#she put on a three and a half hour show | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

planetherk · 12 days ago

Text

OFF LIMITS

in which Seonghwa cant get enough of Mingi's little sister

park seonghwa x fem!reader (third person)

tw: smut, 18+, unprotected sex, creampie, pet names (angel, baby), seonghwa wants her sooo bad, fem user, forbidden love, reader is 18, minors dni, non idol au

my seonghwa fever is getting worse, especially after the lemon drop mv...

wc: 5,7k

There were a few unspoken rules in the Song household. One: never blast loud music after midnight. Two: Mingi gets control of the aux in the car—no arguments. And three, the most sacred of them all—Park Seonghwa was strictly, eternally, absolutely off limits. At least, that’s what Mingi always said to his little sister.

She was eighteen now. Legally an adult. Technically allowed to vote, sign her own documents, and finally order iced Americanos without her brother making a face like she’d committed treason. But in Mingi’s eyes, she was still that tiny girl who used to follow him around the neighborhood in mismatched socks and two pigtails, trailing behind him like a puppy. That made things complicated. Because Park Seonghwa had been Mingi’s best friend since middle school.

And she had had a hopeless, fluttery, chest-squeezing crush on him for exactly that long.

She still remembered the first time she met him. She was ten, a little shy and quiet, peeking around the corner to spy on the tall, handsome boy who’d come over to play video games with Mingi. He had this soft, almost angelic face—kind eyes, a gentle smile—and he’d said hi to her in that voice that made her ears warm.

Now, eight years later, nothing had changed. At least not for her.

Well, okay, maybe some things had changed. Like how she had grown into herself—still sweet, still a little shy around new people, but prettier than she gave herself credit for. Polite to a fault, soft-spoken, and with a kind of delicate presence that people tended to notice without her even trying. But when it came to Seonghwa, she still turned to jelly.

He was in his last year of university and still best friends with her brother. He came over often, flopping down on the couch like he lived there, teasing Mingi with that lazy grin and tousled black hair that made her want to run into a hole and never come back out.

Because it wasn’t just a schoolgirl crush anymore. It was deeper now. Softer. The way he’d pass her a mug of hot chocolate without being asked. The way he’d say, “You look good,” in passing like it was just a fact. And the way his eyes would sometimes linger—just a second too long—when she smiled at him. But he never acted on it. Never crossed that line. Never let himself.

Because she was Mingi’s little sister. And Mingi would absolutely commit murder if he ever found out his best friend looked at her that way.

But what she didn’t know—what anyone couldn’t know—was that Seonghwa was already halfway in too deep.

He didn’t remember when it started, exactly. Maybe it was that day last winter when he found her asleep on the couch, curled up like a kitten, a book fallen across her chest. Or maybe it was the way her laugh lit up the whole room when she finally let herself be comfortable. But now it was impossible to ignore. The softness in her gaze, the subtle scent of her shampoo when she brushed past him, the way she chewed her lip when she was nervous—

He was screwed.

And yet, he kept showing up. Kept pretending he didn’t feel it. Kept pushing it down, like some heavy weight pressing into his ribs. Because her brother trusted him.

So when Mingi decided to throw another party, his excuse being halloween, claiming it would be the only thing to cure his boredom, Seonghwa, being the good friend he is, immediately offered to help.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

Upstairs, some hours before the party, she was putting the final touches on her costume. The bathroom was small and a little stuffy from the heat of her hair curler and the flurry of makeup she had been working on for the last half hour. The mirror was fogged at the corners, the counter a mess of brushes, glitter, and tiny containers. She tugged at the hem of her dress — if you could even call it that. It was small, shorter than she expected when she ordered it, and so delicate it almost looked like it would dissolve if someone touched it. White lace clung to her body in all the right — or wrong — places, little sparkles catching the bathroom light. She wore thigh-high white stockings, thin and lacy too, giving her an almost sinful kind of sweetness. Her angel costume. And she definitely didn’t wear it for him.

And when Seonghwa saw her, he almost lost it.

She looks so... fucking perfect.

He couldn't stop the thoughts from flooding in again—this time even more intense than any other time. He was dangerously close to forgetting all the reasons why he should stay away. She was beautiful, radiant, flawless in every sense, and she seemed so completely out of reach.

I can't keep doing this, he thought, trying desperately to distance himself from his own feelings. She’s not mine. She never will be. But that didn’t stop the ache in his chest, the tension that was still building between them. His jaw clenched as he crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze never straying from her. She would be the death of him.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

The party was in full swing now—noisy, wild, and exactly the chaos Mingi had wanted.

The bass from the DJ's massive speakers made the floor vibrate under their feet, lights flashing between red, blue, and green, giving the whole house an almost surreal, dreamlike feeling. People were packed shoulder to shoulder, drinks in hand, some dancing in the living room, some gathered in the kitchen, shouting conversations over the heavy beat. Mingi had somehow managed to turn the whole place into a mini nightclub, and it was obvious the college crowd was loving it.

She was somewhere near the middle of it all, surrounded by her friends, laughing like she didn’t have a care in the world. Her cheeks were flushed from the alcohol she’d been sipping—sweet drinks that went down like water—and her smile was bright, a little looser than usual. Her friends were dressed just as cute as she was—some in sparkly tops and tiny skirts, others in barely-there witch costumes—but none of them even touched the way she looked tonight. She stood out like a soft, shining light in the middle of it all—her white lacy dress and wings making her look almost untouchable.

And college boys, already buzzed and confident from their drinks, had been flocking around her friendgroup like moths to a flame. She didn’t mind the attention, exactly—she giggled when they flirted, batted her lashes once or twice—but even as she joked around and clinked red plastic cups with strangers, her mind kept wandering back to one person. Seonghwa.

Her eyes flickered to him without meaning to, seeking him out instinctively. And there he was—standing across the room by the makeshift bar Mingi had set up in the corner, leaning against the counter, a cup in his hand, casually talking to San over the thundering music.

He looked so good like this. Relaxed but sharp, his costume fitting him too well, his slicked-back hair and intense gaze making him look even hotter than she remembered from earlier. The blood spatter on his shirt and collarbone only added to it somehow. And the worst part was that his eyes never left hers the whole night. Even while he nodded at something San was saying, Seonghwa’s eyes barely left her body. His gaze was heavy, following her every move—the way she leaned into her friends, the way she laughed, the way her dress clung to her hips when she shifted.

It was killing him. Absolutely fucking killing him.

He took a sip from his cup, pretending to be nonchalant, but inside, he was a mess. Every inch of him was taut, straining not to walk over there, grab her, and make it clear to every other guy that she wasn’t available—even if she technically was. Next to him, San caught the direction of his gaze easily, even through the haze of music and lights. He smirked, nudging Seonghwa’s side with his elbow. "You're so fucking screwed," San shouted over the bass, laughing as Seonghwa shot him a quick, warning look.

Seonghwa scowled, tilting his head like he hadn’t heard right. "What?"

San only laughed harder. "You’re not even hiding it, hyung. You keep staring at her like you’re two seconds from dragging her upstairs. Mingi’s little sister," he added pointedly. "You’re dead if you even think about it."

Seonghwa barked out a low, humorless laugh and shook his head, forcing himself to act normal. "You’re drunk," he lied easily, taking another sip of his drink. "I’m not staring at her."

San arched a brow, clearly not buying it. "Sure, man. Whatever you say."

Seonghwa didn’t argue further. There was no point. He knew it was dangerous. He knew it was wrong. But fuck if he could help himself.

He watched as some college guy with too much confidence leaned too close to her, making her laugh again, and his jaw tightened painfully.

Stay cool, he told himself. Stay fucking cool.

He couldn’t act on it. He wouldn’t. No matter how badly he wanted her—how badly he wanted to be the only one making her laugh like that. Because San was right. If Mingi even suspected how Seonghwa felt about his little sister… He’d kill him. And worse, he would deserve it. He was supposed to protect her. Not fantasize about bending her over the nearest surface.

Still, even as he told himself all these rational things, his eyes refused to leave her, drawn back to her like she was the only real thing in the entire crowded house.

⋆. 𐙚 ˚

As a few hours passed, he music was deafening, drinks had been flowing like water, and she was officially gone. She was a giggling mess, her cheeks flushed pink, her hair a little tousled from dancing and moving around so much. Her angel wings were slightly crooked on her back, but she didn’t seem to care. She and her friends had been dancing non-stop earlier, but now they were getting bored — the DJ had switched to some slow, repetitive beats that weren't nearly as fun, and she pouted, dramatically whining over the music.

"I need to fix this," she slurred to her friends, determination flashing in her tipsy eyes.

She spun around, trying to find Mingi — he was the host after all, he could tell the DJ to change it — but in the packed, sweaty crowd, it was like looking for a needle in a haystack. Still, she was stubborn, stumbling a little as she weaved through bodies, her drink almost tipping over.

That’s when she bumped right into someone’s solid chest.

And of course it was fucking Seonghwa.

He turned instantly at the light shove, his hand shooting out to steady her by her hips without even thinking. And when he saw her—her wide, glazed eyes, her little pout, the way she swayed slightly on her heels—his whole demeanor shifted. He went so soft for her.

"Hey," he said, lowering his head closer so she could hear over the heavy bass. "You okay, angel?"

She giggled at the nickname, swaying again. "M'fine!" she chirped, nodding too hard.

Seonghwa didn’t look convinced. He kept one hand lightly on her waist just to make sure she didn’t topple over again. She leaned closer, getting on her tiptoes slightly to speak near his ear.

"I needa... change the music," she explained seriously, her words a little jumbled, her breath warm against his skin. "It's boring now. We need, like—" she hiccupped cutely, frowning, "I don’t know… some spanish songs."

Seonghwa chuckled lowly, heart squeezing at how adorable she was like this — so determined and tipsy and so irresistible. "Alright, alright," he murmured, giving her waist a gentle squeeze. "Let’s fix it."

Without giving her a chance to get lost again, he grabbed her hand — her tiny fingers slotting against his — and started leading her toward the DJ booth, parting the crowd easily with his larger frame. She stumbled after him, wings bobbing slightly behind her, her grip tight and trusting in his hand.

When they got to the DJ, Seonghwa stood right next to her, close enough that her shoulder brushed his chest every time she shifted. He watched, amused and fond, as she leaned into the DJ’s ear, pleading cutely for "some spanish songs, pleaseeee." The DJ laughed and gave her a thumbs up, scrolling quickly through his playlist.

He couldn't take his eyes off her.

The way her dress clung to her curves, the way her makeup glittered under the flashing lights, the way her lips curved into that triumphant little smile when the opening beats of Chantaje came blasting through the speakers.

Before he could even react, she turned back to him, beaming up at him, her eyes sparkling.

"Come dance with me," she said, grabbing his hand again, tugging him toward the middle of the floor.

Seonghwa didn’t even hesitate. "Yeah," he said, his voice low and sure. "I’ll dance with you."

At first, it was innocent enough. They laughed, moved together easily to the upbeat song, spinning and hopping around like idiots. She threw her arms up, her wings bouncing with her movements, and Seonghwa couldn't stop smiling, completely charmed. But as the music shifted into a slower, heavier bass beat—more sultry, more rhythmic—their movements began to change too.

Still tipsy and emboldened, she moved closer. Her body brushed against his. Then pressed. Her hips started swaying in a slow, hypnotic way that made Seonghwa’s throat go dry.

He didn’t pull away. He couldn’t.

His hands found her waist again, holding her there gently, but firmly.

She looked up at him through her lashes, all coy and mischievous, her body rolling to the beat, her ass brushing against his hips as she moved. Seonghwa sucked in a breath, sharp and strained, his fingers tightening slightly on her waist.

She’s drunk, his brain screamed. She doesn’t mean it.

But another, darker part of him, the part that had been craving her for months now, whispered: She wants you.

Her scent was dizzying — sweet perfume and vanilla and alcohol — and she felt so fucking good against him he thought he might actually lose his mind.

The music throbbed around them, but all he could focus on was the way she was moving — for him, against him — her laughter, the way her hips fit so perfectly against his. She wasn’t even aware of what she was doing to him, and it made it even worse. Seonghwa dipped his head closer to hers, fighting every instinct to not pull her even tighter.

Seonghwa was rock hard at this point, the front of his pants unbearably tight, every brush of her hips against his enough to make his hands twitch at his sides. He tried—God, he tried—to keep himself in check. To tell himself she was just drunk and having fun. That she didn’t mean it. That it didn’t mean anything.

But when the girl leaned her body back more fully against him, her ass pressing flush against his aching cock through the thin lace of her dress and hispants, Seonghwa’s self-control cracked.

His hands shot to her waist—gripping it tight—and for a second, he just held her there, breathing hard against the back of her head. And when she kept moving—kept grinding against him like she had no idea what she was doing to him—his hands slid lower, gripping her hips, his thumbs dangerously close to the curve of her ass.

"Stop," he rasped into her ear, barely audible over the music, but his hands betrayed him, tightening almost possessively.

But she only laughed, soft and tipsy, and turned around in his hold—tilting her head up, eyes gleaming. And without thinking, without caring, Seonghwa crushed his mouth to hers.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was desperate.

Months and months of pent-up longing exploded between them. She gasped into his mouth, and he swallowed the sound, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of her head while the other stayed firm on her waist, holding her tight against his body so she could feel exactly what she was doing to him.

Their kiss was messy, needy — all teeth and tongues and muffled moans. Her hands fisted the front of his bloody costume, pulling him closer, and he deepened the kiss, tilting her head back just to taste more of her.

She was kissing him back like she wanted him, like she needed him just as badly.

He wanted to lift her up and fuck her right there against the wall. He wanted to tear that little dress off her and worship every inch of her body like he’d dreamed about so many nights. He wanted her.

But reality crashed back into him like a cold slap.

She was drunk. She wasn’t thinking clearly. He couldn’t take advantage of her. Not like this. Never like this.

Breaking the kiss felt like ripping his own heart out of his chest. He pulled back sharply, panting hard, staring at her swollen lips, her half-lidded, dazed eyes.

“Come on,” he muttered hoarsely, grabbing her hand again before he did something even worse. “We need to get you some water.”

She pouted, confused and frustrated, but she let him tug her through the crowd.

Seonghwa barely noticed the people around them. His brain was a haze of her and you fucking idiot, get it together. He dragged her into the kitchen — blessedly quieter — and let go of her hand only to grab a bottle of water off the counter.

“Here,” he said, shoving it into her hands. His voice was still rough, his heart hammering against his ribs.

She blinked at him, still looking a little dazed, her lips parted and he groaned internally and pushed the bottle closer. “Drink, angel,” he said more gently. “You need to sober up.”

Obediently, she brought the bottle to her lips, taking small sips at first, then longer gulps.

Seonghwa leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as if that could somehow cage the overwhelming need clawing inside him. She looked like sin itself, standing there in that tiny white dress, her wings slightly crooked, her cheeks flushed from alcohol and dancing, her lips still red and kiss-swollen from him.

He closed his eyes briefly, breathing deep through his nose. He needed to get a fucking grip. Because if he didn’t he didn’t know if he’d be able to stop himself a second time.

"Slow down, angel," he murmured when she tried to chug the rest of the bottle, stepping closer and curling his fingers gently around her wrist. His touch was careful this time. Controlled.

She looked up at him, cheeks puffed slightly from drinking too fast, and giggled. he smiled despite himself, soft and fond, smoothing a stray piece of hair from her face. And when she lifted her head to look at him after some minutes, her big eyes soft and a bit clearer, her mouth parting slightly like she wanted to say something he snapped.

He dropped the water bottle onto the counter with a dull clatter and stepped right into her space. She barely had time to gasp before he was cupping her jaw and crashing his mouth onto hers again.

This time, there was no hesitation. Just pure, desperate need.

She kissed him back immediately, almost hungrily, her hands flying up to fist the front of his shirt. Seonghwa groaned deep in his chest, kissing her harder, pushing her backward until her hips bumped against the counter. He didn’t even stop to give her a second to breathe.

His hands roamed greedily — one tangled in her soft hair, the other sliding down her back, gripping her ass through the scandalously short lace dress. She made a little needy sound against his mouth when he squeezed, and he swallowed it down like a man starved. Her dress was so fucking thin. Seonghwa could feel the heat of her skin right through it. He broke the kiss only to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses down her jaw, to her neck, sucking gently at her pulse point.

She whimpered, arching into him, her nails scraping lightly at his chest, and it drove him wild.

"You have no idea," he muttered against her skin, voice rough and wrecked, "no fucking idea how long I've wanted this."

She shivered under him, her hands moving up, framing his face, pulling him back up to her mouth. He kissed her like he was claiming her, like he needed her more than he needed air. She whimpered again when his hands slipped down to her thighs, squeezing and lifting her effortlessly onto the counter. Her wings shifted and rustled behind her, but neither of them cared.

From this angle, she was so perfect—sitting pretty in her tiny white dress and lace stockings, flushed and panting, her thighs spreading naturally for him.

Seonghwa's hand slid up one of her bare thighs, fingertips brushing along the edge of her stockings, feeling the slight bump where lace met soft skin.

He pulled back just barely, breathing heavily, forehead resting against hers.

"You’re dangerous," he rasped, his voice almost trembling with how much he was holding back. "So fucking dangerous, angel."

He kissed her again, rougher this time, swallowing her little gasps, his hands greedy, sliding up under her skirt now, feeling the heat of her bare thighs. She moaned into his mouth, shifting closer, her legs wrapping around his waist without even thinking. Seonghwa was losing it. She was so warm, so soft, so fucking willing. It took everything inside him not to rip that little dress right off her body. Not to drop to his knees and worship her the way she deserved.

When he finally broke away again, panting, he rested his forehead against hers, trying to calm down, but it was useless.

"I need to get you alone," he whispered hoarsely, voice wrecked with want.

She giggled breathlessly against his lips, her fingers still playing with the collar of his costume.

"Then take me," she whispered back, mischief glinting in her pretty eyes.

Seonghwa growled low in his throat, already spinning plans in his mind— how to get her upstairs, how to lock the door, how to finally, finally touch every inch of her he’d been dreaming about. He was going to make her his. And he wasn’t going to let anything or anyone stop him. He slipped his hands under her thighs, lifting her off the counter like she weighed nothing. she gasped and clutched his shoulders, giggling quietly as he carried her across the kitchen.

He kept her close against his chest, weaving through the crowd carefully, taking a side route avoiding the main hallway, avoiding Mingi, avoiding any possible disaster.

All that existed for him right now was her. He was so fucking hard it hurt.

They made it upstairs somehow, slipping into her room, and the second the door closed, Seonghwa pinned her against it. His mouth was back on hers before either of them could breathe, his hands greedy, roaming everywhere at once down her sides, over her hips, squeezing her ass with both hands and pressing her harder against the door.

She moaned sweetly against his mouth, rolling her hips up into him without shame, feeling how desperate he was for her.

"Hwa—" she whimpered, tugging at his hair, kissing him back with sloppy, open-mouthed kisses.

"You’re driving me fucking crazy," Seonghwa growled against her lips, grinding into her, making her feel just how hard he was.

He kissed down her neck hungrily, sucking a dark mark just under her jawline where her brother wouldn’t see it later. His hands slid up her thighs, under the barely-there lace of her dress, until his fingers brushed between her legs. And he froze.

"Fuck," he rasped, pulling back just enough to look down at her, his hand still pressed firmly against the heat between her thighs. She wasn't wearing anything underneath.

"You’re killing me, angel," he muttered, voice wrecked, eyes dark and hungry.

She giggled softly, slightly drunk on the way he touched her, on the way he looked at her like she was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

"I wanted to be good for you," she whispered, biting her lip.

Seonghwa almost lost it right there.

Instead, he dropped to his knees in front of her, pulling her thighs apart with his large hands. She gasped, blushing fiercely, her wings trembling slightly behind her as she steadied herself against the door. He kissed the inside of her thigh first, slow and deliberate, making her shiver. Then higher. And higher. Until he was mouthing at the place she was already slick and needy for him, her sweet little wet pussy dragging a moan from her lips.

"Seonghwa—!" she gasped, her fingers burying themselves in his hair.

He groaned against her, the taste of her driving him wild, and he started working her open with slow, lazy licks, like he had all the time in the world to devour her. She whimpered and bucked her hips, desperate, but he kept her pinned, spreading her thighs wider, feasting on her like he was starving. Oh, she tasted so sweet. So fucking sweet.

When he finally slipped a finger inside her — slow, careful —she gasped again, her whole body trembling against the door. "So perfect," he muttered against her, curling his finger just right, making her sob. "So fucking sweet."

He kept going, slow and relentless, adding another finger, his mouth still working her, until she was writhing, tugging his hair, sobbing his name over and over. It didn’t take long.

She came with a loud, breathy cry, her thighs shaking around his shoulders, and Seonghwa grinned against her, helping her ride it out with slow, gentle kisses.

But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

He stood up again, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed her hard — letting her taste herself on his tongue.

She was dazed, breathing hard, clinging to his shirt.

"Bed," he rasped against her lips. "Now."

She stumbled backward, letting her wings fall off as she crawled onto the bed, looking up at him through heavy-lidded eyes. He stripped his shirt off, not caring about the costume anymore, revealing a lean, sculpted body that made her mouth go dry. He crawled onto the bed after her, catching her mouth in another hot, desperate kiss, grinding against her slowly.

She could feel him now — hot, thick, pressing against her — and she whined softly, squirming beneath him.

"You want me?" he murmured, kissing down her neck, nipping at her collarbone. "Tell me, angel."

"Please," she whimpered, arching into him. "Hwa, please..."

He groaned, his last bit of control slipping. He yanked her dress up, and his fingers found her nipples, hardened by the cold of the room. He started pinching them, taking one in his mouth and started sucking, leaving her a moaning, desperate mess. When he was satisfied, he pushed her thighs apart, and finally — finally — slid inside her in one long, slow thrust.

Both of them moaned at the feeling, Seonghwa clenching his jaw, trying not to come instantly at how tight and warm she was, and she was moaning, her nails raking down his back. He stayed still for a moment, breathing heavily into her neck.

"So perfect," he whispered again, almost reverently. "So fucking tight for me."

Then he started moving. At first his thrusts were slow, deep, that had her gasping and clinging to him, then faster, rougher, pounding into her, making her cry out with every stroke.

Their bodies moved together like they were made for each other, sweaty and desperate, moaning each other's names like prayers. She wrapped her legs around him tighter, pulling him deeper, and Seonghwa buried his face in her neck, losing himself completely.

"You’re mine," he growled into her skin, thrusting harder. "You hear me, angel? Mine."

"Yours," she gasped back, barely able to breathe, barely able to think — all she could feel was him, everywhere, overwhelming and perfect.

It didn’t take long before she was tipping over the edge again, sobbing his name as she came around him, and the feeling of her clenching so tightly around him pushed Seonghwa right over the edge too. He groaned brokenly against her throat, hips stuttering, spilling deep inside her. They stayed tangled together afterward — sweaty, trembling, kissing each other slowly, lazily, like they never wanted it to end.

Seonghwa brushed a strand of hair from her face, kissing her forehead gently. "My angel," he whispered. She just smiled up at him, dazed and happy, and tugged him down into another kiss. The room was thick with heat, the faint pulse of the party's bass still thudding distantly through the walls. But here, in the dim light of her bedroom, nothing else existed except them.

She was sprawled beneath him, flushed and beautiful, her body still trembling slightly from the aftershocks. He hovered over her, breathing hard, his skin slick with sweat, his hair messy and sticking to his forehead. He kissed her again, slow at first, savoring it, then deeper, hungrier, his hand sliding down her side, squeezing her hip.

And she whimpered softly against his mouth, her body already arching back into him, wanting more.

"You’re killing me," Seonghwa muttered, voice low and wrecked. "You’re so fucking addictive."

Before she could say anything, he was kissing down her neck again, nipping her skin, sucking another dark mark just above her breast. His hand slid between her legs finding her still slick and sensitive and he groaned deeply.

"So wet for me still," he breathed, dragging his fingers slowly through her folds, teasing her.

She gasped, clenching the sheets, her thighs already falling open for him.

"You want more, angel?" he asked, kissing lower, his mouth now between her tits again, as he loved how soft and plump they were.

"Yeah," she breathed out, desperate. Seonghwa chuckled darkly against her skin — then without warning, he grabbed her thighs and flipped her over onto her stomach.

The girl yelped in surprise, giggling, but the giggle turned into a moan when Seonghwa dragged her hips up, forcing her to kneel on shaky legs while her chest stayed pressed to the mattress.

"Fuck," Seonghwa hissed under his breath, just looking at her flushed skin, the glitter of her stockings, the soft curve of her ass presented perfectly for him. He ran his hands slowly down her back, over the swell of her hips, squeezing her roughly. Then he leaned in and bit the inside of her thigh, making her whimper.

"You have no idea what you do to me," he growled, lining himself up again — teasing her, rubbing the thick head of his cock through her wetness but not pushing in yet.

"Hwa, please—" she whined, pushing back against him needily.

"Patience," he smirked, slapping her ass lightly, making her jump.

She whined again, trying to push her ass back, to grind on him, to feel something, but he was having none of it. He slapped the soft flesh of her ass, which turned into a pale red color, which made her cry out but stay still. Then, with one slow, brutal thrust — he pushed back inside her, burying himself to the hilt.

"oh my god," she gasped, clawing at the sheets.

Seonghwa groaned low in his chest, gripping her hips tight as he started moving, setting a hard, punishing rhythm that had the bed creaking under them. The filthy sounds of skin slapping skin, her whimpering, his grunts, was obscene, and he loved every second of it.

"Look at you," he panted, slamming into her harder. "So needy for me. So perfect."

She could barely answer — all she could do was moan, her body completely at his mercy, so cock drunk.

Seonghwa reached forward, grabbing a fistful of her hair and pulling her up so her back was flush against his chest. She gasped, the new angle making him hit even deeper, her legs shaking uncontrollably. He kissed along her shoulder, murmuring filth into her ear between his deep thrusts.

"Feel how deep I am, angel? You’re made for me. Fuck, I could live inside you."

She sobbed his name, her nails digging into his arms, and he slammed against her skin.

"You’re mine," he whispered roughly. "No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to have you."

"Only you," she whimpered, clenching around him, and Seonghwa cursed under his breath, his rhythm faltering from how fucking good she felt. He slid a hand down between her thighs, rubbing tight, fast circles over her swollen clit, pushing her closer and closer to the edge again.

"Come for me," he growled into her ear, thrusting harder. "Come all over my cock, angel. Let go for me."

It didn’t take long. With a loud, broken cry, she shattered again, her whole body convulsing, squeezing him so tight he almost blacked out. Seonghwa cursed, slamming into her a few more times before spilling deep inside her again with a low, wrecked groan.

They collapsed onto the bed together, panting, sweaty, trembling.

He kissed her shoulder softly, wrapping an arm around her waist to pull her against him protectively.

"Fuck," he muttered, pressing his forehead against her back. "I’m never gonna get enough of you."

She giggled weakly, turning in his arms to face him, her cheeks still flushed.

"This will be our little secret, okay? We can’t have anyone knowing baby. Especially your brother." He said as he slowly slid out of her, looking at the mess they both made.

962 notes · View notes

abbotsanatomy · 2 months ago

Note

(Desperately) begging for a fic where reader is experiencing Whitaker-levels of a bad day including a stubborn argument with Jack and she just crashes out on the rooftop and he’s just like comforting her 🙏

⨳ REALLY VERY BAD DAY

pairing: jack abbot x chief resident!reader warnings: gross fluids (blood, vomit, etc.), minor injury, severe second hand embarrassment, injections, suicidal ideation, but not rlly. this isn't beta'd. author's note: this man is canonically sooo bad at comfort, so this gets a lil silly!

Your entire shift is exactly 12 hours. Somehow, you managed to have six different catastrophes happen to you in that limited time. That's an average of one every two hours. The odds have got to be completely stacked against you.

You should've known, when the first hour of your shift ended with a kid, who'd come in with a stomachache, throwing up all over your scrubs. It happens all the time, so you weren't too pessimistic about how the rest of the night would go by that point.

Little did you know, that was a sign from the universe. You should've taken it and clocked out instead of using your first scrub credit of the night.

By 11:00, you were slowly losing your optimism. You'd been taking out a patient's IV cannula when you apparently pricked yourself through your gloves. You only realized much later, when the antiseptic sanitizer you were using stung a little too much.

The moment you noticed, you checked the patient's medical record for any blood-borne diseases that might spread to you. And lo and behold, he had HBV.

You found Jack at the nurse's station, picking up some labs for a patient.

“I'm gonna need you to give me an HBV PEP injection. Please,” you'd whispered, as close to him as possible.

“Why would you need that?” he asked casually.

“I have a needle-stick injury.”

He looked over at you, finally. There's a silent disappointment in his eyes. Jack's one of the most composed people you know, but you also know he's a worrier. He won't let it show now, but he'll definitely be all over you the moment you're both back home.

The night shift's charge nurse walked into the station you're both standing at. She let Jack know his patient needed emergency surgery, and would be admitted to general surgery in a few minutes. When he told her he'd be right there, he turned to you again.

“You can't give it to yourself?” you know he isn't asking out of reluctance to do it, just curiosity.

