#so like… you can drop it if you need to without affecting your record | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bueckersstuff · 5 months ago

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PART IV

The room is thick with tension, the air so heavy it feels like it might crush you. Paige hasn’t moved, hasn’t blinked. She’s still staring down Azzi, jaw clenched, fists trembling at her sides. And then, finally, she exhales—slow, controlled, but you can feel the shift in her.

She’s done.

Paige straightens, rolling her shoulders back. Her voice is steady, but there’s a finality to it that sends a shiver down your spine.

“I pick her.”

Azzi’s smirk falters. She wasn’t expecting that. Her confidence cracks for a split second before she quickly masks it with a scoff. “You’re serious?”

Paige nods. “Yeah. I am.”

Azzi steps back, lips pressing together like she’s trying to hold something in—anger, disbelief, maybe even hurt. But you don’t feel sorry for her. Not after everything.

Paige turns to you, her expression softening in an instant. She reaches for your hand, threading her fingers through yours, holding on tight—like she’s making sure you don’t disappear. And in that moment, everything else fades.

Azzi clicks her tongue. “You’re making a mistake.”

Paige doesn’t even look at her when she responds. “Maybe. But at least it’s mine to make.”

Azzi doesn’t say another word. She just turns and walks out, slamming the door behind her.

For a long moment, neither of you speak. Paige just holds onto you, her thumb running absentmindedly over your knuckles. Then she sighs, pressing her forehead against yours. “I’m gonna fix this.”

You shake your head. “Paige, you don’t have to—”

“I do.” Her voice is firm. “I’m not letting them paint you as some homewrecker. I should’ve ended things with Azzi sooner. I should’ve been honest. This is on me, not you.”

You swallow hard, because you know what this means. “How?”

Paige takes a deep breath. “I’m gonna do a press conference.”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

“I won’t name you,” she promises. “But I’ll set the record straight. Let them know that me and Azzi are done. That this—whatever this is—was never some scandal. I’m not letting them tear you apart over something that isn’t even your fault.”

It’s reckless. Dangerous. And yet, the way she says it, the way she looks at you like you’re something worth protecting—it makes your chest ache.

But not everyone is on board.

Paige insisted you accompany her to the meeting with her agent, Lindsay Kagawa Colas. You felt out of place, a silent observer in a world where decisions were made in boardrooms rather than on basketball courts.

As you entered the sleek office, Lindsay greeted both of you with a professional smile that didn't reach her eyes. She gestured for you to sit, her demeanor calm yet authoritative.

"Paige," Lindsay began, folding her hands on the polished table, "I've reviewed your proposal for the press conference. While I understand your desire to address the rumors, I must advise against it."

Paige's jaw tightened, but she remained composed. "I can't let these lies spread without addressing them. It's affecting not just me but those I care about."

Lindsay sighed, her gaze flickering to you briefly before returning to Paige. "I understand your frustration, but going public could jeopardize your endorsements and future career prospects, especially with the WNBA draft approaching."

Paige's eyes flashed with determination. "So, I should just stay silent while my personal life is dissected and misrepresented?"

“You are not doing a press conference.”

Paige sits across from her in her office, hands gripping the arms of the chair, barely containing her frustration. “Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.” Lindsay pinches the bridge of her nose. “Paige, do you have any idea how bad this could get? You’re graduating this year. You’re going pro. The last thing you need is unnecessary drama. You cannot let this get bigger than it already is.”

Paige’s jaw tightens. “It’s already big. My name is everywhere. And people are dragging her through the mud for something she didn’t even do.”

Lindsay leans forward. “And what do you think happens when you confirm the breakup? When you stand up there and make a speech? You think that just stops the rumors? You think that clears her name? No, Paige. It makes it worse. It makes you the villain.”

Paige shakes her head. “I don’t care.”

“Well, I do.” Her voice is sharp, cutting. “And so does UConn. And so do your future sponsors. You cannot afford to do this.”

She’s about to argue, about to fight, but then Lindsay’s next words land like a gut punch.

“You think you’re protecting her?” she asks, voice quieter now. “You’re not. You’re making it harder for her, too. The more noise you make, the bigger target she becomes.”

Paige goes still.

Lindsay leaned forward, her expression softening. "I'm asking you to consider the bigger picture. Sometimes, silence is the best response."

The tension in the room was palpable. Paige's fists clenched on her lap, her knuckles white. You wanted to reach out, to offer some comfort, but you remained still, knowing this was her battle to fight.

After a long pause, Paige nodded curtly. "I'll think about it."

Lindsay offered a tight-lipped smile. "That's all I ask."

As you left the office, Paige's silence was deafening. You could see the conflict raging within her—the desire to protect you clashing with the reality of her career's demands.

The following day, you received an unexpected summon to Coach Auriemma's office. Your heart pounded as you made your way there, anxiety gnawing at your insides.

You’ve never been in his office before, but it feels suffocating. He sits behind his desk, hands folded, gaze unreadable. When you enter, he gestures for you to sit, and you do, heart hammering in your chest.

“I’m not gonna dance around it,” he starts, his tone firm but not unkind. “I know what’s going on.”

Your stomach knots. “Sir, I—”

He holds up a hand. “I don’t care about the rumors. I care about Paige. And I care about what’s best for her.”

You bite your lip. “And you think I’m… not?”

Coach Auriemma exhales. “I think Paige is a damn good player with a future ahead of her. A future that’s already under a microscope. And if she does this press conference, if she makes a spectacle out of it, it could cost her.”

Your throat tightens. “I never asked her to—”

“I know,” he says, cutting you off. “And that’s the problem. Paige doesn’t care about the consequences. She’s ready to burn the whole thing down for you.”

