because you're not predictable. You fight with whispers and flicks of your fingers instead of fists, and that unnerves him.

You, in turn, don’t like his aggression. His All-American soldier act rubs you the wrong way—too much ego, not enough awareness of what lies beyond the veil.

But he learns fast. Starts watching the way you carve symbols into the air mid-battle. Notices how you keep him alive without him realizing it—redirecting bullets, hexing weapons to jam.

He's not used to someone fighting with him like that—quiet, efficient, terrifying in ways he can’t define.

Over time, he becomes protective of you in a very "I don’t believe in magic but don’t touch her or I’ll break your jaw" way. You make him a sigil to etch into his armor. He acts like it's dumb. But he wears it.

You hex his nightmares once. Just once. He doesn’t ask again—but he sleeps easier near you.

There’s tension between you two, like gunpowder and lit candles. Controlled... until it isn’t.

John isn’t used to falling for someone like you. You’re unpredictable, untouchable in ways that unsettle his soldier brain—but God, does it keep him up at night.

The first time he realizes he has feelings for you is after a mission. You get hurt—not bad, just bloodied—and instead of patching yourself up, you use the last of your energy to cast a protective sigil over him. He’s stunned. Angry. Confused. In love.

He pretends to hate when you tease him with “witchy” stuff—blowing out candles from across the room, making his gun jam when he mouths off—but deep down? He gets a little soft about it. Thinks it's cute. Will never admit that.

He brings you practical things as gifts: a new combat knife, a fireproof journal for spellcraft, a custom patch to sew onto your gear with a barely-visible warding symbol. He acts like it’s “just tactical,” but the way he watches you smile after? Yeah.

You enchant his dog tags with a small hex of protection. He says it’s pointless. But he never takes them off again.

He’s touch-starved, but doesn’t initiate often. The first time you reach out and thread your fingers through his gloved ones, his entire body goes still. Then soft. Like he forgot what it felt like to be held without being used.

When he kisses you for the first time, it’s after a brutal mission. You’re both scraped up, bloody, alive. He cups your jaw like you’re breakable, like your magic doesn’t terrify him half as much as how badly x~~~he wants to be yours.

He calls you “witch” like it’s a love language—gruff, protective, a little mocking. You hex his coffee in return so it’s always exactly the temperature he likes. Balance.

When he sleeps next to you, your magic quiets. And he does too. For once.

🥀 damn soldier 

The night hangs heavy, thick with fog that clings like a damp cloak, and the air tastes of burnt ozone and scorched metal—a bitter reminder of battles fought just beyond sight. Beneath your fingers, the rough concrete is cold and unforgiving, gritty with dust and flecks of ash you smear into a crude, jagged symbol. Your hands tremble slightly, stained with iron and the raw pulse of magic that hums beneath your skin.

John’s pacing nearby is a stark contrast to your stillness—boots scraping softly against cracked stone, breath shallow, the faint metallic clink of his dog tags whispering in the silence. His voice cuts sharp through the quiet, snapping like a whip. “You done whisperin’ to the dirt yet?”

You don’t meet his gaze. Instead, your eyes stay fixed on the symbol as your lips part in a slow, almost reverent murmur. “Almost. Unless you want to walk into an ambush and leave your bones scattered across the alley.”

He stops, jaw tight enough to see the strain beneath the skin. “I’m not afraid of a couple of mercs.”

“It’s not mercs,” you say, voice dropping, rough and low, the words coated with something older than him—an ancient warning. “It’s what’s riding inside them.”

The space between you shifts. The silence thickens, buzzing with an unspoken weight.

The final stroke of ash is barely a whisper as you finish the symbol, your incantation slipping from your tongue in a language older than any flag John’s ever fought under. For a heartbeat, the symbol burns a searing white-hot glow, then fades into nothingness.

John’s gaze stays locked on you as you rise, fingers brushing ash from your palms like shedding a second skin. “So what now?” His voice is rough, but there’s a hint of awe threading through. “You summon lightning? Melt their faces?”

“No.” Your smirk curves soft and dangerous. “Now, we walk in... and nothing will touch you.”

He finally meets your eyes—really meets them. The storm behind your gaze is fierce, but there’s something else there, something that threads through the tension and settles deep in his chest. “Why me?”

You step closer, the fog curling around your ankles like it knows to give you space. Your voice is softer now, but sharp with truth. “Because you keep stepping in front of me.”

His breath catches—a slow exhale, low and ragged, like he’s been holding it far too long. The rough edges of his voice turn almost tender. “Damn witch.”

You reach out, fingertips ghosting over the curve of his jaw—warm against the cold bite of the night. Your smirk deepens into something softer, a promise buried beneath teasing words. “Damn soldier.”

And for a moment, the fog parts just enough for two impossible people to stand on the same side—waiting to fight, to fall, to maybe… stay.

Yelena Belova finds solace in a Spirit Medium…

Yelena doesn’t flinch when she finds out what you can do. She’s seen too much to fear the dead. But she does flinch when she sees how it’s eating you alive.

You’re not flashy with your power. You listen to voices no one else hears. You light candles that burn cold. You disappear sometimes—drawn into the veil between life and death. She pretends it doesn’t scare her.

She watches you, silently. The way you close your eyes when you feel the grief around you. The way you speak gently to empty air. The way your hands shake after summoning something that didn’t want to be remembered.

You tell her the dead don’t lie. That they’re more honest than the living. She says, “Then I’m surprised you still talk to me.”

She brings you food when you’re drained. Tells you dumb jokes when your eyes go distant. She doesn’t say she cares—but she never lets you drift too far.

One night, you channel someone she lost. You don’t mean to. She doesn’t ask you to. But when it happens, she doesn’t walk away. She just... listens. Tears running down her cheeks silently. You never speak of it again.

She doesn’t believe in soulmates. But she ties a thin red thread around your wrist—“for protection,” she says. You feel the way it hums with her energy. You never take it off.

🥀  too much 

The motel room is dim, shadows pooling in the corners like spilled ink, lit only by the soft, uneven flicker of a single candle perched on the battered nightstand. The wax drips slowly, a quiet rhythm against the stillness. You sit on the edge of the bed, fingers tangled in the worn, threadbare sheets—cool against your skin, rough with age—eyes fixed somewhere far beyond the peeling wallpaper and cracked ceiling, lost in the flickering light.

The scent of stale cigarettes and old coffee lingers faintly, mingling with the faint, earthy smell of sage burning somewhere deeper in the room—your attempt to cleanse the heaviness that clings to your bones.

Yelena leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, her silhouette sharp against the thin strip of hallway light. The leather of her jacket creaks softly with the subtle movement. “You’re listening again,” she says, voice low but steady.

You nod once, not trusting your voice.

“Anyone I know?”

You pause, swallowing the heaviness lodged in your throat. “No. A boy. Eight years old. Doesn’t understand he’s dead.”

Her expression tightens, jaw clenched, but you hear the slight hitch in her breath. “Can you help him?”

“I already did,” you murmur, voice barely above the candle’s sputter. “Just... had to let him tell his story.”

Without waiting for an invitation, she moves across the room, settling beside you on the bed with a quiet sigh. Her warmth presses against your side—steady, real. A balm to the cold edges inside.

“You take on too much,” she says, the words gentle but carrying weight.

“So do you,” you reply, eyes still tracing the dance of shadows on the wall.

A silence falls, thick and heavy, until she breaks it with a soft, tentative question. “What do they say about me? The dead?”

You glance at her, surprise flickering in your chest. “They say... you carry your ghosts well.”

She scoffs, the sound rough but almost tender. “Figures. Even in death, people lie.”

Your fingers reach out instinctively, brushing against hers—the rough calluses of a fighter meeting the softness of vulnerability. “Not to me.”

Yelena exhales—a breath caught between relief and something deeper, shaky but sure. Slowly, deliberately, she laces her fingers through yours, the touch grounding and electric all at once.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she says, eyes cast downward, voice steady. “So if you start slipping into some spooky dead zone, drag me with you. Deal?”

A smile tugs at your lips—soft, genuine. “Deal.”

The candle flickers one last time before settling into a steady glow. Outside, the veil between worlds seems to thin just enough to let the silence breathe. For now.

Bob Reynolds finds himself more than in love with a Threading Witch…

When Bob meets you, he doesn’t understand why the voices in his head go quiet around you. He’s used to fear, to internal war, to the Void clawing at his insides—but you’re like static turned into white noise. Not peace. Just... stillness.

You don’t look at him like the world does. You don’t fear him, even when you should. Especially when his eyes flash gold or his hands shake and he whispers, “I don’t want to break again.”

You tell him you’ve seen worse things than gods. That you’ve rewritten fate in blood. That theuniverse has cracks—and you live inside one.

Bob watches you work a probability hex once—make a bullet curve mid-air, miss him by a centimeter, and ricochet into someone’s gun. He doesn’t breathe for ten full seconds. “That’s not possible,” he says. You smile. “Exactly.”

You know how fragile he is under all that strength. You become his grounding tether. The anchor point in the chaos. The one constant that refuses to break—even when he does.

He once asks you what you see when you look at him. You answer without blinking: “Potential. To save everything. Or destroy it.”

And then, softer: “But I think you’ll choose right. Because you already did when you didn’t kill me.”

He tells you later, “You’re the only variable I can’t predict.” You kiss him like a question. He answers with a storm.

Bob’s a guy who’s seen hell and isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty—emotionally or physically. He’s tough, abrasive, and quick to shoot down softness, but with you, that rough exterior cracks in unexpected moments.

Your threading magic feels foreign to him at first—too delicate, too precise—but he respects it because he can see how it calms you, how it can patch things even when bullets can’t.

When he’s frustrated or angry, you don’t push. Instead, you quietly thread a thin, warm line around his wrist or heart—something only he can feel. It’s subtle, but enough to ground him.

Bob rarely opens up about his past or his pain. But one night, when he’s too wound tight to sleep, you thread his fingers in yours and whisper a charm to untangle the knots inside him. His grip tightens, but he doesn’t pull away.

He’s awkward with affection at first—gruff “here, hold this” moments that slowly evolve into lingering touches and quiet, steady presence.

When you tease him about his bad luck or reckless attitude, he smirks and fires back with a joke—trying to keep things light, but there’s an honest warmth in his eyes.

Bob’s fiercely protective, not just of you but of your magic. If anyone tries to disrespect what you do, he’s ready to fight—no questions asked.

He’s not one for grand declarations, but he shows his feelings by small, consistent actions: offering you the last cookie, silently carrying your bag, or catching your hand when you stumble.

🥀 a star called the sun 

The sky above is too bright. Not metaphorically—literally. The sun’s harsh light bends lazily around Bob in swirling spirals, like the universe itself can’t decide which angle to hit him from. The air hums with warmth and a faint electric charge, the kind that makes your skin tingle just being near him.

You sit cross-legged on the weathered rooftop next to him, the rough concrete pressing cool against your palms. The sweet, tangy scent of pomegranate juices drips from your fingers as you casually pop a seed between your teeth, the crunch sharp and satisfying.

“People don’t usually sit next to me when I’m glowing,” Bob says, voice low and gravelly, eyes fixed on the city sprawled below, avoiding your gaze.

“Most people don’t see what I see,” you reply softly, watching the way the sunlight catches in his unruly hair, setting golden edges ablaze.

He glances at you out of the corner of his eye, skeptical but curious. “Yeah? And what’s that?”

You chew slowly, savoring the burst of tartness. “You’re like a prism. All that power, refracting off a million cracks. It’s not broken. Just... scattered.”

Bob exhales sharply, a short laugh like a gust of wind. “Romantic way to say I’m barely held together.”

You reach out without hesitation, plucking a thread of shimmering magic from the charged air between you—fine, silver, and invisible to anyone else but you. It twists and coils in your fingers like liquid light, a fragile filament of ‘what if’.

“You’re held together,” you murmur, your voice almost a caress as you thread the glowing strand around his wrist like a delicate bracelet. “And now... slightly luckier.”

He stares down at the subtle shimmer wrapped around his skin, a flicker of wonder crossing his face. “What did you just do?”

You grin, eyes bright with mischief and warmth. “Nothing dangerous. Just made sure your shoelace won’t ever untie itself again. Oh, and your next coffee will probably be free.”

Bob blinks, surprised, then lets out an actual laugh—short, sharp, and genuine, like the sound surprises even him. “You’re a menace.”

“Chaos is a lifestyle,” you shrug, leaning back on your hands, feeling the sun’s heat seep into your bones.

He watches you for a long moment, this impossible person who bends reality with just her presence and doesn’t run away from the chaos he carries. Something softens behind his guarded eyes.

“I like you,” he says quietly, voice rough but sincere.

You smile, a secret shared between just the two of you. “I know.”

With a playful flick, you toss him the other half of the pomegranate. He catches it instinctively, golden eyes wide in the fading light.

The sky begins to settle.

And somehow, today, the world doesn’t end.

Ava Starr is more than happy to accept a Temporal Rift Witch into her space…

Ava is startled by you. Not because of your magic, but because you’re never entirely present—or always toopresent. You’ll speak to something two seconds ahead, react before things happen. She doesn’t trust it at first.

You never try to fix her phasing. You don’t offer pity or solutions. Instead, you exist beside her, synced in a way that makes space for her disjointed reality.

The first time she phases and you don’t flinch—just calmly wait—it rattles her. You blink in time with her rhythm. Like you can hear the tick of the clock she’s stuck between.

You call her “constant,” and she nearly snaps at you. “I’m anything but.” But you smile, patient. “You’re still here. That’s constant enough.”

You’re quiet with her. Not silent—but slow. Gentle. She’s used to being weaponized, watched. With you, she’s just Ava. And that’s terrifying. And addictive.

You anchor her. Not physically—but energetically. With whispered words tied to the rhythm of her molecules, and fingers brushing just close enough to remind her she exists.

Eventually, you teach her a trick—a breath pattern, a focus phrase—that lets her phase intentionally for a few seconds longer. She doesn’t thank you out loud. But she sits closer after that. Just a little.

🥀for her 

Ava’s half-phased through a wall when you find her—her shoulder trapped in the crumbling brick, fragments of dust and mortar drifting down like slow-falling ash. Her eyes are squeezed shut tight, lips pressed thin, breath shallow and uneven like the fragile flutter of a dying bird.

You don’t panic.

You kneel across from her, the rough concrete cold beneath your knees, your voice steady and low, a soft anchor in the chaos. “You’re not stuck. You’re drifting.”

She grits her teeth, the tension pulling at the lines of her face. “Can’t pull back. It’s—loud. Everything’s too loud.”

Your fingers move gently through the air, weaving invisible threads of magic—silken strands of moment-to-moment, delicate as spider silk but strong enough to hold a fractured soul. You hum a slow, steady rhythm, a lullaby of time itself. “Then listen to me instead.”

She doesn’t respond at first—but you watch her chest rise and fall, slow and steady, matching the cadence of your hum.

“You’re here,” you say softly. “Now. Not yesterday, not tomorrow. Just now.”

Her jaw tightens. “I don’t know what that means anymore.”

You smile—soft, bittersweet—like a quiet promise in the dark. “That’s okay. I’m keeping time for both of us.”

Your hand inches forward, trembling slightly with hope and intention. Even though she’s barely real in this moment—half a ghost caught between here and elsewhere—she feels the warmth radiating from your skin, the steady pulse of your heart pressed into your touch.

Ava exhales, a breath that seems to carry all her fear and exhaustion. The phasing shudders, flickers like a weak flame caught in the wind—then stops.

She collapses forward, weight finally giving way as she falls into your arms, solid and trembling. Real. Tangible.

You hold her—not tightly, just enough to remind her she’s not alone.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, voice cracked and raw.

“For what?” you ask, voice gentle like a caress.

“For not knowing how to stay.”

You press your cheek softly against her temple, feeling the rapid pulse of her heartbeat slow beneath your touch. “You’re learning. And I have all the time in the world to wait.”

She closes her eyes, sinking into the warmth of your presence. For the first time in years, she believes it.

Bucky Barnes and his Bloodhound Witch…

Bucky doesn’t ask what kind of witch you are. He doesn’t have to. The first time you say his true name—all of it—he feels it. In his bones. Like something old inside him recognizes you.

You don’t touch his metal arm without permission. And when you finally do, it’s not in fear or reverence. It’s to draw a sigil against the cool surface, something simple. Protective. A tether. He asks what it means. You say, “It means you come back.”

He watches you prepare rituals like it’s an artform—mixing herbs with blood, knotting thread, burning names into wax. He doesn’t understand all of it. But he respects it. Deeply.

You both carry guilt like armor. But you treat his gently, never demanding he "let it go." You say, “It’s part of your blood now. But it doesn’t have to rule it.”

The first time he bleeds in front of you, you catch it in your palm and don’t flinch. You whisper a binding—not to hold him, but to protect what’s already his.

He never says “I love you.” Not directly. But he gives you his dog tags. Lets you etch an old protection rune on the inside of his vibranium wristplate. Learns to breathe through your grounding spells when his nightmares get sharp.

And when he finally lets you write his name—James—into a charm of blood and silver, he does it with a nod. Silent permission. Trust deeper than words.

Bucky’s instinct is to protect and to run from pain, but your magic reveals things even he can’t hide—from the blood on his hands to the scars in his soul. He’s wary at first, but slowly he learns to trust your insight.

When he’s haunted by nightmares or memories he can’t shake, you softly trace a circle on his wrist with your fingers, weaving a quiet bloodhound spell to keep the darkness at bay.

His metal arm and your magic feel like two halves of a whole—steel and spirit—combining strength and intuition. When you entwine your fingers, the threads of your magic pulse along his metal like a heartbeat.

Bucky is rough with affection—gruff touches, a hand lingering too long on your back, a quiet hand squeeze when words fail. Your magic threads through those moments, making them more tender, more profound.

You’re the one who finds him when he disappears, tracking his trail through blood scents and spectral whispers. When you pull him back, it’s not just your magic—it’s your quiet, unwavering presence that grounds him.

He’s protective, but he lets his guard down enough to let you “read” him, sharing pieces of his past he’s never told anyone else. Your magic weaves those fragments together, creating a tapestry of healing.

Late nights, he holds you close, your fingers lightly resting over his chest where the metal meets flesh. Your bloodhound magic hums softly, syncing your rhythms, sharing a calm only you two understand.

Sometimes, when the weight of the world gets heavy, you let him lean on you. Not just physically—emotionally, magically. He feels your magic tracing protective sigils along his spine, a shield woven from trust and love.

Bucky may never say it outright, but in the quiet moments when your magic brushes against his skin, when your eyes meet, he’s saying the words his lips won’t: You’re my home.

🥀remember me, remember you

Bucky sits on the edge of your work table, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearm, the metal gleaming softly in the flickering candlelight. Shadows dance across the room, warm and intimate, wrapping around you both like a secret kept from the world. The faint scent of ink and iron hangs in the air, mingling with something more subtle—your own magic, electric and alive beneath your skin.

You stand before him, holding a shallow bowl filled with a thick mixture of ink and blood—a potent blend that carries both vulnerability and power—in one hand. In the other, a slender silver thread catches the candle’s glow, shimmering like liquid starlight.

“You don’t have to do this,” you say quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, but steady.

He meets your gaze without hesitation—those haunted, storm-grey eyes steady and unflinching. “I want to,” he says simply.

You swallow, the weight of the moment settling between you. “Once your name is bound,” you warn softly, “it’s not just protection. It’s memory. It’s weight. A tether to who you were—and who you are.”

His jaw tightens, but he nods. “I’ve carried worse.”

Carefully, reverently, you take the silver thread and dip it into the dark, viscous mixture. The ink coats the metal like a shadow, and you begin weaving, fingers nimble and sure. Each loop and knot hums beneath your touch, weaving layers of magic into the charm. Your lips part slightly as you speak, voice low and melodic—the cadence of your spell coaxing power into the delicate weave.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” you murmur, each syllable rolling off your tongue like silk woven with sorrow, binding his full name into the spell.

The charm vibrates softly, a heartbeat in your hands, pulsing with quiet strength.

Slowly, you lift it and tie the finished charm around his wrist, just beneath the edge of his metal arm. The cool silver contrasts against the warmth of his skin, the thread shimmering faintly as it settles into place.

He watches your hands—steady, reverent, tender—like you’re handling something sacred.

“What does it do?” he asks, voice rough but curious.

“It remembers who you are,” you say softly, looking up to meet his gaze again. “When you forget. When others try to rewrite you.” Your fingers linger for a moment, brushing his skin gently. “It brings you back.”

Bucky’s eyes soften, and for a long beat, he says nothing. Then, slowly, deliberately, he covers your hand with his—flesh over flesh, rough against delicate—holding on as if afraid to let go.

“Thank you,” he breathes, the words rough and heavy with meaning, like it hurts to say, but it means everything.

A warmth blooms in your chest, and you smile—small, sure, full of quiet promise.

“Always.”

The candlelight flickers once more, casting long shadows around you, but for this moment, in this room filled with whispered magic and unspoken trust, everything else falls away.

[aquaholicsanonymousworld]

Dating John Walker/US Agent Headcannon (SFW & NSFW)

Protective to a Fault: John has a massive protective streak. Even when you’re perfectly capable of handling things, he can’t help but step in — whether it’s someone getting too close at a bar or a rude comment online. He doesn’t always know where to draw the line between caring and controlling, which can cause fights.

Acts of Service Love Language: He’s not big on flowery words or grand gestures, but he shows he cares by doing things: fixing things around your place, cooking breakfast after a rough night, driving you everywhere so you "don’t have to deal with idiots on the road."

Rough Edges: John has a hard time opening up emotionally. He bottles things until they explode — which means your relationship can have intense arguments followed by intense makeup sessions. Over time, he slowly learns to actually talk before things blow up.

Jealousy Issues: He tries to play it cool but fails miserably. Even harmless flirting from someone else gets under his skin. It stems from his insecurities — always trying to prove he's good enough, in every area of his life, including love.

Physical Affection: He’s touchy. Always has an arm around your shoulders, hand on the small of your back, kisses the top of your head when you’re sitting together. His affection is grounding — you always know where you stand with him physically, even if his words sometimes fall short.

Takes You Shooting / Training: Big “if you’re with me, you should know how to defend yourself” energy. Dates sometimes look like shooting ranges or sparring sessions. He gets a little too excited seeing you handle a weapon well — both proud and turned on.

Private Softness: In public, he’s stoic, aggressive, military-man Walker. But behind closed doors, he’s surprisingly soft — likes when you lay on his chest while he absentmindedly runs his fingers through your hair. It’s the only time his mind shuts off.

Dog Dad Energy: Would absolutely get a big, intimidating-looking dog (like a Belgian Malinois) but spoil it rotten. You catch him baby-talking to it when he thinks you’re not listening.

Haunted Past: You have to be patient with his guilt and trauma. Some nights, he’s distant or stuck in his head about the things he's done — both as Captain America and U.S. Agent. He needs someone who can pull him back without judgment.

Ride or Die: At the end of the day, John is ferociously loyal. Once you have his trust, he’s all in — no half measures. He might screw up, but he will always come back, always fight for you.

NSFW Headcanons

Rough by Nature: John is intense in bed. He’s naturally rough — grabbing, biting, leaving marks without thinking twice. He likes seeing the aftermath: bruises, scratches, hickeys. It feeds his primal, possessive side. “Mine,” is a word he grits out often, especially when he’s deep inside you.

Possessive Sex: If someone even looks at you the wrong way, you’re getting dragged home and claimed. It’s not sweet; it’s about reminding you (and himself) that you belong to him. Expect him to go harder, rougher, and longer on those nights until you can barely walk.

Loves Control: Big on dominance. He wants to be the one giving orders, pinning you down, controlling when you come (and how many times). Hand on your throat, wrist pinned above your head — all his favorite positions give him leverage and control.

Praise Kink (But Gritty)L John’s praise isn’t flowery — it’s raw and filthy. “Good fucking girl,” “Taking me so well,” “Look at you, drooling for it.” His voice goes low and growly in your ear, and he gets off on seeing you fall apart because of him.

Frustration Equals Aggression: Bad day? You’re getting wrecked. He channels all his pent-up rage and frustration into sex — which can mean being bent over the nearest surface and taken hard and fast until he’s satisfied. But it’s never careless; he watches your limits carefully, even when he’s feral.

Breeding Kink (Canon-Adjacent): Blame the super soldier serum and his need to "leave a mark." He gets feral about finishing inside you. Talk about him knocking you up, and you’ll see him lose his mind — hips snapping harder, groaning about filling you up until it takes.

Hair Pulling & Manhandling: He’s strong, and he uses it. Pulling your hair back to expose your throat, lifting you like you weigh nothing, flipping you into position without effort — it’s part of the turn-on for both of you. Being completely overpowered by him is addictive.