“I need... some comfort.”

It wasn't a complete lie. The night'd already been getting difficult. You just wanted his hands on you for a minute. It'd make you feel better. You're afraid you haven't gotten to that point in the relationship where you could admit all of that out loud, though. But he seems to have gotten it.

“Alright. Go wait in there,” he pointed to a curtained corner of the ER, and then turned to walk away.

The words made you almost kiss him on the mouth. Instead, you walked to sit on the recliner and prepared the shot.

It took three minutes of waiting, before he's walked in and pulled the curtain half closed behind him. You swung your legs, staring down at your feet the entire time he's prepping to get this done.

“You have to be more careful,” he whispered, uncovering the syringe.

His voice was a little tense. You know he doesn't like reprimanding you. It puts you both in an awkward situation, but as your superior, he has to do it. You appreciate the criticism, but Jack happens to think it adds an uncomfortable impersonality to your relationship.

You could only offer a nod back. He let you hold onto his arm the whole time. You pulled his hand onto yours, as he used a plaster to cover the injection site. He pressed a kiss right above it before covering your arm with your sleeve again. The whole affair only took about five minutes, but it was the best part of your night.

When he was done, Jack stepped in front of you, his hand still holding onto yours. He leaned in, the proximity meaning you couldn't possibly look anywhere but his eyes.

“You'll be more careful?” he asked. He wanted you to repeat it.

“Yeah, I'll take care,” you affirmed. There was a thinly veiled promise in the affirmation. You were telling him you won't make any more of these mistakes that are completely beneath you. It was more for his peace of mind than anything else.

He pulled your conjoined hands up to his lips, lowering his lips to the back of yours.

The dull pain in your shoulder from the injection made it infinitely harder to hold your patient's jugular closed with your fingers.

It isn't very common for a patient to come in with a knife to his throat. Needless to say, you've never had to pull a carving knife out of someone's jugular, and then use your fingers to keep it closed.

The blood everywhere is a given, considering the severity of the injury, but the crimson droplets streaking your face and scrub top are all thanks to your unsteady grip.

You were hyperaware of the fact that this guy had been dead. He was dead long before he came into the ER. He'd only still been alive on a technicality. One that was long gone by this point.

He'd lost too much blood on the way to the PTMC, and there's no amount of available blood bags that could replenish it all. You couldn't stop holding onto him, though. Not when the steady stream stopped. Not when his pulse faded into nothing.

Not until Jack slipped behind you and pulled your hands away with a firm grip. He'd whispered meaningless encouragements into your ear, telling you to go take a minute for yourself. He might've offered to help, but you were too out of it to remember exactly what was said.

You were barely there the whole time. Washing the blood out of your hair, and changing your scrubs in the ER bathroom. It all didn't feel real. It took you a good hour to get back to normal. As normal as ‘normal’ gets after whatever the fuck that was.

You were glad when tripped over some spilt saline fluid and fell face-first on the ER's cold floor. Your chin was busted, but you actually felt something. It'd been hours of walking around stitching wounds up, looking over x-rays and blood work results, and feeling like a ghost who floats around the floor with no purpose.

Thankfully, when you looked in the mirror, it appeared like there were no broken bones. Just a scratch on your forehead, and a bleeding chin. No one wants a doctor who looks like they just got beat up, so your number one priority was disinfecting your mess of a face and covering up all of the nastiness.

When you reached for some normal, adult plaster, though, it was all gone. The storage locker wouldn't be open for another few hours, either. You let out the biggest sigh known to mankind when you spotted the children's bandaids.

Looking back into the mirror, you saw how ridiculous it looked to have farm animals plastered on your forehead, and a family of brightly colored elephants on your chin.

You couldn't seem to find it in yourself to care. You do almost snap at Chen when he tries to crack a joke at your expense, though.

The lock on the blood bank refrigerator had been broken for months.

You keep filing complaint after complaint, for the higher-ups to send someone to fix it. You and everyone in the department, in fact. But to no avail. It took you five minutes longer than it should to finally grab a fresh bag of donated blood out of the shelf.

So, you rushed back to Ellis. It's stupid, considering you'd just fell an hour ago. The patient's more important than logic.

The moment you crashed into an intern standing in the middle of the ER played in slow motion. You watched the bag drop to the floor, saw the plastic snap, felt the blood seep into your black work sneakers.

The ‘O-’ label on the bag stared back up at you, as you stood there in shock for a moment. Every muscle in your body started aching. It was suddenly painful to even breathe. You were barely holding yourself together, and this relatively small inconvenience was your very last straw.

“Fuck,” you whispered, not even registering the intern's profuse apologies, aimed at you.

You let out one long sigh, and your shoulders started shaking. Your chin came into contact with your chest, as you felt something painful stir within you. The feeling of helpless disappointment had been gnawing at you for hours. Now, it engulfed you completely. You'd had no idea how long you stood there, your eyes screwed tight, as the rest of the ER kept buzzing around you.

Familiar hands gripping your shoulders and pulling you away is the first thing you felt. Looking down at your feet as they lead you wherever you were being guided was a fatal mistake. You saw the bloodied shoe prints you left behind and felt even worse, if that was possible. So, you let your eyes flutter shut again.

When you were finally sat down on the edge somewhere, your face felt undeniably cold. That's when you realized you'd been shedding tears the entire time. The familiar feeling of embarrassment that bubbled up in your throat when you were vulnerable around big groups of people never arrived. Just a steady numbness.

The heavy breeze on the PTMC's roof made the salty tears on your face feel like tiny pinpricks of despair. You hoped it could also make you fly very far away from this building, never to return again. Alas, not all dreams come true.

“I did so, so badly today,” you confessed, your voice sounding thick and foreign to your own ears.

Jack frowned at you, his eyes scanning your entire face. You noticed his frown deepen almost imperceptibly when he landed on the bandaids covering your face. You were sure he'd make fun of them if today hadn't gone so badly.

He looked like he was calculating his next words very carefully, “That's alright. We have tomorrow. And the day after that. And the day after that.”

Oh boy, that wasn't making you feel any better. In fact, it might've made you want to jump off of the very same roof you sat on right now. You stared off into the distance, calculating the height of the jump.

Apparently, Jack didn't get the memo.

“You'll always have chances to do better. You're still young. The worst day of your life can never define your entire being,” he rambled on. It was starting to seem like he was just trying to find it along the way.

Your eyes screwed shut in an attempt to tune your very sweet, but very misguided, boyfriend out. When it didn't work, you resorted to just blurting out the words on your mind.

Unfortunately, it had come out meaner than intended, “Shut up. Just stop talking, please.”

Jack was just about to talk again when you interrupted him with a plea, “I'll pay you.”

His eyes were sad. You knew he was trying, it just wasn't what you needed at all. You swung your legs, trying to play off the shame you felt at the way you spoke to him earlier. You couldn't apologize just yet though, lest he go on another tangent.

His voice was raw, but not hurt, “Do you need me to leave?”

You shook your head frantically. Just the thought of it hurt your brain.

“No. No. Just stay right here,” you whispered, and pulled his arm close.

You let your head fall onto his shoulder, the scent of his drug-store shampoo filling your nose. It worked wonders for your nerves.

“Just no more talking, please,” you begged, voice growing heavy with exhaustion.

Jack laughed. In that moment, it was like hearing the angels sing. You could listen to the sound for hours.

You could feel him nod against your head, and then press his lips into your hair.

“Alright, honey. Whatever you need.”

You were fully hugging his arm, now. Shamelessly letting yourself snuggle against his body heat. You knew you had to go downstairs and clock out to get home.

But right here, with the first rays of dawn slowly making their way onto your face, and Jack's free hand coming up to stroke your hair, it felt like you were already home.

A thousand horrible motivational speeches couldn't change that.

#jack abbot #jack abbott #dr jack abbot #dr jack abbott #jack abbot x reader #jack abbott x reader #dr jack abbot x reader #jack abbott fanfic #dr jack abbott x reader #jack abbot fanfic #jack abbot drabble #jack abbot imagine #jack abbot fluff #the pitt #the pitt max #the pitt hbo #the pitt 2025 #the pitt show #the pitt x reader

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traveler-at-heart · 5 months ago

Text

Sister, wife?

Summary: The team mistakes you for Natasha's sister when you first meet.

Request by @lynattyx

Loki again.

Thor seemed more annoyed than anyone else, but that was only logical. He had spent centuries putting up with his brother.

“Hey, don’t sweat it. Siblings can be a pain” Natasha tried to comfort him, while he looked ready to release a storm over Loki outsmarting him and escaping.

“Speaking from experience, Red?” Stark asked with a curious stare.

“Got a sister” Natasha shrugged her shoulders, looking out the window of the Quinjet as if she hadn’t said anything interesting.

“Really? What’s her name?” Steve said, intrigued.

“I won’t tell you, because if I say it three times you’ll summon her. That’s a reference from…”

“Yeah, I got it” Steve nodded. “I didn’t really like that Beetlejuice”

“That’s because you hate fun” Tony said, stepping forward. “Alright, we have a signal. Anyone up for a cigar? Loki’s close to Cuba”

—

“Lay low. That’s pretty much all you can do now” Maria said with a somber tone over the comms.

Loki had gone a little too far this time, almost getting half of Havana blown up.

Needless to say, the US wasn’t happy with the diplomatic mess the Avengers had created. Maybe that was Loki’s plan all along; make it impossible for them to go after him with the American government on their backs.

Well, he got what he wished for.

“I don’t suppose we can go to the Compound, then” Tony mumbled. “Barton, Red? Any ideas?”

“Coordinates are set. We’ll be there in a few hours. Try to get some sleep. All of you”

No one was in the mood to ask questions. If Natasha said it was a safe place, then they’d take her word for it and be done with the matter.

“You sure about this?” Clint said, looking at her from the copilot seat.

“Yeah. She’ll just give me a hard time for not telling her in advance. You know how she likes to have everything extra clean when there are guests”

“How did you manage to score such a gal?” he joked and Natasha glared at him.

“Hey, I’m a catch. My mac and cheese is delicious”

“Whatever you say, Tasha”

—

The Quinjet landed, and the only way you could tell was by the tree branches moving with a sudden gust of wind.

“Hey” Natasha said with a coy smile, going up the steps as the rest of the team got off the jet, looking around curiously.

“Welcome home” you pulled her into a hug. “Should have told me they were coming, and I could have cleaned up a bit”

“I missed you too” she joked against your ear, and as she was about to lean and kiss you, Tony interrupted the moment.

“Hey, Romanoff and Romanoff”

“You must be Tony. I’ve heard a lot about you”

“Have you? Because Natasha here didn’t tell us much about you”

“She was probably worried about you running your mouth” you joked, making him smirk.

“You have heard about me”

As Steve walked in, Natasha waited for Clint to show him something she wanted to fix in the garage.

The house was big and in the middle of a little wooded area.

“You’re gonna have to share rooms. And someone will sleep on the couch” you warned them.

“Not it” Tony said, as you pulled out a pillow and a blanket from the closet.

“I’ll take the couch” Steve offered, which of course he did. “Thank you…”

“Y/N” you nodded, waiting for Tony to follow you.

“Barton? Thor?” he looked around.

“Oh, Clint’s probably scolding Natasha because she didn’t fix the ceiling like he told her to” you laughed. “Thor flew away like thirty seconds after landing. And burned part of my lawn in the process”

“So sorry about that. It’s quite the thing to hang out with these brutes. So, uh, what do you do?”

“I’m a Psychiatrist” you answered, opening the door to the guest room.

“Get to see Natasha a lot?”

“Not as much as I’d like”

“Come by the Compound anytime you like. I’ll send you a pass or shall I just say your name three times?”

“What?” you tilted your head in confusion.

“Nothing. Thanks for letting us crash” he rubbed his neck.

“Sure. Get some rest”

You ran into Clint as he went upstairs, knowing his way around the house.

“She’s outside”

“Is she… is she ok?” you said, sighing. It was one thing to see it in the news, and another one to know she was out there risking her life against literal Gods and aliens.

“Just tired” he assured you. “Seeing you will help. Have a good night”

“You too. Sorry to say you’re sharing a room with Tony”

“Ah, jeez” he groaned, making you laugh.

Steve was lying in the couch, restless. He waved at you shyly as you walked out, knowing Natasha was waiting in the porch.

Honestly? They were a nice bunch.

“Hey” you said, stepping out.

“Hi, detka”

“You ok?” you said, leaning your chin against her shoulder, with your arms around her waist.

“Just tired”

“Funny, that’s exactly what Clint said”

Natasha chuckled at that, squeezing your hands.

“He knows me”

“I know you better”

“Do you, now?” she turned around, quirking up an eyebrow and smiling at you. “So, what do you think I want right now?”

“Cuddles with your wife and then tomorrow morning I think you’ll be in the mood for blueberry pancakes and hot cocoa”

“Damn, you do know me well” she laughed, kissing your temple. “Come on, let’s go to bed”

—

You were up next morning, and unsurprisingly, Steve had already been out and running a good ten miles.

“The rest?” he said after greeting you.

“Clint got up early to fix what Natasha broke trying to fix the other thing that broke, God bless his soul. Tony’s asleep and so is Nat”

“Really? Even Romanoff? She’s up at break of dawn”

“Nah, not when she’s home. Now clean yourself up, breakfast is almost done”

“Yes, Ma’am”

Natasha was the first one down, as your room had a private bathroom. By the sounds from upstairs, you suspected the boys were arguing over who go to use the other restroom first.

“Hear that sound? Children. Ready for all that?” Natasha said.

“Yeah, but ours will be cute. And we’ll make Clint build another bathroom” you said, getting a pancake out of the pan.

“You’re so smart, that’s why I love you”

“Only that?” you said, laughing as you felt her hands go around your waist.

“Among other things”

You turned around to protest, but her lips stopped you from saying anything.

“I did miss this” she said, pulling you closer to deepen the kiss. You moaned against her mouth, forgetting there were more people in the house until you heard Tony slam the door to the bathroom. Natasha went to get some coffee, and you wished she’d kept kissing you.

But the teasing would be endless if they caught you in the middle of it.

“Bathroom's all yours, Cap! Morning, Romanoffs”

“Morning, Tony” you said. “Help yourself to some pancakes and coffee”

“Delicious, thank you”

Steve came down a few minutes later, at the same time Clint walked in, announcing that he had fixed the thing.

“You’re a hero” you said, grateful. “Don’t worry, darling, you’ll get it right next time” you added as Natasha pouted.

“Mean”

“It comes with the territory, doesn’t it?” Tony said. “Including all the hair pulling and slapping and fighting for bras”

“Ah, what?” you said, confused.

“Hey, don’t speak to my wife that way, asshole” Natasha slapped the back of his head, making him choke on his coffee.

“Did you just say wife?” he turned to look between the two of you.

“Yes, Y/N is my wife. Who did you think she was?”

“The maid?” you joked.

“The sister!” Tony looked at Steve for backup.

“Well, to be fair… yeah”

“My sister’s name is Yelena” Natasha said, massaging her temples. “Y/N and I have been married for almost two years now. And I didn’t want you to know because you’ll be insufferable about it”

“Babe, they’ve been good so far” you chuckled, squeezing her hand.

“We can behave, honey boo” Tony said.

“Ok, yeah. I get it now” you rolled your eyes.

“Either way, you’re coming to our party” Tony said, poruing himself more coffee.

“When is it?”

“Whenever we get our hands on that Asgardian bastard”

“Language” you said at the same time as Steve.

“This is gonna be fun” Tony laughed, looking at you over his cup of coffee. “Welcome to the family, Mrs. Romanoff”

#natasha romanoff x you #natasha romanoff x y/n #natasha romanoff x reader

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caffeinewitchcraft · 4 months ago

Text

Granny's Sugar Cookies

Summary: Working in Hero Force’s mail room is the equivalent of being a poison taster for monarchs – it wasn’t a matter of if a disgruntled citizen was going to send Hero Force a bomb, but when.

Based off this prompt (X)

--------.

Travis, your supervisor, makes you take Disposal Training every two weeks to keep your skills fresh for the inevitable day something does show up in the mail.

“You’re lucky,” Travis says with his wide arms folded over his chest. He still wears the mail uniform from the 90’s with the pale blue, short-sleeved button down and the darker blue pinstripes. The Hero Force mask covering half of his face is in the new “regulation black” that every Hero Force personnel has to put on at the start of every shift. You hear Travis complain that they won’t let him wear the old brown one a lot. “But luck won’t ever take you further than training, kid.”

You aren’t a kid. In fact, Travis could almost be your kid. Your pension isn’t supposed to start for another three years, so that’s how long you need this job to last. There are rumors that Travis is trying to get you to quit before then as a way to prevent you from collecting retirement benefits from Hero Force. Save the company some money. You don’t think that’s true. You think that the extra training every second week is actually Travis’ way of being kind – you get to sit in the air-conditioned office for two hours and watch the same videos with your feet propped up.

Still, it is unusual that you haven’t opened anything criminal yet. Lots of people cautioned you against taking the job. Your neighbors, friends, your husband…even your eldest -who also works for Hero Force and who suggested it to you in the first place. They said it was the equivalent of being a poison taster for monarchs – it wasn’t a matter of if a disgruntled citizen was going to send Hero Force a bomb, but when.

“I don’t think it happens as often as people think,” you’d told your husband and child when the offer letter came. What you didn’t say was we don’t have a choice. You’d laughed and petted the coffee table. “Now maybe we can think about getting this old thing refinished, hm?”

Three years isn’t a long time anymore, not with a good 63 of them already under your belt. When the financial advisor ran the numbers and grimly told you how long you’d need to stay in the workforce, you’d been relieved. You’re fortunate that being a baker for most of your life has kept you reasonably fit and that you’re used to being on your feet.

Still, eight hours is a long time for anyone to be staring at bland white envelopes and brown boxes wrapped with yellow tape, so you’re thinking longingly of the bath you know your husband will have drawn for you at home when the blast doors slam down over the exit, trapping you and three of your coworkers in the sorting room.

You blink at the heavy metal plate that nearly took your (seemingly ever-growing) nose right off your face. The WARNING light hanging above the door is lit, casting the room in a striking red glow.

“You scanned that here?” Ring asks. He’s over at the sorting table, standing over the new hire’s shoulder. He gapes down at the screen held between her hands. It shows an x-ray of the box sitting innocuously on the sorting table. “Boxes with that dimension are supposed to be scanned in the disposal room!”

“It’s my last package,” the new hire says. You have to strain to hear her voice despite only being a dozen feet away. She’s already been given a nickname – Mouse. Fear makes her even quieter than before. “I-I thought—It’s to Strongwoman. Who would even think sending her a bomb would work? She got hit by a bus last week and the bus lost.”

“You know we don’t sort based on recipient,” Hawk says, pinching the bridge of her nose under her mask. She’s the veteran in the room, gaining her nickname from being the longest surviving member of the mail room after Travis and for having the highest number of successful disposals in history. Hawk eyed. “Your scan just told the defense system there’s a bomb in a vulnerable part of headquarters. We’ll be trapped here until they can get Demolition out to disarm it.”

“Or until it goes off,” Ring offers helpfully. Ring stands for ring the alarm, something he’s always doing. “Which it probably will before Demolition flies over from freakin’ California.”

Mouse hiccups. Her hands tremble on the scanner. “I-I’m sorry. Maybe it’s not…it could be something else?”

Ring and Hawk look at each other over her head. Ring tilts his head to the scanner. Hawk’s lips thin.

Translation: Unlikely.

“Maybe,” Hawk says. She puts a comforting hand on Mouse’s shoulder. “The only way to tell for sure is to open it.”

“Which protocol says we shouldn’t do,” Ring says.

You rub your nose. You don’t have to go to the bathroom this second, but you know your body. Protocol is not to carry a phone in the sorting room, so none of you have a way to you’re your husband and let him know you’ll be late. “How long do you think it will take for a disposal team to arrive? Supposing there’s one besides Demolition.”

Three heads whip towards you. There’s a range of emotions there, from surprise to dismay to dread.

“Oh no,” Mouse whispers, “I’ve killed Granny too.”

“If you survive, no one will ever forgive you,” Ring says.

Mouse’s eyes well with tears. “R-really?”

“Even Neon loves her muffins—"

Hawk hits him over the head hard enough his mask slips down over his eyes. While he curses and sets it to rights, she says, “Sorry, Granny. We’ll probably be waiting a while.”

You tug at your cardigan and shuffle over. The box is too big to be scanned in the sorting room – about the size of a case of flour you used to get delivered to the shop. The three of them make room for you on their side of the table. You squint at the screen. “What type of bomb is it?”

“Not like any I’ve seen before,” Hawk says. She takes the scanner from Mouse and angles it towards you. The box is shown in green and black lines. Inside is a cube of white and some curly bits. There are strange shadows across each shape, as if there are layers and layers of something over the top. “You?”

You raise your eyebrows. You thought it was common knowledge. “Well, I’ve never seen one before outside of training.”

Mouse starts. “Never seen—”

“Granny is lucky,” Ring says. He pats her on the shoulder like Hawk had. It’s nowhere near as comforting. “You’re just unlucky enough to have canceled that out.”

You pull out your glasses. You’re supposed to get the mask with your prescription over the eyes to prevent anyone from recognizing your personal eyewear. You think the prescription masks are itchy, however, so you regularly sneak them in your cardigan pocket. The scanner remains incomprehensible to you, even with them on. “It doesn’t look anything like it does in training.” You frown as the curls begin to look like ribbon the longer you stare at them. “Are you sure this is a bomb?”

“The defense system triggered on it,” Hawk says.

You wave your hand. These new AI systems are wrong all the time. You recently saw a news article about how the facial recognition software at the Hero Academy failed to pick out a top journalist, allowing him complete access to the campus. “They wouldn’t have us here sorting if the system were infallible.”

A strange look crosses Hawk’s face. “That’s one perspective.”

“It’s a state-of-the-art system,” Ring tells Mouse in a low tone. You imagine he thinks you can’t hear him or the faint laughter in his voice. “It’s not wrong.”

That grates. You may be new to the sorting room, but you aren’t wrong to question the systems. You point. “It could be cookies. See these disks here? Sugar cookies, I used to make a recipe just as thick. They’ve been very popular to send to Strongwoman lately; she must like them. And that’s the ribbon tying the box closed.”

“No,” Ring says. “No, it’s not cookies, Granny.”

Your spine stiffens. “I think it is.”

“Granny,” Hawk says tentatively. “Do you…often think things like these are cookies?”

“People do send the heroes a lot of baked goods,” you say. “It’s the best way to show gratitude!”

Mouse’s jaw drops. In a normal voice, she says, “You’ve been sending bombs onto heroes thinking they’re cookies?”

“Because they are,” you say.

“Oh my god,” Ring says. “Granny has seen a bomb, she just hasn’t recognized one before. Oh my god.”

You’re too old to stamp your feet. Instead, you narrow your eyes at Ring like you did when your eldest drew on the walls. “I have not. I open each package—”

“You open them?!”

“Protocol—"

“-and they’re always just cookies,” you say. You snag the package before any of them can move. “I’ll prove it to you!”

There’s a bit of a scuffle. Mouse doesn’t move out of the way of Ring’s lunge in time, and they both topple onto the table. Hawk tries to yank the package away from you, shouting something or other about better to be cautious or Granny stop! But you’re stronger than they think. They may call you Granny, but you’re only 63! Do they think you need a cane to walk?

You rip open the tape. Mouse screams. Ring whimpers. Hawk closes her eyes tight. You shake out the contents of the box.

A pink pastry plops out of the package and onto the scanning table. The three of them are frozen, eyes darting over the pretty ribbon curled into a bow holding it closed. With an indignant huff, you use a letter opener to cut the ribbon and flip back the lid.

Sugar cookies in six sloppy rows and stacked four deep sit inside.

“See?” you say triumphantly. “Sugar cookies!”

Hawk’s brow is furrowed. “That’s not—that can’t be—”

The bomb doors slide down and the WARNING light switches off. The system beeps three times and then falls silent. The quiet that fills the room sounds like victory.

“…so I can go home now?” Mouse asks.

“Yes,” you say smugly. You know it’s bad manners, but all the excitement has dropped your blood sugar. You snag a cookie and bite into it. “We all can.”

Ring and Hawk stay behind, staring from the box to each other and back again as you go home.

----.

You have two days off, and then Travis is off the day you come back so it takes three days for someone to tell you it was a bomb in that box.

That someone is Foresight, the leader of Hero Force.

He looks out of place in the sorting room, smiling and standing by the door as you shuffle from cart to cart to collect your jobs for the day. Travis is there with his arms folded and his eyes narrowed on Foresight.

“We call your class of power S-class,” Foresight explains. “The ability to change reality with a thought – it’s only been observed in a handful of super-powered individuals.”

“I don’t care what power she has,” Travis says. “You aren’t poaching Granny.”

“I would also like to stay in the mail room,” you say.

Foresight opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. He looks bemused as he says, “Alright then. We do need to quantify your power. Does Thursday work for you?”

“Yes,” Travis answers for you. “We’ll be there.”

Your ears perk up. Maybe it will be a long meeting. Maybe you’ll have a chance to sit down. “Thursday it is then. I’ll bring some snacks for everyone.”

----

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Next week's story is already posted and is a follow up to this story (X) about Nadezh and Gannon

#my writing #second person #superheroes #my superheroes #granny never opened the wrong shipment #she always knows exactly what she ordered

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spaceyaemonds · 2 months ago

Text

pairing: dr. jack abbot x reader

sum.: jack’s working days, and you need a new desk for your office at home. (poor summary :()

warnings: age gap (jack is late 40s, reader is 23), unplanned pregnancy, jack is divorced, not a widower. minors DNI

notes: this part is more of a jack centered filler. chapters will start getting long with the next part. sorry if this isn’t the best, i rewrote it probably six times, but needed a bit of filler before i get more into the dramatics. in the next part, reader meets dana and robby, and she and jack have their first serious disagreement. i’m very very excited!!! unedited. any feedback is extremely appreciated, it helps keep me motivated. especially reblogs/comments/asks!

wc: 1k

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Jack is working an unplanned series of rare day shifts following your first appointment. As a result, he spends more evenings with you in your apartment than alone in his own.

He never stays the night, just long enough to watch you start to doze off before doing your dishes and folding the blankets in your living room.

You read a lot. Most times you end up reading out loud to the baby, and by extension him, while he pretends to watch the news from the other end of your couch.

He’s unsure if he should, but he likes the way it feels. Sitting on your couch with you after eating whatever you made for dinner.

He hasn’t told anyone at work. It’s really not their business and they don’t need to know. But the picture from the ultrasound is burning a hole in his wallet.

And he’s pretty sure Robby’s caught on to the fact that his mind has been preoccupied.

Not that he lets anything distract him from work, but he checks his phone a dozen times an hour when it used to not even go on the floor with him, and he also makes a point to call you when he knows you’re at lunch to check how you’re doing.

You aren’t together. And he knows that. But there was some sort of shift in your relationship after your first appointment a little over two weeks ago.

He can see Robby hovering out of the corner of his eye as he types up his patient’s information, “Do you plan on actually saying something or are we just going to sit here with you awkwardly trying to work up the courage to say something?”

Robby sighs, “You’ve been acting, different, lately,”

Jack stops typing, “Is that a statement or a question?”

Robby moves a little closer, “I just mean, despite being temporarily moved to days, you don’t randomly show up on night shift to check in. You’ve also been checking your phone, a lot. I just want to make sure everything is okay,”

Jack looks at Robby for a long minute before sighing and pulling out his wallet. He doesn’t have to look very hard for the picture before handing it over to Robby.

Robby looks at it for a second before looking back at Jack, then back at the black and white photo.

“What is this?” Jack huffs out a laugh.

“As a medical professional, I find it extremely concerning that you’re asking me that,”

Robby gives him a glare as he hands it back over to him, “Fuck off,”

Jack holds his hands up in a mock surrender as he puts the picture back in his wallet, “It’s complicated,”

“Complicated,” Robby echoes, “Brother I hate to tell you this but that looks a little more than complicated,”

Despite their claims of not being best friends, they know each other, and their baggage, on a deeper level than most people.

“Yeah, well, we’re working it out,” A ghost of a smile appears on Jack’s face when he thinks of you and the baby.

“Who’s the other half of this ‘we’?” Robby looks genuinely curious, “I didn’t even know you were seeing someone,”

That question has Jack stopping in his tracks. That’s part of the complicated.

Not that he’s embarrassed, he doesn’t think you or your situation could ever embarrass him.

But he knows how it looks, with his rapidly approaching his foryt-seventh birthday and the fact that you just turned twenty-three not even five months ago.

“Well, I’m not. Not really?” It comes out more of a question. The tone of Jack’s voice makes Robby look at him, curiosity gleaming in his eyes.

“What? You mean to tell me you have a single one night stand in, what, probably six years, and you managed to get some poor girl pregnant?”

The laugh that leaves Robby at the end of his question makes Jack wince, the double meaning of his words lost on him.

“Yeah well that’s just half of it,”

Before either of them can say something else, Jack’s phone rings, he doesn’t even look at it before answering as he walks away from Robby.

“Hey, you okay? Normally I’m the one calling you,”

“Yeah, I just wanted to let you know they finally approved for me to start working from home full time starting on the first,” Your voice shows your excitement.