You blink. “She… she said that?”

He leans forward. “She doesn’t have to. I see it. And as much as I admire that kind of loyalty, it’s dangerous. For her. And for you.”

You look away, because he’s right. Paige is reckless with her heart. With the things she loves. And right now, that’s you.

Coach Auriemma sighs. “You want to protect her, right?”

You nod. “More than anything.”

“Then step back,” he says simply. “At least for now. Let her finish this season. Let her go pro without this weight on her shoulders.”

Your breath catches. The idea of stepping back, of putting distance between you and Paige again—it hurts. More than you can explain.

And yet.

“Think about it,” Coach Auriemma says, his voice softer now. “Because if you love her, you won’t let her throw everything away for something that can wait.”

Can it, though?

That’s the question that eats away at you as you leave his office, the weight of his words pressing down on you like a storm cloud that won’t go away.

You don’t tell Paige about your conversation with Coach Auriemma.

Not because you don’t want to—but because you don’t know how. Because saying it out loud would make it real, and you’re not ready for that. Not yet.

The weight of his words lingers in your chest, heavier with every passing hour.

Step back. Let her finish the season. Let her go pro without this weight on her shoulders.

It makes sense. It makes so much sense that it hurts.

And maybe that’s why you decide to do something drastic.

Thanksgiving break is coming up. A perfect excuse. A perfect escape.

You’re packed before you even realize what you’re doing. The duffel bag sits at the foot of your bed, unzipped, stuffed with just enough clothes to last you the trip back home to Minnesota. You tell yourself it’s just for the break. Just some time to breathe. To think.

To be selfish for once.

You don’t tell Paige. You don’t tell anyone.

Because if you do, they’ll stop you.

You slip out of the dorm just as the sky begins to darken, hoodie pulled over your head, footsteps light against the pavement. The air is crisp, biting at your exposed skin, but you barely feel it. Your heart is pounding too hard.

You make it to the parking lot without incident, fingers shaking as you tighten your grip on your bag. Just a little further. Just a few more steps and—

“Where the hell are you going?”

You freeze.

Nika.

She’s standing a few feet away, arms crossed over her chest, brows furrowed in suspicion. Her gaze flickers to your bag, and then back to your face. “You running away or something?”

You exhale sharply, shoulders slumping. There’s no use lying. Not to her.

“I’m going home for break,” you admit.

Her expression doesn’t change. “And you were just gonna disappear without telling anyone?”

You swallow hard. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like?” she challenges, stepping closer. “Because last time I checked, Paige has been glued to your side. She’s fighting the entire damn world for you. And you’re just leaving?”

Your chest tightens. “She doesn’t need to fight for me,” you murmur. “She needs to focus on basketball. On her future. And I…” Your voice wavers. “I just need a second to breathe.”

Nika studies you, and for the first time, her tough exterior cracks just a little. She sees it—the exhaustion, the weight of it all pressing down on you.

“What happened?” she asks, softer this time.

You hesitate. But then the words spill out before you can stop them. “Coach Auriemma called me into his office. He told me it would be better for Paige’s career if I… if I stepped back. At least for now.”

Nika doesn’t say anything right away. Her jaw tightens, and her hands curl into fists at her sides. She looks ready to march into his office and cuss him out, but then she sighs, shaking her head. “And you just listened to him?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” you whisper. “She’s risking everything, Nika. Her future, her reputation… all for me. I can’t be the reason she loses it all.”

Nika’s quiet for a long time. And then she nods. “Okay.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“I won’t stop you,” she says. “If you need to go, go.”

A lump forms in your throat. “Thank you.”

“But,” she adds, fixing you with a sharp look. “You have to let Paige fix her own mess.”

Your stomach twists. “Nika—”

“She’s a big girl,” she interrupts. “And yeah, maybe she’s been reckless, maybe she’s been making dumbass decisions, but that’s on her. Not you. You don’t get to carry all of this by yourself.”

You don’t respond. You don’t know how to.

Nika exhales, running a hand through her hair. “I won’t tell Paige,” she promises. “But you owe it to her to talk when you come back.”

You nod slowly, chest aching. “I know.”

She studies you for another moment before sighing and stepping back. “Go, then. Before I change my mind.”

You don’t waste another second.

As you slip into the backseat of the Uber waiting to take you to the airport, you press your forehead against the window, watching as the campus fades from view.

You don’t know what awaits you back home. All you know is that, for the first time in a long time, you’re letting yourself take a break.

Even if it breaks you in the process.

The cold air bites at your skin as you sit outside your childhood home in Minnesota, staring at the phone screen that hasn’t stopped lighting up. Paige’s name dominates the notifications—calls, messages, voicemails. You haven’t responded to a single one.

You squeeze the phone in your hand, heart heavy with guilt. She’s done nothing wrong, and yet you’ve left her to suffer. Coach Auriemma’s words still echo in your mind.

If you love her, you won’t let her throw everything away for something that can wait.

But was disappearing really the right thing to do?

The vibration of your phone startles you, and this time, it’s Nika. You hesitate before finally picking up.

“Are you still at home?” she asks, sounding so tensed.

Your breath catches. “Nika—”

“She’s losing it,” Nika cuts you off, her voice sharp with urgency. “Like actually losing it. You need to hear this.”

Your stomach clenches, but you stay silent, gripping the phone tighter.

“She’s been a wreck ever since you left. Coach ripped into her and Azzi during practice. Called them out in front of everyone. Said their personal drama was a distraction to the team and that if they didn’t get their heads straight, they could both sit on the damn bench for all he cared.”

You close your eyes, already picturing the scene. Their coach doesn’t play around, especially when it comes to his team’s focus.