Oral Fixation: Loves having your mouth busy — whether it’s on his cock or just his fingers shoved past your lips while you’re moaning. It’s about control and watching you get desperate while he stays cool and in charge.

Aftercare King (But Doesn’t Admit It): As rough and possessive as he is, John is meticulous about aftercare. Bathing you, rubbing ointment into your bruises, feeding you water and protein after a particularly intense session. He won’t call it “aftercare” — he just grumbles that you need to “take care of yourself.” But it’s his way of showing love.

Tension Turned Passion: Fights often turn into sex. Shouting, shoving, glaring — next thing you know, he’s slamming you against the wall and kissing you like he’s starved. The line between anger and arousal gets real blurry with him.

[a-hound-will-die-for-you]

Pride and Jealousy

Masterlist

Summary: Sandor has serious self-esteem issues, which make him insanely jealous and possessive of anyone who gets close to you. After a huge argument, things between you two go cold as ice; but Sandor’s not ready to let you go. He will fight for you. Even if it means doing the one thing he swore he’d never do. [Reader's POV!] Word count: 5600 Notes: highborn lady f!reader x Sandor Clegane; preestablished relationship; huge argument; jealousy; possessiveness; a bit of rough treatment; Ser Loras is kind to you; you're angry and hurt - but Sandor will fix it. English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes I might make. Constructive feedback is welcomed, I am here to share and learn <3 Dedicated to @mrsrincewind for their incredible art about Sandor <3.

You barely had time to brace your hands against the mattress. Your chin sank into the silk pillow as a rough hand seized your hair, shoving you mercilessly down against the bed.

“Sandor, he didn’t touch me!” you cried, voice muffled by the fine sheets. Above you, the towering form of the King's shield loomed large over your helpless body.

“He laid hands on your waist,” he growled, and his knees sank deep into the mattress on either side of your bare thighs.

“He was taking my measurements!”  You twisted and kicked backward as his free hand pushed your skirts higher. All to no avail, for his arm snaked around your middle and hauled you up so that your knees were left dangling in the air.

The motion only stoked your fury. You tried to drive your heels into him, as if you could hope to harm one of the deadliest men in the Seven Kingdoms, but the dark figure pinned you more firmly to the four-post bed and let out a mocking, cruel laugh.

“Let’s settle this like we always do, woman. By bloody fucking.”

That was your bond with Sandor Clegane.

Raw, primal, and savage. A connection forged not in silk or songs, but in need and flesh. 

In a court full of schemers, Sandor had become your loyal fighting dog. A strong and steadfast ally who, far beyond conventions and traditional forms of courtship, sought pleasure in the shadows of your chamber whenever his duties afforded him a respite. No honeyed words, no pleasantries to soften the edge, what existed between you neither of you had yet named, it simply burned.

But for all that he was fierce and deadly, he was just as damned insecure when it came to you. The man hated himself more than anything else in the world, and that festering self-loathing convinced him that he was unworthy of your attentions. You had lain together more times than you could count, yet every time he walked away from your door, the shadow of the thought that it might have been the last time he held you in his arms, tormented him.

Ironically, that self-contempt never drove him to step back and set you free.

Gods, no.

You were the best thing that had ever happened to him in all his wretched life, and the fear of losing you terrified him more than burning in the fires of the Seven Hells. For all of that, he had become fiercely possessive and aggressively hostile toward any man who dared to come near you.

Of course, you were well aware of it. You had confronted him about it on several occasions, but instead of the situation improving, it had only worsened. And there were many men now with broken ribs and noses, all for nothing more than offering their hand to help you down from a carriage.

That very afternoon, the court’s new tailor had come to your chambers to take your measurements for a new gown. Hours later, word reached you that the poor man had been found beaten in an alleyway. Three molars was he seen to spit out.

It was intolerable.

When Sandor came to your room later that evening, you raised your voice before he even stepped past the threshold. You would not endure another outburst of savage jealousy, no matter if he was the king’s dog.

The argument was fierce. One more among the countless ones you'd already had over the same matter. Gruff and scornful, he did not yield to your shouting, flinging back every reproach with twice the venom. Both of you said things you regretted the moment they left your mouths, and then, in an attempt to end the quarrel and set things right, Sandor resorted to what always worked for you both. He lifted your body mid-sentence, cutting you off in the roughest way and tossing you unceremoniously onto the bed.

You both enjoyed the fantasy of the helpless maiden being forced by a warrior. Every time, Sandor would ravage you with the fury of a charging beast, claiming every inch of you while the intense pleasure drowned your reproaches in gasps and moans.

But tonight, you weren’t having it.

As you kept fighting and begging him to release you, the hand gripping your head released you to shift behind your back. The metallic clinking you knew all too well told you he was unbuckling his belt. You kicked harder, striking his thigh. The attack only earned you another coarse laugh and a harsher grip on your hips.

“That’s it, woman,” came his vicious voice from above, “give me an excuse to get rough.”

Furious and with a fire rising uncontrollably in your chest, you braced your hands on the mattress, screaming and shoving hard to twist beneath him. So much rage must have poured from your throat that the man, startled, eased his weight for you to turn onto your back. You pushed up onto your elbows, and your hand shot upward in a wide arc aimed at his scarred cheek. The man caught your wrist with the swiftness of a wolfhound, stopping you just an inch from his face.

Something shattered between you.

You both were breathing hard from the surge of adrenaline. Your lips parted and trembled. In his eyes burned a storm of fury and endless sorrow in equal measure. He released your wrist roughly and tilted his burned chin upward.

“Go on. Slap me if that’s what you want,” he whispered hoarsely, offering you that terrible, ruined face.

You stared at him with a glacial glare, but the words you spoke next were colder still.

“Get out. If you cannot master yourself… if you cannot set aside your pride over this, then do not come back to me,” you said, heart thundering against your ribs as though the Smith himself were trying to shatter your ribcage from within.

Sandor’s dark eyes dimmed in an instant. He gave you the emptiest, deadest look as he straightened up. The space that opened between your body and his burned like a wound. He didn’t speak another word, only fastened his belt in silence, bowed his head, and turned toward the door with heavy, miserable steps.

The sound of the iron bolt slamming shut made you flinch, though that wasn’t why your hands were shaking.

-*-

An entire sennight passed without either of you speaking again. He didn’t come looking for you. And you spent your days surrounded by your ladies-in-waiting, distracting yourself as best you could with the tasks of daily life - reading, chatting, or embroidering. 

You would lie if you said you didn’t miss him terribly. Every morning, you woke to find your bed empty and cold, and the aching pain in your guts only grew with each passing day. 

Often, when you found yourself in the Great Hall and King Joffrey honored you all with his presence, your eyes would drift toward the space behind the throne. For just a few seconds, they would linger on the threatening shadow that always stood there - alert and vigilant. Yet you would barely catch a glimpse of his worn chestplate before your gaze quickly withdrew, fearing you would meet his eyes. 

Before you even realized, the week had turned to two. The court was immersed in preparations for King Joffrey’s name day. Banquets, royal hunts, tournaments... Everyone spoke eagerly about it, for an event of such caliber was always cause for joy and merriment. 

The ladies whispered among themselves at the imminent arrival of the handsome knights who would ride in the jousts. Most attention was on the Tyrell and Tarly houses, though some lesser houses like the Swyfts, Leffords, and Westerlings also drew interest. Such a display of beauty, wealth, and power left hardly anyone indifferent.

You, however, paid no mind to the ladies' gossip. Nor did you care in the slightest about the upcoming events. Dismissing your ladies-in-waiting, you spent most of your time in solitude, wandering quietly through the blooming gardens around the Red Keep.

Your mind wandered time and time again to Sandor Clegane. You missed his gravelly voice, the scent of metal, earth, and sweat after a day in the training yard. You missed his presence, feared by all, but comforting to you. You couldn’t understand how a man who had told you he was willing to lay down his life for you couldn’t set aside his pride if you asked him. Perhaps there were different kinds of courage? Perhaps you weren’t important enough to him?

Your thoughts caught in your throat as you fiddled with the peas on your silver plate. You didn’t even know why you had come to lunch in the Great Hall that day. Your stomach struggled to accept the food, and the frantic hustle and bustle of the servants, carrying banners of the houses for the next day’s tournament, was irritating. With a long sigh, you placed your ivory-handled fork on the table and made to rise.

A beautiful white rose greeted you as you stood, held by delicate hands that extended it gracefully before your eyes.

"For you, milady, if I may be so bold,” the bearer of the rose spoke. “I saw you admiring the flowers earlier in the gardens, and though none could compare to your beauty, perhaps this one might help soften the sadness in your eyes."

Your gaze focused on the young man. He was lovely as a maid, with a crown of chestnut curls and eyes like molten gold. The knight of flowers, you thought. Of course, the guests had already arrived for the festivities, and you had hardly noticed. He would likely be competing in the joust tomorrow.

“Thank you, Ser,” you said, taking the flower and smiling politely at him. He offered you a radiant smile of his own, full of perfect white teeth.

“Ser Loras Tyrell, at your service, my lady,” he said in a pleasant voice, then gently brought your hand to his lips.

Your smile seemed to please him, as he offered you his arm with an elegant movement that made his cloak flutter.

“It’s a splendid day. Will you walk with me? I promise to be an entertaining companion and keep you safe from... any possible bee stings we may chance upon in the garden."

His boldness, combined with his light sense of humor, made you laugh. It was a discreet laugh, but sincere and spontaneous. You realized then that you hadn’t laughed in a long time. After a brief moment of thought, you concluded that you could use some flattery from this man who seemed more than willing to make you smile and delight your ears.

“Of course,” you answered, taking his arm.

Loras Tyrell kept his promise to be a pleasant and courteous escort. He was everything Sandor Clegane despised. A man who set himself upon a pedestal, the very picture of all the virtues enshrined in the noble code of chivalry. In little more than an hour, he had boasted of his valor and piety more times than you cared to count. 

You had long since ceased to be a girl who believed in such fool’s tales of gallant knights. Sandor had seen to that. And far were you from being the swooning, starry-eyed damsel the famed Knight of the Flowers had taken you for.

But truth be told, you were enjoying yourself, and his knowledge of the different types of flowers that adorned the garden was quite impressive. You were both watching with interest the way the fruits of the trees had ripened, when the childish voice of King Joffrey came from behind you.

“Ah, Ser Loras, I see you are enjoying… the flowers of the court.”

“Your Grace,” you immediately turned and curtsied, lowering your eyes to the floor. The boy was vile and cruel, but for some reason, he seemed to take a liking to you. Who knew for how long.

He prompted you to lift your face. Behind him, his guard dog loomed like an imposing, dangerous black shadow. You didn’t look at him directly, but you felt his eyes first settle on Loras’s arm around yours, then on the white rose you held in your hand. The king’s fingers, laden with gold rings, gently brushed your chin. 

“And what better flower than my lady. Beautifully bloomed, but still not watered.”

“Indeed, Your Majesty,” Ser Loras replied, his caramel-colored eyes gazing at you.

Fortunately, you were an expert in the art of subtlety. But by the gods, it was hard to maintain your composure and not scoff at his words. Out of habit, your eyes searched for a hint of complicity in Sandor’s gaze. He would usually return your glance with a nearly imperceptible twitch or a roll of his eyes. 

But today, your gaze did nothing to change the unreadable face he wore. His eyes were fixed on a point behind you, and his mask of indifference felt like a thousand wasp stings to your already shattered heart.

The conversation between the two men continued, talking about the weather and the joust the following day. After an exchange of compliments, the king made his desire to continue his walk known. Ser Loras made a small bow and secured his arm around yours. You lowered your head as the little Lannister held your hand to kiss it.

The small royal procession resumed its march, and so did the metallic clinking of Sandor’s armor with every step. He stood more than a head taller than your escort as he passed by your side. His white cloak brushed your hip in passing, but his gaze remained fixed ahead, his brow set in a deep frown. On another occasion, he might have slipped a gauntleted hand over your skirt without anyone noticing. Impossible to do so now, with his fist tense and closed around the hilt of his sword.

Your walk with Ser Loras lasted little longer. Your guts were twisted into the world's tightest, ugliest knot, but you could not tell him so. The setting sun on the horizon provided the perfect excuse to retire to your chambers. Even so, he insisted on accompanying you.

Once in your room, your mind spun around the way Sandor had ignored you in the gardens. You collapsed onto the bed, still dressed and with your shoes on, and covered your face with your hands. 

Was it over? Was this how your encounters would end? 

You were angry with him for being unable to contain his possessive impulses. What were these terrible jealousies born of? Hadn't you shown him, time and time again, by dishonoring your name and risking your reputation, that you had no affections for anyone else? 

Affections, you thought. When had he ever shown you affection? Desire, yes. Lust and passion, too. But affection? Your body shuddered at the thought. It was true that The Hound was not a man of sweet words. But still, you longed for him to verbally express his feelings for you.

If he had any. 

Nothing would please you more than to hear from his lips what every lady dreamed of hearing from her chosen knight. A bitter and sad laugh escaped your chest. You were ashamed of longing for those words, but most of all, you knew he would never utter them in his life.

Your eyes wandered across your room until they landed on the upper frame of the door. You remembered your first kiss. The way you had stood on your toes in the hallway, tugging at his gorget to pull him down to you. He had pressed his lips to yours with inexperienced fervor as you stumbled blindly into your chambers, so enthralled that he forgot to duck upon entering and struck his forehead against the frame.

That night, you had been equals. 

For you, it was the first time you had a man between your thighs, his body starving for warmth as it entered yours, pressing into your maidenhead with a wildness you had never known before.

And for him? It was the first time he kissed, and was kissed in return. The first time he held a woman in his arms, chests bumping against one another as you looked him in the eyes - unafraid, and with no coin to be counted afterward.

Uncontrollable sobs shook your chest. You pulled your knees up to your chest, hugging them tightly in search of some comfort.

It never came. You slept poorly, on a pillow soaked with bitter, hot tears.

-*-

The next morning, the sound of hurried footsteps interrupted the little sleep you had managed to grasp. Heavy curtains were drawn apart, and the sudden, bothersome light that poured through the window fell cruelly upon your reddened eyelids.

“My lady, we must make haste. In less than two hours you are expected in the stands,” urged the sharp yet pleasant voice of your handmaid.

You let out a groan most unbefitting of a lady as the woman helped you sit up in bed. Without saying a word about why you had passed the night fully clothed, she unlaced your shoes and prompted another maid to bring a porcelain basin filled with cold water. At the far end of your chamber, two girls pulled your new dress from the wardrobe and brushed it with haste.

“My lady, your face looks weary. Are you unwell?” the same woman asked, frowning as she patted your cheeks with a damp cloth.

You shook your head, though you should have said yes, had you remembered your duties for the day.

“Thank the gods,” she added as she refreshed your neck and shoulders. “It would be a shame if you could not attend the tourney.” 

Your eyes widened at once. 

The tourney.

“Oh no.” You stared at her with round, tearful eyes. “No... I don’t want to go…” 

"You must go, my lady," she said, helping you to your feet. "The king expects you in the noble stands. The entire royal family is counting on your presence… and the lords." 

A short gasp escaped your lips as she stripped you down, leaving you as bare as on your name day. Behind you, the other girls whispered to one another about how handsome the knights might be. You cared for none of it. All you wanted was to return to your bed and weep.

While you put on fresh smallclothes, your handmaid held up two dresses, one in each hand. You shook your head, refusing to cooperate, but before you realized it, she had tossed them both on the bed and was pulling a tight corset over your head. You grasped one of the bedposts and let her lace the strings, too exhausted to protest.

“My lady, many knights will look at you today…” she tried to lift your spirits as she cinched the garment around your waist.

You exhaled, dry and mocking. You had not the slightest interest in any knight watching you. The maid mistook your contempt for mere doubt, and as she chose the more elegant of the two dresses you had dismissed, she went on, hopeful. 

“Perhaps one of them might even fight for you.”

You barely heard her. Your arms and legs had gone weak as the beautiful velvet gown slipped over your skin. 

Once fully clothed, you let your weight fall onto the chair before your vanity. Someone had left a silver tray with grapes and a honey-scented tea on it. As your handmaid undid the messy braid from the day before, you picked a grape and bit into it. Its juice burst across your tongue, far too sweet for the sadness that lingered within you. When the maid finished a hairstyle that highlighted your beauty and grace, she leaned slightly toward you and smiled at you through the mirror.

"The whole court is talking about how Ser Loras Tyrell was enchanted by you while you walked the gardens yesterday."

You sighed. The memory of your garden stroll brought with it a far more bitter one. Sandor Clegane, standing behind the king and ignoring you. The woman must have mistaken again your frailty for love’s weakness, for she carried on.

“He is a handsome man. All the ladies of the court envy you.”

“They’ve nothing to envy,” you said in a somber tone. The last thing you needed was all the women of the court against you.

Your handmaid smiled again, then held up a lovely pearl necklace between her fingers as she looked at you through the mirror. You shook your head, and she frowned when she saw you reach for a simple silk ribbon instead, tying it around your neck as an ornament. It was not the choice she would have made for such a dress, but given your mood, she let it be.

“You look radiant," she said in a last attempt to draw a smile from you. "They say Ser Loras always rides with a white rose tied to his lance. I’m certain he’ll ask for your favor and offer it to you.”

Her effort failed, for you froze.

Gods help you if the man were foolish enough to do such a thing.

-*-

No matter how quickly your maids worked, you were among the last ladies to arrive at the festivities. The master of ceremonies had already begun announcing the tournament. The knights who would face each other had been called, and their titles declared.

The noble stands teemed with color and silk, each house proud in its finery. Ladies whispered behind lace fans while their lords murmured wagers on the tilt below. It was crowded with spectators from all corners of the realm, and the seat you usually occupied had already been taken by another lady. As soon as she saw you, she rose and offered you your chair, but you motioned for her to stay, taking a seat lower down with a poorer view. 

More discreet, you thought. Much better.

Once settled, your gaze drifted to the royal stand, where the king and queen offered you a slight nod of acknowledgment. You did the same, with an elegant but brief curtsy. 

It did not escape your notice that Sandor Clegane was not behind the lions. Instead, two members of the Kingsguard stood on either side of the king. You found it odd that, on such an important and crowded day, the royal family had dispensed with their dog’s services. The king had many enemies, and many of them were fool enough to try to harm him even in broad daylight.

Then your gaze swept over the muddy jousting field. The earth had been compressed, but the rain had left the ground soft and unstable, unfavorable for heavier horses. Squires and stableboys ran from side to side adjusting saddles, sharpening lances, or preparing ornate armors. 

You leaned back in your seat with disinterest. The rasping, scornful voice of the Hound could almost be heard in your head, mocking the false fanfare of the knights and the fevered glances the perfumed ladies cast upon them. The man had infected you with his distaste for such a circus, though the little girl inside you still sometimes dreamed of romance.

Only sometimes, and always in embarrassment, for he was right. They were cunts, the lot of them, with coin and nothing better to do.

With little enthusiasm, you watched as several knights took the field. The stands roared with fervor when Ser Jaime Lannister unhorsed Lord Bryce Caron in a single tilt. You merely sighed under your breath and offered a brief, courteous clap. Then came Ser Balon Swann, Lord Renly, and Lord Beric Dondarrion, all of them as effective and victorious as they were boring to you.

The entrance of an elegant, grey mare, led by a young squire, confirmed that the next participant would be the Knight of the Flowers. The ladies in the stands gasped, and a great ovation arose from the spectators as Loras Tyrell, in his silver armor adorned with sapphires and black vines, appeared before the crowd. A white rose was indeed tied to his lance. You immediately lowered your eyes.

By the Seven, may he not see me and approach. 

Your eyes were still fixed on the ground when you heard a familiar neigh and the sound of heavy horse hooves sinking into the mud.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

Stranger. 

The applause of the stands dwindled, and you immediately raised your head to look at Sandor Clegane, guiding his enormous, ill-tempered stallion across the tiltyard.

“Do not worry, my lady,” said a nearby lord. “Ser Loras is skilled with a lance and will defend himself.”

You barely heard him, so focused you were on the black steed and its rider. He wore the same battered, blackened armor as always. Unlike his opponent, he did not look at the crowd. His gaze was fixed on his nervous mount, which whinnied and resisted. 

You looked at the horse with a tightness in your chest. You knew him well. When you crossed paths with Sandor in the stables, the sullen animal would nudge you gently with its muzzle. Sandor often jested about this, reprimanding him for stealing all your attention. The black destrier was as strong and stubborn as they came, and the jousts made him nervous. That was why Sandor rarely participated in them. And that was why he was patting the beast affectionately as they were met with boos and jeers from the stands. 

Your blood boiled in your veins. Normally, no one would dare boo Sandor Clegane. But in tournaments, there were always favorites, and the anonymity of the stands gave rise to such things. In any case, as much as it enraged you, Sandor was used to not having the favor of the crowd. And he couldn’t give less of a damn.

Once he managed to calm Stranger down, he placed his dreadful, dog’s helmet on, put a foot in the stirrup, and mounted upon the warhorse in search of a lance. Meanwhile, Ser Loras Tyrell was helped into the saddle by his squire, more concerned with the mud staining his gleaming armor. Then, the Knight of Flowers spurred his mare into a slow trot, and wherever he rode, was met with applause.

From the other side, the Hound had already chosen any available lance to compete and was rotating his right shoulder to warm up. He then leaned forward in his saddle, whispered something to the horse and tightened the reins to urge it into a gallop across the tiltyard. 

“Whoa!” he bellowed, and the horse’s hooves sank into the mud as its rider brought it to a halt before the noble stands. The ladies gasped and squealed. The lords hissed. You watched the scene with wide eyes, unable to understand.

Sandor Clegane seemed confused. He looked this way and that at the crowd, angrily raising the visor of his helmet to get a better view. The horse, sensing its rider’s confusion, snorted nervously. Sandor yanked the reins to one side and urged the animal forward a few paces along the stands, his eyes still fixed on the crowd. Some women looked away as he passed directly before them, but he kept searching.

Searching.

Then you understood. He was looking for the place where you always sat. The spot that, due to your tardiness, was now occupied by another lady. 

In an almost involuntary act of compassion, you leaned forward and rested your arms on the wooden railing, making yourself stand out in the crowd. And just then, Sandor Clegane’s dark eyes fixed on you.

“Hyah!” he bellowed, and Stranger seemed to recognize you as well, for it trotted cheerfully up to stand right in front of you. 

The women around you held their breath as Sandor’s gloved hand reached for his helmet and yanked it upward, freeing himself from it before you. You felt your blood pulse strongly through your veins. The entire crowd fell silent as the man gazed at you wordlessly, with a seriousness that surpassed his usual sullen expression. His black eyes were locked onto yours like two dark prayers. Still, you could see the devotion behind the darkness. A devotion he had never failed to hold since the first time moment your paths crossed.

“Hey, dog!” you heard the impatient voice of the king shout from the royal stand, “your place is on the other side!”

At this, some in the crowd laughed. Yet Sandor did not avert his gaze from you, nor did you from him. Stranger took a step forward without any command from its rider, and in that moment, the man raised his voice, speaking before the entire kingdom the words he never thought he would say in all his miserable life.

“I ask for the lady’s favor!”

The crowd fell silent once more. The request was more a roar than a spoken plea, likely an attempt to impose his will over his own embarrassment. Your bewilderment kept your body from reacting, not even a breath of air entered your lungs.

Sandor’s deep eyes stared at you with intensity, waiting for your answer. His face was serious, but the unscarred side of his face betrayed a sadness. The soft chuckles returned to the stands, and you realized that your inaction was making a fool of him.

You snapped back to yourself. With a force that nearly made you jump from your seat, you stood up and said in the loudest, clearest voice you could muster.

“You have it, Sandor Clegane. May honor and victory ride with your lance.”

The last words came out somewhat hoarsely. No knight had ever asked for your favor, and you’d never rehearsed the scene. You didn’t know if your words had been the right ones, but what mattered was showing your support to him. And the way the harsh lines of his face softened made you think you had done it right.

Your lips trembled with emotion before curling into a beautiful smile. His eyes lit up at that, and the unburned corner of his mouth twitched upward into the grimace he often made when he saw something that pleased him. 

You thought that with that exchange, the man would turn Stranger and the tournament would begin. But he didn’t move. He stayed rooted in the sand, staring at you. Around you, whispers began to rise again in the stands. You looked at the people, confused, and Sandor’s voice made you focus your eyes back on him.

“The token, my lady…” he said softly, his brow quirked with slight amusement.

Oh! How could you be so foolish! You had to give him something! Stricken with the nervousness of feeling all eyes on you, your mind seemed too clouded to think clearly. 

You weren’t wearing jewelry, nor a veil. You weren’t wearing gloves, nor had you made a flower crown... Your hands fumbled clumsily over the sleeves of your dress, searching for a handkerchief, but finding nothing. Then they climbed up to your neck and, trembling, untied the simple silk ribbon you had chosen that morning. 