You had mentioned two nights ago that you’d been looking for an excuse to work from home since you started your job, and you felt like the baby would be a good enough reason for your boss to agree.

Apparently she did.

“Well that’s just great, honey,” He fights off a smile, you’re buzzing with excitement.

“I do have a question, though,” You’re still excited, but he can tell you’re a little nervous now.

“Anything.” You don’t even have to ask. Whatever you need, he’ll take care of it.

“I have to get a new desk, mine is too small for the set up they’re sending me home with. Can you help me get it put together tonight?”

“Yeah, yeah of course I can do that. Are you going to go pick one out now?”

You hum, “Yeah, I have to take these monitors home first, but then I’m going to go look for a desk,”

He paces for a brief second, stopping in front of his locker.

“Do you want to come here and switch vehicles with me? It may be easier to put the box in the truck bed than try to fit it in your car,”

He’d prefer to go with you, but he knows he can’t just leave in the middle of the day.

“Are you sure?” You sound extremely shocked he would even suggest it.

“Well, yeah. Unless you don’t want me driving your car around,” He says it like a joke, but he wonders if he should’ve thought of that before offering.

“No, no. I’d actually love to swap. That sounds like it’ll be a lot easier. I’m heading home with my equipment now, but I can be there in like thirty?”

“Sounds good, I’ll leave my keys with Dana in case I get busy. She’s the charge nurse, just ask Lupe for me or her, whoever isn’t busy,”

#dr jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x reader #the pitt x reader #jack abbott x reader #dr jack abbott x reader #🐝 writes: the pitt #🐝 writes #there will also be smut next chapter #like i said parts will be getting way way longer starting with the next one!#i am already about 40% done with it!#surprise pregnancy!jack abbot

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writersdrug · 10 months ago

Note

no thoughts just waitress!reader showing up for shifts like nothings wrong after the date situation

just keeping it calm and professional. working her shifts efficiently and no longer bantering/flirting with ghost, who would rather reader melt down and tear into him than putting up the walls around herself hehe

Ok I'm combining some asks here that had some different ideas - I got so many of you guys demanding reparation for making reader cry 😭 here's the comfort chapter! (Still a tad angsty at the beginning)

Ghost had finished your tips for you that night. He had half a mind to slide a hundred in your payout folder as an apology for ruining your date... but what good would that do? That would make you quit for good, if you hadn't already.

He lays in his bed, eyes stuck to the ceiling, still in his jeans and black shirt. He wishes he could snuff out the guilt that sits heavily in his gut. He wonders what you're doing - probably crying, possibly making a half-assed voodoo doll of himself and stabbing his chest with a dull steak knife, because that's all he feels right now.

He gets up early the next day after a rough three hours of sleep. He lumbers down the stairs to the office - Price is there, sorting out cash and working on the next supply order. He looks at Simon, who's rubbing his eyes and looking worse for wear.

"Mornin'." Price says, turning back to the monitor. Ghost grunts in response, dropping himself onto the couch behind Price. His head aches from the lack of sleep, thoughts circling in his mind about how to apologize to you. He can imagine you won't want to talk to him - or, if you do, it'll most likely be profanities wedged between insults. He'd love for you to berate him right now, and make him feel like he got what he deserved.

Price sighs. "You sleep alright?"

"I've had better."

"Nightmare?"

"... yea, somethin' like that."

Price huffs. "I'm workin' front of house today." He says, grabbing the bag of tips and standing up. "Goin' down to drop these in the safe, then I'll help you stock up."

Simon opens his eyes, looking at Price with confusion. "You?"

Price nods. "Dove called out sick. Sounded like she's got the lurgy."

That delivers the final blow to Simon. He knows you're not sick - you're avoiding him now. All plans to apologize are now out the window, and the more time passes, the harder it'll be to do it.

"You've only got yourself to blame, Simon." Price says, heading down to the restaurant floor.

He curses under his breath as Price leaves. How he heard about what happened - he could only assume it had been from Soap. He drops his arm over his face and groans. He wants to call out himself, but then they might as well shut down the entire pub for the day.

Should he try phoning you? Would you answer, let alone allow him to get more than five words out? What would he say? "Sorry I ruined your date, I was jealous tha' ya got a life outside of the pub." There is no variation of an apology that feels like it would be enough. He made you cry, for fucks sake. That was a punishment in and of itself, but he still had to own up to what he'd done.

He sighs loudly; his body feels heavy as he drags himself off the couch, trudging down the stairs. He still has a bar to run.

It had to have been the longest shift of Simon's life, and he even wrapped things up a bit earlier than usual. He didn't have the gift of your incessant chatting or being able to tease you to make the time pass. Price was a solid companion in front of house, but there was hardly a conversation to be held - even with the usual bar crowd. The patrons had a look of confusion for the majority of the night, wondering why Soap wasn't popping his head out of the kitchen to chat every once in a while - and why the hell the owner was serving tables, and not the chipper, spunky waitress.

When Simon had locked up for the night, he noticed your bike was no longer in the alley. Johnny must have dropped it off on the way back to his place.

Today isn't much different - at least, not for Simon. He's still suffering from a lack of sleep, he's irritable (he had a spat with Johnny in the morning, over something he can't even remember), and his work ethic is suffering. He's not worried about slicing bar fruit; it'll give him something to do later, when he needs it. Maybe the rush will kick him back into shape.

He stares at the dishes on the edge of the bar - they're all in need of a good polish, but he finds himself stuck on staring at the bar fridge. There's nothing else he needs to stock up on - it's packed completely full with wine, champagne, and cans of beer. He gently kicks the side of it with his boot. He should be checking the to-go boxes, helping Soap with setting up the condiments and soups, making sure the tables all had full salt and pepper shakers. That's what you would be doing. But, you're not here, and neither is Price. He can only hope tonight isn't as busy as the previous night, otherwise he'll have to close some tables. Which would make customers mad. Which would make Price mad. Which would-

Suddenly, he hears three loud bangs against the back door. He freezes, the sound triggering a Pavlovian response. He immediately looks up to the kitchen window - Soap opens the door, and you come jogging inside. You greet him with a smile. He asks how you're feeling, and you say "much better".

He doesn't know what to do with himself, but he just stands there like an idiot as you hang your bag and jacket on a hook. Stands there as you push your way into the restaurant, barely sparing him a glance as you scurry by him. Stands there as you run up the stairs, two at a time, diving nose-first into your chores so you can avoid Simon.

He can't speak. Should he? What can he say? "I'm sorry," for starters, but it isn't that simple. He thought you might have quit, and was preparing his heart for the worst. But now, here you are, running back and forth through the pub and setting up your tables - and it feels like you've never been farther away from him.

In all honesty, you can't bring yourself to talk to him either. You're feeling just as ashamed with your behavior two nights ago as he is about his own. Why the fuck would you expect someone - let alone your boss - to do your chores so that you could run off and have fun on a date? Not only that, but you'd made a scene; you felt like you had half-assed the ice bins in your scramble to get them cleaned, and then you sobbed in the middle of the restaurant. The cherry on top, however, was when you called Price yesterday and told him you had a cold, calling out of your shift. It was a cowardly thing to do, and you could tell he wasn't buying your story.

But: bills need to be paid, rent is due, and you can't lose this job. So you sucked it up and came in today - Simon is easy enough to ignore, separated from you by the bar.

At first, the quiet bartender was relieved that you had showed up for your shift - he wouldn't have searched for a new waitress if you had quit, instead choosing to deal with the consequences of his actions. But he's quickly getting more and more irritated with the silent treatment you're serving. You only talk to him when necessary: a simple "thanks" when you grab your drinks and run them to your tables. You busy yourself between rolling silverware, (over)stocking napkins and condiments, and even going so far as to spray the menus down and scrub them with a rag. You spend more time in the kitchen with Soap; each peal of laughter shared between the two of you is another arrow in Simon's chest. He's stuck behind the bar, listening to woes spilling from drunken lips, forced to watch you flit around and pretend he doesn't exist.

You can't keep this up forever.

Still, you do for most of the night. Even when your shift is coming to an end, the kitchen closed while you close the tabs for your remaining tables, you don't cave and sit at the bar with Simon. You sit at the farthest table from him, the farthest chair, in fact, skimming over your tip receipts - and talking to Soap (who was only able to sit with you since you had helped him knock out his tasks).

Simon's never been as angry with Soap as he is now - and the worst part is he knows it's not justified. He's watching from behind the bar, polishing glasses so hard they might wane into cups. He wants to talk to you. He will talk to you before the night is over. He doesn't expect forgiveness, but he expects that you'll at least let him offer an apology.

One of the regulars at the bar looks to whatever Simon is glaring at, chuckling quietly when he sees you. "Trouble in paradise?"

"Stuff it, Mike." Simon grumbles.

Meanwhile, you walk back from closing out your last table, plopping back in the booth with Soap. "What are you doing after this?"

"Sleepin'." he replies instantly, tossing back an onion ring. "Been dealin' with a grumpy bawbag since early this mornin', and I'm beat."

You glance over at the bar; Simon's back is facing you as he organizes the beer glasses. You really should apologize to him... you just couldn't figure out when the right time would be. He'd still be working by the time your shift ends, and you don't even know if he wants to speak to you at this point.

"Is he mad at me?" you ask, tapping your pen on the table.

Soap sighs. "I'm not goin' t' be the middle man, Bonnie." he says, looking at you intently. "If ye feel like somethin' needs to be said, go talk to 'im."

You groan, leaning back against the seat. "It's not that simple."

"Why not?"

"It just isn't! He's already pissed at me, and he probably thinks I'm a slacker. What good is an apology?"

"Ye won't know 'til ye talk to 'im, hmm?"

"What if he fires me?"

Johnny barks with laughter, and you frown. "I'm being serious."

"He'd never fire ye." he says, getting up out of the booth. He stretches both arms above his head and lets out a grunt. "In fact, he was throwin' a fit yesterday n' today 'fore ye came in. Bitch took it out on me."

You winced. "I'm sorry-"

"Save it fer 'im." Soap interjected. He left you at the booth with the onion rings and your tips, disappearing into the kitchen. You huff, hunching back over your tips and scribbling through them.

Deep down, you know Soap is right. If anything, you could just apologize to Simon. If he chooses to be grumpy about it, so be it. You've got tough skin... still, you can't stand the thought of him being upset with you - not because of your work ethic, but because you liked him. A lot. And you wanted him to like you back, even if it was in the most platonic way.

But that didn't change anything. An apology was due, and you were going to give him one before you left tonight.

You grabbed an onion ring and popped it in your mouth, grimacing when you realized they were cold. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Simon making his was across the floor to your booth.

Great. Guess the apology is coming now.

He stops at the edge of the table, wiping his hands in a rag. You pretend to punch numbers into your phone's calculator, but they're all random - you just want to look like you're busy.

"May I sit?" he asks, tucking the rag into his back pocket.

You mumble out a "sure", still not looking at him. You hear his large frame slide into the seat across from you, polyester squeaking underneath his weight. You continue to do random equations on your calculator, letting a thick blanket of tension settle between the two of you. You can feel his stare burning into your head, his arms folded over his chest... and you notice that his mask is in his hand. You finally look up at him.

It's not the first time you've seen his face - you've caught glimpses of it when he smokes in the alley, or when he eats whatever Soap throws under the warmer for you and Simon. But this time, he's not taking it off to be convenient. And, dear god, you're just now paying attention to how scarred, rugged, and handsome he is - but now's not the time for those kinds of thoughts. You feel like he's reaching out an olive branch, showing a possible vulnerable side to himself. So, you place your pen on the table and lean back.

He stays quiet for a moment longer, trying to figure out how to start this. He wants to make sure that you know he's here to apologize, not to ask for forgiveness. From his silence, you assume he's waiting for you to go first.

"I'm sorry about Tuesday night." you say, eyes dropping to the table. Simon's astounded that you're the one apologizing, but you continue. "I shouldn't have reacted the way I did, and I'm sorry for trying to dump my job on you."

He feels worse, now. Was that even possible? He was expecting anger, insults - a detailed, frustrated explanation of what you did last night since you did not go on that date. But you're the one saying sorry? You think you're to blame for all of this unspoken aggression? Oh, you really do confuse him, sometimes...

"You don't need t' be sorry, luv." he says, gazing at you with a softness you'd never seen before, not in his brown eyes, at least.

"No, I do." you say, nearly pleading with him to let you be apologetic. "I was being a brat, and whether you usually do the ice bins or not, I shouldn't have expected you would do them without asking." You push your pen on the table, doing your best to convey your feelings. "And yeah, I was late for my date, but... well, he sounded like a dick, anyways."

Simon chuckles, watching you stare at the table. "Well, I owe you an apology, too. I jus'..." he sighed heavily, running a hand down his jaw. "I don' even know. Guess I was bein' lazy, or... I got jealous tha' you've got a life outside of this pub. Feels like you belong here."

He immediately regrets saying that - it sounds way too possessive and... just straight up weird. But you smile, taking comfort in the fact that he still wants you here. That this was the whole reason behind the mess.

"Soap called you a bitch. Said you were an asshole all day."

Simon scoffs. "Yea... 'm pretty sure Price would tell ya the same. And he wants ya back, too. Couldn't stand waitin' on tables, he was tryin' t' trade places with me all night."

You laugh. The world seems alright again - not perfect, but good enough. It might take a night of sleeping the tension away before you're fully back to your normal self, but this is a leap in the right direction. You look at Simon, into his brown, steady eyes, as they stare right back at you.

He breaks the silence. "I really am sorry for ruinin' your date."

You smile softly. "Thank you, Simon. I forgive you."

And just like that, the weight of his guilt is lifted away. The lingering sourness remains, a reminder that he had made you cry. But you had forgiven him, which was more than he was hoping to get tonight.

"Are we better?" you ask timidly.

He nods once. "Better."

You smile - you slowly slide your stack of receipts to him, biting your lip. "Cool - can I have my money?"

Just like that, his smirk drops - but you know it's all in good humor. He huffs, snatching the stack from the table and scoots his way out of the booth. "Always got money on the mind, eh?"

"I've always got rent on my mind." you retort, following after him with the bowl of onion rings. You plant yourself at your usual spot on the end of the bar, right near the POS where Simon cashes out your tips. He tries to hurry up, assuming you want to dip and go home after such an intense conversation. He slides the mask back over his face and punches his code in, trying to edit your tips into the system as quickly as he can.

"Simon?"

"Hm?" his response is instant, turning around to look back at you. You've got your phone on the bartop, and your back and jacket on the unoccupied seat next to you.

"Can I stay for a drink?"

He's melting on the inside, only held together by his own skin. He sets your receipts down and opts to do them later, right before whenever you decide to leave. He won't miss on an opportunity to have you stay longer.

"Course, luv. What's it gonna be?"

"You know how to make a cosmo?"

He chuckles, grabbing a glass from the shelf behind him. "Sure do."

#bartender ghost #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley #simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon riley x you #ghost #ghost x reader #ghost x you #ghost cod #cod x reader #call of duty

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moluvies · 1 month ago

Text

in your orbit ꔛ armin arlert x reader

a/n: made the banner in 2 seconds on picsart myb 🫡👍 i usually dont fw the modern/college au for aot but nerdmin has so much potential :3 read part two here !!

words: 5.9k

cw: nerd!armin, college au, she/her pronouns and fem anatomy for reader, somewhat inexperienced armin #idk, armin is actually a nice person in this au, frat boy eren makes an appearance (obvi), armin gets drunk, reader gets drunk, SMUT!!, so drunk sex, mutual attraction, blowjobs, p in v sex, doggystyle, dirty talk, he whines and whimpers 😦‼️, MDNI !!

˚₊·—̳͟͞͞♡

The rec center was lively, as it usually was this time of day. You checked your phone to look at the time—3:56 P.M. Would it be weird to go in 4 minutes early? You wondered to yourself, anxiety getting the best of you. Especially when you couldn't hear even the smallest sound come from the small study room, though you told yourself maybe it was a soundproof design.

Armin Arlert, one of your classmates and now a member of the group project you had been assigned, was the one to set this meeting up. The group project from your astronomy class was a semester-long task, given to you during syllabus week and not to be turned in until finals. Half of the semester had passed and you hadn't even really met the rest of your group members—aside from Armin.

The two of you hadn't really talked, though. You followed each other on Instagram now and you sat at the same table as him in class (along with a few other people you didn't really know). Aside from that, the guy was practically a stranger to you. But you couldn't deny how you admired him. He always raised his hand in class, never sounding too full of himself or annoying like other people typically sounded to you in lecture. He was also helpful if you ever had a question, especially because you hated going to office hours with professors you hardly knew.

Armin had texted the group chat he made with all the group members a week ago asking if everyone had availability that Friday. A couple people said yes while others just put a thumbs up emoji to react to his message. He didn't mind if they didn't show to the first meeting, really. It was individually graded and if they didn't have availability to meet Friday they could have said so.

You took a deep breath, trying your best to compose yourself before you knocked once and then entered the tiny study room. It contained one table with 6 chairs around it, a TV you could connect your laptop to, and a trash can off in the corner.

And it also contained only one person—Armin.

"Hey," you greeted with a smile, shutting the door behind you and seating yourself down in a chair across from him.

"Hi, you made it," Armin smiled, looking up from his laptop as you entered. "I was just setting things up so we all have access to the slides, just in case anyone wants to make changes."

You nodded, putting your bag on the chair next to you and taking out your notebook and your own laptop. Armin turned his screen slightly so you could see the Google Slides presentation he'd already started.

“So,” he began, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “the project is basically split into three parts. We each pick a topic from the syllabus—we're focusing on one planetary system or celestial phenomenon—and then tie it back to a central question or theme. I thought we could go with, like… how different environments in space might support life? It leaves a lot of room for interpretation.”

“That actually sounds really cool,” you said, surprised by how easily the conversation was flowing. Armin was easy to talk to—calm, thoughtful, never pushing too hard. “I was kind of thinking about Europa. Like, that moon of Jupiter? There’s been speculation that it could have an ocean under the ice.”

Armin’s eyes lit up. “That would be perfect for your section. I was thinking of doing something about Titan, Saturn’s moon. We could compare how the chemical compositions of each moon might influence the potential for life—or even just how scientists are studying them.”

The hour passed quicker than you expected. Armin’s presence, though quiet, was reassuring. The two of you bounced ideas back and forth, shared articles, and even got a little distracted googling strange facts about different moons. At one point, Armin laughed quietly at a meme someone had edited into one of Titan's photos, and you felt your shoulders finally relax.

“No one else showing up kinda worked out,” you said as you started packing up your things.

“Yeah,” Armin replied, unplugging his laptop from the monitor. “Honestly, I don’t mind. We got a lot done. I’ll just post our outline in the chat and if they don’t contribute by the next meeting, I’ll talk to the professor. He said we could document that stuff.”

You both walked out into the early evening sunlight, your backpacks slung over your shoulders as the automatic doors of the rec center whooshed open.

As you and Armin stepped outside, the soft warmth of the sun casting long shadows on the pavement, he glanced over at you with a relaxed expression.

“Got any plans this weekend?” he asked, shifting his backpack on his shoulder.

You sighed, a little amused. “My friend’s been begging me to go to this frat party Saturday night. I haven't been to one since my first week of freshman year."

Armin raised an eyebrow, a small grin tugging at his lips. “At Delta Sig?”

You blinked in surprise. “Yeah. Are you in that frat?”

He laughed—soft, a little disbelieving. “God, no. Not even close. But my friend Eren is. Our friend Mikasa and I usually end up at those parties to keep him from doing something insane.”

You tilted your head curiously. “So… you do go sometimes?”

“Sometimes,” Armin admitted, his tone casual. “Delta Sig almost got shut down, actually. They had, like, a ton of hazing violations documented over the past decade. I tried convincing Eren not to rush, but he did anyway. Even after I showed him an article about it online.”

You laughed. “Wow. That makes me feel so great about possibly going.”

He smiled, nudging your arm lightly with his elbow. “If you do end up there, try to find me, alright?”

“Yeah?” you asked, a little surprised by the offer.

“I’m not a big drinker or anything,” Armin said with a small shrug, “but I’ll probably be hanging around Eren and Mikasa, keeping them out of trouble. If you go, say hi.”

You nodded, a little smile growing on your face and a flutter in your heart at the idea. “Okay. I will.”

ꔛ

"I look like an idiot," you whined, eyeing yourself in the mirror as you looked over your outfit. As a freshman, you might've worn something like this to these types of parties, but now you weren't sure anyone should wear this kind of outfit. The top was so low cut and the jeans were just simply not it, you weren't sure if you were going for slutty or casual.

"Come on, you look great," your friend, Hitch, said. Her dirty blonde hair was neatly styled and she wore an outfit combination similar to yours—tiny top with jeans.

"We look like we're matching," you replied, but with no malice. That could be cute, you thought.

"Ugh, you're right. Be right back."

You glared at the back of her head as she turned to presumably go get changed. Your hair looked nice, and so did your makeup. The outfit felt dumb but it wasn't terrible. So why did you feel like throwing up?

"Armin really said to come find you?" Hitch asked when she returned with a grin and different outfit, bringing up the conversation you had in her car when she picked you up. Hitch seemed to be a frequent partygoer to this specific frat, and had met Armin a few times at these functions. When you brought it up in the car, she confirmed that Armin hardly ever drank and mostly stayed near Eren and Mikasa.

"Yeah. He's really sweet, so I didn't expect him to even go to these," you replied honestly, applying more lip gloss. "It wasn't a surprise when he said he doesn't drink, though."

"I'm sure you guys will really hit it off then. You even turned down my 'getting ready shots'."

You rolled your eyes, and soon you were on your way, taking the short walk towards Greek row where the party was presumably already in full swing—Hitch insisting on being late so you two didn't look lame waiting for people to show up.

ꔛ

Armin was a mess.

He didn't know why, or how, but in the hours leading up to the party he convinced himself he was awkward and weird for telling you to come see him. He even went to Jean and Eren and begged for advice.

He had so much trouble reading you, but he knew you were kind. And pretty. What he didn't really know was—well, everything else. Did you drink? What kind of clothes would you wear? Would you care that he didn't like dancing?

None of the questions made sense, but neithed did anything in his mind. Why was he this stressed over a party? He was practically the babysitter when attending, and it's not like he personally invited you. He just said you should come see him. God, was that even more weird?

Somehow, some way, Jean and Eren convinced Armin to take some shots. Three shots, actually. To "ease his mind" and to "calm his nerves" apparently.

Now, there Armin was in the back of Eren's car, finding the way the streetlights passed the window and the bass of the music electrifying. Everything was warm and fuzzy, and he felt his head spin the entire drive.

ꔛ

The music hit you before anything else—thick, throbbing bass that vibrated through the concrete steps leading up to the frat house. Red cups were already scattered across the yard, and the dim porch light revealed clusters of people smoking and laughing.

"This is going to be fun," Hitch said, linking her arm through yours. "Come on, let's find your astronomy boy."

You felt heat rise to your face at the nickname. "He's not my—"

"Yeah, yeah," Hitch interrupted with a knowing smile.

As you squeezed your way through the packed living room, the scent of cheap beer and cologne made your nose scrunch. Bodies were pressed together everywhere, dancing and swaying to music that was way too loud for any actual conversation. You were starting to regret coming when Hitch suddenly squealed and pointed toward the kitchen.

"There he is! Armin's over there with Eren and Jean."

You followed her gaze, and sure enough, there was Armin—but not the Armin you expected. His normally neat blond hair was slightly mussed, cheeks flushed pink, and he was... laughing? Not the reserved, thoughtful chuckle you'd heard in the study room, but a full, uninhibited laugh that made his whole face light up.

"Is he..." you trailed off, not quite believing what you were seeing.

Hitch's eyes widened with delight. "Oh my god, I think he's drunk! This is amazing. I've literally never seen Armin anything but sober."

You made your way over to the kitchen, Hitch practically dragging you. Armin was leaning against the counter, talking animatedly with two guys you assumed were Eren and Jean. He was gesturing with his hands, something about... constellations? It was hard to hear over the music.

When he spotted you, his eyes widened almost comically.

"You came!" Armin said with such genuine excitement that it made your heart do a strange flip. He pushed himself off the counter—a bit unsteadily—and made his way over. "I wasn't sure if you would. But you did!"

"I said I would," you replied with a smile, surprised by how endearing his enthusiasm was.

"Hey, Armin," Hitch said, giving him a little wave. "Looking good tonight! Where's Marlowe at?"

"Marlowe? Oh! He's out back, I think. By the beer pong tables." Armin seemed to remember his friends then, turning back to the two guys watching with amused expressions. "Oh! This is (Y/N)," he said your name with such care it made your cheeks warm again. "She's in my astronomy group. We're doing Europa and Titan and life possibilities and it's really cool. And she's friends with Hitch."

The shorter of the two guys—brown hair, intense eyes—reached out a hand. "I'm Eren. This is Jean." He nodded toward a guy with an undercut and a smirk.

"Nice to meet you," you said, shaking hands with both of them.

"You're in Armin's class? Good luck with that. He's been talking about space for the past hour," Jean said, but there was affection in his voice.

Hitch was already scanning the room. "I'm going to find Marlowe. You good here?" she asked you.

"Yeah, I'm fine," you assured her, secretly relieved to have an out from being around her boyfriend. Marlowe was nice enough, but he was so serious it made conversations feel like job interviews.

"Don't wait up," she winked, then disappeared into the crowd.

Armin was staring at you with an expression of pure fascination. "Your hair looks really nice," he said, the filter between his thoughts and words clearly compromised. "Like—like starlight. Did you know some stars have different colors? Red giants, blue dwarfs—"

"You're such a nerd," Eren cut him off, but ruffled Armin's hair affectionately. "Even drunk you're giving astronomy lectures."

"How much did you drink?" you asked Armin, unable to keep the amusement from your voice.

"Three shots!" Armin held up only two fingers, then frowned and corrected himself. "Only three. They said it would help with nerves. I don't usually drink." He leaned in conspiratorially, lowering his voice but still speaking loudly enough for everyone to hear. "I feel weird. Like my brain is swimming."

Jean snorted. "Lightweight."

Eren reached into a nearby cooler and pulled out a beer, offering it to you. "Want one? Fair warning, I think we've corrupted your study buddy."

You hesitated. You weren't planning on drinking much tonight, but Armin was looking at you with such hopeful eyes.

"Please?" Armin said, swaying slightly. "I feel like an alien right now. Everyone's having fun and I'm just... vibrating on a different frequency."

The way he said it made you laugh. "Okay, fine. One beer. Maybe three, eventually."

Armin's face lit up again as you accepted the beer from Eren. You popped the tab and took a small sip, grimacing at the taste. Cheap beer was still cheap beer.

"Well, now that Armin's in good hands," Eren said with an exaggerated stretch, "Jean and I are gonna go find Mikasa. She texted that she just got here."

"Wait, you're leaving?" Armin asked, a flash of panic crossing his face.

"Relax, we'll be back," Jean said, already backing away. "Besides, you've got your project partner now."

Before Armin could protest further, they disappeared into the crowd, leaving you alone with a slightly swaying Armin Arlert.

"They always do that," Armin said, leaning back against the counter for stability. "Leave me places."

"Looks like I'm on babysitting duty," you teased, taking another small sip of your beer.

"No, no," Armin protested, reaching out and nearly missing as he tried to touch your arm. "You should have fun too. Not just—just watch me being weird."

"Who says watching you being weird isn't fun?" you replied, finding yourself genuinely enjoying this uninhibited version of him.

Armin stared at you for a moment, then broke into a wide smile. "You're really nice, you know that? And smart. Your Europa idea was so good. I went home and read, like, three papers about it."

"After our meeting? I thought you said you were going to meet Eren and Mikasa."

"I did! But after. I couldn't stop thinking about the project. And..." he trailed off, that flush on his cheeks deepening.

"And what?" you prompted, suddenly curious.

Armin took a sip from his cup—soda, you noticed—and looked around at the party as if gathering courage. "And I was kind of hoping you'd come tonight. I don't know why. I just... wanted to see you outside of class."

Your heart did that strange flip again. "Well, here I am," you said softly, not sure what else to say.

"Here you are," Armin echoed, his eyes meeting yours with surprising clarity despite his intoxication. "Want to go somewhere quieter? I can't hear myself think in here, and I have so many thoughts right now."

You laughed, finding his honesty refreshing. "Lead the way."

Armin grinned and pushed himself off the counter, taking your hand with a boldness you suspected was alcohol-induced, pulling you through the crowded living room toward the staircase.

As you followed him, fingers intertwined with his, you found yourself thinking that this was definitely not how you expected your Friday night to go—but somehow, it was exactly what you needed.

Armin led you up the stairs, his hand still holding yours as you weaved through small clusters of people gathered on the steps. You were glad for his guidance—the house was a maze of narrow hallways, dimly lit and pulsing with the bass from downstairs. Finally, he stopped in front of a door and turned the handle, peeking in before ushering you inside.

"Jean's room," he explained, closing the door behind you both. The music instantly became muffled, a distant thumping rather than the overwhelming roar from downstairs.

The room was surprisingly clean for a frat house bedroom—minimal clutter, a neatly made bed, and even a small bookshelf in the corner. You glanced around, suddenly feeling like you were intruding.