“But that’s not even the worst part,” Nika continues. “He mentioned you.”

Your eyes snap open. “What?”

“He was pissed and let it slip that you were part of the mess. Paige went stiff as a board. You should’ve seen her face. She asked what he meant, and he actually told her he spoke to you.”

Your breath falters. “What did she say?”

“She freaked out, obviously. Kept asking what he said to you, but Coach wouldn’t tell her. Just said he ‘advised’ you on what’s best.”

You rub a hand over your face. Shit.

“After that, I knew that she started calling you like crazy. She hasn’t stopped. She’s barely talking to anyone. Barely eating, dude. I tried to tell her you probably just needed space, but she’s convinced you left because of her.”

Guilt twists like a knife in your chest. You can hear Nika sigh on the other end. “Look, I get why you left. But this? This is killing her.”

You don’t say anything, because what can you say? That you knew this would happen? That you left to spare her, only to end up hurting her more?

Nika sighs again, softer this time. “She keeps updating you, doesn’t she?”

Your throat tightens. Yeah.

Paige has been sending messages non-stop. Long ones, short ones. Some begging, some demanding. Others just saying she misses you. That she doesn’t understand. That she needs to see you.

She’s unraveling.

Nika’s voice pulls you from your thoughts. “Just—just let me know if you’re coming back, okay? She needs to know you’re not gone forever.”

You don’t answer. Instead, you stare at the latest message from Paige, your vision blurring as you read her words.

Please just tell me if you’re okay. If you don’t want me to call anymore, I’ll stop. Just… I need to know if you’re okay.

Your hands shake as you lock your phone and press it against your forehead, the weight of everything pressing down on you. You thought leaving would be the best way to protect her.

But now, you’re not so sure.

You’re pulled from sleep by the constant buzzing of your phone. The screen glows in the darkness, illuminating the room in short, erratic bursts. Blinking against the haze of sleep, you reach for it, squinting at the overwhelming flood of notifications.

Your heart stops when you see Paige’s name.

She posted on Instagram.

A photo. No—several. A collage, old memories spilling into the present. Your childhood together. Your high school days. The candid shots of laughter, inside jokes captured in pixels. And then, the recent ones—the ones taken in the past few months, the ones you thought no one else had noticed. A soft look she gave you after practice, your hands nearly brushing at a coffee shop, a blurred shot of you both standing too close at some party. It’s all there. Laid out for the world to see.

You swallow hard, your chest tightening as you read the caption.

Some people are just part of your soul. No matter how much time passes, no matter how many things change, they’re always there. Even when you lose them. Even when you’re the reason they’re gone.

It’s the kind of post that sounds more like a confession than an appreciation. And people are noticing. The comments are blowing up, theories forming faster than you can process them.

— Why does this sound like a breakup post???

— Wait… is she talking about Azzi or…?

— Who is this mystery person??

— Oh my god, the way she looks at her in these pics.

Your stomach churns. Then you see it.

Someone from back home. Someone who knows you and Paige.

— Before Azzi, it was always them. They go way back, trust me.

And people are buying it.

Your notifications spike—friend requests, follows, people digging, trying to put pieces together. Your stomach twists as you scroll, anxiety flooding your veins. This is getting too big.

And then, the final nail in the coffin.

A comment, posted just three minutes ago.

— Good to know you're still friends with each other, Paige. I just bumped into her this morning, still so charming and sweet.

Your blood runs cold. That's your high school classmate who actually lives here in Minnesota!

And then, Paige’s reply. It's the only comment she actually replied to.

— Thank you.

Just one minute ago.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Thank you.

Thank you for what? The compliment? The nostalgia? Or—

Or the clue of where you are?

“Fuck.”

Your hands are shaking as you stare at the screen, heart pounding so hard it drowns out all rational thought. And then, your phone dings.

Paige: I know where you are, baby. I’m coming to get you.

Your eyes snap to the clock. 4:00 AM.

You don’t know when she’s going to show up.

But you know one thing for sure.

You’re so, so doomed.

A featherlight touch tickles your ear, a sensation so faint it almost feels like a dream. Then, another—a ghosting touch against your cheek. You stir, shifting under the warmth of the blankets, but then you feel it again.

Something—someone—is here.

Your eyes flutter open, bleary and unfocused, and the first thing you see is Paige, perched on the edge of your bed, smiling down at you. But it’s not her usual smile. It’s a sad one, fragile and worn, like she’s been crying. Like she’s barely holding herself together.

"Why did you leave me?" she whispers, voice small, almost broken. "I got so scared."

Your heart clenches at the raw vulnerability in her eyes. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out at first. There’s so much you want to say, but you don’t even know where to begin.

Paige exhales shakily, blinking rapidly. "I thought I lost you. For real. I called. I texted. I had no idea where you were, and it drove me insane. I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep—I just kept thinking, what if you weren’t coming back? What if I really ruined everything?"

You sit up, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Paige, I—"

"I know why you did it," she cuts in, her voice stronger now, but still laced with pain. "Nika told me everything. That you thought it was for the best. That you were trying to protect me. But, baby, you leaving? That didn’t protect me. It destroyed me."

Your breath catches. Paige’s fingers find yours, squeezing tight, almost desperate. "I don’t need protecting from you," she continues. "I need you. I don’t care what Coach Geno says, or what Lindsay thinks, or what the world expects from me. I only care about you. So don’t ever—ever—do that to me again."

Tears well in your eyes as you cup her face, thumbs brushing over the damp trails on her cheeks. "I just… I thought I was doing the right thing. I didn’t want to hold you back, Paige. I didn’t want to be the reason you lost everything."

Paige shakes her head, shifting closer until her forehead presses against yours. "You are everything."