Sandor removed his leather glove and raised his hand to meet yours as you held onto the railing. Were it not dulled by blows, his spaulder might have nearly gleamed with the movement. He closed his hand around yours, and his thick thumb briefly caressed your knuckles. Your heart seemed to leap out of your mouth. The roughness of his hand felt incredibly sweet against your skin after so many days without his touch. The gesture was inappropriately intimate for such a moment, and even the horse seemed to notice, for from the royal stand they watched the animal wag its tail and bring its rider even closer to you.

“Dog!” the king called out with a mocking tone, “Your beast seems to be in love with the lady!”

Sandor grunted, making himself heard over the laughter that echoed through the stands.

“Aye!” He growled, then you heard his voice again, a rough whisper meant for your ears alone. “He loves her. Deeply… and more than his own damn pride.”

The warmth that spilled far beyond your chest made your heart swell, and you laughed, breathless and lowering your head to hide the flush that bloomed across your cheeks. In his eyes burned a desperate question he could not bring himself to ask, but the glimmer in your eyes when you looked up again, put an end to his torment. 

Reconciliation. 

You were granting him leave to come to you that night. 

Sandor drew his hand away from yours and carefully tucked the ribbon into a slit of his vambrace. Then, he dipped his head to you, and after you nodded, kicked his horse into a gallop to take his place upon the tiltyard.

-*-

Ser Loras proved to be a swift and skilled opponent on horseback, but Sandor Clegane won the tournament that day. 

How could he not, with you by his side? 

But that night, amidst tears and caresses and embraces in your chamber, he won something far more important than applause or a purse of coins. For as he made a commitment of restraint, he earned your forgiveness and your trust. He earned the delight of your smile, and the warmth of your laughter. And kissing you almost as a knight of old would, he earned the beats of your heart, sealing his bond to you with a promise of loyalty and eternal love.

...............

Thanks for reading! <3

What do you think? A comment would give me life, and encourage me to write more :)

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

"not a threat"

one-shot

Pairing: Soldier Boy/Ben x Fem!Reader

Summary: He's warned you about it before. Told you not to tease him. And you just had to run your mouth—had to bring up the way he cuddled you last night, the way he whispered sweet nothings, rubbed your back like you were made of spun glass. And now you’re here.

Warnings: 18+!, language, Ben being a goddamn bully, smut (p in v, fingering, clitoral stimulation, overstim, dirty talk, mocking), I may have missed some.

Word Count: 1,214

A/N: This was born because of this ask. I quite often find myself daydreaming about Ben (and, let's be real, all Jackles characters... oops) being mean in bed in their own ways. It's my kryptonite. Hope y'all like it. <3 All the love.

He fucks like he’s fighting something.

You’ve learned that about him.

There’s nothing pretty about it—at least not at first. It’s teeth and hands and gritted snarls into the crook of your neck. Calloused fingers gripping your hips so hard you know you’ll bruise, the slap of skin against skin echoing like a gunshot through the room. He mutters filth into your ear the whole time—voice rough, breath ragged—words like “mine,” and “take it,” and “don’t you fuckin’ run.”

And you don’t.

You never do.

You take all of it—his weight, his need, the sheer force of him—because you know what comes after.

Because Ben may fuck mean, but he loves soft. Quiet. Reverent.

So when your muscles are trembling and your legs are too spent to move, when your body feels like a battleground and he’s buried deep inside you, moaning against your skin like you’re the only thing keeping him alive—that’s when he shifts.

That’s when he holds you.

He pulls out slow, panting, worn down to nothing. Presses one last kiss to your shoulder like an apology. Rolls over and brings you with him, dragging you to his chest with those huge, bruising arms that suddenly feel like heaven.

You end up curled against him like a lullaby.

And just when your eyes start to flutter closed, your back still raw and humming from the way he pressed you into the mattress, you feel it:

His palm. Warm. Broad. Sliding gently up and down your spine. Slow. Soothing. Like a lull in a storm. Like he’s making sure your heartbeat stays steady beneath his touch.

“Didn’t mean to go so rough,” he mutters into your hair.

You hum. “Yes, you did.”

“…Yeah,” he admits, voice hoarse. “You fuckin’ liked it.”

You nuzzle deeper into his chest. “I like this too.”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just keeps rubbing your back. Tracing lazy circles with his thumb. His lips brush the top of your head. His hand tugs the blanket up around your bare shoulders like you’re something delicate.

“Go to sleep, doll,” he whispers. “I got ya.”

He really does. Always has.

And you wake up sore.

Not the need-an-ice-pack kind of sore, but the fuck-me-that-was-good kind—the kind that lingers in the backs of your thighs and the arch of your spine, reminding you with every little shift of exactly what he did to you.

Ben’s already up. Of course he is. Shirtless, smug, leaning against the kitchen counter in nothing but boxers and his dog tags, sipping coffee like he didn’t rail you into another dimension last night and then hold you like something breakable.

He glances over when you shuffle in, limping a little, wrapped in one of his t-shirts.

Smirk. Instant. Sinister.

“Well look who survived,” he says, voice thick with satisfaction. “Didn’t think you’d be able to walk.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re already smiling. “You act like you’re proud of that.”

He shrugs, sips his coffee. “I am.”

You pad past him, fingers brushing his back on your way to the sink. “Mm. Bold words for a man who spent the rest of the night rubbing my back and whispering sweet nothings into my hair.”

The mug clinks on the counter.

You don’t even have time to blink. He’s on you. Big hands grabbing your hips, spinning you to face him, lifting you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. You yelp, giggling, but the sound dies when his hand slides up your thigh under the hem of the shirt.

“Oh, you wanna fuckin’ tease me?” He growls, voice already thickening with heat. “That what this is?”

You bite your lip. “I just think it’s cute. Mr. Tough Guy playing little spoon—”

His fingers slide through your folds, and fuck, you’re soaked. He grins—wolfish. “Christ. You’re already this wet?”

“You—Ben—”

“From just a little teasing?” He taps your clit, firm. “Or were you hopin’ I’d bully this pretty pussy again?”

You whimper. It’s humiliating.

Which he loves.

“Oh, you like this,” he mutters, two fingers sinking into you without warning. “Givin’ me lip just so I’ll ruin you again. That it?”

You try to shake your head, try to breathe, but his fingers fuck into you slow and deep—then fast, then slow again—keeping you off balance. His free hand wraps around your throat, not tight, just there, grounding you.

“You were talkin’ so much shit a second ago,” he growls. “Where’d that attitude go, sweetheart?”

“B-Ben—please—”

He chuckles, mean and low. “Please what? Say it.”

“Need to come,” you gasp, legs twitching as he presses just right.

“Already?” He tsks. “Fuckin’ pathetic. Not even been up ten minutes.”

But he doesn’t stop.

He's warned you about it before. Told you not to tease him. And you just had to run your mouth—had to bring up the way he cuddled you last night, the way he whispered sweet nothings, rubbed your back like you were made of spun glass.

And now you’re here. Still on the counter. Legs spread. Eyes glassy. A complete fucking mess.

Ben’s got two fingers stuffed so deep inside you, he can feel every flutter of your cunt as you clench and stutter around him. He’s relentless—fucking you with slow, grinding pressure one second, then brutal, fast thrusts the next. Playing your body like it’s just another weapon he knows how to dismantle.

You’re sobbing.

He hasn’t stopped in almost twenty minutes.

“Oh, look at you,” he sneers, grinning down at your flushed, wrecked face. “All that shit you were talkin'—gone the second I spread your legs. Dumb little cunt, huh?”

Your hips jerk, thighs trembling as your next orgasm tears through you, loud and raw and shameful. But he still doesn’t stop. Not even close.

He slaps your pussy, sharp and wet, just to hear you squeal.

“Fuckin’ twitchin’ already? Jesus, sweetheart. What, are you broken now?”

You try to pull away, breath hitching, but he grabs your thigh—forces it back open.

“Nuh uh,” he growls, teeth bared. “You wanted to act smart, now you’re gonna take it.”

His palm presses down hard on your lower belly, forcing his fingers even deeper.

“You got this dumb little smile last night, all smug when I kissed your forehead—like you had somethin’ on me.” He huffs a cruel laugh. “But now look at you. Drippin’ down my fuckin’ hand. You can barely breathe.”

You whimper, tears streaming down your cheeks. It’s too much. He’s too much. Your body can’t decide if it wants to cry or come again.

“Aw, sweetheart,” he coos, faux-sweet and condescending, “gonna come again? Just from my fingers? That’s all it takes now?”

His fingers crook just right. You scream.

“Goddamn, you’re easy.”

Your orgasm hits like a freight train—violent, messy, completely out of your control. Your body arches, thighs snapping around his wrist, sobs catching in your throat as your vision goes white.

Ben watches with a smug little smirk, eyes locked on your ruined, tearstreaked face.

“Thought you were so fuckin’ clever,” he murmurs, voice dipped in gravel. “Mockin’ me. Teasin’. But this?” He leans close, fingers finally—finally—slipping out of your spent, twitching cunt. “This is what happens when you forget who’s in charge.”

Then he kisses you.

Gentle. Soft. A single press of his lips to yours, like last night’s version of him is still there, hiding under all the bravado, before he pulls back, eyes sharp again.

“Don’t fuckin’ tease me for bein’ nice,” he murmurs against your mouth, breath hot. “Or I’ll bully this pussy ’til you can’t walk for real.”

You hum, dazed and aching, head falling to his shoulder.

“That’s not as much of a threat as you think it is, Ben.”

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah. @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @imtheworst123 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @ohgodimgoungtodie @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl @blossomingorchids @sacr1ficialang3l <3

[dmitriene]

lowhonor arthur and his pretty girlfrienddd <3

cw: lowhonor arthur, implied sexist language but not from him, description of minor wounds.

arthur morgan and pretty things go apart from each other, there's nothing pretty about him as a man, there's nothing pretty that could be attached to him or either his side, but there's you, he sees you as a flower, something so delicate and fragile that it can crumble into particles blown away by the wind just from the single brushing touch of his rough, dirty fingers, something that he cannot afford to do, to stain, even if not on purpose, even if you yourself reach out, neat, dainty hands are stretched out to him.

he sees you as those landscapes sketched in his diary with a fragile pencil graphite that breaks and smears over thin paper, each of them alive like you, bright to the point that sunbathes his so often cold gaze, softening with your warmth of the sinking sun, waving grass, soothingly singing birds, you are like all that living things that he considers wonderful to himself, each new day in which a dog of a man like him is alive is nothing more than luck, and the sight of your radiant smile directed at him is one of the wonders of this exact world.

people around you are cruel, maybe because of a difficult time, maybe because they were born that way, but they allow to take out their cruelty and the pettiness of their own soul on you, reproach you for something that is a reason for arthur to worship you, your feminine principle, your tenderness, sensitivity to the living and the dead, the good and the cruel, to give gratuitous smiles and help, to get a spit in the feet that you do not understand anything, because you are a woman born to be silent, to serve.

arthur comes to you with blood on his bare, calloused hands and tightly pursed, pale lips, one from cruelly given blows, the other from the received attempt to repay him his own violence, but he will never return to you as a loser, so when he sits down next to you, it is for you to patch up the visible damage from the defense of your honor on his broken, raw bleeding knuckles, the flesh sensitive, torn, but he doesn't even twitch at the touch of your own hands and the burning sting of alcohol, his gaze is like tobacco gum, riveted to your face, the blue pooling to green in those kaleidoscopic eyes simmer with devotion.

you engender an animal fear in him, the fear of never returning, of not waking up to your exposed, limp body pressed against the hard curve of his larger, muscular one, not to feel the gentle, almost tickling warmth of your passion bruised skin beneath his scarred fingertips, your bright smiles, to which even the rising morning sun smiles, those careful, playful kisses lingering lingering over the rough skin of his unshaven face, the rasp of his stubble practically burns, but you only giggle, pressing closer with your body and fidgeting nose, loose limbs tangling in one.

arthur knows his way to you by the subtle smell, he will come back blind, wounded, near death, but he will never allow himself to leave you alone, you can learn from him sharp words, self defense, an escape plan if something suddenly goes wrong, but he will still not let you face any situation where you'd need such knowledge, he'll fight and growl and hide you behind him until he can't anymore, and even so, he will hide you in his palms like the dearest bird to his heart.

more intoxicating than any cheap, disgusting booze, and even expensive, seasoned, sweeter than wild berries freshly grown on the bushes, enchanting with the mere sound of his name falling from your parted, bitten lips in a drawn, almost gasping breath, with your fingers pressing, instead of scratching, into the fair skin and moving muscles on his broad, arching back, with your face warm, eyes closed under the weight of drooping eyelids, nuzzling into the crook of his burning neck, breathing in his scent with a moan.

even if the stars begin to fade and rain down in a hail of precisely cutting bullets, nothing will take you from arthur, he will not allow.

main masterlist. quidelines.

[y3sterdaysproblem]

in my head - m.s.

part two of avery’s playlist series

pairing: reader x matt sturniolo

cw: alcohol, smut (unprotected sex, f!receiving oral, fingering), explicit language

wc: 6k

in my head, i see you all over me

in my head, you fulfill my fantasy

It was like a sixth sense, really, the way you could feel when anybody was staring at you when you weren’t looking. It was something you’d always had a feeling for since you were young, like any time a pair of eyes landed on you, you could feel it burning into your skin.

It was also something you had learned to ignore when you were around your friends, always feeling a constant stare when your head was turned, blue eyes unable to tear themselves away from your frame. You were used to it at this point, the way he looked over at you any chance he got. You were also used to him refusing to admit that he was looking at you, no matter how many times you caught him staring, he’d always deny it, say he was just spaced out or looking past you. You never believed him.

Today was no different, even in the crowded house with music blaring and your mind fuzzy from the alcohol you’d consumed, you could still feel Matt staring at you from where he was leaned against the wall, a fruity seltzer held in his hand as he peered your way. The two of you have been friends for years, but lately it felt like you’ve drifted apart due to how weird he’s gotten around you, and now when you came over, you mostly just talked to his brothers, Nick and Chris, since Matt had always excused himself after you caught him staring.

Matt was always a little bit odd, but he’d gotten more so over the last few months, and you’d gotten sick of trying to reel him back in, finally just deciding to let him pull away from the friendship if that’s what he really wanted.

Alcohol had always made you a little bit bolder, though, and today was no exception, so when you caught Matt’s eye across the room and he actually held your gaze, you couldn’t help yourself from marching over until you were right in front of him, your eyes determined as you approached him. He kept his eyes locked on you, an almost amused smirk playing on his lips at your attempt to be serious.

“Matt,” you start sternly, crossing your arms once you’re in front of him. He’s thoroughly enjoying the way you try to act bigger than you are, though he can tell by the glazed over look in your eyes that it wasn’t raw confidence that had you running up on him, but more of a liquid courage influence. He didn’t mind, in fact, he thought it was amusing. He stays silent, only raising his eyebrows as he peers at you over his can, waiting for you to continue. “We need to talk.”

Matt finishes his drink and sets it down on a nearby table before crossing his arms to match your stance, chest puffing out as his eyes narrowed. “About what?” He inquires, head tilting like a dog.

You weren’t deterred by his attempts to be dominating, though. “About your fucking staring problem.”

He raises an eyebrow like he’s at a complete loss. “What staring problem?”

“Are you kidding?” You laugh, dropping your arms to your sides in disbelief. “You think I don’t see you staring at me all the time? I can feel your eyes burning a hole in the back of my head!”

Matt is fully smirking at you now, his expression teasing. “I never stare at you. I look at you sometimes, like now when you’re talking, but I’m never staring at you.”

The distinct presence of alcohol makes your eyes feel heavy and your brain moves slower, only able to process his words a few seconds after he said them, but you refused to be gaslit into thinking that you were wrong, that you didn’t see what you know you saw.

“Don’t lie to me,” you say loudly, reaching up to point a finger in his face. “You can’t take advantage of me just because I’m drunk.”

The next words that he said are what really throw you off guard, to the point where you almost blamed the alcohol for it, and if you were even one drink further into your night you would’ve, but your comprehension levels were still sharp enough to catch the weight of his words as he leans in close to your ear.

“If I wanted to take advantage of you while you were drunk, lying isn’t the way I’d do it.”

It felt like the ground beneath you had shifted, like an unspoken boundary had been crossed and you had no idea how to react to it. Except your mouth moved faster than your brain, and you spoke before you could even think to stop yourself.

“What?!” You shriek, narrowing your eyes at the boy in front of you. “What on earth is that supposed to mean?!”

Matt rolls his eyes at your volume before he swiftly forces your body in the other direction with his hands and swings an arm over your shoulder. “It means we need to get some water in you.”

You’re offended at his suggestion, scoffing loudly as he led you into the kitchen, keeping a strong grip on you. “I am not that drunk, Matt. Could pass a sobriety test with ease.”

“You’re drunk enough to get confrontational, that’s how I know you need to slow down,” Matt retorts, grabbing an unopened water bottle from the counter and handing it to you.

You want to refuse, to shake your head and push his hand away, but when you turn your head to look up at him, the room spins a little bit, and you know it’s probably for the better that you have some water. Once you do grab it from his hands, you drank almost half of the bottle in one go before handing it back to Matt, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “There, happy now?” You sass.

Matt sets the bottle down on the counter, his other arm still swung over your shoulders. “Sure, now go dance with Nick or something,” he comments, nodding his head in his brother’s direction.

Your confrontational behavior hasn’t dissipated, though, in fact it only feels spurred on by the way Matt is staring down at you, like it’s funny the way you tried to talk to him, like he thinks your attempts at calling him out are adorable. It’s not adorable, you’re serious, and the fact that he doesn’t think you are has you heating up all over again.

In a quick motion, you grab his hand from your shoulder and start walking away, your grip on him tight as you drag him through the crowds of people and into his room. With all the strength you can muster, you pull him in through the doorway and push him in front of you, slamming the door after you’re both in the room.

“I am done dealing with you staring at me all the time and acting like you’re not!” You snap loudly at him, arms crossing over your chest once again. “I may be drunk and confrontational, but you’re drunk, too, so let’s just get this conversation over with so we can go back to being like we were before.”

Matt rolls his eyes at you, huffing like a child. “I’m not as drunk as you,” is all he says.

“Oh, please, like you weren’t just leaning up against the wall out there, or using your arm around me to keep your balance.” You point a finger at him accusatorially. “You’re leaning on your desk right now!”

“Yeah, because my ankle hurts,” Matt shrugged it off, but the way his eyes closed as he spoke made it all the more obvious what the truth was.

By the time his eyes reopen, you’ve marched over to him, your bodies only a couple feet apart now. “Enough. Stop fucking staring all the time or tell me why you do it.” You demand.

He’s getting frustrated again, and you can see it in the way he sucks in a deep breath, like he’s trying to stop himself from getting angry, or maybe he’s trying to stop himself from telling you the truth, trying to fight against the alcohol swimming through his bloodstream. He’s close to cracking, and all you need to do is push a little harder.

“Did I do something to make you mad? You barely talk to me anymore, and every time you do it’s like someone’s twisting your arm behind your back to do it.” Your voice is a bit quieter now, back to a normal speaking volume with a hint of sadness seeping in. “I used to be the closest to you and now it’s a chore to even get you to talk to me.”

Matt groans and leans his head back on his shoulders for a moment before picking it back up and meeting your gaze again. “You didn’t make me mad,” he replies.

“Then what?!” You push, hands flopping to your sides in annoyance. “Why are you so weird now?! You never talk to me, you’re always fucking looking at me and pretending you’re not, you’re always trying to avoid being in the same room as me alone and I am so fucking sick of-“

“What do you want me to say?!” Matt interrupts loudly, pushing himself off the desk and one step closer to you. Your eyes widen in shock as the distance starts to close between you, not expecting him to be so loud. Though the next words out of his mouth had your mind reeling and wondering if maybe you both were a little too intoxicated to be having this conversation. But maybe it was perfect.

“Do you want me to say that every fucking time I look at you, all I can think about is how much better you’d look underneath me? On top of me?” He starts lowly, taking another step closer. “Do you want me to say that I get carried away looking at you because I’m fantasizing about what I want to do to you? That I can’t stop thinking about how badly I want to make you feel good and hear your pretty voice moaning my name?”

Your heart feels like it’s stuck in your throat as you listen to him, pounding away and making your hands shaky, adrenaline running through you at his admission. It was the last thing you expected him to say, a confession of desire, the words ripping all of the air from your lungs.

You’re brought back when the backs of your knees hit his bed, causing you to fall backwards on it, hands catching you and resting behind you. The switch in angle has you staring upwards at Matt, the man that was your best friend, lashes fluttering as he gazed down at you, eyes darkening at the sight of you.

“Matt…” you whisper, shaking your head, unsure of what to say.

“You feel fucking stupid pushing so hard now, don’t you?” Matt sneers, leaning over so he’s hovering above you, faces inches apart. “Should’ve just left it the fuck alone.”

You swallow thickly, trying to ignore your nerves and the way the hair on your arms was standing straight up, goosebumps forming from how close he was to you.

“I don’t feel stupid,” you say quietly, pausing for a moment as you stare into his eyes, taking in his expression. His jaw is clenched tight, like he’s angry, but you know it’s his way of trying to hide the way he really feels; scared of how you feel. His eyes are searching yours for any sign of feeling the same, like he’s desperate for any sense of reciprocation. His chest is heaving as he leans over you, trying to breathe through the way his heart was racing, willing it to slow down in vain. You take a deep breath yourself, readying yourself for the shift.

“Just wish you told me sooner.”

Your hand comes up to grab onto his shirt to pull him in, closing the distance between you both, lips crashing together. He loses his balance when you pull him down, hands stopping himself on either side of you when he pushes you down flat on the bed, kissing you back like he’s waited his whole life for this moment.

His lips are molded to yours perfectly, only parting to let his tongue slip into your mouth and meet your own, tasting the drink he finished right as you walked up to him. His left arm shifted so he was resting on his elbow next to your head, right hand coming up to cup the back of your head, fingers splayed out in your hair as he used his grip to keep you close to him.

Even though you initiated the kiss, you’re still taken aback at how desperate his movements are, taking a moment to collect yourself and kiss him back just as enthusiastically, right hand keeping its grip in his shirt while your other one comes up to mirror his, tangling in his hair.

“Matt,” you gasp in between kisses, whining softly when his lips trail over your cheek and down your neck, leaving soft but hungry kisses across your skin.

“Wanted you for so long,” he groans, teeth nipping softly before he continues his descent, pushing your shirt up until it’s bunched under your arms, moving his lips between the valley of your breasts. “You look so fucking good tonight, was like torture watching you walk around like I didn’t want to rip your clothes off.”

The giggle you let out is breathless, a mix of laughter and a whine, head tilted down as you watch him as he kisses down your stomach, hands moving to slide down your waist, gripping your hips when he reaches them. “You can take my clothes off if you want to,” you say nervously. His attention is immediately drawn back to your face, movements pausing at your words. “Yeah?” He rasps, voice low and quiet.

You nod, pushing yourself up on your elbows to watch him as he slides down your body and onto his knees between your legs, hands rubbing over your thighs. Your bottom half was adorned in a black mini skirt that already started riding up from the way he settled between your legs, your thong peeking out from underneath it, clinging to your skin from the way you were already getting soaked.

“This skirt looks so fucking good on you,” Matt praises, slipping off the end of the bed until he was on his knees, pulling you closer towards the edge until his face was only a few inches above your core. “Wondering why I’m looking at you when this shit barely covers your ass.”

“I wore it for you,” you admit shyly, watching as his hands slid up and down your skin, fingers gripping into your flesh every few seconds, like he couldn’t believe he was finally in this position, lips dragging up the skin of your inner thighs slowly.

“Oh, yeah?” He mumbles, almost absentmindedly.

“Mhm,” you reply, watching as his face gets closer and closer to where you want him. “Was hoping maybe if I dressed hot enough you’d finally crack, get the balls to shoot your shot.”

Matt drags his nose up your inner thighs, kissing occasionally until his face is right pressed into your panties, the thin fabric being the only barrier separating your bodies from what you both craved so badly. His tongue slips past his lips to flatten on your folds through your underwear, a small groan leaving his lips. “Was gonna shoot my shot anyway, just thought I’d have time for one more drink before you got all bitchy on me.”

A gasp leaves your lips at the feeling of his tongue on you, wanting nothing more than to rip the flimsy thong off and fling it across the room. “Calling me a bitch with your head between my legs is a little ridiculous, Matt,” you tease breathlessly, keeping your eyes locked on him. His hands move to push your skirt upwards before his fingers tuck themselves into the waistband of your panties, eyes shooting up to meet yours. “Sorry, next time I call you a bitch I’ll make sure I’m not about to eat you out.”