"Should we be in here? I feel bad taking his room," you said, hovering awkwardly near the door.

Armin shook his head, a small smile playing on his lips. "He won't even need it until like 4 AM. Trust me. He's either going to be downstairs until everyone leaves or..." He trailed off, looking slightly embarrassed.

"Got it," you laughed, understanding the implication. You took another sip of your beer, feeling the pleasant warmth spreading through your limbs as you made your way to sit on the edge of the bed.

Armin joined you, leaving a respectful few inches between you. "Better, right? I can actually hear you now."

"Much better," you agreed, finding it easier to relax now that you weren't surrounded by sweaty strangers. "So... you really went home and read scientific papers after our meeting?"

His face lit up immediately. "Yeah! There was this one about the chemical composition of Europa's ocean and how it might compare to Earth's deep-sea hydrothermal vents. Did you know there are organisms on Earth that don't need sunlight at all? They just use chemical energy from the vents."

You watched him as he spoke, his hands gesturing enthusiastically, eyes bright with genuine passion. The alcohol had lowered his usual reserve, but it was still Armin—brilliant, thoughtful Armin—just with his thoughts flowing more freely. You found yourself drawn to this version of him, the slight flush on his cheeks and the way his hair fell across his forehead when he leaned forward.

"That's actually fascinating," you said, taking another long sip of your beer. You were starting to feel it now, that pleasant buzz that made everything seem warmer, more immediate. "So you think there could be something like that on Europa?"

"It's possible! That's what makes it so exciting," he said, shifting to face you more directly. "We're just beginning to understand how diverse life can be. The universe is so much stranger than we imagine."

You nodded, feeling a pleasant heaviness in your limbs as you leaned back on your elbows. "I need to catch up to your level of intoxication if we're going to have deep space conversations all night."

Armin laughed, the sound soft and genuine. "Trust me, you don't. I feel like my brain is both racing and moving through molasses at the same time."

"That actually sounds kind of nice right now," you admitted, finishing the last of your beer. The room had taken on a gentle, swaying quality, and you found yourself increasingly aware of how close Armin was sitting.

"Here," he said, reaching over to take your empty can and placing it on Jean's desk. As he moved, his shoulder brushed against yours, and you felt a small jolt at the contact.

When he settled back beside you, he seemed to hesitate for a moment before lying back on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. You joined him, both of you lying side by side, shoulders almost touching.

"There are glow-in-the-dark stars up there," Armin pointed out quietly. Sure enough, faint green stars were stuck to the ceiling in no particular pattern. "Jean would die if he knew I told anyone. He says they were there when he moved in."

You laughed softly, still tipsy but feeling more sober now.

The dim glow from the ceiling stars cast a soft, ethereal light over Armin’s face as you lay beside him. The alcohol had settled warmly in your veins, making every sensation just a little more intense—the softness of the bed beneath you, the muffled bass of the music downstairs, the way Armin’s breathing had slowed into something deep and steady beside you.

You turned your head slightly to look at him, studying the delicate slope of his button nose, the way his eyelashes fluttered when he blinked behind his glasses. His cheeks were still flushed pink from the drinks, and his lips—soft, slightly parted—were just inches from yours. His hair, usually so neat, was tousled from the night’s chaos, falling in golden strands across his forehead. You had the sudden, overwhelming urge to run your fingers through it, to see if it was as silky as it looked.

Armin must have noticed you staring, because his eyes flicked to yours, and for a moment, the air between you stilled. His gaze was warm, hazy with alcohol but still so Armin, so full of quiet intensity.

Then, without a word, he shifted onto his elbow, leaning over you. His free hand came up, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that made your pulse jump.

You barely had time to process it before he was kissing you.

His lips were warm, slightly chapped, and tasted faintly of cheap beer and something sweet—maybe the soda he’d been drinking earlier. The kiss was soft at first, hesitant, as if he was still unsure if this was okay. But when you sighed against his mouth, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer, he deepened it with a quiet urgency that sent heat spiraling through your stomach.

His hand slid from your hair to cradle your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek as he kissed you again, slower this time, more deliberate. You could feel the warmth of his body pressing into yours, the way his breath hitched when you nipped lightly at his lower lip.

“Is this okay?” he murmured against your mouth, voice rough.

You answered by tangling your fingers in his hair, pulling him back down to you. He groaned softly, the sound vibrating against your lips, and suddenly his weight was pressing you into the mattress, his hips slotting between your thighs in a way that made your breath catch.

The kiss turned hotter, messier—his tongue sliding against yours, his hands roaming your sides, tracing the curve of your waist before settling on your hips. You could feel the heat of his skin through your clothes, the way his fingers flexed against you like he was holding back from touching you everywhere.

Armin’s breath was hot against your lips as he kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue sliding against yours in a slow, filthy drag that sent a shiver down your spine. His hands were everywhere—tangling in your hair, skimming down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. You could feel the heat of him pressed against you, the way his body trembled slightly with restraint, like he was holding himself back from just taking what he wanted.

You arched up into him, grinding your hips against his, and he let out a broken groan against your mouth.

“Fuck,” he panted, pulling back just enough to look at you, his pupils blown wide with want. His lips were swollen, his cheeks flushed, and his voice was rough when he spoke again. “I—I wanna fuck you. So bad.”

The words sent a jolt of heat straight between your legs. You could feel how hard he was already, the thick line of his cock pressing insistently against your thigh through his jeans.

“Yeah?” you breathed, your own voice shaky.

Armin nodded, biting his lower lip as his hands slid under the hem of your top, fingers brushing against the bare skin of your stomach. “Yeah. God, you feel—you feel so good. Can I—?”

You didn’t let him finish. Instead, you unzipped your jeans and grabbed his wrist to guide his hand lower, past the waistband of your jeans, letting him feel the damp heat of your panties. His breath hitched, fingers twitching against you.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, voice wrecked. “You’re—you’re already—”

You cut him off with another kiss, sucking his tongue into your mouth as your own hands wandered lower, palming the hard bulge in his jeans. He jerked against your touch, hips bucking forward with a desperate little noise.

“You too,” you murmured against his lips, squeezing him through the fabric.

Armin shuddered, his forehead dropping against yours as he let out a shaky exhale. “Shit—shit—keep doing that—”

You did, rubbing him slowly, feeling him throb under your fingers. His breath came in ragged gasps, his hips rocking into your hand, chasing the friction.

“You’re so hard,” you whispered, biting at his jaw.

Armin whined, his fingers digging into your hips. “Because of you—fuck, I—I wanna fuck you—”

His hand slid back down, slipping beneath your panties this time, fingers brushing through your slick folds. You gasped, arching into his touch, and he groaned against your neck.

Armin’s breath hitched when you suddenly switched positions and pushed him back onto the bed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as you straddled his thighs. His cock strained against his jeans, the fabric damp with pre-cum, and his fingers twitched at his sides like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you or not.

“You—you don’t have to—” he started, voice already wrecked.

You silenced him with a smirk, taking his glasses off which were slightly fogged up and folding them to put on the nearby nightstand, then popping the button of his jeans and dragging the zipper down agonizingly slow. His hips jerked up, chasing your touch, and you could see the way his cock twitched under his boxers, desperate for relief.

“I want to,” you murmured, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and pulling them down just enough to free him.

Armin gasped as the cool air hit his flushed skin, his cock springing free—hard, leaking, and so fucking pretty. You licked your lips, watching the way his stomach clenched as you wrapped your fingers around him, giving him a slow stroke.

“Fuck,” he whined, his head falling back against the pillow.

You didn’t tease him any longer. Leaning down, you dragged your tongue over the head of his cock, tasting the salty-sweet pre-cum beading at the tip. Armin’s hips jerked, a broken noise tearing from his throat as you took him into your mouth.

It was messy—you were both still a little drunk, your movements sloppy and uncoordinated—but that just made it hotter. You sucked him deep, your tongue swirling around his shaft as you bobbed your head, spit dripping down your chin.

Armin was losing it. His fingers tangled in your hair, not pushing, just holding on for dear life as he whimpered above you. “Oh—oh God—your mouth—fuck—”

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, and his thighs trembled under you. His cock pulsed against your tongue, and you could tell he was already close—his breath was coming in ragged gasps, his hips twitching like he was trying not to thrust up into your throat.

“I—I’m gonna—” he choked out, his voice high and desperate.

You didn’t let up. Instead, you took him deeper, your nose brushing the coarse blond curls at the base of his cock, and that was all it took.

Armin came with a broken cry, his back arching off the bed as he spilled hot and thick down your throat. You swallowed around him, milking him through it until he was squirming from oversensitivity, his hands weakly tugging at your hair.

“Too much—too much—” he whined, his whole body trembling.

You pulled off with a wet pop, licking your lips as you looked up at him. His face was flushed, his lips parted as he panted, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

Armin’s chest heaved as he blinked up at you, dazed and wrecked, his cock still twitching against his stomach. His cheeks burned even redder as he stammered,

“S-Sorry—I didn’t mean to—fuck, I just—”

You cut him off with a kiss, licking into his mouth so he could taste himself on your tongue. He moaned, his hands gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d pull away.

“Don’t apologize,” you murmured against his lips, grinding down against his thigh, letting him feel how soaked you still were. “Just fuck me.”

Armin’s breath hitched, his cock already stiffening again at the words. His hands slid down to your ass, squeezing greedily as he nodded, his voice rough.

“Yeah—yeah, okay—turn around—”

Armin's hands trembled as he helped you turn around, his breath coming in ragged gasps against the back of your neck. You could feel the heat radiating off his body as he knelt behind you, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your jeans.

"Fuck," he groaned, dragging the denim down your thighs inch by inch, his voice thick with want. "Look at you—fuck—your ass is so perfect—"

The cool air hit your bare skin as he peeled your jeans off completely, leaving you in just your soaked panties. His fingers traced the curve of your ass, squeezing lightly before sliding between your thighs, rubbing over the damp fabric.

"So wet," he murmured, his voice wrecked. He hooked his fingers into your panties next, pulling them down slowly, his breath hitching as your pussy was finally exposed to him. "I'm gonna fuck you so hard."

His thumbs spread you open, and you could feel his hot gaze raking over every inch of you—your swollen lips, the way you dripped for him, the way your ass arched back, begging for him.

"Hang on, okay?" He said quietly, and you felt the bed shift with his weight. Then you heard the unmistakeable sound of a wrapper being opened. "Don't ask why I know where Jean keeps his condoms. He... likes to brag," Armin said sheepishly, making you giggle as you heard him whimper slightly as he presumably rolled the condom on.

Armin’s fingers dug into your hips as he lined himself up, the blunt head of his cock nudging against your soaked entrance. He hesitated just for a second, his voice shaky with drunken lust and nerves.

“Fuck—I—I might not last, I’m sorry—”

But you barely heard him, because then he was pushing in, slow, that perfect curve of his cock hitting every sweet spot on the way. Your breath stuttered as he filled you, thick and throbbing, and a greedy moan tore from your throat before you could stop it.

“Oh fuck—” Your hands fisted the sheets, your back arching deeper, chest pressing into the mattress. “Yes—just like that, Armin.”

Armin groaned behind you, his hips stuttering as he bottomed out, his grip on you tightening like he was afraid you’d disappear. “You feel—fuck—you feel so good."

You clenched around him, and he whimpered, his cock twitching inside you like he was already fighting not to spill. But you didn’t care—not when he fit this perfectly, not when every ragged breath he took sent sparks through your veins.

Your fingers curled into the sheets, knuckles white, as you rolled your hips back to meet his shallow thrusts. The new angle let you feel him even deeper, and you gasped, your back bowing as a shiver ran down your spine.

Armin choked out a whimper, his hands scrambling for purchase on your hips as he bottomed out, his thighs trembling against yours. “Y-You feel—fuck—so tight—”

You grinned into the mattress, rolling your hips to take him deeper, and he let out a broken noise, his nails biting into your skin. He was already unraveling, his cock pulsing inside you, and you loved it—the way he couldn’t hold back, the way he was falling apart just for you.

Armin’s hips snapped forward with a desperate, sloppy thrust, his cock sinking deep into your dripping cunt as a broken moan tore from his throat. His hands gripped your ass, spreading you wider as he watched, his dick glistening with your slick as it disappeared inside you again and again.

“Fuck—look at you—” he panted, his voice wrecked, pupils blown black with lust. “Taking me so good—your pussy’s sucking me in.”

You whimpered, your fingers clawing at the sheets as his cock dragged against your walls, the curve of him hitting that sweet spot with every rough snap of his hips. Your vision blurred, pleasure coiling tight in your stomach as he fucked into you with unsteady, frantic strokes—like he was already on the edge, but needed to make you feel it too.

“You’re—ngh—you’re so tight—” Armin groaned, his hips stuttering as he tried to hold back. His cock twitched inside you, swollen and throbbing, his balls drawing up tight. “Gonna—gonna cum—shit—but I wanna make you feel it first—”

His hand slid around your hip, his fingers finding your clit and rubbing rough, frantic circles as he fucked you harder. You gasped, your back arching, your cunt clenching around him as pleasure sparked white-hot under your skin.

“There—right there—” you babbled, your voice shaking. “Armin—fuck—don’t stop—”

He whined, his thrusts turning erratic, his cock pulsing inside you as he teetered on the edge. “You—you like that? Like how I fuck you?” he slurred, his words dripping with filthy praise. “God, your pussy’s gripping me—squeezing my cock—fuck, I can’t—can’t—”

His hips jerked, his rhythm faltering as his orgasm ripped through him. He buried himself to the hilt with a choked-off moan, his cum flooding the inside of the condom.

You felt it—every twitch, every throb of his cock as he emptied himself inside you, his fingers still working your clit desperately, like he couldn’t stop even as he came.

“Fuck—fuck—” he gasped, his voice wrecked, his forehead dropping between your shoulder blades as he shuddered through the aftershocks.

You weren’t far behind. The filthy sound of him filling you, the way his cock kept twitching inside you as he panted against your back—it pushed you over the edge. Your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt clenching around him as you cried out, your thighs shaking, your nails digging into the mattress.

Armin groaned, his hips grinding weakly against your ass as he milked his own pleasure.

“Shit—” he mumbled, dazed, his voice slurred with booze and bliss. “You—you just came on my dick..." He pulled out, discarding the condom into a nearby trashcan.

You laughed breathlessly, your body still thrumming with pleasure as you collapsed onto the mattress beneath you. Armin followed, his chest pressing against your back as he nuzzled into your neck.

“You’re… really good at that,” you murmured, your voice hazy.

Armin huffed a drunken laugh against your skin, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. “Yeah?”

“Yeah," you sighed, grinning as you felt his dick twitch against the skin of your ass.

He kissed your shoulder, his lips soft and sweet despite the filth that had just spilled from them. “...Wanna go again?”

You turned your head just enough to catch his gaze—his flushed cheeks, his messy hair, his stupidly pretty eyes—and grinned.

“Obviously.”

#armin x reader smut #aot x reader smut #aot smut #armin smut #armin x reader #armin arlert x reader #armin arlert x reader smut #armin arlert #armin #smut #aot x reader #aot #snk

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wileys-russo · 2 months ago

Note

‘Okay but we go at my pace’ Alexia. Hike

the best view II a.putellas

"princessa! por favor you will love it." your girlfriend begged as you shook your head again, eyes focused on the monitor in front of you. "i need to study ale, and i can promise you i won't." you chuckled with an assured shake of your head.

"it is just a lookout. we take a little picnic, watch the sunset, muy romántica!" the midfielder continued to try as you only hummed, half listening now as you scribbled down the key points you'd need to use to bulk up your opening argument.

"alexia!" you huffed when she snatched your pen out of your hand, swooping next for your notebook and holding them behind her back making you groan.

"no. we are going, i have decided. you, need a break bebé!" the girl announced still with a firm nod and a poke to your nose, her determination admittedly making the corner of your mouth tug up into a small smile.

"you are not going to give me a moment of peace until i agree, are you?" you sighed knowingly as your girlfriend shook her head with a wide grin.

"well where is this wonderful lookout then amor?"

what your girlfriend had failed to mention, was that that in order to get to this beautiful view she was so excited to show you, there was a hike nearly entirely uphill which had taken you around an hour to even get near to the top.

"are you done with your pouting yet amor?" the girl in question teased from a few feet ahead with an amused grin, one you very much so wanted to slap off her face as you stopped with your arms crossed over your chest sending her the most evil glare you could manage in your exhausted state.

"is that a no?" alexia called as you strode off past her, ramming your shoulder into hers with a huff as you marched ahead. her chuckles behind you only spurring you to put as much distance between you both as possible, mainly so you weren't responsible for a murder in the next five minutes.

but in hindsight that was not your smartest move as your girlfriend instead had to run to catch up with you, and while keeping a cautious eye that you were both still following the trail she missed the gnarled and poorly hidden tree root which caught her ankle and sent her hurdling to the ground.

you heard her cry out in pain and whipped your head around, eyes widening as you hurried back to her and dropped down to the ground. "what happened?" you asked with panic, your girlfriend clutching her ankle with a moan of pain and a string of curses.

"¡me he hecho daño en el tobillo con esa estúpida rama!" alexia hissed as you poked at a particularly tender spot and she smacked your hand away.

"i would not have fallen if you did not run away!" the blonde grunted, trying to roll her ankle around and hissing with a wince as you shot her a look and sat up on your knees.

"my fault? this is my fault?" you scoffed in disbelief. "you dragged me on this stupid hike alexia, and then you weren't watching where you went and you tripped over! see the common factor? you!" you huffed with a scowl, wasting no time standing to your feet.

"¡espera! i think it could be a sprain." alexia immediately backed down as you went to storm off, face quickly softening at the obvious pain on hers.

"vale. lets try to get you up mi amor." you spoke without a trace of your previous frustration as your girlfriend nodded, reaching her hands up which you took in your own.

"on three? one, two-" you pulled her up and the blonde let out a squeal before her weight collapsed completely into you and sent the pair of you tumbling back to the ground with a thump.

"you are a head taller than me. this is not going to be easy!" you sighed as you hurriedly rolled off of her, both of you dusting yourselves off with a wince.

"at least it is all down hill?" your girlfriend attempted to smile charmingly as you rolled your eyes though it wasn't with malice, recognizing that she was trying to make light of the situation.

"bien, but we go at my pace."

"baby..." you inhaled sharply as the girl on your back started to speak once again after you'd banned her from doing so, her running commentary on your lifting form as you were struggling to catch your breath not helping.

"have you thought that-" she started as you exhaled, shifting her on your back with a grunt. "i would urge you to think very very carefully about your next words alexia, or i will drop you on your ass and leave you here for the wolves." you warned through gritted teeth.

"we do not have wolves in barcelona amor. but do you think we could maybe go just a little bit faster? por favor? it is almost dark and i worry we will lose the trail." the girl spoke softly as you stopped for a second, feeling her grip on you tighten as she panicked you might in fact drop her.

"well. whose idea was a sunset hike alexia?" you spoke calmly before you kept walking, your legs absolutely burning but you knew with each step you got closer to the bottom where the car was waiting.

"stop with the alexia, you hurt me more than the tree root." your girlfriend grumbled as you rolled your eyes.

"i will hurt you much worse if I get lost and trapped here in the dark on a mountain with my useless one legged girlfriend who would not let us bring our phones!" you growled, adjusting her again with a wince as your neck pinched with a bolt of pain.

"te lo dije, you needed a break." alexia mumbled and you sagged a little in relief as finally after a few moments of silence you could see the car. "not a word alexia. ¡lo digo en serio!" you warned hearing her open her mouth to make a comment as it quickly snapped shut again.

"you sit, i will bring the car closer." you lowered her down onto a bench by the trail entrance and grabbed the keys from her pocket, though spotting a sign you stopped right in your tracks, squinting as you read it over and over.

"princesa what are you-" the girl hobbled over to you, sagging her body into you a little as she fell silent reading what you had been before, and you felt her tense up beside you.

"alexia. the park closes at six, the gates are locked at six, it is now...six forty two." you spoke terrifyingly calm as you grabbed her wrist and checked her watch, your girlfriend rapidly hopping away from you on one leg with wide eyes as you turned.

"no no now mi amor before you speak i want you to remember that i was-"

"come here putellas i'm gonna snap your other ankle!"

#alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader #woso x reader #woso fanfics #woso imagine #woso blurbs

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kxsagi · 2 months ago

Note

hiiiiiii can i ask if you can write bllk x reader where reader loves food and eat everything and really is happy when food but when she don't eat at all means she's really upset and guys worrying about why she's not eating at all, can you do it w sae, rin, kaiser, hiori or anyone u want hihih

I genuinely love your works! Got me giggling and feet kicking in ungodly hour. :3 thank you

“𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐚 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐞? 𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞𝐥𝐩”

a/n: HIII THANK YOU SO MUCH OMGGG LOVE YOUUU 🫶🏻

i am such a foodie so this was so cute and fun to write but i could NOT find a title to save my life

ft. itoshi sae, itoshi rin, kaiser michael, hiori yo

itoshi sae

sae’s used to you gasping dramatically at the sight of food like it’s a long-lost lover.

“they have churros here?? SAE THEY HAVE CHURROS.”

“okay. get like ten.” he doesn’t blink.

he actually finds it really endearing. you eating happily is one of his favorite sights. he’ll sit there, bored and half-asleep, while you destroy three types of desserts and ask if you can eat the fries that came with his meal (he gives you a disgusted face the entire time, but he’s secretly dying from cuteness inside).

so the first time you push your plate away during a dinner date in madrid, his fork halts mid-air.

“... you full?”

you shrug. “just not hungry.”

red flags. sirens. DEFCON 1.

he won’t show it outwardly, but he’s staring at you the entire meal. and when you say you want to go home early?

he doesn’t let you go to bed without asking, “what’s wrong?”

you try to dodge it.

“you love food too much to leave that untouched. tell me.”

if you cry? he’ll gently pull you in and kiss the top of your head while holding you against his chest. he won’t say much, but you’ll wake up the next morning with your favorite snacks on the kitchen counter and your favorite comfort show queued up.

itoshi rin

rin doesn’t get it at first. why do you get so giddy over something as basic as food?

but then he sees you twirl when you smell fresh pancakes, or do a little dance when your ramen hits the table, and he thinks: oh.

it becomes something he secretly anticipates – how your eyes light up, how you always go “one more bite” and it’s twenty more bites.

so when you go silent during lunch, poke at your plate, and don’t finish your drink, he immediately notices.

“you okay?”

you nod too quickly. “just tired.”

lies. LIES. rin can detect those like a hawk.

he doesn’t pressure you in public. but later, when it’s just the two of you, he’ll sit on the couch beside you and ask again.

“did someone say something to you?��

you: “no, i just…”

he’s already pulling you into a side hug. “don’t shut down. talk to me.”

and when you finally open up, he’ll listen quietly, rubbing your back, then mutter something like: “we’re getting takeout tomorrow. your pick. and you’re eating the entire menu.”

that’s how he comforts, gentle, low-key, but dead serious about getting you back to food-happy.

kaiser michael

he lives to spoil you when it comes to food. five-star reservations, late-night gelato runs, midnight pancake competitions in his penthouse kitchen.

“liebe, you are divine when you eat.”

he flirts even more when you’re biting into a croissant or sighing over truffle fries. sometimes he feeds you just for fun.

so when he notices you ignoring your plate at a fancy restaurant he booked weeks in advance?

full drama. drops his fork.

“okay. who upset my queen.”

you try to laugh it off, but he’s already leaning in, his voice low. “you didn’t even touch your steak. baby. talk to me.”

he genuinely can’t stand seeing you look so dull and unbothered about food, it’s so un-you.

will cancel everything to take you home.

and when he gets you there? puts on your favorite music, wraps you in a blanket, and just holds you until you finally admit what’s wrong.

“you don’t have to act okay. but don’t keep me in the dark, ja?”

the next day he’s bringing you breakfast in bed with pancakes shaped like hearts.

“you’re not leaving this bed until you’re full and happy again. doctor kaiser’s orders.”

hiori yo

hiori is the most softly concerned of them all. he finds so much joy in watching you eat – it’s comforting, like a sign that things are good and safe.

he even started learning how to cook just to surprise you with homemade meals.

so when he makes something for you and you just… barely touch it?

his heart kind of sinks.

“is it not good…?”

you quickly shake your head. “no! it’s amazing, hiori. i just… i’m not hungry.”

and you see his expression falter for a second.

he doesn’t say anything right away, but later that night, he gently brings you a cup of tea and sits beside you.

“you don’t have to eat if you’re upset… but if you ever want to talk, i’m here.”

he’ll rub your back slowly, his voice soft and careful. he never pushes, just lets you open up at your own pace.

once you do, he’ll give you the warmest hug and thank you for trusting him.

the next morning? fresh breakfast waiting. little notes that say “for my favorite foodie 💙” and “today will be better.”

#blue lock #blue lock x reader #bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock headcanons #itoshi sae x reader #sae itoshi x reader #itoshi rin x reader #rin itoshi x reader #kaiser michael x reader #michael kaiser x reader #hiori yo x reader #yo hiori x reader #not even a bite? send help

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suliigwp · 1 month ago

Note

It's me again!

So its readers first day on track, like total rookie up from f3. So there sitting with acouple other drivers like lewis and fernando are sitting with her and giving her tips? But like there is totaly a language barrier. Like she is max verstappen 2.0

Thanks 🫶

-🦕

VROOM VROOM?

Rookie! Reader x platonic! Paddock (Hamilton, Alonso)

SULI: Yes I started writing this right away what about it🤨 I should be sleeping right now☺️ but I got an idea for this and had to write it down right away(only took an hour btw)- This was actually so fun to write. Thank you dino anon! Hope you enjoy this. I actually don't know how to tag this😭

Warnings: podium in rookie year? None!

The rookie sits stiffly in the white-cushioned chair, F1 jacket a size too big, hair still a bit damp from stress-sweat and a poorly aimed espresso machine incident earlier. She’s surrounded by legends—Lewis Hamilton on her left, Fernando Alonso on her right. Both have taken it upon themselves to gently mentor her. She, however, is somewhere between a confused raccoon and an overcaffeinated toddler.

Lewis starts off, his voice smooth, professional. He leans in with a kind smile.

“So, first weekend. You’ll want to be careful with tyre degradation in the first stint. If it’s hot, you really have to watch your—”

She blinks. Blinks again. Then chews her gum slowly, like her brain is buffering.

“…What is ‘tyres’?”

Lewis stops. He stares at her like she’s asked what oxygen is.

“The… the rubber. You know? On the car? Tyres?”

She squints. “Rubber?”

Fernando makes a quiet noise—either a cough or a laugh.

“Rubber. Okay. Sexy.”

Lewis sighs. “No. Not like that.”

She leans forward, excited now.

“You teach me. I go fast. I do… vroom vroom.” She gestures wildly, mimicking a steering wheel and what can only be described as throwing invisible dice.

Lewis looks to Fernando. Fernando shrugs and calmly sips his espresso like this is just Thursday.

“There’s a bit more to it than just… vroom vroom.”

She points at Lewis. “Vroom vroom?”

He hesitates. “Sure.”

She points at Fernando. “Vroom vroom?”

He puts down his cup, solemn. “Sí. Vroom vroom.”

She claps like a seal. “Ah! Vroom vroom!”

Lewis runs a hand down his face.

“This is what mentoring is now?”

They try again. Fernando pulls out a tablet and starts showing her a track map.

“So this corner—you brake late, stay on the inside. Apex here.”

She watches, squinting like she’s trying to read a foreign language.

“Brake late. Got it.”

Fernando: “But not too late—”

“I brake never.”

Lewis: “That’s… death. You will actually die.”

She grins. “I have no fear. Only vroom.”

Fernando leans back in his seat, taking a breath, looking at Lewis.

Lewis looks back at him. “She’s going to kill someone.”

The media rep calls time. She springs up like she’s just learned how legs work.

“Okay! I do tyres. I do apex. I do vroom. Thank you, old men.”

She walks off confidently—straight into a glass door.

Lewis stares after her, deadpan.

“…Did she just call us old?”

Fernando sips his espresso again, nodding. “Yes. I respect her.”

Lewis sighs deeply, then mutters,

“God help us all.”

...

Later on in the season...Mayhem. Three DNFs.

Ger Engineers voice reached her ears again.

“Okay, that’s the last corner—just bring it home, nice and easy. P3, unbelievable job.”

There’s a pause.

Then the radio crackles with static and adrenaline:

“AAAAAAAAAAAH!! VROOM VROOOOOOM!!”

The entire garage bursts out laughing.

Engineer, through tears of laughter:

“That’s a… yes, that’s a P3 confirmed, copy. Incredible job.”

She’s already sobbing, half-laughing, half-screaming, still holding the steering wheel like it’s a joystick in Mario Kart.

“DO YOU SEE ME?! I VROOMED!! I VROOMED SO HARD!!”

She parks up and literally forgets how to get out of the car. A mechanic has to gesture like, “Lift the wheel. No, like this. There you go.”

As she stands on the podium, still stunned and soaking wet, Lewis and Fernando are already waiting at parc fermé. Both clapping. Both smiling like proud uncles.