And that’s all it takes for the dam to break. The next thing you know, Paige is kissing you, and it’s different from before—it’s raw, emotional, relieving. Her hands are in your hair, yours are gripping the fabric of her hoodie like she might disappear again if you let go. The taste of salt lingers on your lips, but you don’t know if it’s from her tears or yours.

You don’t pull away until you're breathless, foreheads still pressed together. Paige lets out a shaky laugh. "God, I missed you."

You laugh too, watery and soft. "I missed you more."

She grins, bumping her nose against yours. "Impossible."

Breakfast with your parents is warm, filled with laughter and lingering touches under the table. Paige is her usual charming self, but there’s a tenderness in the way she looks at you, in the way she talks about you to your family—like she wants them to know just how much she cherishes you. And they do. They see it.

Your mom smirks when Paige clears both your plates before you even finish your first. "Still stealing food off her plate, huh?"

Paige grins sheepishly. "Can you blame me? She always get the best bites."

Your dad chuckles. "Some things never change."

And for the first time in a while, everything feels right.

Later in the afternoon, Paige takes you to her house. You hesitate when she pulls into the driveway, but she just laces her fingers with yours, squeezing reassuringly. "I wanted to see you first before coming home," she says softly. "That’s how important you are to me."

The words settle in your chest, warm and deep.

Inside, her family welcomes you with open arms. They tease Paige endlessly, making comments about how she’s been sidetracked before (Azzi, though no one outright says her name), but they knew—they always knew.

"She just got a little lost," her mom says with a wink. "But she found her way back."

Paige groans. "You guys are the worst."

Her younger siblings giggle, throwing in their own commentary about how she was always different when you were around—happier, lighter. It makes you wonder how long everyone had seen it before either of you did.

And then, in front of everyone, Paige clears her throat, looking straight at you. "I’m gonna court you properly this time. No games, no confusion. Just me, proving to you every day that you’re it for me."

Her dad whistles. "Bold move. I like it."

Your face burns, but you nod, heart thudding. "I’d like that."

She beams, and for a second, you forget everything else.

The evening is spent driving around old familiar places, reminiscing about childhood memories, seeing things in a different light now. Paige reaches for your hand at every stop, as if making sure you’re still real, still here. You are. And you’re not going anywhere.

But reality catches up fast.

Your phone buzzes—Nika. You answer, and before you can even say anything, she’s groaning. "Dude, where the hell is Paige? Coach Geno’s losing his damn mind."

Your stomach drops. "What?"

"He found out she flew to Minnesota. He’s pissed." Nika sighs. "You two need to get your asses back here ASAP. I booked a flight for Paige already. You coming back with her?"

You hesitate, but then you glance at Paige, who’s watching you with quiet expectation. Like she’s waiting to see if you’ll run again.

You take a breath. "Yeah. We’ll come back together."

Nika snorts. "Good. Because, uh, people already know who you are now, thanks to Paige’s stupid, drunken, emotional post. Might as well face the world together."

Paige cringes but grins at you, hopeful. "Together?"

You lace your fingers with hers. "Together."

And for the first time in a long time, that word doesn’t feel scary at all.

The flight back to UConn was quieter than expected. Paige held your hand the entire time, her thumb brushing over your knuckles absentmindedly, as if she was making sure you were still there. You could feel the weight of everything pressing down on her, but there was something steadier in her grip now—like she had made up her mind about something.

When you landed, reality hit. Paige pulled her hoodie up, trying to shield herself from the attention, but it was useless. Eyes followed you both through the airport, whispers rippling through the crowd like wildfire. People knew now. Maybe not the full story, but enough. The post she made, the comments, the theories—it had spiraled into something neither of you could control.

The second you stepped onto campus, you knew it was only a matter of time before you had to face everything you ran from. And it started with Geno.

Nika had given you both a warning text—He’s pissed, but not at you. Be ready.

You didn’t even get a chance to process that before you were being summoned to his office.

Geno Auriemma was pacing when you walked in, hands on his hips, muttering something under his breath. Paige straightened beside you, ready for whatever lecture was coming.

He stopped, looked between you two, then exhaled sharply. “Do you have any idea what kind of circus you’ve created?”

Paige lifted her chin. “I do.”

“Do you?” His eyes narrowed. “Because last I checked, you had a season to focus on. A future to protect. And instead, I’ve got reporters hounding me about your love life.”

Paige didn’t back down. “I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Geno crossed his arms. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re ready to blow up everything for the sake of proving a point.”

Paige’s grip on your hand tightened. “It’s not about proving a point. It’s about doing what’s right.”

Geno studied her, then you. His gaze softened, just a little. “Kid,” he said, directing it at you this time. “You really planning on sticking around for this?”

You swallowed, but your voice was steady. “If Paige wants me here, I’m not going anywhere.”

Geno sighed, rubbing his temples. “Then I hope you’re both ready for the firestorm that’s coming.”

The confrontation with Azzi was next.

You didn’t seek it out, but it found you anyway. In the gym, of all places, where she stood by the lockers, arms crossed, waiting.

“I figured you’d come crawling back eventually,” she said, voice sharp. “Didn’t expect Paige to drag you back herself, though.”

You stiffened, but before you could speak, Paige stepped forward. “I didn’t drag anyone anywhere.”

Azzi’s eyes flicked to her. “Really? So this isn’t just you making another impulsive decision? Risking everything for someone who ran the second things got hard?”

You flinched, but Paige’s response was instant. “She didn’t run. I pushed her away.”

Azzi scoffed. “Yeah? And what happens when it gets too much again? When the pressure crushes you? You're gonna push her away again? Or maybe find someone new to hold your hand?”

Paige’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t come here to fight with you.”