You scoff at his sarcastic response and roll your eyes, expecting nothing less than him making some snarky comment. His nose dips down and buries itself in the fabric again, his eyes fluttering shut as he sucked in a deep breath, moaning on the exhale. “Holy fuck.” He groans out before he tucks his fingers into the front of your underwear and ripped them apart, exposing your dripping pussy to him, drooling in anticipation.

“Are you…” you stare down at him incredulously, eyes wide. “Are you smelling me?”

Matt looks back up at you with an exasperated expression, raising an eyebrow. “Yes?” He replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Do you have any idea how good pussy smells? How good it tastes? God, I could get off on that alone.”

You shake your head in disbelief at him, to which he releases a small laugh, shooting you a wink before dipping his head back down and pressing his lips between your folds, planting a small kiss on your clit as his hands push your thighs apart, spreading you wide open to be used by him. “Taste so fucking good,” he mumbles, more to himself than anything. His hands wrap around your thighs and his fingers dig into the skin on the inside of your legs, kneading them softly as his tongue starts to work between your folds, quiet moans leaving him as the taste of you flooded his senses.

The sounds you made weren’t as quiet, the volume of your whines starting to fill the room, grateful for the music blaring through the rest of the house to drown you out. Your head fell back on your shoulders as your eyes fluttered shut, focusing on his tongue on you and the way his hands never stopped moving, whether it was his thumbs stroking over your skin or his palms rubbing up and down.

“Fuck, Matt…” you whimper, dropping your elbows out from underneath you so your back was flat on the bed, body already reacting to the way his mouth was moving on you, thighs starting to shake on either side of him.

He was eating you out in a way you’ve never felt before, his actions hungry and fueled by lust, lips and tongue working in tandem as he practically made out with your drooling core, the squelching of his mouth meeting your heat filing your ears. “Matt,” you warn, reaching down to grab at his hair, pushing him off of you.

He pulls away reluctantly, staring down at you with glazed over eyes, his mouth and chin glistening from the mixture of his saliva and your arousal. “What?” He questions, furrowing his eyebrows. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you nod, breathing heavily. “Just close ‘n I don’t wanna finish yet.”

Matt’s confused at your words, staring down at you like he doesn’t quite understand, head tilting slightly as his lips parts to speak. “That’s kind of the whole point of what I’m doing,” he states.

“But… I wanna have sex,” you reply like it’s obvious.

“I thought that’s what we were doing?” Matt lets go of your thighs and runs a hand through his hair, growing more puzzled. “Do you not want me to eat you out?”

Your cheeks are darkening in embarrassment the more this conversation drags on, your hands coming up to cover your face. “I do! You’re really good at it! I just don’t want to cum before you actually… fuck me.”

“Why?” Matt snorts out a laugh, crawling onto the bed and hooking his hands under your thighs again, dragging you up the bed until your head was almost at the headboard, his own body moving to hover over yours. “I’ll just make you cum again. And again…” he leans down until his lips are touching your ear, one hand moving to rub over your clit gently, his two middle fingers rubbing through your slit. “And again, til you can’t even think straight.”

Your breath catches in your throat as he manhandles you, the way he pushed your body up the bed like it was nothing creating a kaleidoscope of butterflies in your stomach. “Really?” You questioned quietly, not used to men even really caring about getting you off even once.

“Mhm,” Matt hums into your ear, lips trailing down over your neck. “That okay?”

“Y-yeah,” you nod your head quickly, nervously. “Just never came more than once before.”

Matt snorts against your collarbone, dipping his two fingers inside of you, your pussy putting up no resistance to him, sucking him in greedily. “Probably because you sleep with a bunch of fucking losers.” He comments, following up his words by sucking a mark into the fleshy mound on your chest barely covered by your bra anymore.

Your back arches off the mattress when his fingers curl inside you, a loud whimper leaving your lips as your hands grip the sheets on either side of you. “Oh my god,” you moan out, ignoring the comment he made. You’ll have to remember to scold him later.

“How ‘bout you just lay there and keep making those pretty noises, yeah?” Matt smirks, sliding down the bed again until his mouth is back on your soaked heat, groaning against your clit when the taste hits his tongue again.

Obsessed doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface of what he’s feeling, how his mind is absolutely reeling from the way he’s got you coming apart underneath him. The way you taste, the way you sound, it’s all making his mind fuzzy, the buzz from the alcohol fading into the distance as he becomes more pussy drunk than anything in the moment. He’s trying to keep himself from losing control and fucking you into oblivion, grounding himself by listening to the sweet sounds you made.

“So good, Matt, right there,” you cry out, chest heaving as he brings you back to the brink of your orgasm, knuckles turning white against his black sheets. “Fuck, if you don’t stop I’m gonna cum,” you warn him, one of your hands coming down to thread in his hair, this time holding him against you instead of pulling him off.

“Mhmm,” he moans into your skin, tongue lapping up your juices fervently, fingers keeping pace inside of you.

The way his voice rumbled against your clit was all you needed to send you over the edge, your free hand coming up to cover your mouth as you moaned loudly, thighs trembling around Matt’s head.

He coaxed you through it, fingers and tongue unrelenting until you were lax and whimpering against the bed, legs twitching from overstimulation with every movement. Matt pulled his lips away, placing one more small kiss on your clit before looking up at you, smiling at how spent you looked, hair sticking to your forehead and your teeth buried in your hand from trying to keep quiet. “You covered up your pretty mouth,” he fake pouts, crawling back up the bed so his face is above yours. “Now I gotta make you cum again.”

You stare up at him breathlessly, watching as his face comes back into view, his expression dark as he stares at you. “Sorry,” you mumble. “Didn’t wanna be too loud.”

“No such thing,” Matt smiles, leaning down to place a kiss on your lips softly. You melt into the kiss, instantly returning it and tasting yourself on his mouth, something you’d hated in the past but felt immensely turned on by in this situation. He only kisses you for a few moments before he pulls away and gazes down at you again. “I’m gonna fuck you now, okay?”

You nod excitedly, agreeing instantly. He climbs off the bed and pulls his shirt over his head before walking to his bedside table to grab a condom out of the drawer, throwing it next to you on the bed. Your eyes watch the small foil pack as it lands next to you, feeling your heart rate pick up at the realization that this was actually happening. You were about to let your best friend have his way with you in his room during a fucking party, not caring who would hear, and especially not caring about what this would do to your relationship in the moment. Those were consequences you’ll face later, but right now all you could think about was having Matt buried deep inside you.

“Matt?” You sit up slowly and look up from the condom, letting your eyes trail over him, landing on his hands that were working on the button on his jeans, then slowly dragging his zipper down. He hums in response, urging you to continue. You clear your throat nervously, reaching out to pick up the condom. “I haven’t been on birth control for years just for you to not fuck me raw.”

Matt’s lips part as he sucks in a small breath, watching as you tossed the condom back onto the bedside table before smiling up at him. “You serious?” He asks, pushing his jeans down until they fall on their own, stepping out of them before kneeling back over you, his hand coming up to hold onto the back of your neck. You nod again, just as enthusiastic as the first. “Yeah,” you respond softly. “Wanna feel you inside me.”

Matt groans and grabs your shirt to finally pull it fully off, throwing it across the room before he helps you out of your bra as well. “You’re gonna fucking kill me,” he grumbles, shoving you back down onto the bed. A small giggle leaves your lips as he throws you down, hair fanning out over the pillow. The only thing you were left in was the black mini skirt that Matt was obsessed with, the material shoved up and bunched around your hips. It was completely out of the way of what was important, and Matt had no intentions of removing it from you.

Your folds and inner thighs were completely soaked when you spread your legs open for Matt to settle between, the wet skin glimmering in the dim lights of his room, a sight that Matt had to force himself to tear his eyes from so he wouldn’t finish too quickly. “You have no idea how pretty your pussy is, do you?” He mumbled, pushing his briefs just low enough for his dick to spring out, so hard it almost hurt when the cool air hit it. Your ears burned hot at his words, shaking your head gently. “No, I don’t. Wanna tell me how pretty it is?” You reach down to grab the backs of your knees, pulling your legs up and apart to expose yourself to him even more.

“Fuck,” he groans, shaking his head and closing his eyes. “I’m sorry but I’m already about to bust in my pants, can I just…” he clears his throat and reopens his eyes, looking down at the glorious sight below him; you staring up at him as you pull your legs wide open for him, pussy on display and glistening just for him, patiently waiting to pull him into your walls. His hand comes down to wrap around his aching cock and you watch as he starts to jerk himself off, small moans and whimpers leaving his lips, jaw slack from the pleasure.

It takes him less than a minute to stroke himself to his climax, hips stuttering as he coaxed out his load all over your stomach and added to the mess adorning your lower half, your own jaw dropping as you watch him cum all over you. “That was fucking hot,” you praise, a sinister smile forming on your lips.

He laughs, taking a few deep breaths before he situates his hips against yours, resting his tip against your entrance. “Thanks. I was not going to last at all and I’ve always wondered what you’d look like covered in my cum, so.. two birds.” He joked.

You’re about to laugh with him when he shoves himself inside you, bottoming out in one thrust. The movement rips a gasp from your lips, face contorting in a mix of pleasure and pain from the sudden stretch. “Oh!” You squeak out, locking eyes with Matt as he drags his own gaze up your body to stare down into your eyes. “My fucking god,” he groaned, slowly dragging his cock out of you before pushing back in, pulling a soft whine out of your lips. “Holding that pussy wide open for me, hm?”

You bite your lip harshly as your head drops back onto the pillow, eyes rolling back as Matt starts up a quick rhythm, his cock deliciously dragging through your walls. The angle of your legs being pushed up had him hitting every sweet spot inside of you, your voice growing hoarse from how much you were whining and moaning, hands starting to lose your grip on your legs. “C’mon, baby, don’t let up now, show me how pretty you look taking my cock so well.”

You’re trying your best when you readjust your grip on the backs of your knees, but the mixture of sweat and how weak you felt made the task difficult, your hands sliding around and unable to get a good grip. “Can’t, Matt,” you whimper, opening your eyes again to look back up at him, silently begging for help. He notices your struggle and pushes your hands away with his own, spreading his fingers out on the backs of your thighs to push them against you, the new angle of his cock inside you making you cry out. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, right there, please don’t stop, need you right there.” You babble on, staring up at Matt as his eyes stay trained on where your bodies meet.

“Touch yourself, princess,” Matt demands, forcing his gaze up to meet yours, admiring the way your eyes were glazed over and half covered by heavy eyelids. “If you can’t hold your legs up you gotta touch yourself for me, baby.”

You’re taken aback, not used to such demands. Normally the guys you slept with didn’t even care about if you finished or not, and now here Matt was making sure you came at least twice. It was a bit confusing at first, but you eventually processed his words, eyebrows furrowing. “But, Matt, I-,”

He cuts you off with a sharp dig into your thighs with his fingers, silencing you immediately. “Fucking touch yourself for me,” he says again, leaving no room for argument. “Wanna see you cum all over me, see your pretty face and hear how good you sound.”

Really, who were you to deny such a convincing statement? Especially when he asked so nicely.

“Fuck,” you whisper in defeat, bringing your hand between your legs and taking a deep breath before pressing your two middle fingers into your clit, whimpering softly as you drew small circles around it, the pleasure of that mixing with the way Matt still thrust into you making you clench your eyes shut again, moaning as your head dug back into the pillow, back arching into the pleasure. “Oh my god, so good, Matt.”

Once he saw your eyes close again, Matt looked down to where your hand was picking up speed on your sensitive nerves, your movements and his grinding matching up in pace until your legs were trembling again, still held in place by his rough grip. “That’s perfect, baby, shit, you’re fucking made for me, hm? Made to take me all the way like this?”

“Yes,” you choke out, throat starting to straight from how hard you were rubbing yourself, breath starting to catch in your throat. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, oh my god, Matt, I’m cumming again,” you gasp, whole body tensing up for a few seconds before your orgasm crashed over you, your whole body shaking and legs trying to close but unable to due to Matt holding them in place. He’s groaning loudly, thrusts becoming uncoordinated as he chased his own high, his mouth dropping in pleasure when he finally reached his peak, loud, attractive moans spilling from his lips.

Matt’s own eyes are screwed shut as he paints his release over your walls, breath shaky as he slows down, unaware of how hard he’s gripping into your skin until you whine his name out and push your legs out of his grip. When he lets go, his forearms come down to rest on either side of your head, his face burying in your neck.

“Fuuuck,” he groans tiredly, still buried inside you. “Y’have no idea how long I’ve wanted to fuck you like that.”

You laugh, running a clammy hand over his equally sweaty back, patting his skin in a teasing matter. “Glad you got it out of your system.” You reply.

His head pops up after you speak, staring down at you questioningly. “Oh, I didn’t. I’ve still got plenty of fantasies to run through.” Matt tells you, and though his tone is silly, you know he’s completely serious, so you raise your eyebrows at him inquisitively. “Did this not fulfill your fantasies?” You ask him.

He scoffs and sends you a classic Matt eye roll, like he couldn’t believe you were actually asking him that. “It did, but only some. I’ve got like a year’s worth of filthy shit I wanna do to you.” He tells you, dipping back down to nip at the soft skin on your neck, sucking it into his mouth for a moment before letting go, blowing over the wet spot to make you shiver. “Like mark you up, fuck you all over my house, in my car, in the shower, I wanna fuck you on your hands and knees, wanna watch you ride me, wanna fuck that pretty, pretty mouth of yours, wanna hear you beg for me…” his lips are moving down your skin as he speaks, leaving soft kisses along his route until he’s nestled between your breasts, pulling away to look down at your body. “Wanna be able to call you mine,” he confesses, leaning back in to take your nipple into his mouth, sucking gently. The feeling made you whine softly, your core tingling in anticipation, even though you were spent and anymore contact might make you cry.

“Matt,” you huff, reaching up to grab his face and push him off, looking down at his pouty expression. “Everything is so sensitive, feels like my skin is on fire.”

He smiles down at you, like he’s taken your words in the complete opposite direction you meant, raising his eyebrows suggestively. “Perfect, so you can give me one more, yeah?”

You’re still processing what he’s said by the time he’s scooted back down the bed and positioned his face between your legs once again, a big grin on his face. You’re about to push him away and tell him you can’t take anymore, you’re too overstimulated to give him anything else, but when his mouth comes forward and starts working on you again, you’re silenced aside from the loud groans and whines coming from your lips, deciding one more couldn’t hurt.

-

a/n: matt’s favorite adjective for you is pretty. clearly (:

also welcome to my playlist series! leave requests for songs you’d like me to write songs based off of

taglist

@liiixsturniolos @madelinesturn @mattslolita @ifwdominicfike @sophand4n4 @chris-hallelujah

@sophsturns @ariana2saucyy @045696 @scorpioosworld @byhrxb @vickytaa @taelovesmattsturniolo

@secret-sturniolo @theboredknightcat-blog @slvtf0rchr1s @gabri3la-sturns @delilahsturniolo @starstrucktyrantinfluencer @vanillsstuff @sturnlsstuff

@imjusthereforthesturniolosmut @mattsbrat @mattsfavoritestar @dominicfikeenthusiast @certified-sturniolo @mattsside

@sofiaaguilaxx @idrk2292 @dylansfavwife @pvssychicken @sturnl0ve @sturnioloangelxoxo

@sofia-is-a-sturniolo-triplet-fan @milasturniolo @mattsdillion @birkinbratsworld @aria003

@poppingmypussy4chris @victoryouactuallydidthis @seluky10 @annsx03 @ouchywow @pasteldreams @sweetshuga

[lexalith]

HIDDEN pt.2 || Choi Seung-Hyun (T.O.P)

summary: this is part 2 of my original fic HIDDEN. you should read that one first or you’re gonna be very confused!

warnings/this story contains: female reader, age gap (reader is 24 now, seunghyun’s 37) unresolved tension, mutual pining and emotional damage, reader’s life being absolute trash (?), seunghyun and the reader being very anxious people. angst (jealousy, heartbreak, guilt, shame, regret, self loathing, not being able to let go but also not being able to stay. timing never being right and love not being enough like alwayssss, i’m sorry) personal growth, forgiveness, closure, and a tiny little bitty bit of fluff if you squint your eyes very, very hard (lmao).

a/n: i never planned on writing a part two, but here we are! thank you so much for the endless support and for looking forward to this <3 as always, english isn’t my first language! seunghyun’s texts are in blue, reader’s texts are in orange. reader’s dialogue is in bold.

songs: champagne coast — blood orange (yes, again, because this is their song. i’m making it canon) ll all i wanted — paramore || lovers — anna of the north || all too well (10 minute version) — taylor swift

it’s been nine months since the breakup, and your life couldn’t be more different than it was—if someone took a polaroid of you now and held it next to the girl who packed her bags for seoul with stars in her eyes, you’re not sure you’d even recognize her. you’re back in brownsville, no longer coordinating payload systems at starbase—because, well, turns out when your year-long secret relationship becomes very suddenly not so secret, someone decided having you around was more trouble than it was worth. after they cut you off—citing professionalism and image and propriety—you didn’t really have a plan.

you spent a month unemployed, half-heartedly scrolling through job listings you didn’t want while lying facedown on the couch, alternating between waves of quiet panic and nausea that came every time you accidentally thought about seunghyun for more than five seconds. it was still raw then—the kind of heartbreak that didn’t just ache but physically made you feel sick, like your body was rejecting the entire experience. everything reminded you of him, and you hated it—how you could go from brushing your teeth to fully sobbing in the span of a minute because some memory had snuck in through the cracks, as if your own mind was determined to torture you for ever letting someone get that close.

and eventually, when your savings account started looking like a damn joke, you took the first job you could find—bartending at a small spot downtown. it’s not what you studied for. it’s not even remotely what you imagined doing when you walked across that graduation stage in your too-tight heels and got your aerospace degree handed to you… but it’s steady. you’ve memorized the orders of the regulars, learned how to hold your tongue when men call you sweetheart like it’s your god-given name or snap their fingers and whistle like you’re a fucking dog, and you’ve gotten really good at pretending you’re okay—smiling through it. your shoes are always sticky by the end of the night, your clothes reek of grease and cheap vodka no matter how many times you wash them, and there’s a tiny scar on your wrist from a shattered pint glass that slipped mid-shift during a friday rush. but hey… at least the tips are decent.

you’ve also been… seeing someone. the guy your friends had been annoyingly pushing for months (back when you were still secretly dating seunghyun and pretending to consider it just to shut them up). he’s your age, works in construction and is very nice, which sounds like a shitty compliment, but it’s not. you’ve been seeing him for about two months now—hanging out and hooking up. you like him. really, you do… a little bit. but every now and then you catch yourself comparing the way he holds your face to the way someone else used to, and you have to blink it away before it sinks too deep. he doesn’t know about seunghyun, of course. not the real version of it, anyway. just that there was someone before, someone who hurt you. and you appreciate his patience—he gives you space when you need it and doesn’t ask too many questions. and, well, he eats your pussy good, so. there’s that too. sometimes that’s enough to shut your brain up for a bit, enough to make you forget the ache that still sits in your chest like a bruise that never really healed. even though you know it’s not fair. and you wonder, sometimes, if this guy’s waiting for you to fall in love with him and has no idea that you’re still scraping someone else’s fingerprints off your skin.

but the most significant thing—the one that still sits in your stomach like a rock you can’t digest—is that you found out. you finally know. it was her. your mother. you didn’t even get it from her directly. you found it by accident—buried in an old email. you weren’t snooping—just printing a return label for something, waiting for the slow-ass printer to wake up—when your eyes caught the subject line: re: media contact – confidential inquiry. and you clicked it. you scrolled through every line with a growing sense of horror. you confronted her that same night. you didn’t plan it, didn’t rehearse what you were going to say—you just walked into the kitchen, heart pounding, and said, “how long were you planning on hiding the fact that you’re the one who leaked it?” she didn’t even deny it. just looked at you, quiet for a second, then said, “i did what i had to do.” “you had to?!” your voice broke, equal parts disbelief and fury. “you had to sabotage my entire fucking relationship?!” “he was taking advantage of you,” she said flatly. “what the fuck? what the—what the fuck is wrong with you?! you had no right to interfere like that! none!” “you think i didn’t see what he was doing? he was grooming you—” “don’t you dare use that word,” you spat, stepping forward. “don’t you fucking dare put it like that just because you needed a reason to feel better about what you did! i was twenty-two, not sixteen!” “i don’t care! he’s thirteen years older than you, and you—” “he wasn’t using me! i knew what i was doing—” “no!” she pointed at you, jabbing the air, furious and breathless, “you were just following him around like some starstruck idiot, lying to me, running away from your job, from your family—” “oh my god, shut the fuck up!” you snapped, tears hot in your eyes. “shut the fuck up! i was in love! and you fucking ruined it!”

you don’t remember much after that—just fragments. you remember your mother shouting something about protection, about how she couldn’t stand by and watch you throw your future away over a man who was never going to give you anything real. you remember knocking over a stack of books, slamming a drawer so hard it bounced back open, dragging your suitcase out of the closet with shaking hands and yanking things off hangers without looking. she cried, kept repeating that she didn’t mean to hurt you, that she was scared, that she thought she was doing what was best. but you didn’t care. you were too angry and too fucking tired of being treated like you didn’t know your own mind. you haven’t spoken to her since. you don’t know if you ever will. because it turns out there’s heartbreak that comes from losing a lover, and then there’s heartbreak that comes from realizing the person who raised you is the reason you lost them. and now it’s too late to take any of it back.

you’ve been crashing with one of your friends for the past three weeks—sleeping on a futon that creaks every time you turn over and makes your back ache by morning. you didn’t really know where else to go. your job barely covers groceries—forget rent, forget deposits, forget the fantasy of having a space that’s actually yours. so now you’re here, trying not to be a burden, trying not to cry into your friend’s couch cushions at night because she’s doing you a favor, and you already feel like a walking pity case. sometimes you lie there and think about how you used to fall asleep in a king-sized bed with high thread count sheets and a man who kissed your shoulders before falling asleep with his hand in yours, and now you’re in someone else’s place, listening to the hum of a fridge that never stops running—feeling lonelier than you ever have in your entire life.

you thought life would’ve gotten better by now, but you spend the nights crying instead—staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers. you cry because nothing feels right, because everything feels too hard, because you lost your job, your relationship, your home, your sense of direction—and even though you keep telling yourself you’re only twenty-four, that there’s time to figure it out, some nights it just feels like you’re stuck in and endless pain loop. no one warned you adulthood would feel like this.

you’re alone that night. your friend’s covering a night shift, the apartment is quiet, and your body feels like it’s made of wet tissue—fragile and bloated and cursed with every symptom imaginable, because the universe decided you needed your period on top of everything else. the cramps are brutal, your back hurts, your tits ache, and the fucking futon now has a suspicious little stain that you know you’ll have to scrub later. you’ve been crying (again!) and your throat is raw from it, your eyes puffy, your nose sore from wiping it too hard with paper towels. you feel pathetic. like genuinely, award-winning levels of pathetic. and maybe that’s what finally does it. you reach for your phone with hands that are slightly shaky, not because you’re nervous, but because you’re just so damn tired. of yourself, mostly. and maybe the universe too. your fingers open his old messages. you used to do this sometimes—type things you needed to get off your chest. but you never sent them because seeing your words in that annoying green bubble would be worse than anything else. it would remind you that yes, he blocked you. yes, he’s still gone. yes, this is over, and it’s been over. move the fuck on already, girl. so, following your little tradition, you type:

it was my fucking mom this whole time. she’s the one who leaked everything. i found out like three weeks ago, and i still haven’t processed it. i wish you knew. i wish i could make you know so you wouldn’t go on living your life thinking i betrayed you or whatever tf you decided to believe instead of trusting me. but anyway. talk about trust issues now, bc honestly, idk how i’m ever supposed to trust anyone again!🥰 love this for meeeee omg!😍😍 i shouldn’t have told her i was moving to seoul. i should’ve just disappeared from her fucking life and been happy with you and what we had. but no. because life can’t be that easy for me, right? no. life has to be a fucking bitch in every possible way. i’m so fucking tired.

your fingers hover over the delete button as you cry profusely after typing that paragraph—eyes blurry, throat tight, the screen glowing too bright in the dark room. and maybe it’s the hormones, or the sleep deprivation, but something inside you hits send. because why the fuck does it matter? he’s not gonna read it, he’s got you blocked. but the second you see the message go blue—you freeze. your stomach drops and you stare at your phone like it’s just slapped you across the face. he unblocked you. wait—what? since when? you shoot up like you’ve just been electrocuted, eyes wide as the full horror of what just happened sinks in. “what the fuck! what the fuck! shit, shit, shit—” you whisper to no one, pacing the tiny apartment. so much for crying in your period-stained pajamas—turns out all it takes to yank you out of a full-blown breakdown is the absolute fucking horror of realizing you just sent a long-ass vent session straight to the one person on this planet you were least fucking ready to talk to. congrats, girl! you keep outdoing yourself! “oh my—fuck! fuck, fuck, fuck! oh, god. oh my god,” you keep mumbling. when the fuck did he unblock you?! and why the hell didn’t you check?! your heart is in your throat, pulse hammering so fast it makes your vision blur for a second. you swipe back to the chat like maybe you hallucinated the whole thing. maybe the app glitched. but no. and before you can delete it, there it is—read. “huh?!” you stop in your tracks, frozen in the middle of the room. your mouth falls open. your lungs forget how to work. your entire body goes cold and then hot, and then cold again. “no. no no no no no no—fuck!”

you groan into your hands and sink down onto the futon. your palms are damp with sweat and your brain’s screaming. the message is sent. he’s seen it. and no matter how much you want to crawl inside your phone and delete it—there’s nothing left to do but sit in the aftermath. so you do. you sit, legs curled beneath you, staring at your phone screen. you check the time—3:41 a.m. in texas. in seoul, it’s late afternoon. you decide to leave your phone face up on the floor next to you and try to pretend you’re not watching it from the corner of your eye like it’s about to perform a fucking magic trick. every time it lights up, your heart jumps—once it’s duolingo, passive-aggressively reminding you for the hundredth time that you haven’t finished your korean lessons (well… thank you for the reminder, motherfucker!). and another time it’s your period tracker app asking if you’re feeling moody lately. no shit! you lurch forward every time, breath catching in your throat, only to get sucker-punched by disappointment again and again. and still, no reply. you try to sleep, not because you think it’ll work, but because it’s the only other option. but lying down just makes it worse—your thoughts are louder. you flip your pillow, then flip it again. the sheets are damp with sweat, your legs restless, your hands twitching toward your phone like it’s calling to you. you wait for hours… he never replies.

and by the time the sun comes up, you’ve barely slept at all. your eyes sting, your mouth is dry, and you’ve gone full zombie-mode by the time your shift rolls around. you survive your shift at the bar by sheer muscle memory, making drinks, taking orders and smiling through clenched teeth. and when it ends, your body aches like it’s been rolled through the pavement. you go home—your friend’s home—after midnight, feet aching, back sore, and stomach hollow from skipping dinner because the thought of eating made you feel sick. the place is dark when you walk in. she’s probably already asleep, and you tiptoe into the kitchen to grab a glass of water before collapsing on the futon. you check your phone—still nothing. and that’s it. that’s the end of the story. why would it end any other way? of course he’s not going to reply. you should’ve never sent that fucking text. you should’ve stuck to your sad little ritual of typing and deleting and pretending you had closure. because this? this is embarrassing.

you toss your phone onto the floor like maybe breaking it will break the shame too, and flop onto your side dramatically… and then it buzzes. you’ve never gotten up so fast—hands scrambling for the phone. you swipe, thumbs clumsy with nerves because holy shit, there’s a notification from him. but somehow you manage to open the message.