She practically jumps into Lewis’ arms, almost knocking him over.

“You said tires! I did tires!”

Lewis hugs her back, laughing.

She turns to Fernando and opens her arms dramatically.

“My Spanish father!”

Fernando, completely deadpan, opens his arms back.

“My chaos daughter.”

He pats her helmet like she’s a weird little puppy that just won Westminster.

Fernando leans in, murmurs just for her:

“Next time… brake maybe once, sí?”

She snorts. “Never.”

Lewis shakes his head. “She’s going to be a menace for the next ten years.”

Fernando: “Yes. And I love it.”

As they walk off together, someone overhears her say to Lewis:

“So like… if I win, do I get free pizza or?”

Next Part!

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kooyabooya · 6 months ago

Text

FREUDIAN

rosé x m reader

24k words

They always say: never make a deal with the devil. Even when all fronts of temptation have you where you’re most vulnerable - you can’t afford to give in, especially if it’s the howling calls of the past whispering out.

So you take a bite of the forbidden fallen apple anyway. Give into the fabled rumor of Judas’s betrayal. Because that’s all you’ve ever known yourself to be: gullible, foolish, naive.

None of that has changed. Even as you’re staring at her, taking the fall.

A look over her shoulder, furry scarf encapsulating her neck. The flash with her eyes sends you reeling, pulling your heartstring to the thinnest strand, nearly tearing it. She’s playing her role so innocently: the heartbreaker, your antagonist, a divine sin. It’s a losing game; one where you know very well, the kind of game where it was deemed unwinnable from the start.

But when you’re holding her close, feel her face buried into the space of your neck, all of the memories come flashing back - each one feeling more right than wrong.

“Maybe in another life,” Rosé tells you, and you’re shushing her, because the break in her voice is already destroying you on the inside, whatever she says next doesn’t even register in your ears; since she’s said the same tale before, and you’re agreeing with her regardless.

To you, Rosé is a lot of things. A scrapbook filled with endless memories. The person to sit at your doorstep late into the night just to have a meaningful conversation. A half that’s been ripped apart. You can go down the mental checklist time and time again, and end up in the same spot as before.

In another life, or some universe for that matter: you and her get that fairytale ending together.

–

The incident, quite literally, comes fast in the dead of the night.

It doesn’t hit you on the nose all at once. What does hit you is your tossed phone right onto your face, squinting at nothing when you sit up before looking down to the bright flash of your phone screen along with the number resting at the top.

“I thought I told you to put your phone on vibrate, you idiot,” your girlfriend huffs sleepily, clearly annoyed at the random call during these late hours when slumber is the only option. Your vision is still coming about, looking over to the window where it’s still dark outside, then over to the alarm clock on your nightstand, struggling to even get a glimpse of the time - no point in looking at your phone too since you would be seeing white well into the morning.

Like anyone else in this particular situation (not really), you pick up: “It’s three in the morning, why would-”

“Did you plan an anniversary trip for us?” The girl’s tone on the other end is a bit on edge, looking for answers. “When the fuck were you going to tell me and why the hell did it have to be now?”

You’re still half asleep, half awake; but the timbre in the voice sounds all too familiar - she’s got the same drawl stemmed off from you, not to mention the flurry of questions in the opening five seconds. There’s also that sense of bubbliness you’re imagining, the way that you can easily picture her sitting with both knees up, her head tilted in a way where it shows that she’s very uninterested. Or, the other form where she’s leaning forward, leaning into her phone, constantly looking down at the ground and nowhere else.

She hates the fact that she had to make this call, and you can easily tell. You, on the other end, are trying to put the bits and pieces of the story together to the best of your memory, scratching the back of your head, trying to rattle your slow-working brain. Hanging up would’ve been the best option to follow, save this conversation for later when you can think straight. Typically, you should’ve just ignored the call entirely.

Tragically, that’s not your style, so you answer, “Hey Rosie, been a while since I’ve heard your voice.”

A sigh sounds off from the speaker, “Don’t ‘Rosie’ me. I just need you to confirm my suspicions.”

“On?”

“Pfft, stop being stupid. I’m not gonna repeat myself here.”

You breathe out a soft laugh, and hang your head into your chest for a second, collecting your thoughts. “Yes, I did plan that out as a trip for us. Right before we, uh-”

Silence fills the call immediately after. Despite being on separate paths, the tension still stings like a tightening noose around your neck. Not even a simple grind of your teeth and a clenched fist can serve as the probable testament to the amount of pain you and her suffered together on the tail-end of your relationship, the hope of salvaging lost long before calling it quits.

“Still there?” Rosé asks, snapping your attention back to her voice.

“Yeah,” you reply, hiding a sniffle through a quick cough, “I just- yeah. Details can come later.”

“Okay,” she says, carrying on. “I got that reminder email from the travel organizer.” And at this point you’re cursing yourself and mentally facepalming as many times as you possibly could (seriously, why would you think it was a good idea to set up a reminder through that stupid auto-email service to notify her too as well?), thinking of every contingency to weasel your way out of this conversation. Rosé, however, had no idea of your present thought process, “Went through reading the fine prints of the agreement and…well.”

“And?” You practically prayed to God that she’d not been this quick to read into the lines and decode the information.

“Says here that the trip is non-refundable.” That is what Rosé ends with.

“That so?”

“We can’t cancel it.”

“Too late for us to do that, no?”

The comforter ruffles behind you, a small hand tapping the lower back of your shirt. “Babe? Who’s that on the phone?”

You press the switch near your nightstand to put the room into an ambient lighting setting, turning over to see the lovely ruffle of bed hair and one eye open. She then snuggles herself back into the bed, covering herself with the sheets as you’re palming the side of her face to put her back to sleep. “Sorry Jennie, it’s a-” and here is where you’re throwing caution to the wind, ensuring that you don’t trip up on your words at this moment, “late night work call.” So far it’s good, and Jennie nods with a soft hum, lazy smile at the touch of your palm. She’s a bit dazed, but one good measure for insurance, you tell her, “I’ll explain in the morning.”

Jennie blinks once or twice, dropping her eyelids while you rub your thumb across her cheek, the soothing touch sending her away to dreamland. There’s a warmth here; one where you feel safe, at home. You’ve struck out in getting with a girl like her, and the timing of it couldn’t have been more impeccable: you and Jennie were both at low points in life when you found each other, building up until the feelings couldn’t be suppressed any longer.

(That story’s for another time. Though, a very heartwarming memory to look back on.)

Your name, rolling of Rosé’s tongue, drags you back down. “Hello? Oh- yeah, yeah. I’m still here. What were you asking?”

“So we’re going? Is that what I’m getting at here?”

The inquiry lances your heart and mind, filling it with an endless plethora of uncertainties. “Wait- what?”

“Well for one: it’s my ticket. And two: I want to go. If you were going to morph this trip with someone else, I’d understand.” Rosé’s reason is plausible, and you’re seeing a way out of this less and less. “But considering that we had the plans under our names, we’d-”

“Rosé-”

“It’s my ticket.” Rosé doubles down and you wince at the fact. “I can imagine you scrunching your face right now, stop that.”

“Okay, you win.”

“Good.”

“I’ll get everything arranged prior in the next few days and pick you up for the airport. Talk to you later.”

–

At the airport, not to anyone’s surprise, there is an essential bomb rush of families on top of families arriving and checking in and boarding to their set destination. Pro tip: plan the flights ahead of time (especially if it’s during the holiday season), just to avoid any sort of commotion or potential setback on your end. If the flight gets delayed, rescheduled, or relocated to another gate, that’s not your fault.

God forbid that any of those happen since it would only prolong the amount of time you’d have to spend with Rosé.

Very small words were exchanged when you picked her up from her apartment, on the way to the airport, and even when you did most of the work getting all of the travel plans for this ‘anniversary gift’ finalized and confirmed. As expected, honestly. Sharing a car ride with your ex was not on your list of places to get stuck in no matter what the predetermined events or circumstances are, but all the more reason to keep your eyes on the road at the time, go figure.

Rosé’s sitting on the opposite end of you at one of the benches near the boarding gate once everything’s been checked in and settled; along with the security wing gauntlet handled by the TSA, but you’re finally here - waiting for all of this to finally be done and over with. She’s bearing no ounce of attention towards you, mindlessly scrolling on her phone with earbuds in, hoping that you wouldn’t take notice, but you do. And when she does flash a quick look of her eyes in your direction, a millisecond is all you get to dart your eyes elsewhere that isn’t on her.

Still, you can’t help yourself when you’re mentally rolling back the years.

Her styling is strikingly the same as it was before. A leather jacket finely pointed at the edges and crooks where it looks like the wrinkles aren’t even supposed to be there in the first place, those flowy pants that make it look like it was ripped off of a parachute and sewed up by a designer as this one-of-one piece. Then, there are the rings, and her pair of shades resting above her forehead; she’s bundled up into the seat like a little kid, an arm holding her phone as it rests along her thigh, both of her shoes are off and she’s got these cute, pink fluffy socks leaving you genuinely confused since the choice practically contradicts the other choices of clothing entirely. Really? Out of all those socks, you chose to go with that pair?

That doesn’t stand out as much compared to the other thing: her hair.

Maybe God’s rolling the dice on you for this one. Hell, you’re even wondering if God ever rolls dice in his free time upstairs. Purposeful or not, it isn’t doing you any good the more you look at those golden, heavenly locks; braided up and tied back into her head where it doesn’t give any issue for her neck whatsoever. Not to mention her side profile, the shape of her nose, and that jaw.

The pout she purses with her lips. It’s anything less than innocent.

On schedule, there’s about roughly an hour or so before your flight to Paris takes off, and you’re not willing to drive yourself insane with very few word phrases spoken. So you make conversation:

“You dyed your hair again,” you say, clutching your hoodie when Rosé’s attention falls back to you, “Gotta say, I like the color.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Rosé says, pulling an earbud out and sliding both feet off the seat. The phrasing alone is still good enough to pass as awkward, sighing as she turns her head to look out the window - nothing but cloudy skies for miles while a plane touches down on the tarmac. “Blonde’s been such a comforting color for me, so I thought why not roll with it again for fun?”

“Does bring back memories.” You slide your palms under your thighs, and cross both feet on the floor. “You had this platinum shade back when we first met.”

“Did I? You still remember that?” Rosé grins at the sudden recollection, folding her glasses and sliding them into her handbag.

“What do you want to get out of this?” You suddenly ask again, quickly running a hand across your chest to rid of the sweat riddled along your palms.

“By this, you mean-”

“Our trip,” you amend. Here you’re pulling yourself back a bit - the duo of your luggage and hers acting as this barrier, hoping that the bags can serve as this proximity limiter for the time being. “It’s supposed to be for a week, with an option to extend for another day or so.”

Rosé tugs the tied bun, scratching her neck to where you notice she got her nails trimmed and done. “A week in Paris doesn’t seem that bad, but planning it during the week of-”

“Christmas was a bit of a stretch,” you wince with a hand to the back of your head, “It’s still a nice setting to think about, though. Cold weather, snowing, the cups of cocoa we’d drink together at a cafe? What else did I not think about while planning this?”

Rosé just blinks at you, flabbergasted. She takes a second or longer to get a better look at your face, studying the shapes and curves of your frame as if it were some long-lost art piece that she had a vague familiarity with. Her breathing also slows for a bit when she drops her shoulders a bit, the discarded earbud now hanging as her eyes finally make contact with the floor, diminishing the gaze entirely.

“Sorry. I had everything thought out for our stay,” you say casually, defeated. “I honestly wish that-”

“Does Jennie know?” Rosé asks, leaning back into her chair. A premonition bubbling when she shares the same raised eyebrow directly back at you.

You nod, which you’re half-right about.

(“A work order in Paris?” Jennie asks you the morning after the first contact via phone call. She’s well aware of your passion for artistry and architecture, so playing the white lie of being ‘assigned’ to study in an attempt to further the progress of the team’s project was an idea worth rolling with. “How long are you going to be there for?”

“No more than a week,” you answer, confident for no good reason. “Maybe a day or two more.”

And that’s that.)

But you zone out for a second too long. “You’re not very convincing,” says Rosé.

“She does,” you spit out again, nodding at a faster pace. “Jennie knows the surface level of this whole thing, at least.”

“Hah,” Rosé breathes, stretching her neck with another glance. God, even the slightest sound of her laugh sounds the same as it was before - licking the rim of her lips where it meets her teeth, treating herself to the pulled cup of yogurt she bought as a snack to kill the waiting time faster. “Should’ve been honest with her,” she tells you, “I think there wouldn’t be anything wrong if you said my name in the first place instead. Lessens the risk of the possible conjecture.”

The audacity, it makes you scoff as Rosé carries on with her meal, fixing her lips along the plastic spoon, carelessly nodding and humming while you’re twisting your attention to the passing planes in the air and the trucks rolling along the taxiway. You’re trying extremely hard to not fall into the conscious habit of looking - when the eyes are zig-zagging their way from the ceiling and to the distance of the nearby gate. Somehow, it always falls on her. Always. She’s got her jacket off to compensate for the stuffiness, honey skin radiating, the sleeves of her shirt pooling over her arms, foot underneath her other knee, delicate and unbothered. She’s a time capsule - the kind where you bury deep into the ground and never even think of uncovering years later.

You thought you could move on, but here she is: within arms reach.

–

If you thought sitting across from her waiting to board was torture, being next to her was extremely worse.

Luckily, the aisle seat opened up next to yours and hers, only for it to be taken at the last possible minute, destroying any chance of creating that space between you and Rosé. This part here gets juicy: Rosé opted for the window seat and considering that the aisle was already taken, this puts you right smack in the middle of the row. She also raised the armrest set between you and her, making your final line in terms of creating a temporary vicinity practically nonexistent. Nothing will happen in a fourteen-hour flight, right? Rosé gives you the quick rundown of what she wants for her in-flight meals when she can put her legs onto your seat while you go to the restroom (and wished to stay there for the rest of the flight, but you know damn well enough that you can’t), even when she’s saying to not freak out if her head falls on your shoulder while sleeping - also, don’t mind if I grab onto your arm if I’m watching some scary movie. Every excuse seems like a death sentence added on to prolong your suffering.

The man sitting next to you weaves the discussion about the cold air from outside being brought into the cabin, some aerospace thing about the insulation and great air conditioning, but all you can give is a forced hearty smile and these nods of agreement as his wife says something embarrassing to butt herself into the talking bubble, rolling your eyes at the pair out of spite.

You’re giving your two cents about how you liked cold weather (out of all things to discuss for God knows why), and the couple takes your opinion well with open arms and minds. The wife leans over to see Rosé, glancing over before turning her head back to the window, putting two and two together:

“Are you two also going to Paris for your honeymoon?” She asks, the man also taking the hint with an ‘o’ shaped mouth.

“Uhh, that’s a bit of a tough question to answer,” you chuckle nervously as the wife makes the quick inference, carrying on with the long conversation (which was very one-sided from this point on) about how she and the man sitting next to you are so in love, their plans for their honeymoon and anniversary. You can’t help but be intrigued and infatuated with how you’re able to see love bloom right in front of your eyes. They ask you if there are any recommendations and you being the goody-two-shoes that you are, it only gets them to keep talking still. In the midst of all of this Rosé peeks over your shoulder, hand to your elbow as a sign to shut you up, but you send the same elbow back to make her stop.

Eventually, when the plane does move onto the runway and up in the air, the couple continue their monologue of how they met, their dreams, their occupations, what they like to do in their free time, the names of their cats, where they see themselves in the next five to ten years. Rosé then looks over again, lending her ears to listen to the lovely story candidly as you see her eyes filled with so much awe and wonder; she finds it funny too, and you’re seeing what she’s seeing: because that would’ve been the case if you and her had not split.

All the infinite possibilities you’re thinking off, it’s spilled right in front of you, and it gets you thinking.

–

(Midway through the long flight, you’re not even getting a wink of sleep when Rosé’s tossing and turning in the seat next to you. Some are watching assorted movies, you could hear a kid cry a few rows back, the usual experience.

Her knee hits your thigh as you’re scooting your butt away from her, unwilling to make a shape with her body, pulling the complimentary blanket up to her neck.

“Did you ever think of getting first class for the trip?” She asks, irritated. “My seat’s getting kicked from behind, and I can’t put my feet on the ground.”

“I’d be paying an additional two hundred or more to get it reserved,” you tell her, making yourself as comfortable as you can, leaning the seat back. “The next best thing was econ, so deal with it.”

She rests her head on the upper part of your arm, eye mask on and everything, falling asleep soon after.)

–

Upon the arrival gate, you do manage to get a few hours of shut-eye, backpack in hand and a trailing Rosé behind when crossing over the inside of the airport, voice conveniently drowning out the same kid who was crying not long ago during the flight.

“I can’t believe you let me sleep for six hours. Six hours.” you’re complaining, and rightfully so. “Look at you, who managed to sleep for pretty much the whole time. I had to take it on the chin, listening to their entire life story when I could’ve watched whatever you were watching while you were snoring away.”

Rosé has her shades on, hiding a bit of her puffy face and eye bags. “So? What’s it to ya? I’m not the one who decided to lean over and eavesdrop on their lovely conversation.”

“I was checking if our row was in the correct spot.”

She chuckles. “Yeah yeah, keep coming up with the lame excuses buddy.”

“You-”

“Try every alibi you’ve got in the book, but I know you well,” says Rosé victoriously, sideswiping her way in front of you on the auto walk, rolling her small hand carry around to sit on, taking a breath. She rolls her neck around, stretching - an arm at a weird angle facing down, extending her leg between your feet. Personal space was going to be an issue, you’ve already drawn up that conclusion; considering that you sat with her for roughly about fourteen to sixteen hours with the occasional retreat to the bathroom and the awkward indulgence with one of the flight attendants, you dread how the living situation will be once you and her get to the hotel room. This might be hell for you, but only time will tell which circle you’re finding yourself in.

“That should not have taken you that long to get our thing set up together,” Rosé lightly berates, handing over her luggage to you once you’ve hailed the provided ride accommodation from the travel company. “If I were the one handling this trip, I would’ve hit points x, y, and z in less time than you. Do you not know the basic cues to kill a conversation?”

You don’t answer. Because arguing isn’t gonna get you anywhere with her.

(Telling yourself lies was a strength, but also your curse as well. Somehow you keep getting away with it.)

You roll your eyes at the rhetorical question, placing all the bags into the trunk of the cab. “C’mon, don’t play the bad cop here. You know damn well that I’ve always been terrible at getting myself out of situations like those. It also didn’t help that she and the couple on the plane sounded so upbeat and enthusiastic.”

“It’s okay,” Rosé says, patting your shoulder as a form of truce. “Besides, that’s how you met me technically.” She gets into the cab soon after, settling into the backseat.

And you take a second to internalize the said phrase, scanning the horizon of the cityscape in the backdrop.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” you’re muttering to yourself, getting into the cab with Rosé, with most of the ride pretty much quiet as you’re both looking out the opposite windows.

–

For some added context, Rosé waltzed into your life on a random Tuesday morning in the first week of fifth grade.

It’s something straight out of a coming-of-age movie or slow-burning romance novel: up until that point, you’ve had boys as your deskmates through the grades with one of them being your close friend going forward.

She would change all of that - a bit pathetic now that you’re looking back at it: her being the first girl that you would ever talk to let alone sit next to you for the entire school year - but you didn’t mind though, since she was easy to get along with.

As the days turned into months and into years, you and Rosé shared everything and in between with each other. From exchanging your favorite cartoon shows on a Saturday afternoon when there was no homework, which subject was the favorable one to learn, favorite colors, why she didn't like playing sports compared to you, the blown-out-of-proportion drama over who was the popular girl in school at the time, the score you got on the last math test, what were you going to do over the summer break. There was never a moment where you or she filled in on anything worth sharing.

Rosé knows everything about you inside and out. The same could be said for your end of the table.

You’ve created the progressive drawn-up schematic well into high school. Her occasional gossip debriefs, the endless rants about that one teacher who would always give her a hard time, whether or not she should go to the dances (dragging you as her plus one, where she came extremely close to back in junior year), worrying about her near-perfect grades to the point she would overcomplicate every single minute detail that pops up with every last check before turning in an assignment. Then, there’s the crushes. Her occasional flings - to which, she had multiples of them, telling all of the unnecessary details of what she did with the guys on every date, sharing with you all the pros and cons of what her ideal type is.

But here’s the thing.

She was giving you all the signals for you to not notice. All the boxes in her list where you checked off nearly every single one of them. The realization itself came to you on a late night when she was passed out on the coffee table, papers on top of papers of notes before college admissions being submitted, turning a blind eye away from the few bottles of soju she consumed to power through even when you said that it was a terrible idea.

The small intake of alcohol helped you connect the dots right then and there: you were in love with her.

Playing it safe was the name of the game. And on your part, it was justified to keep yourself at a distance from Rosé, not putting any sort of risk in ruining the long friendship you’ve built with her. Why lay everything on the line with someone who occupied half of your brain already?

“You won’t know unless the leap of faith has been made,” Lisa says to you at the time, and that's probably the only source of assurance you ever needed to hear.

So, you make that leap.

A simple line or two is all you said where Rosé’s eyes go wide when you see her off at the front of her house, nothing else to be said when her weight collapses on top of you for an overdue hug. Talk about romantic confessions, am I right?

Once word went around various friend groups the both of you were in, it didn’t come off as much of a surprise. Most people had already made that conclusive pairing long before you started to read into the social cues and fast glances without you knowing. What mattered in the end was that you were finally with her after all this time.

It could’ve been written in ink right there and then: she was your first crush, first girlfriend, first kiss, first relationship, first love.

That should have been the end of the story. The greatest score you could ever pull off in your life. Job done.

–

(Until it wasn’t. She would eventually be the first terrible heartbreak you would ever have to endure.

First time for everything, remember?”)

–

“You’re kidding.” Rosé deadpans, walking into the open space of the hotel room, scanning. Her first reaction then shifts once she drops her bags right where they are, walking around the singular king-size bed, showered in rose petals formed into a heart with two towels folded up into quaint but cute swans resting with both of their beaks touching at the top. “You can’t be serious.”

Your hands go straight into your pockets, the corners of your lips pulled flat, indifferent. “Isn’t it the thought that counts?”

Rosé bears no mind to your bland answer. Granted, she’s partial to the fact of going through this whole trip with you, patting the head of the towel swan before turning her attention to the table at the corner of the room, a bottle of champagne kept cool in an ice bath. “I’ll give you points for the effort,” she sighs, “Care to tell me how much you paid for everything in this room?”

The cork goes flying once you lay your bearings, approaching her as she pours the golden liquid into the arranged champagne flutes, handing it over before she spills some of it over the counter on her own.

“I put in a request, that’s all.” She nods in acknowledgment while you take a nice, quick swig of the beverage, hoping to let it sting in your throat as you try to ignore the insane price tag, gazing past the window and to the nearby buildings. “Some of the stuff was extra, well, perks and all.”

“That so?” Rosé breathes, chuckling. You watch her down an impressive amount, humming at the taste. There’s an old film happening here, impossible to ignore. Her hair’s a little messed up, eyelids dropping low. You have to stand down here, don’t get any funny ideas, tilting your head slightly when the glow of the streetlights below hit her face, radiating, see her lip pulled back between her teeth-

Snapping your attention back to the city skyline was a good mental call. Clearing your throat was even better; anything worth grabbing to consolidate.

You look over again to see a smile from the side, “It’s so beautiful at night.”

A pretty sweet view to turn back on, and you agree with her.

“I’ll go shower first,” Rosé says after clearing her throat, “We’ve had a long day anyway.”

“Yeah, go on ahead.”

She then puts her flute back on the table before walking back to her suitcase. You keep your body forward and your feet where they’re at, looking out into the city some more until you eventually hear the shower running. The thought crosses your head again, thinking about all of the things you did to get into this position - moments where you failed to think logically, it’s a mess in your head at this point.

(Of all people, why did it have to be her? Being practically stranded in the city of love is one thing, but, maybe this is God or the universe trying to make good for your sake - who knows, only time will tell.)

–

This journey may be an ascent to a refined sense of closure or a descent back down into hell; how you look at it is entirely up to you.

“Do you think I’m contagious or something?” Rosé huffs out in annoyance, tossing a nearby pillow in your direction, forcing you to look up at her sitting upright on the bed - you on the couch at the other end, hoping to create some distance in whatever way you can possible. “The bed’s big enough for the two of us.”

“I find it better to not entertain that risk.”

“You slept on the floor in my room multiple times.”

“Okay I- you- well,” you stutter, words bouncing all over the place as your fingers grip tight into the book in your hands, “that’s different.”

Rosé then folds her legs up, knees resting underneath her chin. You’re lucky that the reading light hanging over your spot is enough to hide the growing heat of red rising to your cheeks. Ever since she was the one to end things four years ago, contact with Rosé had been pretty much nonexistent, and for good reason. It was already hard to lose your best friend and past lover in one go, but here she is again acting like nothing had happened between you two. Maybe she’s doing what you did: engaging in conversation - though every dreadful second has been painstakingly difficult, looking back to see her head go sideways, an inquisitive gaze written all over her face, the small quirk at the corner of her lip every time she smiles - in your eyes, she’s still the same as before, there’s no difference.

“It’s not a risk,” Rosé says, placing her head back up against the headboard, “I’m just saying that the couch over there looks uncomfortable.”

“I’ll manage. Thanks.”

Rosé then grabs another pillow within her reach, and places it beneath her forearms, straightening out her legs on the bed. “Idiot,” she hisses, the tone almost as a projection.

That catches your attention: her attitude. She looks away when you twist your head towards her again. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” she pouts, “I was just trying to get some talking going.”

Look, playing defensive isn’t wrong by any means. Tactically, that’s the best way to approach things that you’re unfamiliar with. Rosé’s mannerisms, her habits, the quirks she does, you have every trick from her in your personal playbook. You can try to run and hide all you want, but sometimes taking things head-on is the only way to go.

Rosé here is just- existing. You can tell that she’s far removed from creating any sort of effort into talking; aware of the lingering tension and awkwardness she left all those years ago. Above all that, she carries on with her one-sided conversation - which is sort of relieving to listen to, just hearing her voice, rambling about anything and literally everything that she could bring up. There’s that quick recollection of all the instances, all the times where she would tell you about the countless things where shutting up wasn’t an option. Her outlook on life hasn’t changed, and you admire that she’s bright and passionate about how things work in the world.

“It’s a bit relieving,” you tell her innocently, “you here reminding me of those days.”

Nostalgia was something worth decoding between the lines, and Rosé knows this. There’s nothing wrong with filling in what you’ve done in the past year or two, moving on after what you originally thought was the toughest period of your life. Protecting your peace, prioritizing your health - that kind of thing.

“I know that I left you in a really bad place for so long,” she implies, coming to terms for her actions. Hoping to not open up the old wound, sugarcoating it.

“We were at different points in our lives,” you console. You’re not so entirely sure of yourself if it’s the alcohol talking or the foundations of your inner walls crumbling. “I just thought that-”

“Don’t.” Rosé commands, crossing her arms over the pillow. “Don’t.”

“Okay, but still - I just wished that it didn’t have to end that way.”

It goes and it goes. Rosé keeps her gaze fixed on you as you’re nodding, mindful of what the words are but not saying it. Instead, you keep it lighthearted and put it in a positive perspective and it may be worthy of a few snaps of her fingers.

The late-night convos are a little relaxing, so you’ll take that as a plus.

–

The first ‘actual’ day of the trip is pretty uneventful.

Nothing too substantial to report other than the fact it was a mix of cloudy skies and rain from time to time.

Rosé insisted on following the itinerary, walking around the streets, and trying out various cafes handpicked by her. Then there’s the usual landmarks within walking distance too: the Arc de Triomphe, the Grand Palais, and no point in going to the Eiffel Tower since there was zero visibility at the top, so you divert to the Notre Dame Cathedral and try again a different day when the weather clears up.

(Without a care in the world, she runs up the sidewalk and turns around, arms wide open: “We’re not in Kansas anymore are we?

You give her a face of genuine confusion, “What?” Her face falls flat and you’re left there saying: “What.”)

Aside from the good food and everything around you picturesque and as ‘fresh inspiration’, Rosé takes this opportunity to capture whatever stood out to her: candid pictures of you on film, other city goers doing their everyday routine, in addition to the photos she took at the different landmarks. She has you taking pictures of her, not as a possible memento. No. But you can’t turn her down whatsoever - you just can’t.

–

(All of that is about to change, and the rain starts to pick up well into the evening. In the figurative scheme of things, you could put this as the heart of the storm; the moment where lighting can strike twice in the same spot. It could happen.)

Somehow the sim card in your phone keeps bugging out every few hours or so. The reception around the city hasn’t been that bad per se, but trying to get some calls back home has been a bit of a pain - so you had to work with what you got. Texting was the second best option for reaching Jennie, hoping that you can keep the act up by keeping her in the loop of this whole getaway. So far the messages have been casual, typical fill-ins of her day since you left, missing you.

To compensate for the international phone rates, you managed to find a payphone. An odd surprise at best and you suppose that it shouldn’t take forever in the booth, but the pitter-patter of the droplets hitting along the glass gave a small indication that this might take longer than expected.