“Then why are you here?” Azzi’s voice wavered just slightly. “To rub it in my face? To prove a point?”

Paige shook her head. “No. To end this.”

Azzi’s expression faltered. “It’s already over.”

Paige nodded. “Yeah. And I should’ve ended it sooner. But I need you to know—this isn’t about you. It never was.”

Azzi’s eyes burned into yours, then back to Paige. For a second, she looked like she wanted to say something more. But then she just scoffed, turned, and walked away.

The media reaction was a whole different beast.

Some people loved the story. Childhood best friends reconnecting, fighting for love, defying expectations. Others? Not so much. Some still clung to Azzi, to the image of her and Paige together, painting you as the villain in a story you never asked to be part of.

But the tides were shifting. The more people dug, the more they learned about you and Paige’s history—how you’d been there long before the spotlight, long before the fame. Slowly, the narrative began to change.

One clip from an old high school interview resurfaced—a young Paige, smiling when asked about her best friend, talking about how you were the first person to believe in her dreams. It went viral overnight.

And then there was the final push.

Paige’s first official statement.

She didn’t hold a press conference like she originally wanted. Instead, she posted a video—a simple, unedited clip of her sitting in her dorm, looking straight into the camera.

“I never planned on my personal life being public,” she started. “But if people are going to talk, I’d rather they hear it from me.”

She took a breath. “Azzi and I are done. We ended things because it wasn’t working, and that’s the truth. And as for the rumors about me and—” She hesitated, then smiled slightly. “Her. I’m not gonna confirm or deny anything. But I will say this—I don’t regret a single thing.”

Paige paused, like she was choosing her next words carefully. “The people who’ve been here since the beginning, the ones who really know me, they know where my heart has always been.”

That was all she said. But it was enough.

The world could interpret it however they wanted. But you? You knew exactly what she meant.

And as you sat there, watching the video play out, you realized something.

This wasn’t just Paige fighting for you.

It was both of you, fighting for each other.

The return to UConn was chaotic, but somehow, you and Paige faced it together. The confrontation with Coach Auriemma had been tough—he wasn’t happy about the distractions, but after seeing how firm Paige was in her choice, he let it go. Azzi was another story. She had scoffed, feigned indifference, but you could see the bitterness in her eyes. However, over time, even she started to come around. One evening after practice, she pulled Paige aside and, though reluctant, admitted, “I just want you to be happy. And if that’s with her, then… I’ll deal with it.”

Nika? She just smirked, shaking her head. “Took you two long enough.”

The media had been relentless at first, but eventually, things started to shift. Paige’s history with you, your childhood friendship, the way you had always been in her life—it changed the narrative. The fans saw it too. Some still clung to the idea of her and Azzi, but most of them started to accept you. Even like you. And Paige? She made sure the world knew exactly where she stood—with you.

One evening, after a long day of classes and training, you and Paige found yourselves curled up on the couch in your shared apartment. The weight of everything was still there, lingering, but for the first time in weeks, it felt manageable.

Paige let out a sigh, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Come with me after I go pro.”

Your heart stilled. “Paige…”

“I mean it,” she said, pulling back to look at you. Her eyes were filled with something so raw, so desperate, it made your breath catch. “I don’t want to do any of this without you.”

You exhaled slowly, fingers tracing patterns on her arm. “I have dreams too, Paige. My own path. My own future.”

She nodded immediately. “I know. And I’d never ask you to give them up. But I won’t give you up either.”

You hesitated, because as much as you loved her, as much as you wanted to be with her, you had spent so much of your life trying to find your own way. You couldn’t just abandon that.

Sensing your turmoil, Paige cupped your face, her thumbs brushing over your cheeks. “Tell me what you want.”

You swallowed hard. “I want to finish my degree. I want to build something for myself. And I want you too, Paige. But I can’t follow you like a shadow. I need to stand on my own too.”

She was quiet for a long moment, then she nodded, determination settling in her expression. “Then we’ll build our life together. I’ll go wherever you go.”

Your breath hitched. “Paige, you—”

“I can play anywhere. I don’t have to be across the country. I don’t have to make this harder than it needs to be. We’ll figure it out, but I’m not leaving you behind.”

Tears pricked at your eyes. “Are you sure?”

Paige leaned in, pressing a lingering kiss to your lips. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Months passed, and the world around you both continued to shift. Paige declared for the WNBA draft, and you stood by her side as she took that step into her future. She kept her promise—supporting you, making time for you, making sure you were part of her world.

And when the draft night came, when her name was called and she walked across that stage, she searched for you in the crowd, her eyes shining with tears and triumph. Later, when the cameras were off and the celebrations died down, she pulled you close, whispering against your lips, “We made it.”

You smiled, pressing your forehead to hers. “We did.”

The journey wasn’t perfect. There were challenges, moments of doubt, moments where the weight of it all felt unbearable. But through it all, one thing remained certain—Paige had chosen you. And you had chosen her, too.

In the months that followed, you both moved into a cozy apartment together, balancing her WNBA career with your own pursuits. Some nights, she came home exhausted from games, collapsing onto the couch with you, murmuring how grateful she was to have you by her side. Other nights, you stayed up late, working on your own dreams, with Paige curled up next to you, offering sleepy encouragement.

One day, as you both cooked dinner together, Paige wrapped her arms around you from behind, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “I don’t care where life takes us,” she murmured. “As long as we’re together.”

You turned, looking into her eyes, and smiled. “Always.”

And with that, the future no longer seemed uncertain.

It was yours—together.