Can I call you?

you stare at the screen. your pulse is pounding loud in your ears, and for a second you’re genuinely not sure if you’re going to throw up or pass out. your entire body is shaking and your blood has drained out of your face. you can feel it. you’re cold and clammy all over, heart thudding like it’s trying to punch its way out of your chest. you try to breathe—in through your nose, out through your mouth—before typing:

yeah, okay

your phone starts ringing a second later—like he’d been waiting. and the sound of it, his name lighting up your screen again after all these months, knocks something loose in your chest. the apartment is quiet—just the creak of the floor beneath your feet as you cross over to the sliding door that leads to the balcony. you slide it open as quietly as you can, since you don’t want to wake your friend, and step outside. it’s darker than you expected, the only light coming from the streetlamps below and the faint orange glow of someone’s window across the way. the balcony chair creaks under your weight as you sink into it, the metal cold against your bare thighs. your breathing’s all uneven now—short little gasps like you just finished running, though you haven’t moved more than ten feet—and you can’t stop staring at the screen. you swipe to answer. for a few seconds, there’s nothing. only silence. then, finally, a voice. “hi.” you grip the phone tighter, trying to stop your hands from shaking. “hi,” you say back. and then silence again. you can’t tell if it’s awkward or loaded or both.

you shift in the chair, curling one leg up underneath you. “how are you?” he asks. oh lord. he was literally fucking you raw less than a year ago… and now he’s making small talk. stop this madness. “i—i’m good,” you say, lying through your teeth, obviously. you clear your throat. “you?” “fine,” he says after a beat, but he sounds anything but—tired, like something in his chest’s been weighing him down. and then another pause, before he finally says, “i read your message.” “yeah… i know. i mean—i saw.” you chew the inside of your cheek, fingers picking at the hem of your sleeve. “was it really her?” you nod before realizing he can’t see you. “yeah. it was.” he doesn’t say anything, so you keep going, just to fill the space. “i saw… an email she sent. and we—we fought. bad. i left the same day and i… i haven’t been back since.” “you—where are you staying?” he asks, and you hear something in his voice, concern. “friend’s house.” you try to make it sound casual. he goes quiet again, and for a second, all you can hear is the low static hum of the call. you bite your bottom lip before blurting, “i didn’t know you’d unblocked me.” “yeah. i did like a month ago, i think.” you hum. you want to ask why, but you don’t. because the call already feels like a glass balancing on the edge of a table, and you don’t want to make it more awkward than it already is. and besides, you know you wouldn’t get the answer you want. if he wanted to talk, he would’ve. if he missed you, if he regretted it, if any part of him wanted to reach out… he would’ve. and he didn’t. so you swallow that sharp little ache, ignore the part of you that still wants to believe in something softer, and you say, “i’m sorry for sending that, by the way. i was… i don’t know. not in a great headspace yesterday.” “don’t apologize,” he says. “i’m glad you told me.” “you deserved to know.” “mmh.” the silence stretches for another second before he says, “thank you.”

the quiet that follows is soft, almost gentle. for a second you think that’s it—you can almost feel one of you hovering over the red button, and you know you should probably let it happen, let it end on something simple and clean. but you don’t want to hang up yet. so, instead, you do what you always do when your nerves start to buzz—you talk. “i’ve typed stuff before. like—messages. to you.” oh my god… shut up! shut up! why the fuck are you saying this? you want to swallow the words back down immediately but nope—your mouth keeps going. “i never sent them but… i don’t know. i wasn’t even supposed to send you that one last night—i don’t know why i did.” you press a hand to your forehead, silently screaming. “anyway i—yeah. sorry. i should just… shut up.” there’s a pause on the other end, heavy enough to make your fingers twitch against your leg. you expect him to change the subject or maybe just hang up altogether, and for a second you even brace yourself for the sound of the line going dead. but then he says, “what kind of stuff?” you blink, eyes still fixed on the quiet street below, unsure you heard him right. “what?” “the messages,” he answers, and his voice is a little quieter now, like he’s not sure if he should be asking. “what were they about?” you’re caught so off guard that you let out this small, breathless laugh that doesn’t hold any humor at all. “seriously?” you ask, more to yourself than to him. you rub a hand over your face. “i don’t know, just… random things about my life. like my day, what i was doing… sometimes just things i wish i could say to you but knew i couldn’t. i don’t know.” you trail off, embarrassed, already regretting every word spilling out of your mouth. “you can tell me now,” he says. you blink, heart stumbling a little in your chest, because you don’t know what you were expecting him to say—but it definitely wasn’t that. your fingers tighten around the phone again. “you… want me to tell you?” “i do.” you hesitate. not because you don’t have things to say—god, you’ve got too many—but because you don’t know what version of your life he’s expecting. probably not the one you’re living. “i didn’t think you’d care,” you admit quietly. “i care—of course i care.” oh… you close your eyes, press your palm to your chest and you can feel how fast your heart is beating. you force yourself to swallow the lump in your throat before you speak. “i’m bartending now.” you immediately want to cringe, because wow, what an opener. “they fired me from starbase. so… yeah. but it’s okay, this job isn’t so bad… i mean—it’s not good either, but it pays.” he hums, a soft sound of acknowledgement, like he’s listening. “and, like i told you, i’m living with a friend. after—after everything that happened with my mom… i couldn’t stay. so, yeah.”

something about saying all of that out loud—narrating your life to someone who once knew it better than anyone else—makes your bottom lip tremble before you can stop it. this tiny traitorous movement that you feel more than see, like the last thread of control slipping quietly from your hands. you swallow hard. try to hold it together and sound normal. “but i’m, um… i’m looking for a place,” you add, voice higher now, too fast. “something small for myself.” you don’t mention that your bank account laughs at you every time you open the app, or that you fall asleep on a futon in the corner of your friend’s tiny apartment, feeling like a burden. you don’t say any of that, because it’s pathetic. but the tears come anyway, completely against your will. not just because of your mom or your job or your life crumbling in pieces so small you can’t even name them—but because you’re talking to him. and everything about this feels so impossibly far from what you used to be. the way you speak to each other now, like strangers, it’s breaking you open in places you didn’t know were still sore. you try to sniff it away, wipe your face with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, but it’s useless. “are you…” his voice cuts through the line. “are you crying?” “no.” you suck in a breath. “i mean—yes. yes, i am. it’s just—i don’t know.” the tears are falling faster now, and your throat is thick with everything you’ve been trying so hard not to feel for the last nine months. you sniff, drag the sleeve of your sweatshirt across your nose, and bite out, “why’d you even call me, seunghyun? seriously. what was the point?” “i wanted to apologize.” he pauses. “i—i’m sorry. i should’ve trusted you, i should’ve listened. i was just… angry. and scared.” you exhale through your nose, trying to steady the shaking in your chest. “it’s okay,” you say quietly, even though part of you wants to tell him it’s not.

he doesn’t reply right away, and for a second you think the call might be really ending this time—that this was all he needed to say, a final stitch to close the wound and move on. but then—“i missed your voice.” your breath catches, and you don’t know what to say to that. because it hurts. it hurts so fucking much to hear it. “you hurt me, seunghyun,” you whisper. “i know,” he says, voice breaking. “i know i did, baby—shit. sorry. fuck, i—i’m so sorry. i didn’t mean to call you that.” you squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your knuckles to your lips like it’ll stop the sting. “don’t. don’t do that.” “i didn’t mean to—” “no, you don’t get to do that,” you cut in, sharper this time, words tumbling out fast. “this isn’t fair,” you say, and now your voice really starts to shake. “you’re not—you’re not being fair, seunghyun.” “listen—“ “no, i don’t wanna fucking listen!” you raise your voice, frustration spilling out faster than you can rein it in. “sorry,” you say quietly. “sorry. i—i didn’t mean to speak to you like that.” “i know,” he whispers. “but i understand. i deserve it.” “no, you—i just… it’s a lot. and hearing your voice like this again—fuck, i don’t know.” he doesn’t say anything, and you’re not even sure if that’s a good or bad thing, so you keep going before you lose your nerve. “you shouldn’t have unblocked me. you should’ve just left it the way it was,” you continue, sobbing between words. “what—” “i was doing okay,” you lie, even though you both know you weren’t. “or at least, i was trying. and then you—you do this, and now i feel like—i feel like i’m right back where i started.” he’s silent again, and it drives you fucking insane—how he always does this, lets the silence do the work for him, like it’s your job to fill in the blanks. “you can’t just show up in my life when you feel like it. that’s not how this works. you don’t get to block me, forget about me, go on with your life, and then crawl back into mine just because you’re curious or lonely or whatever the fuck this is.” your breath is shallow now, chest rising and falling fast. “i can’t do this, seunghyun. i can’t—” you cry. “so do it again. block me. because if you don’t… i will.”

you wait a second—two, maybe three—before you hang up. you stare at the screen for a beat too long after the line goes dead, your own reflection faint in the glass. your limbs feel shaky as you drag yourself up from the chair with the kind of stiffness that makes you wonder if heartbreak settles in your bones like lead. the apartment is quiet when you slip back inside. you don’t even bother changing. and when you fall onto the futon, you collapse. your chest hurts, in the literal, physical way—like there’s something pressing down on it, making it harder to breathe with every passing second. you’re still crying, face crumpling into the crook of your elbow. and even though you try to keep it quiet because your friend is asleep in the next room, your body has other plans. the sobs come in waves, ugly and loud and gasping, and there’s no one to stop them, no one to shush you or hold you or say it’s going to be okay. you press your face into the pillow and scream once, like it might help get it out, but it doesn’t. you cry until you’re too tired to cry anymore, until your body feels wrung out and empty. until your eyelids are heavy, your head pounds and the ache in your chest starts to dull—because, yes, even pain has its limits. and when sleep finally takes you, it feels like relief.

you don’t even hear her come in. it takes a few tries before your friend gets through to you, nudging your foot, then your shoulder, then finally your name, said a little too loudly for how early it is. “hey! you’ve gotta get up. don’t you have work?” you jolt upright like you’re coming up for air, groggy and disoriented, face crusted with dried tears. you mutter something like “shit, what time is it?” before fumbling for your phone. and that’s when you see it. seunghyun texted you while you were asleep.

Hi. I just booked a flight to Texas.

I’ll be in Brownsville for a few days, and I really, really want to see you.

I’ll understand if you don’t want to see me.

But if you do, I’ll be here next Sunday at 4 P.M.

he had sent a location.

We have a lot to talk about.

I didn’t want our call to end like that.

You don’t have to reply, just know I’ll be there, waiting.

And if you don’t show up, that’s okay too.

I hope you have a good day. 🫰🏼

your first thought is no. not even a soft, hesitant kind of no—just a loud, stubborn one that echoes straight through your head. NO. you don’t want to see him. you don’t want to talk. you don’t want to sit across from him pretending like the last nine months haven’t been eating you alive. you lock your phone, toss it somewhere near the futon, and move through your morning like you’re not actively dissociating—getting dressed and slapping on mascara with a shaky hand. you go to work, surprisingly making it on time. and when your shift ends, you go home. you eat leftovers straight from the container, ignore the ache behind your eyes, and tell yourself you’ve made a decision. you’re not going. simple as that.

but as the days creep forward and that sunday inches closer, your initial no—the one that came so fast and full of conviction it practically shouted over your entire body—starts to feel less like a boundary and more like a bluff you’re trying to convince yourself to believe. you find yourself rereading his texts on the bus ride home, or glancing at the clock and thinking about time zones again, something you swore you’d broken the habit of months ago. it’s not that you want to see him (girl… you do, you aren’t fooling anyone) it’s just that you’re curious. and a little bit stupid, apparently. and then, like your brain didn’t already have enough to chew on, instagram decides to kick you while you’re down. you get the notification late at night: TOP 최승현🌙 posted for the first time in a while. you stare at the alert, blinking. no way. how fucking convenient. you open the app before you can stop yourself, and there it is—proof that he unblocked you on your private insta, because you’re staring right at his profile. oh my… you’re a slut in mourning. it’s a selfie. he’s staring straight at the camera, head tilted slightly to the side to flex that stupid jawline, jesus christ... he’s wearing a black hoodie—the same one you used to borrow when you were together. more specifically, the one you were wearing the first time you let him fuck you raw. is he doing it on purpose? is this his way of getting your attention? trying to say he misses you? that he’s thinking about you too? or maybe you’re just being delusional and he’s literally just wearing his fucking hoodie like any normal person would… not everything is about you. right? you zoom in without shame, you stare, you squint and you hate yourself a little. you flip your phone face down and mutter, “fuck off,” like that’s going to do anything—like you’re not already replaying every time you tugged his hair while he was between your thighs, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue circled your clit.

sunday. 3 p.m. comes and you’re still telling yourself no, still convincing yourself with weak half-arguments and imaginary moral high ground, still walking around the room like you’re above it, like you’ve evolved past the the version of yourself who would show up for him no matter what. you’re not going. you’ve already made that decision—made it days ago. in fact, you’ve been repeating it like a fucking mantra: i’m not going, i’m not going, i’m not going. it’s the one thing you’ve been stubbornly sure of. and yet, by 3:07, you’re in front the drawer your friend let you use. you’re not sure when you stood up or how you ended up yanking it open, but suddenly you’re staring at your clothes like any of them will know what the fuck you’re doing. and you tell yourself: what harm could there be in just… seeing? just showing up, looking hot, and reminding him what he lost? right? what could go wrong? you drag yourself into the shower, rinse off the sweat and anxiety, and talk yourself out of having a panic attack while shaving your legs. you towel off, throw on something decent and slap on a bit of makeup as you wonder why the fuck are you wasting your free day on this, when you could’ve been watching reruns of some trashy dating show or doom-scrolling in peace. and before you can rethink your decision again, you’re on the bus, heart pounding harder with every stop.

you show up an hour late—closer to five-thirty than four—but you don’t feel bad about it. if anything, it makes you feel a little less like you’re crawling back and a little more like you’re arriving on your own terms. the place he chose to meet you is a rooftop wine bar in downtown brownsville with thick wooden beams stretched overhead to break the light. string lights hang loosely between them and the tables are spaced out, some close to the railing with a quiet view of the city below. he’s already there, of course, seated near the far edge of the terrace, next to the railing, with a half-finished glass of wine in front of him. you spot him instantly. he’s in a long-sleeved maroon sweater, and you don’t know why the fuck he’s wearing sleeves in this heat. his trousers are loose and slouchy, and his boots—yes, boots, in thirty-degree texas weather—are polished to hell, the soles thick and clunky. his cap sits on the table beside his wineglass, and he’s wearing his glasses—the ones that make him look so gentle. you used to love it when he wore them around you. he doesn’t see you right away—he’s looking out over the terrace, lips pursed like he’s deep in thought—but your stomach still drops like it’s the first time all over again.

you take a slow breath, then start walking. the heels of your shoes click against the tile, and the closer you get, the more surreal it feels—seeing him again. and then he looks up. you don’t know what you expected, but the way his whole face shifts when his eyes land on you catches you off guard. his brows lift just a little, like he’s not sure he’s seeing you right, and then there’s this soft pull at the corners of his mouth, the kind of expression people only ever give to people they’ve missed. he moves quickly after that, chair scraping back as he stands up too fast, brushing his palms down the sides of his pants like he’s suddenly unsure of himself. your heart thuds a little too hard as you close the last few steps between you, nerves spiking even though there’s no reason to be this tense—you’ve seen him like this before, touched him, kissed him, loved him. but now it feels like starting from scratch. “hey,” you say first, because someone has to break the tension. your voice comes out quiet, breathier than you meant. he clears his throat, shifting his weight. “hi.”

he stands there, hovering beside the table, and for a second it’s like neither of you knows how to move—do you shake hands? do you hug? his gaze flickers down to your hands, like he’s expecting you to offer one to shake, and then back up to your face. it’s clear he doesn’t know what to do, and god, neither do you. a hug feels too intimate, but standing here in this weird, polite standoff feels worse. so you do it—you step forward, close the space, and wrap your arms around him quickly, not giving yourself enough time to regret it. he’s surprised, you can tell by the way his arms come around you just a second too late. you pull away before it can get weird, and he lets you, hands immediately dropping to his sides like he’s scared to overstep. you glance at the wine glass, then back at him. “sorry i’m late.” seunghyun shakes his head, quick. “no, it’s fine. i—” he exhales. “i didn’t think you were coming.” you nod, slow and awkward, arms crossed tight over your chest for a second before you remember how that looks and force yourself to let them fall to your sides. “yeah. me neither.” he huffs a tiny laugh, almost embarrassed, and gestures toward the seat across from his. “do you wanna sit?” you nod, murmuring a soft “yeah,” as you move toward the chair. you sit, legs crossed, back too straight, and he mirrors you, settling across from you. the table feels huge between you. ridiculous, really—after everything you’ve done together, everything you’ve been to each other, now you’re playing pretend like two people on a first date who forgot how to talk.

he reaches for his wine glass, turns it slowly between his fingers without drinking. “you look good,” he says, eventually. “i mean… really good.” you meet his eyes, and then, because you can’t help it, “so do you.” he smiles at that, soft, almost sheepish, and then glances down at the wine list sitting neatly on the table between you. “you want anything?” he asks, tapping the edge of the menu lightly. “they’ve got a good selection.” you shake your head, giving a small, polite smile. “just water’s fine.” “water, then,” he says, and signals to the server passing by to order you a glass. there’s a beat of silence after the server leaves, just the soft clink of his glass when he shifts it on the table. he doesn’t look at you—just studies the red swirl of wine for a second like it’s got the right words floating in it somewhere—then finally says, “i’m glad you came.” you nod once, unsure what to say to that, fingers twitching in your lap. “and… i’m sorry,” he adds quietly. “about the phone call. the way it ended… that wasn’t how i wanted it to go.” “i know.” “i didn’t mean to make you feel bad,” he says. “or backed into a corner. i just—my head was a mess, and i handled it wrong. i’m sorry.” “it’s fine. thank you—thanks for the apology.” and you mean it. he leans back slightly in his chair, exhales through his nose. his fingers trace the rim of his wine glass like he’s trying to occupy them. “i didn’t know if you’d ever want to see me again. after everything.” “i didn’t know either. up until like… three o’clock.” his mouth twitches into something that’s almost a smile. “last-minute decision?” “very,” you say. “bad one, maybe. not sure yet.” “i get it. i wouldn’t have blamed you if you hadn’t shown up.” “i almost didn’t,” you admit. “but then i thought—i don’t know. if i didn’t come, i’d just keep wondering what you wanted to say.” he nods, finally meeting your eyes again. “i wanted to say a lot of things.” “like what?” he hesitates, jaw tightening slightly, like the words are caught somewhere behind his teeth. he exhales, slow and heavy, and leans forward, forearms resting on the edge of the table. “i wanted to apologize,” he says. “for how things ended. for—for what i said. for not listening.” “seunghyun—” you start, but he shakes his head. “i didn’t believe you,” he goes on. “and i should have. i should’ve known better—i did know better. but it was easier to be angry than to be scared, and i was so, so fucking scared. scared of being exposed again, of people dragging my name through the mud all over, of losing everything i’d tried to build back up—” “i know. i know, hyun. i understand you. it’s… it’s okay.” it isn’t, though. “and instead of trusting you,” he says, like he didn’t hear you at all, “i panicked. i pushed you away. and i hate myself for it.” you shift in your seat, hands gripping the sides of the chair, aching with the weight of all the things you wish could make this easier. “hyun,” you murmur again, softer now, like saying his name might take the edge off his pain or yours. “you don’t have to—” “i do,” he says. “i haven’t stopped thinking about it… about how fast i let it all go. how fast i let you go. and the worst part is…” he stops, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “the worst part is that i made you think you didn’t matter to me. like it was easy for me to—to cut you off. and it wasn’t. it’s never been easy. it still fucking haunts me.” he pauses. “i just needed you to know that. i needed—i needed to say it to your face.” he exhales shakily, like just getting the words out took something out of him. his eyes stay fixed somewhere past your shoulder, like he’s afraid that meeting yours will make it harder. “and i missed you,” he says quietly. “fuck, i missed you so much.”

the words land somewhere low in your gut, like they’ve been thrown instead of spoken. and for a second, it stings in a sweet way, that traitorous part of your chest aching at the sound of his voice wrapped around something soft again, something that once made you feel safe. but the sweetness evaporates almost instantly, replaced by a sharp kind of heat under your skin, the kind that flares when something touches a bruise you thought had already faded. because you don’t get to miss someone and do nothing about it. not when you’re the one who made it clear, so fucking clear, that it was over. your jaw tightens. because no. no, he doesn’t get to say that. your eyes start to sting, the burn rising fast and sudden behind your lashes. and then, without warning, a single tear slips down your cheek. you wipe it away quickly with the back of your hand. “why didn’t you reach out, then?” he blinks, startled, like he hadn’t expected the question. you sniff once, wipe at your cheek again even though the tear’s already gone. “i waited, you know. for so fucking long. every day, i thought maybe today you’d say something.” you scoff. “but you didn’t. not a word—not until i told you the one thing that finally cleared me.” his lips part like he wants to speak, but you don’t let him. “and now you’re here,” you go on, voice shaking. “saying all the things i used to fantasize about hearing. and don’t get me wrong—it’s nice. it’s—it’s really fucking nice, i needed to hear it. but if i hadn’t sent that message, if i hadn’t broken down and hit send for once instead of just typing and deleting like i always did… would we even be here right now?” you’re not sure what answer you’re hoping for. but you needed to let him know how much it sucked to feel like the only one who kept looking back.