The line continues to ring for a second or two longer, and then-

Click.

The silence becomes a slight worry, fingers gripping the phone, hoping that you could hear a hum - or that lovely violet voice that sends your heart thrumming right from the first letter.

Instead, you hear her laugh, and a sigh soon after. It might’ve been a moan as well, you know that much.

Another voice picks up at the end of the call, one that you’re very not familiar with: “Hel- Hello? Who’s this? Jennie, I think it’s your-”

There’s no fucking way.

Everything around the booth starts to fade in and out of focus. Rational thought was still in play, but barely - trying to put all of the little pieces together in a short amount of time. It’s not enough. Your jaw tightens, fighting the blood simmering through your veins. There’s too many questions to be asked, but only a few answers to take. You’re not entirely sure what these wave of emotions actually are - and it could be a lot of things: anger, fear, rage, sadness?

“Shit. Give me the- hello?” Jennie’s voice tries to calm you, but it’s already too late for that. “Wait, it’s not what you think it is, I swear-”

“I think I’ve heard enough from you.”

“Babe, if you just let me explain-”

You don’t think twice about hanging up. Your mind doesn’t even register the pain being imbued into your hands when you’re punching the glass furiously in quick succession. Hell, when you leave the booth, the realization has slowly started to set in, but the tears simply won’t come out.

I thought you were different.

The rain falls a lot harder now that you’ve finally stepped outside and look up to the dark sky, as if the universe is sharing its sorrowfulness as well.

You were supposed to be different.

–

If you had the chance to put all of your thoughts and feelings from your past relationships into a bottle or glass, you’d drink it down until there’s absolutely nothing at the bottom; the pain might’ve been tolerable then. No matter how many shots it’s been, it’s still not enough.

You don’t even remember when you first walked into the bar, but you order another shot anyway. The coat next to you still needs a few more minutes to dry up as it is.

The alcohol stings when it travels down your throat, mind working way past overtime - thinking back of all the times when you’ve been duped, deceived, exploited - but to no avail. It's a bit pathetic that the worst kinds of people show up when you least expect it, even if it's those who you hold close dearly to your heart. Relationships and commitment to you have always been complicated; an unwritten cosmic law etched into the stars.

In hindsight, it just really fucking sucks.

It’s gotten so bad to the point where you’re being woken up after passing out for maybe five or ten or so minutes. You don’t remember. Your memory is in these black patches - rough blots of ink with no detail underneath as your vision slowly forms. A girl is next to you; a calm, soothing voice bringing you closer to the light. Everything’s still blurry, but you can barely make out the silhouette: dark hair, fine skin, smooth palm holding your face. It’s comforting, you start to question if this was the present reality, but you take a shot in the dark:

“Jennie?” you say, mind buzzed and speech slurred.

“No. Dingus.”

Ah, it was worth a shot. You can see things a lot more clearer now. Instead of the shaded dark hair, it’s the opposite: hot blonde. The texture of the jacket too is also familiar, her hand is surprisingly wet from the rain, and she sounds out of breath - like she ran here.

Rosé.

“What the hell happened to you?” She asks, distressed, holding your face before lightly shoving it away realizing what she was doing.

You try your best to explain the situation; but considering the plethora of drinks you had on the tab along with the alcohol in your system, you don’t actually explain anything at all.

She could only hear the sniffles coming out of your nose.

Rosé then takes a second look, and puts another piece of the damage together. It’s all over your face: the puffy eyes, bloodied knuckles, your irises once filled with light now an empty, deep void - like something sucked the life right out of you.

“Something happened with Jennie, no?” The name pierces your heart at the guiltless inquiry.

“Kinda,” you answer with a hiccup at the end. “It’s all the same between me and love, honestly.”

Rosé then draws back, your face still in her hands, internalizing the present state. You think she might’ve realized a thought right then and there, an instance where she's been before not long ago. It doesn’t take that much more for her to learn what you had done to get here; let alone who managed to hurt you in the first place. Because she’s been here before, and she now knows what her mistake was two years ago.

So instead of running away, she pulls you in for a hug. You break down a little harder for a moment. No point in hiding.

She doesn’t say anything after leaning back. The best form of comfort she could give were both palms to your cheeks, wiping the dried-up tears off as best as she could. Somehow you barely even manage to make eye contact with her again, afraid to even look away in the first place.

You’re not sure if you leaned in or if she pulled you back to her, but your mind clears up instantly the second she kisses you.

Her lips are the same way as you remember them: nice and soft and undeniably comforting. Both of her hands keep you in place, the wistful inhale of her nose matches yours, wanting more of this rising heat spreading across your faces. She kisses like she missed you and- in a partly true way, for all the wrong reasons. Gripping and clutching wherever she can, afraid to let go of you again like the last time. You or her could practically melt in this little pocket created and recall sometime later and try to decipher every little individual action leading up to this, whether or not to write this off as an act of grace or an admission of cruelty - one or the other will have you sinking at the end.

Rosé stops herself, eyes half-lidded, pulling her swollen bottom lip like some sort of warning.

“I uh-” Crap. You should’ve known better, but you can’t help or blame the drinks for making you like this. “I-I’m sorry. You didn’t have to-”

“It’s okay.”

“But-”

“C’mon,” she persists, holding your hand and nodding her head sideways, “let’s get out of here.”

–

You’re more aware of your actions now, in the late hours of the city - where anyone could get away with anything. With that taken into account, this is the perfect time to hide away; out of anybody’s sight and the risk of getting caught is the least of your worries.

Rosé’s nose bumps yours when you’ve pressed her against the brick wall in some alley - calming every form of impulse as you could, but it’s futile. Her arms wrap around your neck and you’re cupping her face, tilting her head up to elicit a gasp between her lips.

“Fuck,” she rasps, and it’s pretty when she curses. Her hands go everywhere, haywire. A last act of desperation she does is dig her fingers into the back of your head, only making your arms pull her in closer, hindering the purpose of what she’s trying to achieve. You’d let her, and that’s exactly what she’s going for here.

“I’m a bit drunk still,” you admit, feeling the tips of her fingers graze along the nape of your neck. “So don’t beat me up if I can’t remember everything after tonight.”

Rosé’s hand shifts to your jaw, kissing you again so easily; giving you little to no time to react. Like she’s coaxing you into thinking differently that’s better than your common sense. A few more smacks here and there happen, the cool air surrounding both of you trying to flush the heat out.

The press of her face is anything out of the ordinary, humming into your mouth that deepens the sinking pit happening in your stomach. It isn’t anything new.

Because that’s the impending phase of her slowly coming back to light. She was always vocal and forward with how she took on the world; leaving a mark of what she had done not far either. Her hands cup your face so tenderly, and each longing touch of her lips against yours sends a tidal wave of memories flooding back - this entity that’s all-consuming where you could only handle so much, a hand to the side of her throat where the kiss deepens, surrendering your mind to hers

Maybe it was the timing of everything, a thought to theorize with once it’s all said and done.

“You’re broken again,” she whispers between your lips.

“Among other things,” you darted back, sighing slowly and head lowered. But it’s the truth. “Yeah, won’t say any more.” Your eyes meet hers as you slowly retreat.

“It’s okay.” Rosé concludes, eyes filled with so much care and empathy into them, thumb grazing along your cheek, cleaning another dry trail from the tears. “You have me.”

My god, this woman-

“I honestly convinced myself that you’d already moved on,” her gaze goes crestfallen, pulling her lips inward. “To think that I left you there by yourself, after everything we’ve been through. It ruined me too since - it wasn’t even your fault to begin with.”

You swallow your pride and turn yourself over on the wall.

Most of your mind is drawing blanks - bits and pieces of the picture caricatured through a warm mouth and fingertips. The draft in itself is a bit fucked up, sketched at the last possible minute; hands ghosting your jacket, tracing a line or two into the fabric of your shirt, trailing lower along the waistband of your pants. “You’re kidding, right?”

Rosé snorts at the whisper, lowering her eyelids when she’s peppering your neck again with kisses. “We’re not having a problem here are we?” She says that as she’s descending to her knees, looking up so innocently like some angel incarnate - contradicting the current action she’s presenting right now.

“Look. Rosé, we really shouldn't-”

She pays no attention to the pleading when she’s palming your length through your underwear, thumb sliding up against the underside while your other hand settles with hers set at the side of your thigh. “Okay, I mean - like this is just wrong - you don’t- god, why are you even-”

Rosé here, doesn’t give you any chance to breathe or recuperate the fast flow of thoughts. Her eyes remain unimpressed with a tilt of her head, closing in with the newly uncovered area at your waist, and the twist of her lips brings forth a sense that’s been lost to hidden waves of time.

She inhales, coaxing you much to the point where you’re looking up to the sky above for some safe passage.

“Mmmmm.”

You might as well be fucked from this point on. At least you’ll play into the game Rosé’s putting up with her mouth all over you.

“Oh, oh fuck-”

It’s all in the simple movements and adjustments - the hair being pulled back to the cuff of her ear, the way she bottoms your cock down to the base and rests for a second, the graze of her teeth across the topside, sending your hips chasing for more of that addicting bite. She hollows out her cheeks to the right pressure of suction, bracing her hands on your thighs as she begins to pick up a steady rhythm. Down, side to side, then up. Down, side to side, then up. You could picture her lashes fluttering with every slide down your shaft, humming right along the skin as if she’s proffering a way of reflecting, praising with little to no words but with plump lips and a warm tongue.

“Gotta say,” Rosé starts, after reeling back for a second, “I remembered why I loved this cock so much.”

You’ve got her hair in the grips of your fingers, thrusting your cock back past those pretty lips, hoping to shove her words right back down her throat - which works so much better than you initially expected. The brain is working triple the amount of overtime to register and compensate for the endless rush of stimulation your body is getting; the buzz of the alcohol fading with every new layer of spit lathered across the length, watching Rosé’s head continue to bob at a faster pace between your legs. She doesn’t let you off that easily when her hand coils itself at the base, the other cradling your balls with the right amount of pressure - prompting you to use both of your hands to grip her head, making the motion as seamless as possible. You could feel her throat go slack, opening up the edges to where your cock can fill in the space - the gags alone break above the audible ambiance of rain hitting the ground beneath the both of you.

“Fuck me.” And at this point, your level of thinking is so thrown under limbo. The sounds alone are music to your ears. A lost tune waiting to be heard again. Wanting. “Rosé, you-”

“Ummphgh,” is all you manage to get out of her, the spit and slippery slick of her mouth the only point of contact. You look down and see it in her eyes: glassy and welled up; like was meant to be used like this, a vessel to provide and clean up the mess of every lap her tongue makes to your underside and the seam of your balls. An angel like her, her wings clipped after committing a damming act, hoping to earn them back in any way she can. When you slide your cock out of her slack mouth - slap the member across her swollen lips, eyes closed and jaw lowered as you’re leaving behind the sloppy and unmarked territory that you’ll come back to not long after.

She nods and gags. You want to make her fucking choke.

All of this should be drawn up as a one-off, never to be spoken of again. She didn’t have to go this far, being on her knees for you like this. Neither of you owe anything to each other. Some of this might have some meaning carried with the way that Rosé speaks with her eyes, mixed with a concoction of want and sorrowfulness, opening her mouth so wide for you to take with no remorse.

And when you cum deep into her throat, it’s all in her eyebrows - the way she accepts, poisoning your morality just like that.

The pulses do die down eventually, and Rosé tilts her head to the side to give you a better look at her swallowing your release; wiping her lip in a slight relishment, damp hair falling in front and her fingers dancing along the line of her jaw - internalizing the rewarding ache. Her eyes shimmer in the low lighting, her skin covered in this spreading glow of pale and glistening. Most of her lip gloss is gone, now mixed with the layer of smeared spit all over your cock. You’re cradling her head delicately, thumb grazing the temple and some of the ends of her hair, giving you a list of things to fix.

Rosé smacks her lips, and runs her tongue against the upper profile of her teeth. “Well then,” she starts, “hope that was enough to calm your nerves for the time being.”

You’re trying extremely hard to slow your breathing, watching while she brings a wrist to her face, wiping up the damage.

“We’re so fucked up,” you barely say, clearing your throat.

“Between us?” Rosé implies, finally rising from her knees and patting your shoulders down as an out-of-touch way to comfort, “That’s old news, buddy.”

You pull her in a bit again, placing the distance of her face to yours a little over the double digits. There’s no point in ignoring her gravity, the way that you find yourself a tad magnetized, bringing out a side where it was for her and only her. She could be an entity of a higher being, probably God’s given gift from himself which you once had lost. A blessing and curse that’s managed to find their way back into your arms again.

“Now that I think about it,” you’re saying, combing some of her blonde locks before ghosting your hand just above her head, “You’ve always been the same as before.”

Rosé’s eyelids dip, peculiar, curious. That sly grin at the corner of her lip laced with the dimple trailing not far after, it’ll do you numbers. It’s happened before.

But she puts a hand to the side of your face, a soft smile to seal the whole act up as she starts to peel away. “Think you can walk to the hotel in a straight line without my help?”

“You’re gonna leave me outside if you get there first.” You answer jokingly.

She might as well if she wanted to, and you won’t be that far behind.

—

Hangovers. They’re the worst.

Normally in times like these: you’d lie in bed facing up to the ceiling, playing back all the events and instances in your mind to the best of your ability, and then get washed by the feeling of regret or questions of why you did actions a, b, and c. Fuck around and find out they say, that’s how the learning experience goes.

Although this would be the exception-

“That’s all it took for you? Just the voice by itself?” Rosé asks you the morning after, tending to the wounds on your hands, easily stacked at the wrists, and caring for them with a mother’s touch. “If it were me, I would’ve hung up by the first five seconds of silence.”

“Here’s the thing: I’m not you.”

Rosé rolls her eyes and puts the attention back to your knuckles. She grazes them with her fingertips once the dried-up blood has been washed away and sealed with a bandage. Her hands alone may look small, but the size has been apparent compared to yours. “You broke the glass from that payphone booth, didn’t you?”

“If I kept retelling you what I did, would you believe me by then?” You ask flatly.

“I’m just-” she stutters for a second when she zips up the first aid kit, “-surprised, honestly - and don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen you angry before. I didn’t expect it to be that serious.”

“Wow. Way to beat around the bush I guess.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I know you are. Slightly.”

Rosé leans back to get more of you in view, examining the new patches to cover the temporary pain left because of your actions. The repercussions don’t have to be said when it’s already shown. Good thing you brought gloves for a reason - a proper excuse to keep your hands warm when the weather gets colder.

“Are you okay?” She asks after a brief period of silence.

Your head twists back towards her. “Hm?”

“I’m being genuine. Are you okay?” she says to you again, this time leaning to place her elbows on the table. “When I picked you up from the bar, you looked wrecked.”

“Which I was. So, you’re not entirely wrong here.”

Rosé then curls her fingers, resting her chin on top of them. Her eyes were full of concern. She doesn’t have to do all this - the nice, good girl willing to reconnect and rekindle even though you and her both know that things ended in a rough patch prior. She didn’t have to agree to go on the trip with you, but the intentions here are good - for the most part.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The inquiries from her keep on coming.

“I think we should come back to this topic when I’m in a better headspace,” you tell her, and she doesn’t bother asking anymore. “What about-”

“Huh?”

“I was gonna say something about, well-” you clear your throat before wiping the lower half of her face before finding the right words to deliver the next topic, “last night when we-”

“Don’t expect you to remember much. Being drunk is a valid excuse,” she tells you, crossing her arms together with a little furrow in her brows. “One-time thing. No strings attached. Got it?”

“Are you sure?”

She nods convincingly. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Okay,” you murmur, massaging your temple.

“Okay,” Rosé echoes, knocking on wood twice for good luck. “I say we go out then.”

“What? Where to?” You dart back while she stands up from the seat, shuffling away to her luggage. “Uh, hey-”

Rosé snorts a bit, lets out a hearty laugh, one full of pure mischief. “I’m hungry. And we can put off room service for another time.”

–

“How many cafes have we been to in the past hour?” you’re asking Rosé, jaw dropped at the abundance of people waiting for their coffee orders ahead of you two. “Jesus, with this amount of caffeine, you’re gonna give me a heart attack.”

Rosé’s head turns, sipping the last bits of her beverage from the previous place you two were at, shaking the cup now full of ice. “Don’t give me that.” She laughs. “Jisoo was the one who recommended the places to me.” Her head leans back to get a few ice cubes in her mouth since the crunches are satisfying to her. “If anything, it’s your fault that you can’t keep up with-”

“I’d rather prioritize my health than drain it all away with a lot of drinks and a heart condition.” you sigh, taking the hint of her waving the cup in front of you to throw out, looking back out to listen for the number of your order. (They’ve been alternating from counting into the high forties and low twenties. It’s all confusing how any of this is efficient.) “Though the pastries and drinks have been amazing to try, so I thank you.”

She looks up at you again, flipping some of her back over her shoulder, flaunting a little shimmy of her shoulders. Like she’s aware of the praise, the compliments, the credit, and everything else lying underneath the verbal nuances. “Perks of having me as your foodie guide for the tour.”

“You’re so stupid,” you say, gaze dropping down to your feet in disappointment.

A nudge to your shoulder is all she gives before turning her body away. “Such a bitch.”

“Preaching the truth,” you reply - a hum in the timbre, playing into the banter. “That’s why they paired both of us together: toothbrush and toothpaste. peas in a pod-”

You flinch a bit when she raises a hand, but you can’t help yourself to laugh as she surrenders the idea of making a scene in public. It’s all good fun in the end, a breath of fresh air.

Then the matcha order gets called up, perfect timing.

–

You and Rosé do celebratory cheers with the clear plastic cups, swirl the tea inside before drinking a good third of it down, nod, and acknowledge the amount in addition to the taste. She then asks you to give it a rating - where you place it pretty high on the given scale.

“That’s really good,” you say, wetting your lips for another sip.

“What’d I tell you?” Rosé asks after, all comfy with her drink in both hands, watching you take in another swig because why not? “This place might be the best one on the list.”

“You mean Jisoo’s list,” you tease. “But sure, you can claim this list as yours since she’s not here to protest against it.”

“Right. I’ll do exactly that.”

You take notice of the same gaze that she’s been holding for the past few minutes now. It’s probably too late to realize that it's a honey trap: the more that your curiosity gets the best of you, the more likely that you’ll forget about everything else. A good look at her rosy cheeks, the stray strands of blonde hair sticking out because of the fuzziness that her scarf is emitting, much to the point that you can’t even see her neck beneath all of that.

“Sorry,” you’re saying, leaning your head sideways more to get a closer look. Nobody’s falling for it, especially not her. “There’s a stain right about-”

Rosé keeps her hands right where they are in holding the drink, eyes glued to your hand ghosting her face, the slightest touch where you’re cupping her jaw to keep it in place. You do manage to get the small mess off but make no other move.

She turns her head slightly towards your hand, parting her lips; and a part of your head starts to flip internally.

“What are you thinking about right now?” Rosé proposes, you think it’s intentional like she wanted you to do that. You can see it in her alluring shade of whiskey, clouded with mystery, shrouding a burning sensation behind those irises, blinking prettily.

“If I told you, it won’t happen later.”

“Oh yeah?” Rosé tuts, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth, and dips her head a few inches. “I’m intrigued,” her voice is a witch’s spell. She scoots herself towards you, closing the bubble away from the world, the moment alone stretched longer than usual.

“I shouldn’t kiss you,” you tell her, practicing caution. A last reminder thrown up in an imaginary white flag.

“But you could, right?” Rosé says in the sheerest hint of innocence, but the message says all sorts of corruption, "Where's the harm in that?”

Setting yourself up for the mind-meld was always a tall task, especially with a girl like Rosé. You could rationalize how the universe has managed to put you on this tightrope, with no hope of making it to the ends; the only choice would be to embrace this fall from grace, and feel every emotion.

She inches closer, the intent clear as day. “Y’know,” the tension is already hanging low amongst the both of you, “I’d be okay with it.”

–

(Look. Saving yourself the embarrassment was always going to be a lost cause. Consider it as a premonition, the tug of anticipation of playing things out the way they are, rewind the clip or recording to catch something new every take; a wish to alter the cause and effect. No matter how you look at it, what’s done is done.)

–

The intimacy itself gets thrown out the window, and finding a proper hold would be a lesser worry to think about. Rosés frantically slithering out of her overcoat, biting your lip in what you assume is an accident, and pressing her into the wall catches her off guard and she bumps into your face. Your thumbs are at her cheeks, holding her face in place, and the hooded eyes get pulled away; you’re thinking, she’s thinking - and all she can say is, “don’t start having second thoughts now.” It’s another green light from her to pick up where you left off, feel her arms have no sense of direction until they finally rest around the crooks of your neck and shoulders, quick draws of air passing through each other’s lips until you and her eventually fill in that space once more.

Even if there’s no label between you two now, the knowledge is already present there in the low lights.

“Let me remind you,” you’re telling her, smiling as her tongue clashes with yours, scrunching up your neck as her hands are working fast to slip you out of your top. “You started this.”

Her chin tilts up, grazing the peak of your jaw, lips trained on yours and kissing like it’s second nature; since she exactly remembers how to wind you up, unraveling. The scrunch of your neck goes away once the top falls along the floor, making out with you for what feels like it’s been forever.

“Maybe I did,” says Rosé, landing another kiss on the line of your chin, hand caressing the back of your head, unwilling to let go of you. “And can I be honest? I don’t hear you complaining about it.”

“Now why would I?”

She leans back against the drywall, arm up as if you were holding her by the wrist, but you aren’t - at least, not yet. Puffs her chest up with the help of the arch behind. “That’s the question,” she answers, hand palming the seat of your pants, fingers curling slightly, “That’s always the question.”

A window of opportunity is here. You can see it. She could lay out all the hints in front of you and you wouldn’t need all of them to figure her out, because you know: she loves being so forward, only for her to be held down, give her little to no wiggle room where her hands can leave major damage, the teasing; you’ll shut her mouth up with a pillow to her face or your hand and watch her eyes crunch together until she breaks. There’ll be times when she wants to rush, and you’d go slow, then vice versa. The grip you have on her hip isn’t nice, and you’ll keep kissing her, be very meticulous in the approach, and make her go insane.

Her muscles, let alone her body tense at the touch, shying a smile away as if she’s afraid to admit it herself. “But I gotta say,” Rosé whispers, her breath canvassing over your lips. “Doesn’t this feel nostalgic? Like old times?”

And here is where you’re practicing plausible deniability: since she’s right. A brief flash of all the times; all the instances that occurred in the past. She’s got her shirt off, and it helps jog the memory a lot more too - how you’d hold her down and just revel in the whimpering noises that escape her mouth, embracing every acre of her body; it’d be so easy to mold into her, you know from experience.

“Okay seriously,” Rosé’s saying, the rush of bliss spilling all over her face when your hands trail up and down the sides of her waist. The smile she’s bearing is a whole lot more apparent now the more your mouth is left slack open, eyes ogling without doing a single blink. “I forgot how you like to take your sweet ass time in adoring me - fuck, it’s even worse when you’re not even saying anything, like, at all, I swear to God, please, just-”

You’re paying no attention as you’re scouting out the different pieces that need peeling away off her figure. The shirt’s already off from the start. You manage to stop your hands from dancing along the waistline of her pants, hold her leg up as you’re pulling from the cuff at the bottom, keep her second-guessing with a few kisses to her stomach, brush your nose along the lace of her panties and scrape a bit of your forehead into the line of her bra. There might be something wrong with you; but hey, she’s on the same boat as well.

Once all of that’s off and disregarded, you’re claiming long lost territory - marking up everywhere to be examined at the scene of the crime when it’s all done and dusted: her chest, her neck, the collarbones, her nipples already primed to the point, the subtle hint of muscle in the abs, you’re finding a way back.

Rosé’s breathing is heavy with heat over your ear now, palming her pussy folds now exposed to the open air. “Yes - okay. Okay. I get it- jesus,” she’s stuttering as the reaction starts to traverse throughout her body. Your fingers are dancing along the dangerous area, playing with fire. You can remember the nerves being so responsive, and electric, it’s beautiful to watch in real time. “Look- you win, I’ll help. Whatever you need. I’ll do it.”

“That so?” you ask. She’s holding herself in place as best she can along with your hand, an acknowledgment, take account of the slick soaking the grooves of your fingers. You kiss her and smile against her lips - teetering on the edge of cruelty and excitement. “Jokes on you sweetheart, I knew you’d always be good for me.”

The devil is already in the details: pinning her to the wall and burying your fingers into her cunt. She keens when you slip in one finger, then two. Her sighs, singing this harmony that urges this need for it to be silenced; so you get your lips to the line of her collarbone - or, her lips resting right above the cuff of your ear, leg curling to the backside of your thigh, rising to the end of your ass. You let it slide when she pulls you in deeper into her body with her arms, the weight of your front crushing her chest a bit, which she’s okay with.

“There.” Rosé does a mix of a bob and a shake of her head, “yes, oh-”

You’re building an idea. One that hasn’t seen the light in your mind ever since the preceding one was ripped apart from you so suddenly. She keeps on gasping as you find the spots - the familiar ones where you’ve killed her before, pressing deeper and deeper into the stretch of that satisfying warmth spreading into your hand. The trembling in her body is already a stark implication of your craft becoming true. A little of a wiggle here, the push of the stretch, opening her wide. Her eyes fixate on yours, and her mouth loosens with each parting breath.

“Y-you-”

“There she is,” you murmur, the lower half of your face twisting into a sinister smile.

All she could do was nod, like she was admitting; almost as if she wanted this.

“Hold still for me,” you’re instructing, and the tone in the phrase is so gentle that she agrees to the request easily. She’s surrendering herself to you. An unspoken truth in itself. You can see the twinkle behind the rings of her irises, her shoulders drop as a result of all the muscles and bones finally relaxing after being so pent up. Something shifts in you, maybe an act of desperation; a moment where your ego is fractured. It happens when you’re pressing your cheek against hers, whispering into her ear as you put your fingers back into her cunt: “You’ve missed this, so much, haven’t you?”

Rosé winces. You can feel the clamp in her pussy and jaw.

Her nose scrunches as well, doing everything she can to not unfold the stricken nerve, so she mouths instead. “Yes. God, yes.” She can’t focus at all when her head hits the back of the wall and you’re leaving your lips into her neck. “I regretted it - so much, so fucking much. Wanted you to forgive me, to come back and-”

Shit. She got you there. The honesty alone might come as a shock to you.

“I tried so hard to move on. To forget,” she barely breathes, her voice clearer than ever, like she’s ignoring the fact that you have two curling digits inside that unbelievable cunt of hers, gripping, thighs pressing together into your hand and keeping it there; a makeshift shackle. It didn't take much to push her buttons and rile her up, get her cursing and spilling out incoherent nonsense since she can’t think straight due to the rubbing from the bottom of your palm. “The apology was there, but you were already gone-”

The more she speaks, the more she sends your common sense down into a spiraling cyclone. Your hand keeps working her leaking slit while the other hikes up her leg - let her carry the weight in holding your body as she’s mindlessly humming against your mouth; even though she’s still trying to speak, that’s fine as it is. Maybe you’re doing yourself a favor jumping face first into this hell, or Rosé herself is just helping you get there faster-

She knows what she wants. It’s a bit pathetic, a contrast to her condescending attitude that’s been peeling away little by little. Her slick is so smooth around your fingers, twirling and sliding with no care for her responses at all. You could kind of hear her say ‘I'm sorry’. Almost, you’re not entirely sure, but the endless nods and welled-up tears prove that there’s a psychotic factor occurring in your mind.

“Gonna cum for me?” you ask, and she puts on this faint smile before her head lolls up and back towards the wall. “Your hips are shuddering by the second.”

Rosé doesn’t say anything except for the staggered breaths from your hand working her and giving no care to fucking with your fingers. She tries to grip onto something; a hand, shoulder, the back of your head - whatever she could try to get her mind to not focus on you. It’s pointless. The precipice and final peak of her high is there in her eyes; locked to your face, focusing and unfocusing.

She cums. And she looks strikingly astonishing when she finally melts down.

“Cat got your tongue?” You ask again, expression slightly satisfied as the arms around you hold her down, pinning her. “That’s too bad, ‘cause I was gonna say that you look good like this-”

Her hips buck forward, pussy gushing a bit more on your fingers, wetting them. “God, y-you- fuck-”

A pinch of her clit is all you give her and she’s practically not there anymore.

The cries coming out of her reverberate around the room. Her mouth is still hung open when you relieve some of the pressure of your face on hers, eyes slowly trying to blink through the orgasm as much as possible. The front of her body falls forward, her cunt piping hot - or well, that’s just the final part of the warmth washing over with the need for another outlet to take it all in.

“Maybe I should just let you have it, huh?” you tell her as you get your hands to her waist and thigh again. “Do you think you deserve my forgiveness after what you did?”

“Yes, yes.” Rosé answers. You’re finding it hard to be convincing - as if she couldn’t say it any other way when you’re hovering her over to the bed and the nodding starts to become more frantic, desperate.

When she finally lands back first on the bed, you don’t give her any room to breathe as her body naturally arches when you’re pressing your weight on top of her again. And that’s the venom working its magic through your mind and body; she’s managed to get you craving for more without doing much.