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uofcosmos · 1 year ago

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mark bf hcs

sfw

- type to say "babe this one's for you" and miss

- says dude but romantically

- thinks you're his best friend, his gf, his bbg, his everything

- makes you pinky promise him and takes that shit to heart

- thinks you're the funniest person alive

- is always touching you in some form, especially in front of other people

- the type to embarrass you in public and think it's really funny

- sends you every tiktok he sees that he thinks you would even vaguely like

- main form of physical affection: his arm around your shoulder with his arm hanging off of your shoulder and he expects you to hold his hand

- extremely clingy when he's drunk (canonically a lightweight) and if he's out without you he's texting you the entire night

- if you leave the room to get something rq, he just stares at the door until you come back

- biggest yes-man in the world

- if you asked for his opinion on choosing between outfits he would be so stressed cause "babe you look too good in both of them :/"

- if you showed him your eyelash curler and fake lashes he would physically flinch and be so so concerned

- asks you to use them on him so he can experience "the same pain"

- matching social media pfps

- you would catch him thanking god that you're his girl

- likes writing music with you in his lap (says he needs his muse with him all the time)

- starts fantasizing about a future with you on the second date

- go to cuddling: he's on his back and you're on your side using his arm as a pillow

- but he moves around too much in his sleep so you never wake up like that

- HES the rapper gf

- spontaneously starts beatboxing and rapping about how hot you are and sometimes goes “dude wait… this one’s kinda good i need to write this one down”

- backhugs all the time and cages his arms around you esp when you’re talking to someone else so that he can get your attention

- paints your nails for you with the utmost concentration (his tongues sticking out and everything) but it’s still messy asf

- gets flustered when you make sex jokes

nsfw under the cut !! mdni

- also backhugs and starts kissing your neck when he’s horny (it’s his signature move)

- has a sex playlist that consists of solely the weeknd and chase atlantic and plays it religiously when you're fucking

- pleasure dom - gets off on how well you're getting off

- esp the first few times he'd be super stressed about how good he is at giving you head

- when you try to give head the first time he panics and keeps saying you don't have to and asking if you're sure

- finishes in 25 seconds cause he says you just feel too good

- tries to dirty talk once but he starts mumbling it and gives up (never does it again)

- he has such a tiny waist, he's super into it when you grab his waist or back when he's on top of you

- loves it when you put his arms around his neck

- he's really into putting you in odd positions, loves it when your legs are around his waist/shoulders

- mating press

- whiner over groaner

- really into riding, especially when he doesn't have to do too much of the work (he's a busy guy)

- if you came out of the shower and dropped your towel in front of him to walk to the bedroom he's tripping over himself to follow you

- very obvious afterglow, everyone can tell when he's just fucked

- makes really distinct faces when he's fucking

- would try to convince you to let him record your moans to use in the back of his songs (he's half-joking)

- trails kisses down you and is super into eye contact when he does it too

- always needs to see your face when you're fucking

- starts begging way too early when you even think about edging him

- loves when there’s visible scratches on his back so that it’s just a little secret between the two of you

- every time he tries to edge you and you start whining or getting a little upset he gives in super easily cause he just loves you too much

- carries you to the shower to clean the both of you off but he never tries anything in there, it's only about you

#nct #nct 127 #nct dream #nct u #nct x reader #mark lee #mark #mark nct #mark lee x reader #mark x reader #mark x y/n #mark lee x y/n #mark lee smut #nct smut #nct 127 smut #nct dream nct #mark lee headcanons #mark lee hcs #mark hcs

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last-words-ofashootingstar · 3 months ago

Text

LITTLE BEAR!

Baby Series!

❥Platonic Choi Jongho x fem reader

❥Yandere Park Seonghwa x fem reader

➯a/n: big bear moments are here 💞 i'm excited to finally be building on their relationship because i love them, you love them, it's love all around, let's get to it !!!

♡'･ᴗ･'♡genre: drabbles, angst, fluff

✫彡wordcount: 2k

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: non-linear(most moments have no set place in timeline), unhealthy relationships/trauma collective bonding, stockholm+lima syndrome, fear / anxiety, physical affection, guilt

✩index: little space- a regressed state of mind where someone feels like a child. hyung - a close male friend older than you, used by other males.

➯disclaimer: this is a work of fiction, and baby and seonghwa do NOT represent a healthy little and caregiver relationship, or a healthy relationship at all. everyone in this story needs therapy and LOTS of it.

MDNI.

❝guard dog❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

"Baby, I really am not in the mood to repeat myself..." Seonghwa's words make Jongho look up immediately. More specifically — the tone of his voice makes his head snap up.

He's clearly irritated. Not at anything singular, and certainly not at you. But you don't know the difference when you're feeling so little. All you know is that your Mommy is mad, so you're afraid to let him touch you.

They were learning a particularly difficult dance, and Seonghwa was ready to just go home. But he approached you when his face was still showing his frustration and that made your flight or fight kick in.

Apparently, you had unlocked a new option after spending so much time with Wooyoung — defensive sass.

"Good, 'cause I don't wanna hear you again anyway."

Everyone left in the practice room freezes, you included. You had thought about talking back to him, but you seriously didn't mean to actually do it.

Jongho is on the way to you already as Seonghwa's face drops further. He's always the first one to move.

"What did you say, Baby?"

"M'sorry, Mommy, pl-"

Seonghwa sighs as Jongho steps in front of you, your wide eyes disappearing behind him. "Jongho," he begins slowly, "don't pull this crap right now."

Whenever Jongho thinks things are about to escalate, or when they actually do — he always throws himself between the two of you. And he doesn't move. Like a fucking stone wall until things calm down. Seonghwa can scream at him, pull at him, try to reach around him — but Jongho is planted in place to protect you.

"Hyung, maybe we should take a breath?" San places his hand on Seonghwa's shoulder. "I think you just scared her-"

"That doesn't mean she can talk back like that!"