he exhales slowly, eyes falling from yours to the table, like he can’t bear the weight of them. because what you’re saying isn’t just true, but something he’s thought about too, something he’s afraid to admit out loud. “you’re right,” he says, voice low and tight. “you’re right. but i—i wanted to. so many times. but when i thought about saying something, i’d convince myself it would only make it worse. that you didn’t want to hear from me. that you were happier without me.” you stare at him. “you thought i was happy?” “i hoped. because the alternative fucking hurt.” “but you still let me think it was my fault,” you say, voice sharp with disbelief. “you let me sit in that, seunghyun. for months. do you even understand what that did to me?” he doesn’t speak right away—just drags a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to rub the shame off his face. “i know. i know i fucked up.” “you didn’t just fuck up,” you snap. “you abandoned me. you—you went on with your life while i… i lost everything. and all because you couldn’t bring yourself to believe me.” “i wanted to believe you,” he says, a little too desperate now. “i swear to god, i did.” “then why didn’t you?” he looks at you like that question physically hurts him. “you already know. i told you—i told you about han seohee. i’ve been betrayed before, and i just—it felt safer to assume the worst than risk getting hurt again.” “yeah?” you say, and your voice comes out rough, almost trembling with the weight of everything you’ve been trying to swallow. “well guess what, seunghyun—i wasn’t han fucking seohee. i wasn’t anyone but me. your… your girlfriend. and you didn’t even give me the benefit of the doubt. not even for a fucking second.” his jaw tenses, lips pressing into a thin line like he wants to say something but doesn’t trust himself to speak. “i didn’t ask you to be perfect,” you continue, voice softer now. “i never did. all i wanted was for you to believe me—and you couldn’t do that.” he shakes his head, pained. “it wasn’t about you,” he mutters. “it was about me. my past. my shit. it twisted everything.” you shake your head, the frustration rising even though you don’t want it to. “yeah! and you let it win!” you lean back in your chair, exhaling slowly through your nose, trying to collect yourself.

this wasn’t what you intended when you showed up. you really don’t want to raise your voice at him—shit, you weren’t even supposed to get this upset. the last thing you want to do is hurt him. “i moved across the world for you, seunghyun,” you continue, calmer. “i put everything on the line. and the second things got hard, you chose to believe the version of me that fit your fears.” his face falls. “i know,” he whispers. “i know. i thought i was protecting myself—but i should’ve protected you too. i should’ve protected us. all i ever wanted was to keep this thing—what we had—safe.” he sighs. “i’m really, really sorry. for everything.” the interruption comes at just the right time—the server appears, setting down the glass of water with a soft clink. you thank him with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and seunghyun gives a nod before the server leaves, the space around you settling into silence again.

you take a sip, the cold water almost jarring against the heat crawling up your throat. the moment stretches, and you know there’s more to say. the conversation isn’t finished—not even close—but your chest already feels too full. it’s too much all at once, and you feel the weight of it pressing down behind your eyes. so, you set the glass back down and glance up at him, forcing your voice to steady and offering the smallest smile you can manage. “i watched squid game,” you say. “you were amazing in it.” his face softens and he lets out a breathy laugh, eyes crinkling at the corners. “yeah?” you nod. “yeah. like… really good. i wanted to text you when it dropped but… you know.” yeah, he knows… he had you fucking blocked. seunghyun nods once. “i appreciate that,” he says, voice a little quieter now, like he’s not sure what to do with the softness in your tone. “wasn’t expecting it to do that well, to be honest.” you hum, tracing the rim of your glass with the pad of your finger. “well, people love a villain. especially when he’s funny… and hot.” that pulls a small, surprised laugh out of him, and his cheeks turn red. “well, thank you.” you smile, gaze softening. “i read the interview you made back in january too, by the way.” “oh. did you?” you nod. “yeah.” “you know, i kept wondering what you’d think if you read it. part of me hoped you wouldn’t. the other part hoped you would.” “i did. twice, actually.” you smile faintly. “once when it came out, and again when i was mad at you. to remind myself you were still in there somewhere.” that seems to knock the wind out of him a little. you continue, “i think… i didn’t expect you to be that honest.” “i wasn’t planning to do it, you know,” he says after a pause. “the interview. for years, i thought if i just stayed silent, eventually everyone would forget. but i didn’t forget. i couldn’t.” you study him. “it read like someone who’s been carrying a lot. for a long time.” and you know that better than anyone—because you were there, in the thick of it, helping him through his worst days. his mouth curves, but it isn’t a smile. “yeah.” you let the silence sit for a beat before speaking. “i thought… i thought it was brave. i actually—i felt proud,” you confess. and there it is. the thing you’ve been meaning to tell him ever since everything ended, but couldn’t bring yourself to say until now. “i’m proud of you, hyun.” he feels it—that familiar, overwhelming tightness in his throat. he swallows hard, eyes watering slightly. he nods once. then, he opens his mouth, tries to speak, to say thank you, but his lower lip trembles before the words can form… so he closes it again. and hopes the nod is enough.

his family never said that to him. at least not after his mistakes were exposed. so this—this thing you just gave him, so casually and so fucking sincerely—it hits like a punch to the ribs. and it comes from you. you, who he’d hurt more than anyone else. it comes from someone who knows. someone who was there when he was a shell of himself, someone who saw the worst parts of him and stayed, until he made it impossible for you to do so. his eyes hurt and his throat burns and there’s a tremble in his jaw he can’t quite stop, and still he says nothing, because there’s nothing that would be enough to meet the weight of what you just gave him. “that part you said about the group,” you murmur after a moment, voice a little hesitant now, “how seeing them felt like looking at a photo of a family you’d been separated from…” “that’s exactly what it feels like.” “i know,” you nod, gently. “i’m sure they miss you too. i don’t know if you’ve been in touch with them or—” “i haven’t.” he cuts in quickly, and there’s a finality to it. you don’t push, but you notice the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his jaw tenses. there’s even a bead of sweat slipping down the side of his face. “sorry. i didn’t mean to bring up something that—i mean, i wasn’t trying to pry. i just thought… maybe after everything, after all these months, it might’ve felt possible. or… i don’t know.” you trail off, suddenly unsure of what you’re even trying to say. maybe part of you just wanted to believe he wasn’t as alone as he used to be. he hums. then, after a moment: “you were the one thing that made that time bearable. everything else was a mess, but with you, it was—” he stops himself, mouth twitching, like the rest of the sentence is too fragile to say out loud. “you didn’t fix it. but you made it hurt less. and i’ve never—i’ve never thanked you for that.” “you didn’t need to. i knew you were thankful.” you pause. “and… i’m not saying the article fixed anything, but it made sense. why you pulled away. i get it more now.” “that doesn’t make it okay.” “no,” you agree, “it doesn’t. but it helps.”

after that, things start to loosen—the conversation shifts slowly, and the air between you starts to feel less dense, less charged with the tension that had been building since the moment you sat down. the heaviness doesn’t vanish, it’s still there but easier to ignore when you’re focused on something else, like the way seunghyun starts tapping his fingers against his glass, or how your knee keeps bouncing under the table because your body hasn’t quite figured out what to do with the weird, awkward comfort of being near him again. it’s not like either of you suddenly forget the months of silence, or the way things ended, or all the shit that never really got said… but eventually, the edge softens, and your mouths start moving for other reasons—comments that aren’t weighed down by anger or guilt, memories that aren’t necessarily painful, and a rhythm that, while still tentative, starts to resemble the way things used to be between you, back before everything got ruined. because at first, you’re both careful—testing the boundaries of what’s okay to say, what’s still too raw to touch—but as time passes and the conversation wanders into safer ground, you find yourself laughing. which then makes him start laughing too, and it feels bizarre and comforting all at once—like your body forgot how easy it used to be to laugh with him, how that sound had once been a constant part of your days. and when he leans back in his chair, a little more at ease, you realize it’s been a long time since you’ve seen seunghyun look like that. it’s still weird. you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t. it’s weird to be sitting across from him, in real life, hearing his voice without a screen in between, seeing the way he moves and talks and exists like a real fucking person again. there are still moments where it catches you off guard—how familiar this all is, and also how far away it feels from who you were the last time you looked at him like this.

and when he asks, “do you want to go for a walk? brownsville’s botanical garden isn’t far from here. and it’s still open for another hour and a half,” you don’t even pretend to think about it. you just nod, and the look on his face, that flicker of relief, tells you he didn’t expect a yes. his driver’s already waiting outside, like always, and neither of you says much on the way. the ride is short, ten minutes, maybe fifteen. you watch the town pass through the tinted window, and beside you, he’s silent, but not in the closed-off way he used to be when things were bad. it’s a softer kind of silence now, where he’s letting himself be here, in this moment, with you. the botanical garden is smaller than you remember, and it’s mostly empty by the time you get there. as you walk, side by side but not too close—under a pink sky that’s starting to fade into something darker—there’s still a nervous flutter in your stomach, still that ridiculous awareness of where his hand is, of how close it would be if you reached out, but you don’t. because you remember—you remember how fucking much it hurt to lose him, how badly it ended and how long you waited for an apology that never came, until today. and as you both slow near a bench surrounded by wildflowers and a few trees that creak lazily in the warm breeze, he gestures toward it with a quiet nod, and you both sink down into the wooden slats. there’s a few inches between you, enough space to feel the gap and remind you both that no matter how easy the conversation’s been, there’s still a line neither of you has crossed yet. for a moment, you both just sit there, watching the wind tug lazily at the branches, listening to the low hum of cicadas starting up somewhere in the distance. and then, very casually, he asks, “so… is there someone in your life these days?” god—he hates how obvious it probably sounded the second it left his mouth. he doesn’t look at you when he asks, just keeps his gaze forward, like he’s talking to the horizon instead of you, like the question is just curiosity and not the thing he’s been thinking about since the second he saw you again. you glance at him. “yeah,” you say softly, honest because there’s no point in pretending. “i’ve been seeing someone.” oh… it hits him harder than he wants it to. not because he thought you’d been waiting around for him. of course not. he knows better than that. knows he doesn’t have that right. but something about hearing it out loud, from your mouth, in that voice he used to fall asleep to—it makes his stomach twist. you can see it in the way his jaw tightens slightly, and in the way his hands suddenly find his lap, like his body doesn’t quite believe the version of calm he’s trying to sell.

a long silence settles in, and he tells himself not to ask the next question, the one that’s pushing at his throat, but it slips out anyway, “does he know you’re here?” you shake your head. “no.” he turns slightly toward you, brows pulling in just a little. “i never told him,” you add. “about us.” and that fucking stings. “i just said there was someone once. but not who. i wanted to respect your choice, you know… you didn’t want it out there, you wanted to keep it private. and i… i guess i got used to it, too. so… i kept that, even after it ended.” he swallows hard, but doesn’t speak. because what is there to say, really? he sits there, listening to your words settle into the space between you, feeling it again—the shame. seunghyun stares out into the garden with a tight jaw, wondering when exactly he stopped deserving that kind of grace from you—and why you’re still giving it anyway. he stays quiet longer than he should, but he doesn’t trust his voice not to crack under the weight of everything he isn’t saying. and maybe he should let it go—but he can’t. “is he good to you?” he asks. he hates how much he wants to know. hates how pathetic it makes him feel to sit here, asking about a man who has what he used to. what he walked away from. “yeah,” you reply, and your voice is careful. “he’s… he’s kind. he works in construction with his dad—they run their own small company, mostly residential stuff. but we don’t see each other a lot… he’s the kind of guy who’s in bed by ten and up by five, and my schedule’s kind of all over the place too, so… yeah. but it works. things with him are—they’re simple… easy.” you don’t mean it as an insult, but fuck, it lands like one. “that’s good,” he says, and the words feel like gravel in his mouth. he forces them out anyway, and forces himself to nod, like that makes it more believable. “you deserve that.”

seunghyun wonders if this guy knows how you like your coffee, if he knows how you get when you’re overwhelmed—how you play with the hem of your shirt, how your voice gets sharp when you’re scared and how underneath that, you’re just trying not to break into a million pieces. he wonders if this new guy has ever seen you cry, and if he did, whether he knew what the fuck to do with it. if he sat with you in it, or tried to fix it, or made it worse by telling you everything would be okay when he didn’t know shit about what was actually going on inside your head. he wonders if this guy knows how you ramble when you’re tired. if he’s heard the stories you only tell when you’ve had one glass of wine too many, the ones that make you laugh even as you wipe your eyes. if he knows the things you’re afraid of. he wonders if this guy’s ever traced the line of your spine with his fingers just to feel you shiver under him, if he knows how your breath catches before you ever make a sound, how your thighs tense when you’re trying not to beg. does he know how to touch you the way you like? and fuck—does he get to hear you like that? whispering his name, nails in his back, legs shaking, voice breaking around the kind of moan that used to make seunghyun lose his goddamn mind? and then, in the middle of all that wondering, he hates himself a little—for being so fucking jealous.

you must feel the shift in the air too, the way his silence has gone from thoughtful to tense, like he’s holding something back. so you add, “we’re not… dating.” his head turns a little at that, eyes flicking over to you for the first time in minutes. “no?” you shake your head. “i’m not ready for that. not again. it’s been—i’ve been figuring shit out. still am.” he nods slowly. you glance at him, like maybe you’re trying to gauge his reaction, but he gives you nothing. “what about you?” you ask after a moment. “you seeing anyone?” “no.” it comes out fast and flat, like the idea pisses him off. you wait, maybe expecting him to explain, but he doesn’t. so you press, “not even casually?” seunghyun lets out a short, humorless laugh. “what would be the point?” your brows pull together, but you don’t answer. “i’m not exactly great company,” he adds, almost bitter. “and i’m not trying to let anyone close just so they can realize it for themselves.” “you are great company, hyun. don’t say that.” he just scoffs under his breath and shifts on the bench like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin. “yeah, well,” he mutters, “guess that’s not enough anymore.” you turn to look at him. “what?” “nothing.” “no—say it.” you’re watching him now, fully turned toward him, and he can feel it—the weight of your stare, the tension in your voice. he shakes his head. “you’re here, telling me you’ve got someone, and—i don’t know, it’s just… i don’t know.” “you asked, seunghyun.” “i know. i just—i wasn’t expecting that answer.” you blink at him. “so what? you ask me if i’m seeing someone, and now you’re pissed that i answered you honestly?” “i’m not pissed,” he lies, and you both know it. “don’t lie to me. i know you better than anyone—” “do you love him?” he asks, and the question comes out so suddenly, so bluntly, it knocks the air out of your lungs. “no,” you say, after a beat. “i don’t love him. if i did, i wouldn’t be here.” he nods, like that’s what he wanted to hear, but the tightness in his mouth doesn’t ease. “okay.” “what do you want me to say, seunghyun?” you ask, keeping your voice even, though it’s getting harder. “that i waited around? that i haven’t touched anyone since you left? is that what you were hoping for?” “i wasn’t hoping for anything,” he snaps. you raise an eyebrow. “sure.”

he exhales, a short, frustrated breath, and leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring down at the dirt path between his shoes. because the truth is—he was hoping for that. he was hoping you’d tell him that, even after all this time, you were still a little bit his. and hearing otherwise—he doesn’t know what to do with that. doesn’t know how to sit across from you like it doesn’t matter when it feels like it’s fucking tearing him apart—sitting here, stewing in his own mess, wanting things he let go of, wishing you’d stayed stuck when all you ever did was survive the damage he left behind. every twisted part of him that wants you to be okay, also wants you to still need him. he’s so, so fucking selfish. and you’re right, of course. every word. his hands curl into fists. his vision blurs. he doesn’t mean to start crying, but it happens anyway. fuck. he takes his glasses off and drags a hand over his face, hoping you won’t say anything, hoping maybe you’ll look away long enough for him to get it under control. but he can’t. “i’m sorry,” he chokes out. “i’m sorry i’m acting like this. i just—i didn’t think it would feel like this. seeing you. i thought i could handle it, and i can’t.” his throat aches. he wipes at his face again, furious at himself for crying, for falling apart in front of you, for being nine months too late. “seunghyun—“

his name barely leaves your mouth before he’s crumbling again, shoulders shaking. you slide across the bench, closing the space between you, and wrap your arms around him, firmly. he tenses at first, like he doesn’t know what to do with the comfort, and then he just folds into you. his face buries into the crook of your neck, warm and damp with tears, breath shuddering against your skin, and your hand comes up to cradle the back of his head instinctively. “i’m sorry,” he whispers, over and over again. “fuck, i’m so sorry. i fucked everything up.” you close your eyes, heart aching with the weight of it. “i ruined it,” he says again, voice cracking. “i ruined us.” “it’s not your fault.” “it is.” “no—you were just scared. my mom’s the one who put us in this situation. and yeah, you hurt me but i—i forgive you, hyun. you’re forgiven, okay?” you hold him tighter, your chin resting lightly on his shoulder, breathing slow and steady because maybe if you stay calm, he’ll remember how to do the same. and for a while, he just cries. you haven’t seen him like this in a long time—haven’t seen him break this hard, this openly, not since the first time he told you he didn’t know how to live with himself. or the nights he’d curl into you, silent and shaking, too proud to sob until his body gave him no other choice.

when the worst of it passes—when the sobs begin to slow and his breathing evens out—he leans back and sniffles, avoiding your eyes as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small black cloth—one of those soft ones he always carried for his glasses, or for sweat when he was anxious. he dabs at his face, wiping away the tears first, then pressing it against his temples and the back of his neck. he’s sweating like hell, his hair damp, the collar of his sweater sticking slightly to his skin. “fuck,” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse. “i’m a mess.” you reach for the cloth gently, fingers brushing his as you take it from him, and he doesn’t resist. “let me.” you wipe the tears from under his eyes first, careful and slow, then run the cloth lightly across his forehead, down to his cheeks, around the curve of his jaw. your other hand rests on his shoulder, grounding him. “you’re okay,” you murmur. “just breathe.” he nods, throat moving as he swallows hard. and then, after a long pause, with a voice that’s barely there he says, “i… i still love you.” you freeze, the cloth limp in your hand, your breath catching mid-air. did you hear that right? and then, quieter, he adds, “i don’t think i’ve ever loved someone as much.” yeah, you heard that right. your heart stumbles in your chest and you sit there, watching him. he won’t meet your eyes now, like saying it took the last of whatever strength he had left. his shoulders are hunched, jaw tight like he’s bracing for rejection even before it comes. he looks younger like this, and older too, worn down by months of pretending he was okay, of convincing himself he didn’t still ache for you every fucking day. and you love him. oh, you love this man so fucking much… you wish you didn’t sometimes, wish it didn’t still hurt. you place the cloth down carefully in your lap and reach out without thinking, your hand brushing the side of his face, fingers sliding into his hair like muscle memory. and he leans into it. you let your hand fall to his jaw, thumb gently swiping along the damp edge of it. “i love you too, hyun,” you say. “i never stopped.”

his shoulders shake, and you can tell he’s holding back again, trying not to fall apart a second time. you take his hand in yours. “you said… you said that you missed me. earlier. and the truth is… i missed you too,” you whisper, voice low and breaking now. “i missed everything—us. i tried to forget all of it and i couldn’t. i didn’t want to.” his fingers twitch under yours and he grips your hand tighter. you can feel how warm his skin is, how clammy his palm’s gone from the crying and the heat and all the fucking emotion, but you don’t let go. you just hold on, because this is the first time in months you’ve both said the truth out loud, and if it’s going to hurt, you’d rather it hurt with him right there beside you. his eyes are glassy, and you can tell he’s struggling to find the words. “i used to wake up in the middle of the night thinking you were still next to me,” he says. “and every single time it hit me that you weren’t, it felt—” he stops himself, rubbing a hand over his chest to stop it from aching. “i missed you so much it made me sick sometimes.” and you believe him. because you know that feeling. you remember what it felt like to lie awake with your back to the wall, trying to sleep in a bed that felt too big and too cold, your hand unconsciously reaching for a body that wasn’t there anymore. you remember the mornings you’d open your eyes and forget, just for a second, that he was gone—and how that second was always worse than the rest of the day combined. but sitting here now, his hand still trembling slightly in yours, all you can think is: we can’t go back. “i love you,” you say. “and i want to be with you, seunghyun. i want—hell, i’d spend the rest of my life with you.” your voice cracks on the last word, and your chest pulls tight as the tears finally spill over. “and i mean it. but… what would change?”

he’s silent. not because he doesn’t know what to say—but because he knows exactly what he’d like to say, and none of it would be true. “i can’t go back to hiding,” you continue before he can speak. “i can’t—i don’t want to be that girl again.” he closes his eyes for a second, then nods. “i know.” “but i also know…” you exhale, voice shaking, “i know that’s all you can offer me right now.” he shifts slightly, like he wants to argue. “that’s not—” “there’s no point in lying, seunghyun.” he runs a hand over his mouth, pained. “i could—maybe, in a few months, if things calm down—” “you and i both know that’s not how it works,” you say, cutting him off gently. “a few months won’t change the industry. or the people watching you. it won’t suddenly make us easy. and you know, seunghyun… you know a few months is unrealistic. and i don’t wanna—i don’t wanna wait in the shadows anymore. i won’t do it. i promised that to myself.” he sighs, long and defeated. “yeah. i know—i’m sorry. i just… i didn’t think i’d be getting this much attention again. after everything. the interviews, the show… it’s all been more than i expected. and it could get to you too, for the wrong reasons—” “i know,” you nod. “i know. and i get it, i really do. i’ve already deleted half my socials because of the harassment i got when it was just a rumor, and that wasn’t even real to them.” his face falls, shame coloring every line of it. “i’m sorry about that, too.” “yeah,” you murmur. “it’s fine. or—it’s not, but… it happened. those months were awful. but they’re behind me now.” he watches you for a long second, then says, “if we’d been closer in age, maybe it wouldn’t have been so complicated.” you smile, even though your lower lip is trembling slightly. “yeah. maybe it would’ve been easier.” the world outside won’t stop pressing in, and the timing keeps pulling you apart before you even get the chance to hold each other properly. “i hate this,” he whispers. “i hate that we finally said everything and it still isn’t enough.” “me too,” you say, sniffing. “but love isn’t the problem. it never was.” he nods slowly, and you know he’s holding back more tears.

you look at him—his swollen eyes, the slight tremble in his mouth that mirrors your own—and for a moment, you wish you could be selfish. you wish you could say fuck it, go back with him, crawl into the warmth of what could’ve been, and pretend that love alone is enough. but you can’t. “maybe you were right,” you say, trying to laugh through the tears, your voice catching halfway through. “maybe breaking up was the right thing to do. for both of us.” oh… the way his heart drops when he hears that—how much he wishes he could take those words back. how much he regrets ever saying them in the first place. how much he’s begged time, in every quiet moment since, to let him go back and rewrite your story. but it’s useless. it didn’t feel right then, and it sure as hell doesn’t now. you’re all he ever wanted. you’re all he wants. and deep down, he knows—you always will be. and it fucking kills him. it kills him to know that loving you isn’t the question—he does. with everything. the question is what to do with that love, now that it can’t go anywhere. because if you tried again… if you gave in to the ache and the want and the desperation—nothing would really change. you’d end up right back here. except next time, you’d be even more broken. “if i were braver,” he starts, “if i was different—” “don’t,” you cut in. “don’t do that. you don’t need to be a different person, hyun,” you say softly. “you just need a different life. and you don’t have that right now—and maybe you never will. but it’s okay.” “how can it be?” he says, and there’s a crack in his voice that makes your chest tighten. “how the fuck is it okay to want something this badly and still have to let it go?” you let out a shaky breath and look down at your lap. “we can’t change it. this. it’s… it’s not okay—fuck, i know it’s not. but it’s what we have.”

he goes quiet again, wiping under his nose with the back of his hand, tears still hanging in his lashes. you both sit in it. the sadness. the weight of every missed chance, every wrong timing, every choice that brought you to this bench. “if there’s another life,” you murmur, “maybe we find our way back to each other there.” he nods. “maybe,” he says, and you know he’s picturing it too. the could-have-beens. the should-haves. the soft life you never got to live. but not this one. he’s quiet for a while after that, like he’s still standing in that other life you just painted with your words—still walking through it in his mind, holding your hand in a version of the world where things were easier. and then his voice cuts through the silence, “but i don’t want to lose you in this life, either.” and before you can say anything, he adds, “do you think we could… i don’t know—be friends?” you turn to look at him, and he’s watching you carefully, not with expectation but with something closer to fear. he’s afraid you’ll say no, afraid you’ll cut the thread that still tethers you to him, even if it’s frayed and worn and barely holding. but you smile a little. it’s small and sad, but a smile after all. “yeah. i think we could.” he exhales like he’s been holding his breath. “maybe not right now,” you add gently. “maybe we give it some time. let it stop hurting so much. but yeah… eventually, i’d like that.” he nods again, eyes flicking toward you like he’s trying to memorize your face in this exact light, with this exact expression—still full of love. “i just don’t want to lose you completely.” “you won’t,” you say. and it’s the one thing you can promise. “you’re too much a part of me now, hyun, you always will be. we’ll figure it out.”

the gravel crunches quietly under your shoes. the path back through the garden is dim now, the sun completely dipped behind the horizon, leaving the sky painted in that deep, rich blue, settling into dusk. every now and then, you glance at seunghyun in your periphery—his hands in his pockets, head slightly bowed, like he’s trying to hold on to every last moment of this without showing it. you walk without touching, without speaking, but everything between you is loud. and then, just before the path curves toward the iron gate that separates the quiet of this place from the rest of the world, you stop. “seunghyun,” you say, his name barely above a whisper. he turns to you slowly, like he already knows what’s coming, like he’s been waiting for it without letting himself hope. you reach up with both hands and cradle his face—thumbs brushing over the curve of his cheekbones, your fingers slipping into the soft, familiar edges of his hair. his breath catches, his eyes flicker, and then they fall shut just as your mouth finds his. his hands are on you within seconds—your waist, your back, the side of your neck, fucking everywhere. he kisses you back hard, full of need and every word he didn’t know how to say earlier. you make a soft sound against his mouth, one he swallows greedily, pulling you closer, gripping the fabric at your back like he doesn’t trust the world not to rip you away. your fingers slide into his hair, tugging just enough to make him moan, and when he groans against your mouth, his tongue slips past your lips, deepening the kiss. he kisses you hungrily. because he knows this is the last moment he’ll get to remember what it feels like to be wanted by you. his hands slide up your sides, and then one of them cups your face, the pad of his thumb brushing just beneath your eye, catching a tear you didn’t even realize had fallen. your heart stutters in your chest at how tender it is—how fucking unfair it is that someone can love you this gently and still not be yours. you kiss him deeper, your tongue meeting his, your mouth opening wider like maybe if you just give enough of yourself, it’ll keep him for a little longer. but eventually, it has to stop. your hands loosen in his hair, and his grip on you falters. you pull away first, even though it feels like tearing something out of your own chest. you’re both panting, and your lips are swollen. “sorry,” you whisper. “i just… i needed to do that one last time.” you close your eyes and let your hand rest over his chest, right where his heart is pounding beneath your palm—fast and uneven, like yours. “i needed it too,” he says quietly. you both feel it settle deep in your bones—that quiet, devastating truth: the kiss was goodbye. to everything you were and everything you’ll never be again.

by the time you make it back to your friend’s apartment, the sky has already folded into itself, navy and thick. you step inside, the house dim and quiet, the hallway lit only by the warm spill of light coming from the kitchen where your friend’s probably left a candle burning. you move through the space like you’re not really there. your shoes come off, your jacket lands somewhere near a chair you don’t look at, and you’re halfway down the hall toward the living room with that hollow, buzzing emptiness ringing in your ears—when your phone vibrates once. and you think, for a stupid second, that maybe it’s him. but no. instead, it’s your banking app, and there on your screen, as casual as if someone had just venmoed you for last week’s pizza, is a deposit—an absurd amount of money, like… frankly ridiculous amount—and next to it, the name. choi seunghyun. you stare at it for a second, not really processing it, your brain taking its sweet time catching up, and when it finally does, you quickly message him.

seunghyun

WHAT THE FUCK

what

why

wtf

what the actual fuck

You told me you were staying with your friend while looking for a place.