This is her checkmate to you. She wants you so fucking bad that if you don’t get your dick inside her in the next few minutes, the damage to follow after would honestly be catastrophic.

In all fairness, you want her. It’s that simple. You’re willing to hold her down and fuck her senselessly, give her no care until she’s a pure puddle of mush. The hand holding you is calculated, precise; palm to the side of her face as she sighs at the touch. Gentle, yes. Her head tracks yours as you admire the winding mess that’ll get worse eventually.

“I want you to say it,” you tell her, accidentally leaning down to bump your nose with hers. “To be sure. Rosé, I-”

“Need you-” Her body tenses while her mouth drops to a new low, the sudden shift in her body too much to bear. You manage to wrap yourself around her, sliding slowly; spreading her legs wider until that ache rests on your muscles and hers. The drag of her fingernails on your back keeps your attention on her, zeroing in on the tightness of her waist when you’re adjusting to the right angle and depth, suspending you not to think about anything else besides her. “Like this- oh, yes- right there, fuck it’s so big, holy shit-”

“Christ,” you hiss; Rosé’s front rises to where your stomach is, squirming until you get a proper hold of her hips at the crease where the top of her legs are, putting her in place. You’re shaking your head here, trying to stay conscious; Rosé’s eyes fall to the back of her head, blinking lethargically. Her cunt’s smoothing out all the ridges and veins, clinging with a melting grip that you’d want to bury yourself in for as long as you’re with her.

She bites down a cry, and the whines can only be covered so much when she’s eating away at your face, hips snapping up slowly.

You use the adjustments wisely, watch as her expression carefully unravels right in front of your eyes, until you have a proper hold of her legs where it’ll hurt, pulling her into your cock. The first smack of skin and drive up her spine snaps - like a cable cut, a live wire - the thread of curses and the cauldron of praises fall out so nicely past her lips. She locks her arms around your back, get her pussy in a position where you can take it deep and wreck her like clockwork-

“Okay, okay. I get it now- jesus girl,” you moan out, the sound partly broken, “You win. I, fuck-”

So you manage to bury your dick inside her, saying her name and it freaking destroys her. Some of the slaps of skin match your heartbeat from time to time, the pace nice and consistent, kissing to comfort as she swallows down the first wave of sobs.

“Yeah, yeah. You know - you’ve always known,” Rosé groans. “Ugh-”

“Talking too much,” you mutter right back at her, breath hot and all over the skin of her cheek, pressing, a slight grin forming between your lips. “You don’t sound sorry enough.”

Her face then matches the same lazy smile, tugged at the corners. You’ve barely made a dent into her and it isn’t enough. The focus is clear; right in her eyes, lidded and glossy. But she flutters her lashes shut, nodding profusely again, when you’ve nudged your cockhead into the spot where you’ve killed her before, another move made. “Yes I- I am. I am, I am, I am.”

There’s not much to follow up on. The pace is already set. The one-two; slide out and drop the pin right back where it belongs. Rosé pulls you in with her lips, ankles linking to the backside of your thighs, holding her by the middle of her waist. It’s a natural transaction of sorts, the opening of old terms - matching what one wants along the other.

Maybe you’re returning the favor in a way with her - which you are. Your vision is already becoming hazy, the clamp of her cunt all over your cock the only point of focus and consciousness keeping you sane. Nothing else outside you two mattered at this moment, hidden away within these very walls of the room as Rosé’s hips started to stutter again when you bottomed her out.

And when she whines, a high pitch rather than a lone note, the part has never been made clearer.

You remember how you’ve fucked her in this fashion: burying your face into her chest, nails digging into the scalp of your head, holding you so close and tenderly - like she was afraid of losing you again, powering through the second time she cums all over your cock, the mixing of her sobbing and sniffles when you’ve pushed her over that edge once more, urging you to keep sinking into her willingly - even when the precision starts to lose its fine touch.

Even when her body starts to go limp, you play the nice gesture of raising her legs a little higher, getting her ankles planted right to the small of your back, opening up the deep, melting hollow of heat underneath you.

“Rosie. Oh, Rosie- my Rosie-” you mumble softly beneath the repeating hymn of your name on her tongue. “My god, you’re fucking crazy.”

“I want it- want you,” she sighs, palm to your cheek as her eyes lock with yours again. Christ, she knows what the fuck she’s doing, you need to fuck her properly, get your cock embedded right in her cunt where the warmth is at the hottest, filling her up and sliding smoothly along her slick walls to the point where she’ll have to repeat in the request - will you? Please, you fuck me so well - I swear, right there, this pussy’s always been yours, nobody else’s-

“How I’ve missed this,” you confess. The drag of her fuckhole is that lethal, and reverts you to old ways. The regret will cross your mind again soon, you’re sure of it.

“Cum baby.” She tells you, basically letting you do so. The velvety walls are just too much for you to handle. You could feel the coil tighten in your abdomen, the grip of her legs in your hands now leaving their red marks across her pale skin, cock hitting the same spot of her cunt over and over, relentlessly pounding and grinding her lower half into a mere puddle. “I want you to cum.”

The air within you gets sucked right out of your lungs, boiled over to a stream of strained groans and heavy exhales - two more strokes inside her creaming cunt before you grasp on the last bit of energy to tug yourself out, painting all over the fine plane of Rosé’s waist, pumping your load out. A hand gets planted to the side, holding you upright, her voice also in its high octave, begging and speaking in tongues as the ribbons of white find their place across the blush ambered skin.

“Fuck- holy fuck,” she sighs again, eyelids lifting up as you hobble over from the sudden blood loss from your head, bumping into hers as you tap the numb of her clit with your tip once, twice, the loose sobs sounding heavenly, pulling you back to your senses. “Oh god - it feels so good all over me. Yes.Yes. It’s so good, keep teasing my pussy like that, I know you love it, shit-”

Even after getting her brains properly fucked out, the slurs of her words spilling out are still coherent. You take a moment to breathe, calm down the irregular heart rate as best you can, and watch as Rosé takes a fingertip to her stomach and collects some of the mess left by you. She’s so shameless, tattered, reaping the reward in all of its glory.

“Satisfied?” You ask, rubbing her lip. Her blush is amazing to look at, a slut like her owning the part as if she’s meant for it. It’s true. The afterglow makes her ten thousand times more alluring than how she was back at the cafe when she planted the idea of those dirty thoughts slowly formulating in the back of your mind. All you have to do is just look at her-

It’s easy to read and take a step back; because giving her more would be a guarantee on the cards. Her palm lands on the left side of your chest, feeling your heartbeat. You indulge in pulling a wisp of her hair off from her forehead, those doe eyes looking up at you while she treats herself by licking up your load off her fingers.

She hums. It’s only the two of you. Everything you or her ever needed is trapped in this space.

Rosé teases with the tip of her tongue, showing the evidence being down into the space of her mouth - in her throat, seeing her neck bob up while her head tilts to this sultry gaze, a damming smile forming again, hinted with a small peek of her teeth. She then manages to get a hand around your length - fingers still soaked with your cum, languidly pumping without care - since the reaction could be substituted as a reflex. “I think you have more to offer for me.”

“God, Rosé-” you say, and she just laughs; the sound alone is impossible to ignore, but her snark, the words and things she tells you from time to time - it alters your brain chemistry. She’s always been like this.

“What? Am I wrong?” She asks, ghosting your upper profile to give you the hint that she needs some breathing room, rolling herself over where her back is now in view, and not to mention her fucking ass-

“No, you’re not,” you answer, hovering over the nape of her neck, pressing a few kisses down the curve. “If anything, you’re doing a terrific job of keeping my mind off of certain things.”

Her knees dig into the mattress, lifting her backside to the front of your hips, her slick still there, smothering the top of your length. You hold her down from the shoulders and slide your knees up to the proper placement. She’s giving an offer, alright - one that you simply cannot refuse.

“Good.” Rosé chuckles, breathing low as you’re grazing the head of your cock over the pucker of her ass, teasing it around her folds. “I hope I can keep up the work for you. Make you not worry about any other thing besides me. God that would be amazing. Can you? For me?”

“Make me fuck your brains out as my only worry,” you concur. “Doesn’t sound that bad to do again.” Her head dips down into the sheets when you’ve got your cock slowly working its way back into her creaming pussy, hips becoming flush with yours, relishing in the perfect fit - the gorgeous press of those walls, it does something to a man.

You’re imagining the widest smile on her face, knowing that she’s won you back. It doesn’t make sense yet, the bits and pieces of your mind not lining up with the actions. Rosé’s yelp gets muffled, in response to the press of her lower half into the mattress, hands pressing both asscheeks together, tightening the noose around your length, letting the drag make your cock throb even harder.

“I’ve fucking missed this,” she rasps, the last exhale shoved out of her once you’ve managed to nudge your cock back inside her. The latter of everything is this: the steady breaths, the audible slide of slick, and the slap of skin.

A hand reaches out to her hair, holding her head down to the mattress along with the rest of her body, arm slithered to the underside where the waist is, a placeholder as your hips snap forward. The whimper she lets out is a clear implication that your bag of tricks is doing a number on her.

“Taking me so well. God, Rosie. This pussy is amazing. Look at you,” you praise, growling as she continues to babble beneath your touch.

And the innocent giggles can hide so much of the absolute pleasure she’s enjoying. She’s a real-life venus fly trap: pulling you in with her smile, her eyes, and her charisma; only for you to be wrapped around her little finger and quite literally, her leg. “How cute. You were full of shit not that long ago. For a second I figured you’d be having second thoughts.”

You smack her ass and grab both sides of cheeks on her face. A statement. A warning.

“Watch your mouth,” you grit, and you swear that you’ll stay true to your word.

“Alright, just- ah, fuck me, like that. Your cock hit that same- hngh! Please, just fuck me like you mean it. Rail my ass until I’m on my knees apologizing. I promise, just dick me down-’

The pace picks up and you’ve lost all remorse. You’ll bounce her cunt on your cock regardless if she’s asking for it or not. In the present case that she is, giving it to her was an easy decision. Her pussy is the missing piece of a puzzle that you always wanted to complete anew, and it’s right in your hands and on your hips.

Rosé’s face twists over her shoulder, eyes fluttering in unadulterated pleasure, tensing and unraveling each passing stroke you have on her. The secret’s already out: you missed her, and she missed you. You’ll have the desire to take this moment away and put it in a chest, only for it to be tossed to the bottom of the sea, where no one else will know of its existence.

“Have me over and over,” she says, “if that’s all you ever wanted, I’d let you.”

You weren’t sure what you were getting yourself into, and when you’ve made her cum the second time, and third soon after - she’s a sobbing mess, voice wrecked, you’re also there with her, she’s got you by that much.

–

The first snowfall meets the cloudy skies when the light peeks through the drapery. Or at least when your vision is coming around while Rosé’s posture straightens when she sits up - clutching the comforter from the bed close to her body as she looks over her shoulder to you. Her friz of bed hair is apparent at the ends, not to mention her bare back, the first hint of red marks at the bottom of her neck - you’re drawing the assessment up as you go.

“Cold?” you ask, leaning your head back into the pillow behind. “That’s a shame.”

“Says the one who doesn’t have anything on along with me,” Rosé chuckles, swirling around facing you. You’ll be left there to just observe and stare more times than you can probably count on your own ten fingers.

Then she lets the blanket fall; her version of a curtain raiser.

It isn’t anything new really, but you catch yourself blinking a lot faster than usual; the blotches of red spread across her chest, mixed with the paleness of her skin. Her waist emulates this hourglass shape that almost looks unreal for one to have; there’s also neck and collarbones, and you’re looking everywhere from her face to her hips - lustful would be an understatement of her efforts.

“You could give me one of your hoodies again,” she’s saying, sliding her hands into the crease beneath her shoulders, looking down to the crimson marks.

“Tempting.”

She tilts her head the other way, a soft hum reflected off her smile. The rosy blush is a highlight; the reruns of all the moments with her keep coming back, and you’re certainly here for all of them. “You can’t turn me down.”

“And if I did, it would be a tragedy,” you say, pulling her into your embrace as she spins around again, her hand scratching the side of your head, nose buried into the curve of her neck, “thankfully, that won’t happen with you.”

“Let’s go exploring the city today,” Rosé proposes, back arching to the adjustment of your hold. “I can put in a reservation for that one restaurant with the fancy snails and seafood.”

“Isn’t that like-” you snort, “eighty percent of the restaurants around here anyway?”

“Only if you’re not looking deep enough.”

“Your call,” you agree, turning your head to put a proper kiss, tasting the sweetness of cherry or strawberries. Her fingers trail across your forearms while yours are grazing her waist, her breasts - you’re one for physical touch, a little too much for your liking but in this case is it justified? Absolutely. Who wouldn’t? “I can carry you to the shower if you’d like.”

Rosé’s eyes close, fluttering. Lips pulled inward to a smirk. She’s enthralled with the notion - the affinity of how you treated her before. “Mmmmm. I think: yes please.”

–

(So you do carry her. Frankly, your fingers digging into the plush skin of her ass, sinking her back onto your cock; palms holding the tile, then slipping - her back to the wall as her feet dangle past your backside. Rosé’s moaning into the shell of your ear one second, kissing you the next - like the world would end at any given moment, hands pressing your face deeper into hers in the wash of rain above, encouraging you to give in.

She was doing whatever it took to creep herself back into the nook of your mind, and so far it’s working; rewriting your nerves and synapses, corralling with her tongue and lips in all the ways that swept off your feet before, her grin against your chin all the easier to bite down and swallow. “You swear not to tell anyone about this, promise me.” The only telltale point of accountability laid out on the table, in the space opened between your lips and hers - a brief pause, stalled negotiations, ending with an everlasting proposition that you’ll submit to when she finally says:

“Not a soul. Promise.”)

–

You’re shrugging your shoulders up to your ears, hoping to keep in some of the heat trapped in your body. An instinct; and with the right amount of layers of fabrics, it makes the job a whole lot easier to do. Simple as that.

Rosé eventually did manage to steal one of your hoodies from your luggage. Not that you were complaining about it. As much as you hate to admit it, the girl did have a knack for styling different articles effortlessly to the point where you can’t even tell if she’s wearing your clothes or her own. She’s got a red scarf for today’s outing, properly complimenting the other shades below while she’s fixing her appearance in the mirror of the restaurant, patting down her hair with you coming right behind to transfer some of the warmth onto her.

You’re getting a few whiffs of her perfume. Cinnamon and something rustic, cozy, and she just gives you a beaming smile off the reflection in front of you. Her hand goes into the pocket of her overcoat: a small digicam, turns it on and points it to the mirror - telling you to act candid or cute, whichever one happens to come first. The pull of your arms brings her closer to you, a familiar movement and rhythm when you leaned over earlier while getting ready, talking all sly and prettily as she creams all over your cock. She’s thinking about it also, even while the camera clicks.

“Would you look at that,” she exclaims, capturing the photo as a personal keepsake, and showing you the photo on the screen soon after. “We look good in this for once.”

Rosé notices your whole body freeze, rolling your eyes, “Uh, was that supposed to be an insult?”

Her face shifts to a quick scowl, taken aback by the question suddenly. “Why? Would you rather have me tell you that you’re fucking ugly instead?”

“Not true. But, hah. That does sound a lot more like you.”

Your gaze goes back to the glass, and Rosé takes another funny photo for the memories, looking over to the corner of your eyes as the snaps from the camera continue for a few seconds. “How’s my jacket?”

She pulls the hood to her nostrils, eyelids snapped shut, and inhales. The grin she has all over her face proves to be a clear indicator that the signs are all pointing towards positive. Her figure is still in reach of you, her front opposite to yours. “Comfy, for one,” she then looks up to your chin, syrup eyes looking up with a gentle gaze. “It’s a distinct smell. A one-of-one.”

“Corny.”

“And?”

“Pretty,” is what you end off with, petting her hair which earns you a nose scrunch. “Want me to add on?”

“You could tell me that I’m special, your angel, or something. Maybe say that I look good, y’know - to boost my ego. You being my one and only, the dream guy I’ve wanted for as long as I liv-”

“Don’t push your luck,” you’re grinning, because she’s planting the idea so well, the keywords and points of inference to decode and analyze. She’ll inflate your ego so much that you’d have to hold her down in your hands and fuck some proper sense into her - ‘cause it’ll happen again - probably because she deserves it, which is true.

–

Later, and by her arm linked to yours, Rosé pulls you into this music club. A jazz bar, or- just a place where they were having an open mic night, the songs having the earworm effect to the point where your feet are following hers.

The place opens up inside where the seating arrangements are segregated in pairs in the middle from the stage and outwards with the usual booths set at the sides. Some people are sitting, others are dancing, and then there are a few who are just casually conversing and really having a great time. But the wave of nostalgia is hitting a little harder than usual as they’re all riding along with the music.

“This place is nice,” she tells you, gently bobbing her head along to the cozy ambiance of the band playing on the stage, tugging the cuff of your sleeve towards some open seats to rest your legs and take a breather.

When you do finally settle your bearings, the seat under you becomes a lot more comfier, taking in the sights and sounds of the live music being performed right in front of you. It wasn’t that long also for the drinks to come flowing in; only this time, you’re more in line with your inhibitions and common sense all because there isn’t any impending stress plaguing your mind.

Once the setlist’s been played through, the main lead of the band calls out to the audience for anyone who would be interested in singing on the open floor. Pretty straightforward: just name the song for the band members to play and give them a few minutes to get adjusted to the demands of the piece; gotta say, they’re pretty good at what they do.

“I’m gonna go up there.” Rosé snatches your attention with her spontaneous plan. “It’s been a while since I sang in front of anyone”

You chuckle, because you remember how she was back in the high school choir years ago. “You’re serious?” The question comes off as rhetorical alone, but you sense that burning passion inside her that fuels everything in her enthusiasm. “By all means, go for it.”

“Got a song in mind?” She asks, hand resting on your forearm.

“Don’t have anything in particular,” you answer with a shake of your head. “Surprise me.”

With that, Rosé shoots her hand up high into the air. The band leader spots her out instantly and calls her up to the stage. Everyone’s eyes are drawn towards her - a mix of applause and whistles to solidify the encouragement, and here you are stuck in your seat hoping that nothing goes wrong while she’s up on stage. You have faith, and it’s just enough to stick by.

Her introduction is cute to watch; the way that she sounds sends your heart flipping for a millisecond: “Hi my name is Rosé. I’m not from here, but I’m super excited to perform for you guys tonight and I hope that you guys enjoy it. Thank you.”

You’d have to admit, she does look good when the lights are all on her.

She picks two oldies that you remember vividly because of your parent's music taste, and the final song catches you off guard, because of the way that she presented it-

“I’d just like to dedicate this last song to the number one that I hold most dear to in my heart. So if you’re listening to this, wherever you are, I hope you know that I will always root for you - even from afar.”

-being a classic Bruno Mars song since that’s been one of the few artists she’s been playing on repeat for the entirety of the trip. Her head moves and tilts in alternating directions, really just feeling out the music.

Once the final chords of the song get played out, the club erupts with a mix of cheers and claps, congratulating her for providing a wonderful show. The gratitude comes out naturally and she gives her thanks, occasionally landing her gaze over to you before looking elsewhere. She realizes the yearning, like how she sensed it while examining the art pieces up close as you were a few steps away.

It really gets you thinking, just how much you’ve fallen deeper back into the abyss with her.

–

At some point, you realize that you aren’t getting enough sleep as you’d like.

And no, it’s not because of the exhaustion of burying your cock deep into Rosé’s cunt, the slide of her folds becoming a relapse of an addiction long locked away. The lines become blurred between right and wrong, considering the incessant begging she keeps putting towards you where you give her exactly what she wants.

She’s laid on top of you, skin touching skin. You make do by clinging onto her small body since she likes that.

Rosé looks up, palm to your cheek, thumb canvasing the surface. She leans down for a peck - you lean up to meet her in the middle. Everything about this feels safe; your heart’s beating with a rise in tempo, every move of her hand and head an electric current across your body, the quick blitzes of craving for one another, pulling her close, wrapping her in your clothes, blowing air in the sensitive spots that get her going, whimpering.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: the ex.” She says to you, both hands now to the sides of your face, holding you like an award - a trophy.

“First of all, ouch.”

“Don’t take it to heart since you dicked me down not too long ago.” Her face turns over, listening to your heartbeat, legs tangling underneath the sheets. “It sounded a whole lot better in my head, so I thought why not say it out loud,” her tone filled with relief. “I’ve always spoken from my mind anyway, so how is this any different?”

“That’s-”

“I’m kidding,” Rosé laughs, “well- partly. I didn’t mean to hurt you again if that’s what you wanted to hear,” in a way she’s right; what also doesn’t help is her hand slithering down your front, to your hips, fingers coiling your length in record time.

You gasp, tensing up all the muscles in your body. “Fuc- Rosie-”

“These thoughts that I have, they’re the worst,” she’s telling this like some gospel - a fabled story or prophecy from an oracle, twisting and jerking your hardening shaft while sharing the madness of her hippocampus. “Well? What are you gonna do about it?”

When she slides you right back into her volcanic heat, your mouth drops. “I think we can figure that out together.”

She sighs, pressing her lips against your cheek, grinning. Her lower half has a mind of its own: grinding down and settling, where she stays.

–

You make love with her again. And she screams; it could be heard far and wide past the walls. A guarantee, you said. A promise. It's only you and her, after all.

–

There are multiple ways for one to sign off on their death sentence: a contract, a hearing, a proclamation; where one’s resolve is pushed to the brink where everything that transpires after has to be seen to the end until the lingering thoughts and repercussions are nothing more than just a distant memory. You knew what you signed up for when this trip had its inception, what’s to come when you’re put face first with someone who was supposed to be part of the last chapter in your story. Things like these can be rewritten on a new page for starters, but still keep all the details intact.

Rosé could be your judge, jury, and executioner for all you know - and still be the one to lure you into the dangerous pits of temptation.

“Holy shit,” you grit, voice tattered; Rosé’s head dips down as she plants both of her hands on your waist, and adjusts her legs until her heels are rooted into the mattress, testing the angle with an unprompted thrust by you.

“Don’t move too much,” she commands, the slide of your cock in her pussy slow enough to make you want to rush into it. “I’ll ride you like this. You don’t even have to do a thing.”

“God-” and the giggle she lets out in tandem with her devilish grin serves to be too much for you to bear. A lift up in her squatting position, and her petite ass slams on top of your balls - the deadly pin drop. “Fuck- you’re so good at that.”

A rise and fall. A one-two in stopping and gyrating. She’s riding you so delicately - in contrast to your style of holding her close to your chest and impaling her upwards. You feel the edge of her palm at your chin - to your bottom lip - and you bite down gently into her hand.

“I wanna feel it - all inside me,” she’s telling you, a phrase projected into existence, a claim. “Want your cum,” her confidence brightens so much when she’s the one in control, “so fucking bad.” She slides her feet out from under her, grinding harder against your hips, laying her body flat against yours, raising her ass again and back down; the angle is much more deeper than you anticipated. “Using this pretty cunt all for you. I know you like it.”

“For fuck’s sake,” you growl, and it’s a swear in itself, “can’t get enough of you - this pussy is a dream.”

“Uh huh,” her face crinkles when she ups the pace. “Tell me all about it. I’ll be your good little girl for you, babe.” This role isn’t her forte, but if the opportunity presents itself, she’ll own the part with flying colors. You could hear and feel the slick spread up to your waist; every gush, smack, and dragged-out moan was all part of a symphony created by you two. She effortlessly bottoms your cock out, and she whines.

Your arms slither around her back, keeping her in place. She whispers a ‘yes’ in your ears, and licks your temple.

“Grab me, fuck me. Make me yours,” she murmurs, happily kissing along your cheek as you spread yourself wider, getting the proper measurements right to ruin her.

The rest of the world fades out as Rosé’s breathing fills up your brain. “Rosé- I’m gonna- fuck-”

“Oh god- Yes! Baby, I’m close- keep going-”

When you inevitably cum inside her - filling her up, you’re coaxing through her sobs. Driving your shaft deep where each exhale is a staccato. Your lips find her neck, marking up skin, drinking in the sweat, fucking through her orgasm to the point where she’s pliant and quivering - tiredly nodding in approval and satisfied.

–

You’re no diplomat, but the advisable action of keeping your phone on do not disturb, limiting contact with anyone other than Rosé was entirely justified.

(By common sense, how could anyone keep in touch with their significant other after the heinous acts that they’ve committed? Our lives are not defined by any one action, but rather the sum of our choices. Everyone has their reasons - more or less - and sometimes, some don’t even need a reason at all.)

The messages do pile on throughout the week. Various texts at different times, all on different days. Each one is more desensitizing than the last.

jen: can you please call me?

jen: i’ll explain everything

jen: i’m worried sick

jen: pls just come home

You’ll deal with clearing out the notification bubbles sometime later when the time is right.

Rosé’s in the bathroom, door open to slip some of the excess steam out, towel to her bust. Most of the water is soaked into the cloth; her hair is half dry - half damp, combing a little at the ends with a brush, leaning on the door frame. “You think you can help me with something real quick?”

“Hm? And what would that be?” you ask, slipping on a shirt.

She’s in the middle of the walkway now.

“Just need some attention in a few spots,” Rosé says, very nonchalantly. Pulls apart the towel from the two folds, lets it pool at her feet. Her being naked isn’t enough to sway you into pushing her back into the shower and well- yeah. She knows it’s gonna take a lot more than just that. “Preferably the ones where you didn’t touch earlier, to be more specific.”

“Could’ve said you wanted more,” you laugh. “Didn’t have to sugarcoat it.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Rosé asks, deadpanning. She sways her body where her bare ass is now in view, hips moving side to side on the balls of her feet, looking over her shoulder to solidify the image. “We got a little more time on our hands and besides, it’s Christmas Eve.”

You’re back following her in a heartbeat.

–

You may be sloppy and shameless, but you are also very intricate in how you approach things. It’s in how your mouth moves: precise, calculated - licking down her slutty little waist, to her clit, getting everything you’ve ever needed between those glorious thighs of hers.

On your knees like you’re in reverence, you’re worshiping Rosé’s pussy; hoping that she could give you the blessing of eating her out like it’s your one-way ticket to heaven. The insides of her thighs press inward, her fingers in your hair pulling you exactly where she wants.

Rosé almost slides off the bathroom counter when she finally cums. She’s yelling her heart out, hissing through her teeth. Neither of you are thinking about the possible noise complaint that you’ll get for the sixth time this week.

“Fuck, yes,” she huffs, pressing your head harder with her legs. “Yes- yes, just that.”

You raise yourself and give your fingers the fill, nipple between your teeth while the knuckle curls inside-

She grasps at your neck - like you’re going off to war and she’s bagging on the chance she’ll never see you again, “Baby, I can’t say this enough,” she rasps, whining a high pitch when you hit her favorite spot, “I literally need you to ruin me,” and you nod, because you will.

Doesn’t take that long for her to cum again soon after, figuratively off the cliff face first. Her body goes limp, eyes glossy, panting as if she’s dehydrated. She keeps her legs closed, your hand caught in the crossfire, hoping that you’ll stay once the sun shines after the storm.

Once the clouds of lust finally pass the both of you:

“Good use of our time actually, what do you think?”

Rosé looks up to you, hand on her cheek, wiping the dry stream of tears.

“We can still go,” she sighs. “I just need a few more minutes because, fuck, can’t think straight when you’re staring at me while I’m like this.”

“Saying that I went too far?”

“No- but,” her groan makes you chuckle, “that’s not it. It never is, I-”

“I?” you carry on with the overhanging thought.

“I know that you have different sides, but this- this one is just- I don’t know, to me, it just feels right.”

She manages to get herself up from the edge of the bed, legs a bit wobbly but manageable. You’re patting down her overcoat and adjusting the scarf around her neck, cupping her face. Her hands find yours stacked on top.

“Not letting me go, hm?” Rosé asks, humming. “That’s not very kind.”

“Want me to carry you? ‘Cause I can most definitely do that, if it makes it easier,” and it comes off so casually. You’ll stay true to your good intentions, worrying about the punishment for the crime later.

Rosé nods, and looks down, kissing the crown of her head. She’s entrapped with this spell of desire, unsure of who got it first. It’s boundless, even when you’re hugging her. Boundless, and you’ve concluded that it’ll stay.

–

(The muddled wet-suck of her cunt. The grip. Her listless sighs and whimpers of praise plague your brain. You're having your fill; filling her up with your cock like old times. Like it's meant to be.

You fuck her again, and all it takes is one look, and she knows. It's plastered in those rosy pink cheeks at that lip bite that makes you crave her more - it's maddening.

An untethered devotion: you could give her everything she ever wanted.

If it takes the space left open in her heart, you'd pledge yourself to get her back without a second thought.)

–

The time’s ticking; the sands in the hourglass are almost at the bottom. Part of you is torn between finally getting this trip over with and stirred that you and Rosé will probably never see each other again in the coming days. Aside from the rough, raw sex, you also realize that it’s been pretty refreshing to reconnect with the girl that you shared a good third of your life with and fall into old habits as if nothing had ever happened between you two.

You’re starting to reminisce on how it had all gone wrong.