As he feels you grab onto the back of his shirt, Jongho reaches a hand back and takes ahold of yours.

Telling you without words that he won't be moving until you're safer.

❝today❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

"Big bear!" You yell as you run into the practice room, having wormed your way out of Seonghwa's arms when you saw him. You didn't see him all weekend.

"Little bear!" He growls playfully as he picks you up, swinging your legs back and forth.

"What day is it?" You ask excitedly as he sets you down. No matter how many times you go through this, it still makes you both happy.

"Well," he taps his chin, "it's today!"

"My favorite!" You hop, hugging him again as Seonghwa chuckles from the side. No matter how many times he watches, it's still as cute as the first time. Your little inside saying from one of the many Winnie the Pooh books you've read together.

"Really? Mine too!"

❝eepy❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

You have your head laid in Jongho's lap; droopy eyes watching the cartoon movie on his phone, fighting your sleep as he gently scratches your back.

You two are the only ones in the practice room, everyone else gone for the day and he volunteered to stay with you while Seonghwa recorded.

After you yawn for the fifth time in thirty minutes, he asks, "are you sleepy, little bear?"

"Yeahm..." You whine quietly, "how much longer 'til Mommy is done?"

He checks the time and grimaces a bit, "maybe still... a little while."

"Dangs it," you sit up and pout, rubbing your eyes in a way that almost makes him coo. "Him should hurry."

He chuckles softly, "but don't you want him to do good?"

"Yeahm!" You nod with a sudden burst of energy, "you right, him take his time and make a good song!" You grab Seonghwa's bag from beside you and find the emergency pacifier he has inside.

"Are you getting restless, little bear?" He asks as you start nibbling on it. You don't use one all the time, mostly when you're extra anxious or super tired.

" 'Eepy," you mumble from around it, laying back down on the hardwood and using his lap as a pillow. "It's okay I nap?"

"Of course," he smiles softly down at you, rubbing your arm through Seonghwa's fuzzy sweater that you wear.

By the time Seonghwa finally returns, almost an hour later, Jongho has laid down on the floor and maneuvered you ontop of him because you kept grumbling in your sleep. Now, though, you're as comfy as can be. And Jongho doesn't seem to mind either, because he's asleep with his hoodie under his head.

Seonghwa can't help but snap a picture of the adorable-ness, an affectionate smile on his lips.

❝spilled milk❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

"I'm really sorry," you cry as Jongho cleans up the milk on the floor, the roll of paper towels clutched tightly in your hands as you stand off to the side.

The jug had busted when you lifted it off the counter. It wasn't your fault at all. But you still felt like it was.

"It's okay, it's not a-" He pauses as he turns to you for another paper towel. Your tearful eyes and the way you look just about ready to run and hide makes his heart break. "It's not a big deal... really." He moves slowly to get the towels from you, making quick work of the rest of the mess.

"C'mon, little bear," he takes your hand gently and leads you to his room, reassuring you the whole way, "I'm not mad, I swear."

You're biting your thumb as he digs through his closet, keeping quiet because that's what you've learned to do to when you're scared.

You know realistically that you have no reason to be afraid of Jongho, he's the one who protects you! But you feel like at any second Seonghwa will bust through the door and demand to know who let you pour your own drink in the first place, demand to know why your clothes are soaked.

"Here, you can change into this," he whispers so he doesn't spook you from your thoughts, handing you a large t-shirt. "Those clothes can't be comfy anymore, right?"

You shake your head a bit, a quiet 'nuh-uh' stuck in your throat. You hate the feeling of clothes sticking to you, so you take the shirt.

"M'sorry, big bear... I didn't mean to make a mess."

"Hey, it's okay," he uses his sleeve to wipe your tears as they start free falling, "I'm not mad at you. You shouldn't cry over spilled milk, haven't you heard that expression? And it wasn't your fault."

His next words come before he can stop them, they've been on his mind for a long time. And they have a heaviness in them that makes you crumble like a cracker.

"None of this is your fault, (Y/n)."

❝bear hug❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

You were crying. That wasn't anything new, to be completely honest. You cry a lot. Your situation is cry-worthy. Nobody blames you.

"I know, Baby," Seonghwa shushes you quietly, rocking you in his lap, "shhh, it's okay. Cry it out."

You had seen someone who looked like your best friend, and it sent you spiraling. Thank goodness you didn't see her before they went on stage, or heaven forbid while they were there. Seonghwa would have refused to leave your side, he would have choked the life out of the nearest person if he came back to see you crying like you are.

The second you started breaking down, Seonghwa whisked you away to a quiet corner of the building where people hardly frequent; giving you the privacy you needed to sob as loudly as your body could handle.

Jongho and Mingi gave you a few long, long, moments before they found you.

Mingi was sat right beside you on the stairs, rubbing your back slowly. And Jongho was leaned against the wall with a small frown.

Seonghwa had whispered to them what happened, and it broke their hearts probably as much as it broke yours. Well — not nearly as much, but still.

You had finally exhausted all of your tears, your sobs stopped by the way Seonghwa leans your head to face the ceiling gently. He knows how to handle your meltdowns like a pro by now. "Better now, Baby?"

You sniffle, giving him the saddest thumbs up they've ever seen.

"Do you want a hug?" Jongho's words have you crawling right out of Seonghwa's lap.

You crash into him and sigh with relief. You always feel safe in his arms. He locks them around you and hugs you tightly, the very definition of a bear hug.

"Poor little bear," he whispers, closing his eyes as tears threaten to leave them.

He knows he's part of the reason why you're in so much pain, but he can't stand to think about it. All he can do is try to be a steady rock for you, grounding you with his hug.