I thought it might help.

are you crazy?

wtf

this is insane, hyun

It’s nothing🙂

it’s NOT nothing wtf

you wired me enough to pay rent for a year

maybe more

no, no, definitely more

way more

what part of that feels normal to you

this is so much money, what were you thinking

I was thinking you deserved it.

i don’t need you to take care of me like that

i’m not your responsibility

You’re not.

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to help you however I can.

it’s too much, hyun

So is everything I feel for you.

i don’t know if i can accept it

Please do.

Friends help each other, don’t they?

i’m being so frl rn old man

Me too, princess.

are u trying to make me cry?💔 be honest

We’ve cried enough today.

I want you to be happy, so please let me do this for you.

thank you seunhyun, really

Of course🫰🏼

i love you

I love you too.

Take care❤️

you too :)

you press the phone to your chest, close your eyes, and sigh. and maybe it’s dramatic to cry over a money transfer, but here you are. not because you need the money, but because you know, this is the only way he knows how to take care of you now—by giving you something tangible and useful in his absence. and that hurts.

it’s been two years since that last conversation with seunghyun—two whole years since that kiss in the garden, since the deposit, since his last message sat in your phone. life didn’t stop after him. it moved forward the way time always does—slow. and eventually, you did too. you moved out of your friend’s place not long after meeting seunghyun—gave yourself permission to look at listings just slightly outside your price range, to stop filtering by ‘cheapest first,’ to imagine something more. and when you found it—a corner apartment on the top floor of a building, all warm wood and tall windows and soft morning light—you said yes. it’s not huge, but it’s beautiful. clean lines, a little balcony that overlooks the street, a kitchen that makes you want to cook even when all you know how to make is pasta… it’s the first place you’ve ever lived that feels like it was meant for you. and yeah, sometimes you think about seunghyun—you think about how he gave this to you. but mostly, you think about how you made it into something your own.

you also dropped the guy you’d been seeing back then and focused on yourself. let yourself learn how to be alone. you got a new job too—something better, something steadier. it pays well, and you don’t come home every night feeling like you’ve been scraped raw, which is more than you used to ask for. things with your mom are better now, or at least better than they used to be. she calls every week, asks about work (because that’s her favorite topic), sometimes even about your mood, and it’s clear she’s trying. but the thing that still sticks in your throat, the thing you can’t seem to move past, is that she’s never actually said she was sorry. she speaks like it was a necessary evil, like leaking your relationship to the press was some calculated decision made for your protection, not a betrayal that burned through your entire life. and maybe if she showed even a flicker of regret—real regret—you’d be able to meet her halfway. but without that, there’s only so far you can go.

you’re not healed. but you’re okay. you wake up most mornings without feeling like you’re drowning, you go to work, make dinner, fold laundry while music plays in the background. you laugh with friends and sleep through the night more often than not. and your screen time is down 12% this week—so, progress. that has to count for something. but some nights, when it’s quiet in your apartment and the city hums softly outside your window, you think of seunghyun. you wonder where he is, if he’s okay, if he ever sees something and thinks of you. you wonder if he’s happy, if he’s sleeping well, if his hands still tremble when he’s anxious or if someone else has learned how to hold them steady. and sometimes, you stare at the ceiling too long, or catch yourself holding your breath when a memory slips through—and it still surprises you, how much he lives in the smallest, stupidest things. because no matter how much distance time gives you, there are people who never really leave. and seunghyun, no matter how far away he is now—he’s one of them.

so when his name lights up your phone one random thursday evening two years later—you almost fall off your bed.

Hi.

Sorry if this is weird.

I was looking through my gallery and I found this.

it’s a photo taken from above—his arm stretched out enough to fit both of you into the frame, the angle slightly off-center. you’re completely out, fast asleep on top of him, arms loosely wrapped around his waist like you were trying to merge with him in your sleep. your cheek is smushed against the ridiculous pajama top—the one he bought for himself first, then ordered a second one for you when he realized how cute you’d look matching. yes, the infamous pajama set that everyone and their mother saw after your mom leaked everything. his hair is a mess, sticking up in every direction, but his face is soft—eyes shining even in the low light of the room, a sleepy grin on his face.

Turns out, the picture those fans took of us wasn’t the only one we had.

I hope life’s treating you nicely🫰🏼

and something about it—about him still having that photo, still thinking of you enough to send it—makes you smile. you write back faster than you thought you would.

omg seunhyun!!! hii!!

when did you take that photo? and why didn’t u tell me about it?😭

I took it when you came to Seoul for my birthday.

I forgot I took it.

You woke up right after hahah😴😄

it’s sooo sooo cute🥹

It is😊

How are you?

i’m good :)) but a bit tired because i’ve been helping my friend paint her house and it’s been a lot of work

my arms are so sore😭

what about you?

you doing okay?

Yes! I’m good.

I missed talking to you.

me too :)) and i’m glad to know you’re doing well!

I also wanted to know if you’d like to go for a coffee next week?

I wanted to fly to Texas to see you.

We could catch up.

If you want to, of course🙂

yesss ofc, i’d love to :)🩷

i’m really happy you reached out

been thinking about you a lot, honestly

You have?

more than i’d like to admit hahah

i was wondering how you were doing :)

I’ve thought about you too.

And I’m really looking forward to seeing you😊

me too🙂‍↕️

I’ll send you the details once everything’s booked, is that okay?

yeah, sure, that sounds perfect :)

See you soon🫰🏼

when the day finally comes, there’s a quiet nervousness in your chest—not the kind that makes your hands shake, but the kind that hums beneath your skin. you don’t know what to expect. it’s been two years. whole seasons, whole versions of yourself have passed since you last stood in front of him. you’ve changed. you’ve grown. but some things stay. he’s waiting outside the café when you arrive—hands in his coat pockets, hair a little longer. and the second your eyes meet, he smiles. and you smile back, like no time has passed at all. the conversation flows without effort. you don’t even notice your coffee going cold—you’re too busy talking and laughing like it hasn’t been two years. and you don’t try to stop the feeling that rushes in, that warm, aching knowing in your chest that says, yeah. it’s still him. even after everything. it’s still seunghyun. you don’t know what���s going to happen next, and for once, that doesn’t scare you. you just let the moment be what it is, suspended in something that feels a lot like peace. because maybe this is it. maybe you don’t need another life to find your way back to each other—you already do in this one.

i hope this lived up to your expectations for part 2 :) i genuinely did the best i could. i’ve spent so much time on this fic and gotten so attached to everything about it that it doesn’t even feel like something i made up anymore?? like someone out there is living through it and suffering bc of seunghyun fr… my brain fully believes it atp😭

thank you so much for all the support you’ve shown to this fic, and for all the kind messages i’ve been getting because of it—i seriously wasn’t expecting it at all 🥹💗

regular taglist: @breakmeoff @sherrayyyyy @infinetlyforgotten @bettelaboure @scream-queen-25 @flwerangii

hidden pt.2 taglist: @ulquiorraswife @rubyylovestoread @youlikeex @liv2cool

[monzamash]

valentine — lando norris

lando norris x you femreader | 1k rating – 18+ (sex, coarse language) inspired by this anon – you took me places and i'm so grateful.

lando screams messy to me, in everything he does – cooking, cleaning, kissing, fucking; he’s just one big mess of a man and although some of those things drove you up the wall, the positives easily compensated for the negatives. the way he had you riled up, purring and cursing under your breath within seconds of having his mouth attached to yours was unmatched; incomparable to anyone who came before him.

he shamelessly indulged in you – eyes glued to the way your delicious hips swayed to the music while the raw desire settled in the pit of his stomach. he had learned how to control it, how to redirect his attention but he was 4 shots of patron deep, mind filled with wicked thoughts, every last one rushing to his dick. so he held strong, until he couldn’t – nothing could stop him in his pursuit to have a taste of you once he let the devil in.

“stop it are you being serious right now?”

your pathetic protest was mumbled through tangled tongues, both desperate for more than a hasty kiss. god, he loved swallowing your whispered moans, each one whinier than the last as he licked into your mouth and across your warm cheek. you were the mess when he found that sweet spot just below your ear, tethering the first knot in your stomach to the blood rushing to your core, fingers needy for something to hold.

“why not?”

you could hear the smirk in lando’s retort as you tugged his head from your neck – pulling a guttural, almost pleasurable sound from the smiling assassin attached to the fistful of curls.

“because you can’t control yourself”

“who said anything about me?”

lando punctuated his question with a heavy hand gliding across the soddened silk shielding your cunt, his fingertips teasing every last nerve ending as he pressed his forehead to yours. he was a vision of sin when you dared to open your eyes, the sight stoking the perilous fire that burned for him. a roguish smile and a satisfied hum rumbled in his chest when he felt the reaction he’d caused.

“hmm, isn't that interesting. maybe i’m not the only one with self-control issues…”

“not nearly as bad as you.”

"but i know you love it when i'm bad."

you were foolish to think he believed a word you were droning, so pliantly at his mercy when he plunged out of sight, admiring his handy work. lando hiked up the hem of your short skirt and carelessly tugged down the cotton soaked thread that had him salivating like a feral dog. he left them loosely hanging around your knees, down just enough to let the brisk, london breeze blow over your exposed cunt and far enough for him to nestle his face between your thighs.

it was muscle memory the way your back arched off the brick wall and hips rotated towards lando’s warm mouth – legs spread, hands trying to leverage some ounce of control as he licked into you folds, sucking the sensitive bud of nerves nestled between into his soft lips. the sensation of his affection and your pleasure sliding down his throat and on inside of your thighs inspired a chorus of moans that echoed into the silent night – the only thing keeping the public from baring witness to your sinful act was the emergency exit door lando had lured you through only moments before.

the fear that anyone could find you like this vanished the moment lando spat messily into your cunt; the only thing connecting him to you were strings of spit dangling from his filthy mouth.

“fuuuu- yeah just like that,” your breathing was ragged and drawn from burning lungs as his middle finger teased your slick hole, edging your high with an evil grin.

“ride my fucking face, pretty girl… i need a taste.”

you were fucking losing it.

lando dove back in; raucous spluttering and choking groans coming from the man devouring you like a melting popsicle on a sweltering summers day, paired with how fucking good it felt having his tongue circling your clit, had you whining and writhing on his tongue like a woman possessed – flat, firm and served up on a silver platter. he had to watch as the knots he’d tangled in the pit of your stomach unravelled, showering you with muffled praise while the soft baby curls tickling the nape of his neck were savaged by your grabby hands.

the incoherent pleads of mercy sounded like a foreign prayer to lando as he held you firmly in his grasp, tongue lapping unrelentingly. cruelly – any longer you thought you may never reach it, unfairly denied until the restless pants and murmurs of blasphemy ascended into temporary bliss, blinded by the numbing pleasure as you dragged your languid hips over his taste buds, one, two three times – wringing out every last drop and then some.

lando was a mess of moans as he finished you off, curls and eyes wild beyond recognition when he finally rose from between your aching thighs – his dribble and your sweetness coated his stubbled chin, thick neck; even the blushed tip of his nose glowed under the streetlight above, lips raw and curved in a fucked out grin.

“you’re so baaaad baby” he teased, earning a soft smack to the chest before he brushed his warm hand over your cheek and leaned down for a kiss. tasting yourself on his lips and inhaling the smell of sex fused with his spiced aftershave was love personified. he was boyish and sloppy; fun and goofy and the only man who could make you come just by using his mouth. he was also unequivocally, heartbreakingly, head over heels in love with you.

“that’s why you love me.”

the sound of your laughter echoing through the otherwise abandoned laneway, wrapped up in one another, only reiterated that this was his best-worst idea ever.

[greyskyflowers]

The idea of hell having a claim on Edwin's soul is such a fun avenue to explore. There's a lot of ways I like to think that could manifest.

Personally, I like the idea of the claim mark being inked around his throat like a tattoo, the whole way around it like a collar. It's why he wears his shirt buttoned up all the way and his bow tie all the time.

Something in another language or comprised of runes or other designs that indicate his soul is claimed, but it just looks wrong. There's no good way to describe it but even someone who didn't know it was a claim from hell would be unsettled by it.

And Charles hates it from the first time he sees it.

Especially the more he gets to know Edwin, the more it really sinks in how wrong the whole thing is.

And because the universe apparently just loves to fuck with Edwin, it also hurts. Ghosts can't bleed but sometimes it just kind of oozes a thick black liquid. It will burn, similar to the way iron burns, and it itches. Edwin will mindlessly scratch at it to the point where he'd be bleeding if he was living.

When he's in hell, it manifests as a actual iron collar. It's the same collar each time he comes back after being killed so it's rusted with old blood and forms jagged edges, ripping into the skin while it burns. When he scratches at it, he digs at the skin until it bleeds and sometimes further.

Edwin did not tell Charles about the physical collar. That might have been a misstep on his part, however in his defense he wasn't planning on ending up back in hell or Charles being in hell with him at any point.

So Charles, who's already burning with worry and rage, finds Edwin and learns what actually happens to him down here and finds out the whole time Edwin is collar like a dog... well. It doesn't go well.

Charles wants it off. The mark was bad enough but now he's got an actual fucking collar?

He wants it off Edwin. He wants it off right now. But there's no seam on the collar, it's like it was welded on. It's not meant to come off and it won't, not while they're still in hell.

It's burning into Edwin's skin when he tells Charles he's in love with him and honestly, Charles can barely focus on anything except getting Edwin out of there and that stupid fucking collar smoking and drawing blood.

But he knows he doesn't want to tell Edwin he loves him back right now. Not when they're still in hell with a monster chasing them, both of them exhausted and Edwin hurt.

He'll say it after they're safe and out of hell, after that collar is gone.

He's going to hit the ground running on figuring out how to break the whole damn claim. He hadn't pushed it as much as he should have. Edwin didn't like to talk about it or call attention to it and Charles respected that. He shouldn't have. He should have pushed it because even if Edwin only had the physical collar in hell, he still had the mark constantly.

Charles had spent many nights glaring at it, nights where it was just them in the office and Edwin actually let himself relax, undoing the buttons on his shirt until the mark was visible. His attention would always end up being drawn back to the mark, Edwin too focused on other things to notice.

If he said anything, or even got caught staring at it, he knew Edwin would snap shut. He wouldn't ever let it show again and he deserves a place to be able to relax and not worry about it. Plus, Charles knows that sometimes the mark is sensitive enough that the clothing rubbing against it makes it raw, being able to expose the mark and let it air out was a relief.

The claim gets pushed to the side with everything else that happens but when Charles gets Edwin off the table Esther had made, to torture him and Charles was rapidly coming to the conclusion that he was more than okay being incredibly violent if it means people will leave Edwin and him alone, the mark is dark and black liquid is rolling down his skin in big drips.

He's ready to get Crystal involved by the time they're finally back in the office, even though he knows Edwin has no desire for her to see or know about the curse, but things actually start to go their way.

They're given the okay to stay together and keep solving cases, and Edwin doesn't have to worry about going back to hell.

They're giving the night nurse some shit, welcoming her to the agency with tongue in cheek comments when she mentions something about the cursed claim and both of them straighten up.

It's nothing concrete, but it's worth a shot. Charles feels a little bad for flinging her off the cliff at the lighthouse because there must be something good in her for her to give them this. She could have said nothing and they never would have even thought to ask her.

She can't promise it will work and she doesn't even know if it's the right information but it gives them a place to start and that's more than enough.

Once your soul has been cursed and claimed in such a way, especially by something like hell, it can't ever be completely free again. Something with the makeup of the soul being altered. Ownership of the claim must be transferred to someone else, it isn't broken just shifted.

So, in the end, the only thing that can transfer a claim on a soul like Edwin's is a stronger claim.

Charles is like fucking finally. He's ready to rip Edwin's soul out of everyone else's hands at this point. No one's got a stronger claim on Edwin than him and he'll fight hell to prove it if he needs to.

And honestly, Edwin can't think of anyone else he'd want to have it.

The spell for the transfer works and the mark changes completely. The dark ink lightens to a off grey silver color that's hardly visible unless you look right at it. The edges of the letters/runes/shapes go from jagged and sharp to curved and soft.

The mark doesn't hurt, ooze black, burn, or itch anymore. In fact, Edwin would argue that it's warm, like it's trying to soothe more than anything else.

He would almost say it's pretty.

Charles gets a version of it on his wrist, wrapped around it like a bracelet. It shows more on him with his skin color and Edwin would say it's pretty.

Maybe it's sensitive and touching it on each other feels good. So Charles gets in the habit of brushing his hands over Edwin's throat and petting at the mark. Edwin gets in the habit of grabbing Charles's wrist and holding it, fingers soothing over the mark and the soft skin of Charles's inner wrist.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

Idk just fun thoughts 🤷‍♀️

[vergiltopia]

Random headcanons about Vergil pt. 2

★ Literally anything about him. I love him <3

Warnings: none!! have fun.

Note: I didn't know I had so many followers in here since I barely post, but this motivates me to be more active and post more here!! I'll try to be more active hehe :)

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★ Vergil is the type of guy who likes to hold your chin with his fingers and make you look at him like this, analyzing you with his icy orbs.

★ He hates when people touch his things without permission, or when they get too curious about him and get bombarded with questions. If you don't have intimacy, don't do it.

★ His fav ice cream flavor is definitely chocomint! “Oh but it tasted like toothpaste—” NUH UH IT DOESN'T! Mint in general is so Vergil coded btw.

★ A cat person, we all clap and agree, yet he adores big dog breeds and would be the type of owner who teaches them tricks and has a dedicated routine to them.

★ Touching him while talking is overwhelming and he tenses up, he will be like “I don't see the necessity of your hands while we speak, hands do not talk.”

★ He would play hard if he was gifted with a kindle, saying he prefers the real thing, to feel the pages and the smell of books, yet Vergil will quickly fall in love with it and find out it's actually very practical. Physical copies will always be his number 1, so make sure to always give them to him.

★ Not just because he's the tea man, but he doesn't like coffee flavor and caffeine in general, he doesn't think it's healthy. Vergil also doesn't like energy drinks (too old for this shit).

★ Talking about the tea man: he usually doesn't put sugar on his tea, and if he does, small quantities but it's rare. Vergil likes the pure and raw flavor, even if it's bitter. “Bitter as the lessons I've come to learn”, he thinks.

★ He takes the Yamato pretty much everywhere, so sometimes you need to previously ask him to not bring it together. His sword is the equivalent of a phone to him, you shouldn't leave your house without it.

★ Vergil doesn't know how to drive… I mean, he spent most of his life in the demon world, I don't think they have cars there.

★ Vergil actually has healthy food habits, he usually makes his meals at the same hour everyday, 4 meals a day, breakfast, lunch, afternoon snack and dinner. He tries to balance them and eats only what he needs to, Vergil likes to keep a routine and regulated life, he believes that to be a stronger and powerful warrior you have to think about not just your behavior in battle but also out of it.

★ He has a serious problem with putting his coat to wash and complains about it for some really mysterious reasons, guess everybody has their own weird habits, even him.

★ Body hair. HE'S A GROWN ASS MAN HE DOES HAVE BODY HAIR, it just isn't so thick and since they're white it's very discreet, and it also grows more slowly than normal, specially on his chest and his arms, it's very thin.

★ Can learn new languages very quickly, he's fluent in a few human and demon languages, more likely in the demon ones. Yet, some human languages me thinks he knows: english, latin, italian, ancient greek and japanese.

Note: I already talked about the Vergil latin speaker in another post but I elaborated this a bit more… Vergil learned lots of latin thanks to books about how to exorcise demons, he constantly also learned several prayers in that language.

★ He doesn't like to eat in bed. The katana guy wants to keep it as clean as possible since it is where we sleep. He also doesn't spend too much time in bed, for Vergil this is literally only to sleep, so you will probably never find him rotting in bed, only if he's VERY ill and because someone forced him to stay.

★ Sharpens and cleans the Yamato blade every morning like a ritual, it's not like the sword REALLY needs that, yet this is his own little way to show respect to his legacy and keep his mind grounded with small habits.

★ Vergil doesn't like crowds, not only for the obvious reasons that HE'S AWKWARD, but also because they're overwhelming for his demon senses, he feels too much, senses too much, hears too much.

★ Has light sleep, he's always aware so it's really easy to wake him.

★ Loves philosophy, he's a nerd for it. I also think he's such a music nerd, bet Vergil knows how to read a score.

★ He's a good observer and learns a lot just like that, like a sponge that absorbs everything.

★ Knows how to draw a little, mostly pen gray scale drawings, he has his own sense of art and art style, though it's not really a hobby so Vergil doesn't practice or pay too much effort to it.

★ Very assertive about what he likes or not, usually he will go for the same movies/food/books/activities.

★ I'm sure if Vergil knew he was going to be a father, he would stay to take care of his baby. He would be a good dad if he knew earlier. I never thought and never will think that all of the jokes about his fatherhood make some sense or are funny (sorry) since he only discovered he was a father only at the end of DMC5.

★ For some reason, he prefers stairs instead of elevators.

★ Vergil adores baths in the bathtub because it's relaxing and therapeutic. In the shower he prefers cold water baths, usually more to motivate himself, it's more practical.

★ He seems like the type of person that's into crocheting or any other granny hobby.

★ Vergil is not a MasterChef, he can cook very simple meals since he had to do his own meals for a long time, they're edible, it's not like he mastered the art of cooking, he doesn't work with lots of condiments and spices, sometimes he even forget to put salt. Let's just say he's not very demanding with food.

Note: Vergil seems to have a palate as strong as him, he isn't easily bothered by bitter taste, he's the one responsible to eat the 80% (or up) cocoa chocolate if someone bought it by accident or received it as a gift, he seems to actually enjoy it.

★ Vergil probably ate some questionable things at some point of his life due to survival needs, think about it…

★ He types everything correctly when messaging someone, and he doesn't use abbreviations or slangs, also uses correct punctuation.

★ Mr Katana is very resistant to alcohol, Vergil isn't the type that likes to drink at all, he simply doesn't like the taste of alcohol, yet he enjoys a good wine, specially dry red wine. Though, the chances of seeing him getting tipsy because of it are almost 0. Besides, he makes sure to not overdo it and avoid ending up embarrassing himself in front of others.