Rosé, without a care in the world, stares up into the deep blue sky. The Eiffel Tower still has some guests visiting, sightseeing, and enjoying the present company that they have. You have your phone in your hands, taking pictures of everything within distance. Each click that’s pressed is a reminder of what little you will have to cling to once this fever dream is all done and dusted.

She’s a bit out of arm's reach from you, enjoying the brisk weather and the overall ambiance that’s happening with the people around her. Her digicam in one hand, phone in the other. At some point she’s recording a guy that’s playing with his accordion, going down his list of Christmas carols, happily nodding along to the joyous tunes. She keeps on snapping photos wherever she happens to see or notice first. Canvassing the area, like a lighthouse with her phone in hand-

Until her camera finally lands on you. She’s snapping a photo of you. You’re snapping a photo of her.

(It’s a gunshot without the smoke. Yours and her version of Halley's comet flying over you. The realization settles in: you both fucked up.)

You stand there motionless - phone lowered and you just look at Rosé. She does the same. Time halts to a standstill as the both of you just admire one another. Your expression is stoic while her’s is filled with an expression that’s told by her glossy eyes and uneven breathing.

She moves without fail, running towards you; before you know it, she’s jumping in your arms, clinging onto you so hard that it’s nearly suffocating. Her sniffles are a lot louder now, and you start rubbing the back of her head in the same motion that you know brings her comfort.

“Hey-” Rosé stutters, burying her face into your collarbone. “I- I just, God, I’m such an idiot-”

“There’s no need for that,” you whisper, “I know. I know.”

Like always, Rosé’s face is in your hands yet again; wiping away the tears and cradling her as if nothing else had mattered. You chuckle at the sobs she lets out, and she hits your arm. “Can we-” you’re rubbing her head still to help gather her thoughts, “can we go back to the hotel now? I think we’re good for today.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll do that. Okay. Let’s go back.”

–

(Midway on the walk back, you decide to bet it all on the line. If it doesn’t happen now, the chances of it happening later become less likely.

“I need to stop by somewhere for a sec,” you’re telling Rosé with a sudden clutch of her hand to stop her. “Wanted to surprise you with a gift.”

Rosé furrows her brows together, but shakes her head, smiling. “Promise you’ll meet me back at the hotel?”

“Won’t be long, I promise.” You reassure, kissing her and her hand soon after.)

–

You’ve never been so fast to come back to someone in your life, bouquet of roses in hand like those tv melodramas that always milks the simple moment for absolutely no reason. This might feel like one of those moments, all honesty considered, but who’s really to judge when you’re preparing for the inevitable.

The keycard slots itself in, followed by the click of the lock once closed. You notice that the lights were already dimmed - the actual preference you and Rosé agreed on after the first night, the only difference was the trail of undergarments leading to the open area of the room.

And that’s when you see her.

She’s knelt on the bed, a singular rose in her hands. Her outfit is uncovered by the layers of pants, hoodie, and scarf - revealing a lingerie set on her that you’ve never seen before, painted in scarlet red. It highlights her natural complexion, not to mention her hair - she’s the literal image of your long-lost wet dreams come to life.

“Like what you see?” Rosé asks, staring while you remain motionless.

You drop the bouquet in your hand, not for dramatic effect of course, but in utter shock at how well the fabrics meld onto her clad body.

She takes the hint, moving herself closer to you, on the edge of the bed while your hands ghost her figure - unsure of where to even begin.

“I’ve said this countless times before,” you say, heart rate spiking when her palms land on your chest, “but you look amazingly good in that.”

Her hand pulls you by the neck, and gives you a quick kiss after that. “Why thank you,” says Rosé, lip caught to her teeth when your hands slide across the lower plane of her back, resting above her ass. “I had a few other options in mind, but I always knew that your favorite color was red.”

“Aw. So thoughtful.”

“Fuck you.”

“I will.”

Rosé laughs at that. Aside from the figurative meaning, she’s aware that you can back that up.

“Do you know why? Why I broke up with you then?” Rosé asks, face shifting to a wistful gaze. Your body freezes at the sudden question, wide eyes locked with hers as open as they can be. She twirls the rose in her fingers for a few seconds, places it at your middle, finding her words.

“Still can’t put all of that together, you know.” You’re telling her.

“We were young back then. We still are.” She confesses, palm to your chin as you’re doing the same. “I thought that you didn’t care how we were - like you didn’t love me anymore. Even at first now, you were such a fucking dick-”

“Ros-”

“Shut up, let me finish. It made me realize at that moment where I- I tho-” her words are becoming more and more shaky, you can tell in the irregular breathing, “I thought you fell out of love with me.”

The harsh sting of truth still hurts when you’re thinking back on it for a second. It wasn’t a one person show, however, but you contributed to most of the downfall of the relationship in the past. You’ll own up to the mistakes somehow, someway; if you had the chance, you’d do it without a second thought.

“It made me realize, this whole trip, I saw the old you,” Rosé confesses, keeping her emotions at bay as best she can, “Like how did you know that I’ve wanted a dream trip to Paris for the longest time? How long did you work on this before we- oh, right.”

You’re laughing a bit here. Could be the psyche of trying to not come to terms with the feelings. “Use your words, it’s okay.”

“You treated me so well this past week, putting up with my shenanigans and such, forcing you to walk wherever I go but I’m just- fuck. It fucking sucks with how we are now.”

“I’m still hurt too,” you admit, wiping a tear off of Rosé’s cheek. “I hoped that us being here would give us some closure - which is working, but I also hope that we can still be happy as friends once all of this is over.”

Rosé nods, sniffling. “Won’t be easy, but we can try.”

You seal your lips with hers, finally breaking the dam of longing that you’ve been holding back until now. Her mouth burns a hum down her throat, hands weaving across your shoulders, the passion instantly infectious.

She pulls away with a heavy sigh, “Prove it.” The words match her eyes of determination and urging. “Make love to me.”

You’re not far from her, and you’ll follow no matter what.

Her face is hot: scorching and engulfing at the same time. She’s quick to slip you off of your jacket - your hands fiddling with the lace decorated all over her body, pulling on your bottom lip, giving you no chance to regroup and re-hit the areas that you want to take; she’s prioritizing in keeping you close, unwilling to loosen her arms once the grips have been set.

The fingers find the small latch of her bra, feeling her chest rise in your other hand.

She’s peeled you off of your shirt, claiming scratches on your skin.

You’ve got an angel within your reach - from the echelons of heaven and earth above. She’s gracing her presence onto you to the point where you will do anything to prove your devotion to her, hoping that she’ll grant you your deepest wishes - and make you forget about your darkest regrets.

Rosé’s so responsive and you love it. Her octave goes up a key when you’re fondling along lone breast; dividing and conquering in two places at once with your other hand palming the dampness of her panties. She pulls you onto the bed, a lasso of truth that you’ll always submit to. Whispering sweet nothings, begging you to keep going; telling you more, more, and more.

Your eyes, no matter how many times you’ve dozed off into the distance, have always landed back on Rosé in some way or form. Amidst everything, you’re magnetized to the way her eyes looked now: dangerous, wanting, hooded - as if the shades of lust have completely taken over her thoughts and with her as the vessel to carry all of those bad deeds out, as if you were the only one who could control this growing feeling.

When she finally settles on the pillows, the heat’s already become too infectious, her face flushed and lips generally parted, waiting for your return. You go for her neck, and her body tenses, back arching and heels sliding up the sheets, unsure of where to rest as you’re catering to her lovely neck.

“How bad do we want this?” you start, fingertip to your lip before wetting it. “You up for it?”

Rosé bites her lips as always and nods. “Fuck,” she gasps, taken off guard by your lips to her collarbone again. “I want it.”

A press deep into the slick center of her panties only solidifies what she’s implying.

Her hands work with yours, sliding her out of the last piece like clockwork, her tongue clashing against yours as she shuffles herself up against the headboard, but you lean down to keep her in place. The sooner you pin her down to reach her soft spots, the more likely she’ll break within minutes - it’s all part of the plan.

Giving her a heads up wasn’t an option, and that’s proven so when your fingers slide up against her slick folds, getting a feel for what’s to come when you eventually push inside and spread her open, teasing by dipping no more than your fingernail into her cunt, rubbing her clit to up the sensitivity.

“You fucking tease, I know- ah-” she spits, squirming at your touch, the friction becoming a necessity. Her inner thighs press together, holding your hand hostage. That only prompts you to traverse your fingers deeper into her pussy, and she moans. “R-right there.”

She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, or her legs, let alone her entire body in this state. The pleasure is too much to bear, and the snowball effect keeps on building. You kiss her again to keep her mind off the finger fucking you’re doing to her; she digs her nails into your forearm, pulling you by the neck to deepen the lip lock. As much as you’d love to eat her out into the night, the way that she is right now is just enough for your satisfaction.

“God, yes- fuck-”

You know that she’s almost there; all it takes is a little push. She’s grinding her hips against your hand, the three digits inside her too much to handle. Each whimper and moan and sigh she lets out is nearly bittersweet to hear and witness - pitiful that she got herself like this for you, and there’s nothing that she can do about it.

“Gonna make you cum so much,” you say huskily, pressing your forehead against hers as you feel her eyebrows mesh and rise, unsure of what to focus on. But you know exactly what it is, and it’s that euphoric rush that she won’t admit to having a craving for. “Can you do that for me? Be my good little girl and do as I say?”

Her bobbing goes frantic; she doesn’t care either way, it’s happening regardless.

“These fucking fingers,” Rosé grits, her first words that aren’t an ‘mmm’ or ‘ah’ or ‘hah’ in a while. “Baby, baby, holy shit, you’re fucking me so well with your hand, I’m so close- shit, I’m so fucking close.”

“Yeah? Let go, Rosie. I want to see you cum for me.” She pulls you in to keep her mind off of your hand, hips bucking at an insane rate. You could feel the shake in her thighs, sliding in and out of her cunt - the press of your thumb on her clit an additional point of pressure. Her eyes open and close, lazily matching the pace of your fingers and steadying.

All it takes is one more slide; one more press, and she’s fucking gone.

The sight is the holy land you’ve managed to see time and time again: watching her cum on your fingers. It’s in the rosy blush spread on her face, and you’re pretty sure that she’s squirted a bit onto your arm, but you bear no mind to that.

“There we go, would you just- look?” You’re enamored, amazed. Your Rosé is so pliant and willing to let you have control so easily that it shouldn’t be this straightforward to do.

“God, the fucking mess. Rosé-”

And the sigh is just heavenly.

She’s shaking her head in disbelief. Your fingers are still inside her, hauling past the edge of her orgasm that she can’t do anything about it.

You eventually give her a minute or two to breathe. Because she deserves it.

Unfortunately: one thing was never going to be enough for someone like Rosé.

Because she’s the kind of person who will always want to see things to the end. Usually, there’s a pause, a breather, probably the overhanging thought of what you’ve done to her again for the thousandth possible time on this trip - in these four walls - a glass of water would also suffice, or a bathroom break, but not tonight.

Rosé’s fingers are fast around the button of your pants, and you get the hint right away. You can easily tell from the glint in her eyes that if you don’t take her cunt and fuck her apart the way that she wants, there’s certainly going to be irreversible damage. This is all you are doing. It’s the match of madness that you don’t want to admit but accept wholeheartedly.

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re insane?” You ask, hand coiling her waist, pulling her close, thumb at the edge of her belly button.

“Hmm, I think someone has, but I might need a refresher of sorts,” Rosé replies, a sultry smile as she watches you lick up her mess spread across your digits. “Add that to the number of things you’re willing to fix.”

“Who said anything about fixing?” You dart back, reining her in by the waist, listen close to the stack of laughs, break down with every rumple and fold you do to her arms and legs.

She glances at your throbbing cock waiting at her entrance, slipping the tip right in as a test, the rest to follow along until the noises coming out of her are broken, relieved.

“Okay,” she’s saying, shimmying down your length, and raising her hips. “Impress me.”

So, you get one thrust in for good measure, her hands braced around your back and legs finding a foothold around your hips. “How’s that so far?”

Rosé’s fucking arch. Her pussy grips around you like a fist - hot and tight. She looks up and then at you, softer, prettier, and you’re beginning to wonder if it was ever worth getting stranded with her for a week and not ending up like this. It’s in the sound, the feeling; fucking her in this fashion: sliding yourself in and out of her so nicely. Clinging. Dragging. Every night after the first has always been like this. And the things she says:

“Bet that feels good, right?” Pulling you from the back of your head, leaning down. “Just keep- keep, fuck, baby, like that. Holy shit, I fucking can’t-”

Here she goes again: the praising. She’s scratching your scalp, patting your back. Nails down your spine. The tempo has her gasping in a sweet tone. “Have you like this and fuck, goddamit,” you sigh, and she looks at you like she knows what the fuck you’re talking about.

You snap into her hips a little harder the next stroke. Pounding deep in her cunt was the eventual endgame. Her stomach dips with her next breath. Sucks her lips in.

Oh, and that whimper; that bubbling whimper mixed into a wail of some sort. She’s looking at you; deep into your eyes where she wishes to see that part of that universe she knows she should’ve never left in the first place. Her smile is lazy. She’s got that fucked-out gaze written all over her.

“Too much?” you say, diving into the curve of her jaw to where she moans at the contact.

“Never,” she mumbles, cock drunk at the continuous pressing you’re doing inside of her.

“Good,” you rasp.

“Baby, baby, baby,” Rosé purrs, nails clawing away the skin and sweat off your back, clutching, “Please keep fucking me.”

You bite a patch of skin away from the underside of her chin. You would rather be on the back foot here - dialing it down, but she won’t utter a complaint; she wants to feel this, how hard you can be with her. She’s taken you plenty of times before, getting her so wet at the thought of fucking her raw and dumping your load until it’s dripping down her inner thigh, watch her gasp and beg for the taste when you pull yourself out and she’s almost at the edge too.

“Not leaving you until I’ve had enough,” you’re panting, carving your dick down to the base, thumbing her clit, a twisted evil smile painted across your lips when she’s wailing out of her mind - the mere image and sound of it is obscene.

The pace is unrelenting, it wasn’t long until she’s cumming over your cock again, and again, and again - cutting off all the tension that’s building up in her spine as you’re holding the shivers spread across her body, unable to fight back but let you take her pussy so fucking well that the noises are bouncing off the walls, mix the heat into the open air, slide yourself out and slap the head of your cock on her swollen folds before letting her walls clench around your shaft. She might be fucked out, but you know that she still wants it.

“Please-’ she’s pleading, and you know. You can tell from her face and body alone that she’s not done yet.

You’re leaning down on top of her again, hooking your arms underneath her shoulders that makes the upper profile of her back fold at a ridiculous curve, and fuck her down that you’re hitting all the right places-

Her chest is heaving, nothing more than just sputtering pants - something that Rosé doesn’t register in her head right away; the air gets trapped at the bottom of her throat, swallowing, her eyes crinkle as there’s no sound coming out.

You land your lips on hers to ease her mind. “In your nose, Rosie. Like so. There we go. Leave your pussy to me. You’re so good, you’re so so good.”

Rosé’s head knocks into yours; a fierce wail pierces your ears. You can feel the clench a little tighter when you bottom yourself out; her stomach is moving in a concerning motion. Her gaze on you is almost a mix of shock, tears welling up in her eyes.

You’re kissing her again, swallowing her cry. “Shhhh.” you comfort her. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” you hush, wrapping your arm to her lower back so she can stay close. “You can cum again baby, I won’t hold you back.”

Her head goes sideways, the first domino to fall. You can see her mouth shape into something coherent - probably a dragged-out wheeze, okay, fuck, just, yes.

“More, please, give me more,” she says. “Your cock, its- fuck, baby- I-”

“I know sweetheart,” you croon, impaling your cock deep in her cunt. “I’m working with you here. You’ll let me use your pretty little pussy whatever way you like, huh?”

It’ll be seconds before Rosé cums again, the wear and tear your minds and bodies are having are reaching its peak. The other times of fucking were just a competition of who can get off the other first. This time it was different; now it was getting someone over the edge first over the other - no telling how far this has gone on the scales of fucked up.

She mouths a ‘yeah’, and the situation has never been more clear. You have to fuck her. You can’t help yourself. The nodding is only prompting you to keep going, her voice completely shattered. “Just- use me.”

Right in the clamp of her melting cunt. In the tightening of her legs.

“Fucking-” she’s sobbing at this point; you’ve got yourself in the prime position to where your cockhead hits the deepest spot of her cunt. “s-so good. That’s so fucking good, you’re pounding me so well-”

She shrieks when you’ve pushed her past that brink. You’re entirely certain that it was your doing.

This was the swan song you’ve sought out to hear. A hymn played in a time of reflection - collecting your thoughts and offering them to Rosé, hoping that she can accept your blessings and absolve you of your crimes, ordaining yourself to all good actions from this point moving forward. You’ll take this liturgy for as long as you’d like; worshiping her body and listening to all the psalms that are coming out of her mouth, holding her close as she rides out the lasting remnants of her orgasm - your name as a saint’s prayer and one that she’ll keep on speaking in tongues with over and over and over until she believes it to be true. You confess, through these harsh thrusts into her cunt with your cock, choking on the vice with a vicious finesse at the angle.

(You’d wish you stayed at the cathedral a little longer than you did that day; confessing your sins was always going to be easier than pouring a heart out for someone who ripped it right out of you.)

“Amazing,” you praise, and Rosé does this mix of a smile and a wince when you’re wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. Her hands guide yours down to the crease of her hips, enabling you to rock her cunt down like the lovely woman that she is.

Her voice is rattled, helpless. Like she’s been chopped up, the cracks clear as day where the faults formed. “Want- want it- I want your cum, so fucking bad, please-”

You grin when she grins, finally reaping the reward when you tug yourself up and splatter your cum all over her body. Her chest does this circular motion, arms digging deep into the mattress beneath her, wanting her skin to be soaked so well with your release. She can’t stop moaning. She doesn’t want to stop moaning.

“Finally,” she sighs, whimpering, mouth twisting to a satisfied smile at the corners. “God, it’s so fucking much.”

Her hand picks up the mess spread across her waist, wraps it around your cock in no time flat. The laugh she lets out when you groan is just sinister.

Two can play that game.

She freezes when you slide your cum-soaked cock back into her dripping cunt; listen closely at the mere gush as you slide in once more.

“Babe-”

You push.

“Think I can give more, just for good measure,” reassuring, and you hold her down so hard that the next load you give is caught deep inside her cunt.

Pushing it all back in, where it stays.

Her eyes pinch - and there’s no voice to be heard. All that’s shown is her slacked jaw, the air in her lungs passing through, soon filled with the shape of your lips pressed against hers.

"It's so- it's so fucking warm inside me, baby-"

"Yeah?"

Rosé sniffles again as her body tries to shudder out the cum leaking from her slit. You don't let it happen though.

You keep breathing her in; she brackets your hips with what little strength she has left. It doesn’t take much, and you know.

Because Rosé’s got you right where she wants, to the point where your bodies are so well molded into one where each heartbeat and thought are the same, feeling the suction of her pussy wrapped around your cock like it’s the missing piece. Half of ones together make a whole. Your cock fits so well. Above the soreness and debauchery. Once the mess is finally made. Where you’ll want to keep your cock warm and settled until you or her have finally had enough. She’s speaking nonsense still; and you just- keep- fucking going. Fucking into her cunt like it's the only thing you know how to do. Even when the throbbing subsides.

Until you decide to fully embrace her.

The heat’s still present where it stays; you don’t even make a move to clean yourself up - it’s too early for that. Instead, the sheets are pulled over you and her, take her fingers in your hands, and hold them right as they are.

You look at the clock on the nightstand; a little before midnight. “We’re showering together, right?” Rosé pouts her lips, burrowing her head into the space of your collarbone, hand held up and over scratching your hair.

“Yeah,” she says, nestling her head further up against your chest. “A few minutes here, please. With me. Stay with me.” The disarm is already in effect, and you wonder if you’re at the right place and at the right time; where your heart should be, it’s a brief period of pensiveness.

–

You blacked out. When your vision comes to, there’s nothing much for your eyes to see except the endless void of darkness that stretches over the room until the glow from the streetlights below breaks through the window. Each blink you do makes you wonder how much time has passed - along with the countless questions of what’s to come next. The thrum of your heart pounds heavy against your ears, but you’re breathing, and alive. You also notice that the space on your right side is a lot lighter compared to earlier, the quick rush of anxiety plaguing your mind.

That all changes when you look out the window again, specks of white floating down gracefully.

It’s snowing again.

“Oh, you’re up,” Rosé’s voice instantly reels you, towel wrapped around her neck and in some comfortable clothes. “I was just about to wake you.” She crawls back on the bed to your side and kisses your cheek. The moment alone holding your heart in limbo. “Sorry, I thought I’d get ahead and use the shower first. You looked so peaceful sleeping.”

Only she would be the one to blame for that.

“Why are you dressed up?” You ask, fixing your posture and leaning into Rosé’s face for another quick kiss. She draws away playfully, wagging her head a ‘no’ that makes you lean back as a result. “We would’ve saved water if we went together.”

“It’s fine,” Rosé tuts, ruffling your hair. “Go shower and get dressed. I wanna go for a walk.”

“Really? Why? Right now? It’s late.”

“But it’s also Christmas,” Rosé adds, walking away while you’re finally sitting on the edge of the bed. “We won’t be out for long. And besides, what’s wrong with a little more cardio?”

You give her a smirk at the end in agreement. Her feet are cemented in place until you reach forward with an arm, pulling her in. Once reeled she tilts her head in surrendering because she knows that you'd be clingy without explicitly saying it.

She's back on your lap. She's yours. She can be yours again. A wish that you want to make true.

"Gonna let me go?" Rosé asks, giggling, and you kiss her.

"Maybe," you answer, leaning up for another peck since it's not hurting anybody. "Just wanted to tell you Merry Christmas."

–

When the snowflakes hit your skin, part of you on the inside is jumping for joy. It’s even better as your ears are filled with Rosé’s contagious laughter, running up the sidewalk and picking up clumps of snow in her hand.

You make sure to be right behind her, for as much as you can.

–

“This whole thing has been a blast,” she says, slowing her pace when you and she are on the edge of a bridge. In the late hours in the city, where anyone could get away with anything, it’s just you and her - five feet apart from each other, walking along, wandering wherever your feet go. “An absolute dream come true for me. For us.”

The snow starts to land on your head along with your shoulders.

“Part of me makes me wonder,” Rosé continues, hands wrapped around her long scarf, keeping her neck warm, nodding her head side to side when her eyes eventually land on the sea of locks put on the fencing of the bridge. She knows exactly where she is. You know exactly where she took you. “Would any of this be different if we didn’t go our separate ways?”

“It’s a pretty good thought,” you tell her. Your exhale shows your warm breath dissipating into the cold air, causing you to bunch up your shoulders to your ears to make the heat stay. “Makes me wonder if you’d put it in your old diary back in middle school.”

“Hey. Fuck you.”

You shrug your shoulders with a smirk and walk closer to her. “I know you. You would.”

Her feet stop at a random padlock just underneath the railing. She slides it into her palm, examining it. It’s not anybody she knows in particular - just the fact that what stood out to her was the neat handwriting of the initials drawn up in a Sharpie. You feel her gaze on you when you approach her side, taking a closer look at what’s in her hand, slotting your palm underneath.

She keeps staring at the lock, leaning your face into your chest. You bury your nose in her hair, thoughts trailing to someplace where you don’t want to think about anything else.

You point at another fancy lock decorated with gems. She points out an old-fashioned one next to you.

‘Hey,” she says once more, looking up. The lift in your eyebrows serves as the appropriate response. Silence starts to grow between you two, the gust of wind blowing through your bodies.

Rosé tries to read into your expression: stoic and mysterious. She knows that you’re not one to vocalize your thoughts out loud - instead, you stay quiet and listen obediently, waiting for your turn to speak when it’s the right time. A soft smirk spreads across her lips, knowing exactly what’s going on in that brain or yours.

You wrap your arms around her and rest your chin on top of her forehead. “I think you have a general idea of what I’m thinking about right now.”

She’s laughing into your chest, unable to look up. You look down to see what was taking her so long, only to realize that she’s hiding her tears away from the world.

Somehow, like before, you know exactly how to comfort her when the emotions are starting to boil within her. “Rosie.” You’re saying her name softly, clutching her tighter now, the grasp of your fingers reaching to where you wish for them to stay.

“I just wished that maybe-” and her voice breaks. Composure is starting to weigh down on your shoulders; heart rate rising in uncertainty. “Maybe if weren’t such idiots back then, we-” and the sentence doesn’t even get finished there. She’s trying so hard to put her thoughts into words, “like maybe in another life we weren’t like- well, this.”

Her face is back in your hands, the tears building and spilling all at once. You give her a look of sorrowfulness - hopelessly, desperately, longing to make her realization a reality.

“Memories, Rosé,” you’re telling her, “they’re all just memories. We don’t need the memories. Depreciating yourself isn’t gonna make anything better because we both grew.”

The tears well up in your eyes, too. You may be broken, but she’s also the same.

"I hope you can forgive me for a lot of things; for cutting you off and leaving you in the dark," she tells you, jaw twitching - unable to make eye contact, linking her fingers with yours, "but if there's one thing you choose to never forgive me on, my dear, is the fact that I wasted all your precious years."

(I know, you’re saying to her, in tandem with a verse that you’ll recite as penance once you and her part ways. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care about any of that. I just want the both of us to be there for each other, no matter what happens in between.)

–

As of now, you’re mentally checked out from all the logistics once everything’s been checked in at the airport, waiting to board. Rosé’s dozed off on your arm. She thought that it was a good idea to get less than the usual six hours of sleep and her current state serves to be the consequence. The scarf draped around her shoulders was yours, adamant in wanting to save another keepsake from you; she claims that it looked better on her. (Which is a bit of an insult, you think. Though it’ll do the job of covering up the bruises along her neck just fine.)

But, things are played out differently in the final act of the return trip.

You hear her flight announce the boarding phase and tap her shoulder to wake her up. She shoots up instantly, blinking. Everything else falls into place: gathering her belongings, rolling up her luggage to where she can grab and go, fixing up her appearance with that one pair of sunglasses that she likes so much, but doesn’t wear just yet. You walk with her to the main walkway of the gates, getting all of the last looks you’ll possibly have in these last few moments.

The familiarity with distance affects the healthy human mind to think of it as some sort of curse rather than a luxury - depending on the situation, you’ll take it with a grain of salt.

Her arms are folded with her handbag and jacket, staring at you so eagerly. “So, you just gonna stay quiet this whole time or-”

You scoff, because it’s the truth - and so like you. “Uh- well, I was just wondering,” you say, scratching your head shamelessly. “Are you sure you want go forward with this?”

Rosé bobs her head for yes. The decision’s already been made; no point in changing it. “Unless you want to create a shit storm with our friends when we get back, then by all means go for it.”

“Right.” you deadpan. “Just for accountability.”

“If things do go south, you know where my flight’s headed. And given the present situation that you’re in, I’m in no position to make that choice for you,” she says, looking over to the tv board to see where her boarding gate was at. “Guess this is it, " she declares, sighing, "any last things or words you want to do or say?”

You say something. And you do something. You pull her in for a hug, get the last whiffs of her coconut scented shampoo in her hair; she kisses you. You kiss her forehead as her eyes flutter shut; you hold her a bit too long for your liking, but tells you that she doesn’t mind. Don’t be far away, okay? At least let me catch up for once.

She tells you: never. It’s a running inside joke. The classic game of cat and mouse, an old fabled goose chase; you’ll keep going after her even when you don’t expect it to happen. She’ll lure you back in so easily that all it doesn’t sound terrible as it seems.

–

When you do settle on the plane, you have your moment of getting the window seat. Your eyes are getting familiar with the arraignment, how cramped the leg room is, the assortment of movies you know that you’ll sleep through. There’s a lot of things circilng around your head; either one at a time or all at once. This fever dream is coming to and end, and you’re left torn to not tell the tale.

You check your phone and turn off do not disturb, taking in all the notifications that you missed the past few days. The work messages, fill-ins with coworkers and friends; then there’s Jennie’s messages.

“I’m so fucked.” You manage, muttering under your breath. Tongue tip to your teeth to mentally prepare youself for what’s to come.

–

(You keep thinking about that night on the bridge, holding Rosé in your arms - in midst of the cold weather hitting you. She tells you that this getaway was everything to her, and it’s the simplicity in the delivery that makes you want to share those snap-shot moments with her even more. Nothing else mattered to you: managing to fall in love with her all over again.

We can try, you’re saying, we can always try again, and she smiles through the tears. You and me. Together. Properly.

“I’ve always loved the idea of starting over. It’s exciting. All of these things. All of these moments we spent together, it just felt right,” and her gaze goes crestfallen. “Never really thought that I’d come back to you, and I couldn’t be more proud.”

And once you’re way up in the sky, it does feel like some sort of whirlpool back into the reality of life, the final fade to black shot - you look out the window and ponder: a choice can be made still. All of the stars have to align at just the right time for it to happen. It can happen. You could alter the course of the story if you just made the right calls. Maybe you will.

Your gaze falls down to the ocean below - and maybe it’s a long shot, winding into a pipe dream.

You’ll never realize what you can do unless you take the chance.)

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