★ Already said this a lot, but never said it here, sooo… VERGIL IS HAMMERHEAD SHARK CODED. He is shark coded in general, but his DT looks like a hammerhead shark so much I will never be able to unsee it.

★ Vergil is not rude or arrogant just because he's more closed and distant, he has his own way of speaking which can make him look like he came directly from a Victorian book sometimes. He's introverted at heart, and also finds lots of difficulties expressing his emotions facially, which can make it look like he's always angry.

★ Doesn't care about birthdays in general, especially his own. He won't celebrate it, he won't even say it's his birthday.

★ Vergil's lick when he's on DT can help to clean and heal a wound more quickly and efficiently thanks to his demon DNA. His tail will also give hints of how he's feeling, like a cat.

Important note: yes, he purrs on devil trigger if he's content, cause his growling turnout so low it turns into purring.

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[strayingawayy]

to love and be loved...

...the one where unrequited love is a bitch, but seungmin's there and he's warmth embodied

the world has always felt like an inside joke you were never let in on.

love, whatever that (bitch) meant, was a language you never quite learned to speak. you’d seen it in fleeting glances, in the way couples curled into each other on the campus lawn, in the tired smiles your mother gave you after a long day, in the way chan's eyes shined as he watched his drunk girlfriend blabber, in the silences between the notes of a tchaikovsky symphony... but you'd never felt it, not really. not in the way they wrote about in books or sang about in songs.

until her.

your best friend, your sun, your orbit. and for a while, you thought maybe this was it. maybe love was soft laughter in between classes and shared playlists and whispered secrets at 2 a.m. but then it started to hurt, like an ache that nestled itself into your bones and refused to leave. you wanted too much, more than what was yours to have. and you hated yourself for it and maybe you hated her too.

it was stupid. you knew it was. jealousy burned ugly inside you when she drifted too far, when she made plans without you, when she looked at someone else like maybe they were her orbit instead of you. you clenched your fists and swallowed it down, because what right did you have to feel this way?

and when you finally told her, when the words slipped out, raw and trembling, she had looked at you with those gentle, pitying eyes- and god, how you hated pity, especially on her.

“i love you,” she had said, “but not like that.”

it should have been enough. but it wasn’t.

so you did what you always did. you shut down. you built walls and sat behind them, watching as everyone you loved stood on the other side, too far to touch. within reach, just not enough.

...

"are you even listening?"

seungmin’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts, and you blink up at him from where you’re hunched over your laptop, the words on the screen blurring into nothing.

"hmm?" you mumble, trying to sound present as you fiddle with your rings to ground yourself.

he sighs, leaning back in his chair with an exasperated look. "we’ve been working on this project for an hour and you’ve contributed exactly three words, and one of them was ‘ugh.’"

you offer him a weak smile. "it’s a very versatile word."

"yeah? so is ‘failure,’ which is what we’re gonna get if you don’t start helping." but his tone is lighter than his words, teasing in a way that feels like an invitation to breathe.

you roll your eyes, leaning back and letting out a long, tired sigh. "sorry, i’m just… tired."

over the past few months, kim seungmin aka the stupidly pretty infamous everyone's campus crush had begun hanging out with you. what started of as a fist bump after a successful group project blossomed into something more. and you'd be lying if you said you didn't find the sound of his footsteps after yours endearing. the way his shadow flickered besides yours during the late evenings you shared, the way his pupils only ever dilated when he saw either the campus dogs, or you.

seungmin watches you carefully, and something in his expression shifts. "like... physically tired? or existential crisis tired?"

you snort. "little bit of both."

"great, same." he nudges your arm with his elbow, voice softer now. "what’s going on?"

you hesitate. it’s easier to keep it all locked up, to pretend everything’s fine until it isn’t. but seungmin’s eyes are patient, steady. and something in you cracks, just a little and just enough.

"i just feel… exhausted. like i keep giving and giving and i don't even know if there's anything left." your voice wavers despite yourself. "and no one ever asks. no one ever sees it."

seungmin’s brows furrow, and then he says it, so simple it nearly knocks the air out of your lungs. "i see it."

you blink. "what?"

"i see it," he repeats, quieter this time, hands fiddling with his sweater paws. god, fuck his little sweater paws. "you try so hard to keep everything together, but you never let anyone in. not really."

your throat tightens. "that’s because it’s easier that way."

"easier for who?" he asks, and the silence that follows feels heavier than anything else.

you don't have an answer. or maybe you do, but it’s buried too deep.

he sighs, nudging you again, this time gentler. "look, i know you’re used to dealing with things on your own. but you don’t have to, y’know? not with me."

something in your chest stirs, unfamiliar and terrifying and you find the words slipping out from your mouth before you can stop them. "why do you even care?"

he smirks, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "i’m just hoping if i stick around long enough, you’ll finally contribute more than ‘ugh’ to this project."

you let out a weak laugh, and it feels... nice. lighter.

"besides," he adds, voice somehow even quieter now, "i care because it’s you."

your heart stumbles over itself.

...

time passes, like it always does. slowly, surely, the sharp edges inside you soften. your best friend's absence doesn’t ache as much anymore, and seungmin. seungmin, who never demands, never pushes, just is, starts to fill the spaces she left behind in ways you never expected.

you realise it one afternoon, sitting across from him in the library because somehow you're always in the library. it's easier to exist there with him, between books and silent breathes. he’s flipping through a textbook, his lips pursed in concentration, and it hits you all at once.

love, real love, doesn’t have to be loud or all-consuming. sometimes, it’s just someone who shows up. someone who sees you even when you don’t want to be seen.

you exhale, a soft, shaky thing, and reach out to touch his hand. just lightly.

he looks up, surprised but not unhappy. "finally contributing?"

you smile, and this time, it’s real. "yeah. something like that."

and when his fingers curl around yours, you think that maybe, just maybe, you’re learning how to be loved.

[followingthebutterflies7]

Sweeter Than Honey | Part One: The Game

Mob Boss!Spencer Agnew x FBI!Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Series Summary: You were sent undercover to infiltrate the world of the most dangerous mob boss on the FBI’s list, Spencer Agnew. But the more you find out about him, the more you lose yourself.

Series Warnings: Mature themes that include emotional manipulation, psychological tension, dubious consent, morally grey relationships, violence, organized crime, and mild language.

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3, Part 4, Part 5, Part Six

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Part One: The Game

You were built to ruin men like him. So why does it feel like you’re the one being led to slaughter?

The first rule of your honeypot training: they can’t know you want something.

Desire must look effortless. Seduction must feel accidental. You don’t chase the target. You become the thing they chase.

You learned that early, somewhere between the controlled flirtation drills and the hours of psychological deconstruction in sterile underground rooms. They stripped you down, not your body but your mind, in rooms colder than morgues until there was nothing left but raw, pliable instinct. 

Then they built you back up, piece by piece. A different version of yourself, designed to fit the voids inside others. You were taught to map a man’s mind the way others mapped coastlines: to find where he was soft, where he was strong, where he could drown.

Comfort. Chaos. Curiosity. Control.

You learned to be whatever the moment demanded. Whichever hook would sink fastest into the heart, or throat, of the mark.

You were the FBI’s best recruit, the golden child of the honeypot program. Every lesson they had put in front of you, you had devoured like a starving dog. All the tests you were put through, you had passed with the kind of effortless precision that made others whisper in jealous awe.

Every operation you touched ended the same way: completed, clean, and without a trail.

Your instructors said you adapted like water, slipping through cracks and reshaping yourself into whatever was needed. You preferred to be compared to honey, patient, trapping, and sickly sweet. 

You were cunning. Ruthless. Resilient.

And you were beautiful. But not in the way that mattered.

You were beautiful like a loaded gun left on a nightstand: inviting from a distance, deadly up close.

That was why you were their best.

Because you didn’t just know how to make men want you. You knew how to make power want you.

Still, this time felt different.

Because this time, the target wasn’t just dangerous. 

He was danger.

“Spencer Agnew,” your handler, Claire Marlowe, said as she slid the slim black dossier across the table like it was a loaded weapon. Her fingers brushed the edge of it briefly, a silent warning.

The FBI's underground briefing room in D.C. hummed with cold fluorescent light. No windows. No clocks. No distractions. It was sterile, quiet, and cold, humming with tension of deep silence. The kind of place where reality was optional and morality was a suggestion.

You didn’t touch the folder yet. You knew better. Marlowe always delivered the worst of it first.

Marlowe’s gaze was razor-sharp, fingers steepled in front of her. "He's not a hammer," she said. "He's a scalpel. Precise. Surgical. Patient. He slices right through his enemies with a soft voice, expensive suits, and exquisite elegance. He lures everyone past a false sense of security, and into safety and comfortability. He doesn't bludgeon his way to power, he dissects his enemies while they're still smiling at him."

You nodded once, silent.

“He slices through his enemies with soft words and softer hands,” she went on. “You’ll want to underestimate him. Everyone does. That’s why they’re all dead.”

You let the silence stretch.

“I won’t underestimate him,” you said.

Marlowe arched a brow, skeptical but not argumentative. “He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty. But bodies drop when he says jump. Political leverage, international trafficking networks, arms deals. We've only scratched the surface of what he’s done. And now he’s started laundering through legitimate logistics contracts. He’s starting to buy himself into respectability.”

You met her gaze. She leaned back, exhaling. “That’s why we need you, Agent Dahlia.”

You opened the file. And stopped breathing for a fraction of a second.

Spencer Agnew’s photo was clipped to the first page. You weren’t sure what you expected. A brute, maybe. A thug with blood under his nails. Not this.

Spencer Agnew looked like a man who belonged in a penthouse suite above the city. The man in the photo was tailored to perfection. Charcoal suit, slightly messy curls, a half-smile so slight you might have missed it if you weren’t trained to look for the little things. 

His eyes were dark and sharp, but with a detached air, like he was already five moves ahead on a board you didn’t even know you were playing. Every bit the predator who knew he could play with his food.

You weren’t new to infiltration. You’d seduced tech brokers, cartels, crooked hedge fund heirs. But none of them had a reputation like his. 

They called him the Gentleman Reaper. And no one ever saw him coming.

Your stomach tightened. Not with fear, but with something colder, sharper.

Marlowe slid another folder across the table towards you. It contained a carefully crafted undercover persona, put together by the FBI’s best, your new life.

Your new identity was Elise Hawthorne. Ivy-educated logistics consultant with offshore shell companies, a brilliant paper trail, and a long resume of profitable, morally gray ventures. Believable. Polished. Just dangerous enough to catch a man like Agnew’s attention.

“You’d be inserted through a fake corporate front, an intelligence-created laundering contact.” Marlowe says. “Win his trust. Earn a seat in his inner circle. Gather intel. Bring him down.”

 All roads led to one destination: proximity to Spencer. 

"You’ll gather everything you can. Names. Accounts. Evidence. And when the time’s right-" She mimed pulling a trigger. "We take the whole empire down."

But first? You had to survive his gatekeeper. Standing between you and Spencer Agnew was his right hand.

Alex Tran.

Marlowe didn’t sugarcoat it.

“He’ll interrogate you before you ever breathe the same air as Agnew,” she said. “And he doesn’t care about manners or boundaries. He's a former intelligence, some black ops ghost, who vanished after a mission in Bangkok. Rumor is Agnew pulled him from a kill team and gave him purpose. Or maybe Tran found him. No one really knows.”

You tapped the edge of the file.

“What does he want?”

Marlowe's eyes glinted. “To protect Agnew. At any cost.”

“He'll vet you first," she continues. "And he doesn't play games."

Neither did you.

--------------------------------------------------------

The first time you met Alex Tran, it was like walking into a den of knives.

You were taken to a penthouse in Manhattan under the guise of a private consulting contract. The residence was all glass and steel. No personal touches. No softness. Just the subtle hum of a building too secure to be anything but a fortress.

Your heels clicked softly against polished floors as you entered a living room designed for quiet intimidation. Polished stone. Chrome accents. A view that swallowed Manhattan whole.

And there he was. Alex Tran. 

He was leaning against a black-paneled wall, dressed in matte black, arms crossed. Cold eyes. Movements so still he barely seemed to breathe. Watching you walk in like he was memorizing the sound of your footsteps.

“You’re early,” he said.

You smiled coolly.  “Professional habit.”

He said nothing, just studied you with the detachment of a scientist examining a specimen he didn’t believe was real.

“Sit,” he said, nodding at the leather high-back chairs. “Let’s begin.” You did.

“You come highly recommended,” he says, standing behind the chair across from you, not sitting. “I don’t trust recommendations.”

“I don’t expect you to.”

The interrogation didn’t feel like one at first. It was conversational, subtle. Questions layered in questions. He asked about your past contracts, your strategies, the way you handled risk. Then the tone shifted.

“Tell me, what’s your price for betrayal?” he asked, casual as a knife slipped between the ribs.

You didn’t blink. “That depends. Who’s betraying who?”

For the first time, something flickered behind his eyes. Interest? Approval?

Maybe.

“You’re clever,” he said. 

“You wouldn’t have let me through the door if I wasn’t.”

Another pause. Then, softly: “You lie like someone who’s done it for a living. That’s dangerous. For you.”

Your heart tapped a slow warning in your chest. You allowed yourself a fractional shrug. "It’s part of the job."

"Not the job you think you’re interviewing for," Alex said, stepping closer. "You’re not here to help Spencer Agnew. You’re here to survive him."

The room seemed to tighten around you.

“You think Spencer’s going to trust you,” Alex said, voice like icewater. “But here’s the thing, he doesn’t need new people. He doesn’t want them. I’m the reason you’re even being considered for a meeting. I’m also the reason it could be your last.”

You met his gaze. Unflinching.

“I’m not here to replace anyone. I’m here to solve problems.”

Alex tilted his head slightly. “Then let’s see how you handle one.”

He was suddenly uncomfortably close. Almost breathing down your neck.

“Your name,” he said.

“Elise Hawthorne.”

“Wrong. Try again.”

“Elise-”

His hand hit the table.

“You’re a liar.”

You didn’t flinch. Your training was a steel wall around your pulse.

“Everyone in this business is a liar,” you said calmly. “What matters is what I can do for him.”

Alex studied you like he could see the gears in your mind turning.

Then, just as suddenly, he stepped back.

“You’ll get your meeting.” He decides. “I’ll be watching you. Every second.” He waves you off.

You get up from your chair and walk calmly, even-paced, towards the door. Alex calls after you. You paused in the doorway.

His mouth tilted into something that was almost, but not quite, a smile.

“Just remember," he said, voice almost gentle. "Spencer’s not the only one who kills for a living."

--------------------------------------------------------

You waited a week until any instructions came for your meeting with Spencer Agnew. A note on embossed paper had appeared on your kitchen table in your assigned undercover apartment. In dark ink were the instructions, just a date, time, and dress code. 

A car pulled up in front of your apartment on the day. Not a second early or late. Your car door was opened for you, and you were escorted to the meeting location. Same city, different level of hell.

Your meeting with Spencer wasn’t hosted in a flashy club or a cold boardroom. It was a private speakeasy-style lounge beneath a closed restaurant. There was no signage, no cameras, only the faint thump of jazz through the walls and the metallic scent of money in the air. The kind of place where the carpet muffled every footstep and the walls drank secrets.

Security was invisible but omnipresent. Eyes followed you down the hall like ghosts. Your heartbeat was steady, but something coiled in your stomach, a quiet, anticipatory dread.

This was it.

Everything about the mission so far had felt technical. Strategic. You were the player and the board. But now, walking into this curated underworld, it felt less like a game and more like stepping onto a stage. And you weren’t entirely sure who you were playing anymore.

A hostess led you through the velvet curtain and into a room bathed in low amber light. Your heels sank into the plush carpet as you walked further away from the safety of the exit. The whole thing left less like walking into a negotiation and more like stepping onto a stage.

Then you saw him.

Spencer Agnew.

He was seated at the end of a dark mahogany table, backlit by low golden sconces, looking like a king in exile. A glass of something expensive sat untouched beside him. One leg crossed over the other. Perfectly still.

He didn’t look up right away.

You took in the tailored charcoal suit, the undone cufflinks, hair curling rebelliously against his temples. The sharp edge of his jaw softened only slightly by the curl of his lips, like he knew a secret no one else did. Like he was the secret.

You felt his gaze before he even looked up. When he did, it was like a slow burn.

Then his eyes met yours.

Dark. Intelligent. Bored, at first, as they slid over you like a hand tracing a weapon’s edge. Not hurried. Not surprised. 

Then, something else.

Recognition? Curiosity? A flicker of interest? You weren’t sure. But it landed.

And suddenly you weren’t FBI. You weren’t Elise. You were seen, and you didn’t know how he’d done it.

“Ms. Hawthorne,” he said, voice smooth, warm, and utterly disarming. “I hear you solve problems.”

You stepped forward, unhurried, measured.

You managed a soft smile. “Only the expensive ones.”

He smiled back. A real one, this time. Slow. Dangerous.

“Good,” he said, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Because I have a few.”

He raised two fingers. A glass appeared in front of you. 

You didn’t touch the drink they offered. He noticed.

The conversation started innocently enough, unfolding like a dance. You were deliberate in your steps, feints, and flourishes. You talked about your fabricated background, your “expertise” in laundering sensitive funds through unstable foreign markets. You were smooth, measured, confident. Everything your training demanded.

But Spencer had a way of listening that made you feel like you were the only person in the world. It wasn’t what he said, it was the way he watched you. Calculated. Curious. Quietly… amused.

“Tell me,” he said, swirling the amber liquor in his glass without drinking it. “Why this line of work? You could be running a legitimate firm. A big one. Why take on clients like me?”

You tilted your head. “Because clean money doesn’t come with nearly as much satisfaction.”

His brow lifted. “Danger turns you on?”

You smiled like it was a joke. But neither of you laughed.

There was a beat of silence too heavy to ignore. His gaze locked on yours again. This time it was colder. Testing.

“I don’t like games,” he said softly.

“Neither do I,” you replied, steady.

Another silence. Then:

“But you’re playing one,” he murmured. “Aren’t you?”

Your throat dried, but you didn’t blink. “If I were,” you said, “I’d be very good at it.”

Spencer leaned back slightly, eyes still on you.

“I think you might be.”

You didn’t reply.

You watched as his gaze unraveled you. Not your story, but you.

And for the first time, a cold trickle of doubt slid under your skin.

Spencer Agnew didn't look at you like a mark.

He looked at you like a puzzle.

Something to be solved.

Something to be wanted.

Something to be broken.

“You’re not afraid of me?” He asks. 

"If I were," you said, "I wouldn’t be here."

For the first time, Spencer laughed, a low, quiet sound, more vibration than voice.

It was almost...genuine. Almost.

When the meeting ended, you stood. So did he.

He offered a hand, not for a shake, but to take yours gently in his, like a kiss might follow. You placed your hand in his, but he didn’t lift it to his mouth. Just held it.

You let your hand linger in his just a moment longer than necessary. Enough to signal an invitation. Enough to hold a knife behind your back.

His hand was warm. His eyes were colder than ever.

His eyes flicked to your lips. Back to your eyes.

And when he let go, you swore you could still feel his touch branded into your skin.

“We’ll be in touch,” he said, voice like silk and smoke.

But you had the distinct, sinking feeling he’d already made a decision. And whatever it was, it wasn’t going to be about business. 

--------------------------------------------------------

You didn’t exhale until you were back in the black town car that had brought you in.

The streets of Manhattan slid past the tinted windows, but your mind was still inside that velvet-lined room. Inside that amber gaze. You touched your wrist, where his hand had rested.

You should’ve felt power. Progress. Triumph.

Instead, you felt seen. Not as Elise Hawthorne, not as the FBI’s Agent Dahlia, but as something closer to yourself. And that wasn’t part of the plan.

You felt utterly disarmed after your meeting with Spencer. Like he had taken all your defences, all the knowledge of your fake identity and mission and stripped them from you as he had seen right through you. But as the fog that clouded your brain like the smoke from the speakeasy, you clung to two things you did know. 

One, he was interested. Two, you were already in over your head. 

And somewhere in the back of your mind, a single thought coiled tight: You weren't sure you wanted to climb out.

Marlowe was waiting in the basement of the apartment when you returned, a secure location for you two to meet. She had a coffee in one hand, suspicion in the other, and a frown etched deep between her brows.

"Well?" she asked.

You kicked off your heels, letting exhaustion hit like a delayed blow.

“He’s interested,” you said, voice low. Marlowe didn’t smile.

“Interested,” she echoed.

You dropped onto the armchair, rolling your neck. “I’m in. He’s giving me access to a tier-two contract, movement logistics. Alex Tran will supervise.”

Marlowe raised a brow. “You passed Tran’s screening?”

“Barely.”

You didn’t mention how close Alex had gotten. How much he had seen.

Marlowe crossed her arms. “Good. That means it’s working.”

She tossed you a burner phone. “You’ll report every 48 hours. No exceptions. If you miss a check-in, we’ll assume you’re compromised and move in.”

“Understood.”

“You look rattled.”

You hesitated.

Then: “He doesn’t act like a man afraid of being caught. He acts like the world already belongs to him.”

Marlowe gave a dry smile. “It does. That’s why we’re here.”

That night, you lay in bed staring at the ceiling, replaying the encounter.

His voice. His stillness. His quiet dissection of you like he already knew the things you hadn’t said.

You told yourself it was tactical. That it was good he noticed you. You needed him to.

But something about Spencer’s gaze didn’t feel like simple interest. It felt like recognition. And that was dangerous.

--------------------------------------------------------

The next day, you were back at the Agnew Syndicate’s Manhattan front, a sleek logistics office disguised as a boutique firm. You were introduced to staff, led through the maze of operations, briefed on files that were mostly for show. Your cover identity was airtight. Your credentials flawless.

But you still felt eyes on you.

Alex Tran wasn’t in the office that morning.

He arrived just after lunch, moving like a shadow, silent and perfectly controlled. He said nothing to you at first, just watched as you took a call from a “client” and as you made notes in your new desk.

Then, finally, he approached.

He didn’t speak until everyone else was gone.

“You did better than I expected,” he said.

You didn’t turn around. “Is that a compliment?”

“No.”

You stood slowly. “You don’t trust me.”

“I don’t trust anyone. But you?” He stepped closer. “You’re lying about something. I don’t know what. Yet.”

You swallowed.

He tilted his head. “But I do know one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re not afraid of Spencer. Not the way most people are.”

You didn’t answer.

“You should be,” he whispers.

There was silence between you. Then he added, almost too quietly: “And if you’re not careful, he won’t be the one to get hurt.”

He turned and walked away before you could respond.

That night, you sat by your apartment window watching the city breathe below. The burner phone buzzed once, a coded ping from Marlowe.

“Status?”

You didn’t answer immediately.

Your reflection stared back at you in the glass, half shadow, half smirk. The city lights blur into gold and blood against the dark glass. 

You’d spent your whole career becoming exactly what people needed to see.

But Spencer?

He hadn’t looked at you like a solution. He’d looked at you like a question he wanted to solve. And you weren’t entirely sure you wanted him to stop trying.

Somewhere out there, Spencer Agnew was waiting.

And for the first time in your life, you weren’t sure who was hunting who.

[httyraptor]

no one asked but here's some of my handler headcanons

• her real name is Lillian Bain. Soyona likes to call her Lilly (at least at one point she did), and she's basically the only person who does (🏳️‍🌈)

• I wanna say she's like 33 during CT, her bday is December 31

• She's German and speaks with a relatively thick accent

• 100% a lesbian i cannot see her as anything else i fear…

• She DOES have some raptor DNA, however, she didn't always. Idk the details yet but she was involved in some wacky experiments (ik that's probably really unrealistic but doonnnttttt care playing with my toyes)

• She's not a fan of Owen Grady, thinks he's a showoff who doesn't truly connect with raptors

• Did a lot of studying, has degrees in animal behavior and biology

• She always loved animals—she was a very quiet kid that spent half her time catching little bugs and lizards outside

• Her raptor DNA gives her a lot of special features/abilities:

- Heightened senses, she's very in tune to her surroundings

- The ability to eat raw meat (and she WILL do it)

- Faster running speeds/better stamina

- Special connection to raptors—they can easily understand her body language and vice versa, etc

• She actually loves the giant locusts 😭 she loves all kinds of bugs and creepy animals

• She's a fantastic outdoorsman (survivalist? idk the right word). She willingly went on solo trips into the wilderness and learned to fend for herself, completely out of curiosity

• She never puts a ton of effort into her hair but it always looks flawless nonetheless

• She had a dog growing up that she loved. She had it trained with a whistle, and that's how she got the idea to train raptors using it

• She only really speaks to people she gets especially close to. If you get a sentence out of her, consider it a HIGH honor