❝goosebumps❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

"Seems a little scary," Seonghwa pouts at the book that Jongho offers him.

"It's for kids," the younger man reassures him, "I looked it up!"

"Big bear!" You come barreling down the hall with San behind you, immediately wrapping your arms around his neck.

"Little bear!" Every time you greet him like that, he will always meet it with the same energy.

"It says ages nine to fourteen," Seonghwa puts his phone back on the counter, "her little age is too small for t-"

"Is this for me?"

Damn, Seonghwa thinks. No getting rid of them now that you've seen the pile of books and have an excited glint in your eyes. He can't say no to that.

He sighs quietly before smiling, adding the book in his hands to the collection. "Big bear got them for you."

"You did?! My very own books? Not to borrow?" He lets you borrow a lot, but the only books you 'own' are the few that Seonghwa has; and some of those are off limits.

"Yup! All for you, little bear," he laughs softly as you give him another tight hug before climbing up onto the chair and looking at all of them.

"What do we say, Baby?" Seonghwa hums as he pets your head, eyes locked on your smile with one of his own tugging at his lips.

"Thank you! Oh, 'Goosebumps'... sounds spooky!"

"Don't read them too late, yeah?" Jongho leans against the table, watching you sort through the books, "I'll have to stay up and fight away the nightmares."

❝rest❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

They had a rare week day off, and everyone was sleeping in save for you and Seonghwa. He likes to keep your routine and schedule the same, it's good for you— both of you.

As you're eating breakfast in front of the TV, a rare treat, you hear the deadbolt on the door clunk.

Both of your heads lean back to see who enters.

"Big bear?"

"Hey," he yawns as he waves to you, tossing his keys and kicking off his slippers before shuffling to the couch.

"What're you doing up so early? You should be resting," Seonghwa hums as he takes the last bite of his food.

"I figured I can rest over here with you guys. You got any plans?" Jongho flops down next to you, ruffling your bed head softly.

"No, we're having a lazy day. You're welcome to stay, you know that," he gathers your bowl and yawns as well while he takes them to the sink.

"You don't have to waste the day hanging out with us, big bear," you catch the infectious yawn while stretching out.

"It's not wasted if it's with you, little bear." He says with a sleepy smile, letting you lean into his side and cuddle up.

It's really not. He's come to love spending time with his little bear.

❝LITTLE BEAR!❞ ✧ ೃ༄ ｡

#ateez #choi jongho #ateez jongho #jongho x reader #ateez x reader #yandere ateez x reader #ateez fic #yandere park seonghwa #park seonghwa x reader #park seonghwa #yandere seonghwa #seonghwa au #yandere ateez #yandere fic #angsts fic #baby series

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ghostlynightpanda · 2 months ago

Text

Still in the Picture

A/N: This is based on a request, but I accidentally deleted it :'(. Luckily, I had written down some basic notes for the story beforehand, though I wasn’t able to check back with the request to make sure I was still fully on track. I hope the Anon who requested it still sees this and that it’s what you were hoping for. I’m really sorry again!

synopsis: You're trying to juggle life between raising your brother and working for the ADA. But when he gets kidnapped during what should've been a routine day, you stop at nothing to bring him home—with the entire ADA standing beside you, ready to fight for what matters most.

content/warning: Ranpo x fem!reader, angst, gunshot wounds and death, hurt with slight comfort, -12.370 words

It was an unspoken rule within the Armed Detective Agency: when you spoke, people listened.

Not because you were loud—quite the opposite. You were calm, serious, sharp as glass and twice as unyielding. When a mission was assigned, you executed it without complaint. When someone was injured, you offered solutions before concern. Your eyes were focused, tone measured, and presence as steadying as Kunikida's idealism or Yosano's scalpel.

People respected you.

Ranpo had once said, through a mouthful of Pocky, "You're the kind of person who probably doesn't even cry when they stub their toe."

You hadn't responded. Not because it wasn't worth it, but because you had stubbed your toe that morning. And you hadn't cried.

So it always came as a shock, when you arrived with your little brother in tow.

"Nee-chan!" he shouted, running down the hallway of the ADA office, holding a crookedly drawn picture in his hand like it was gold. You were behind him, holding his little backpack and your own briefcase.

The child barreled toward your desk. You caught up with him mid-run, lifting him with ease, face softening into a smile that none of your colleagues had ever coaxed out of you, not even after a successful mission.

"Hey, hey, careful," you murmured, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he giggled. "What did I say about running in the hallways?"

"Only do it if it's a race!" he grinned up at you, completely ignoring the rule.

Ranpo, sitting nearby with his legs kicked up on the desk, looked at you. "I don't get it. Are we sure that's even the same person? Someone check if it's a shapeshifter."

Dazai, already halfway through his third cup of coffee, leaned over toward Kunikida. "Ah, the power of familial love. Truly, the only thing that can make our resident human-knife soften into a mother hen."

You ignored them all, smoothing down your brother's shirt with practiced, tender hands. You didn't laugh at the jokes, didn't deny them either. You simply knelt to zip his jacket and check the watch on his wrist.

"I'll be in the records room with Kunikida. Stay near my desk, alright? You can color there. Don't touch Dazai's coffee, or the man himself."

"Why not?"

"Because I said so. And because I love you," you said without missing a beat, placing a kiss on his forehead.

Gasps echoed in the room. Not because of the affection—but because you said it out loud.

Kunikida dropped his pen. Yosano actually smiled. Even Atsushi, ever polite, looked stunned.

Ranpo, ever observant, chewed thoughtfully on a sweet. "So that's what it looks like when steel bends."

And in that moment, with your brother's small fingers curled around yours and the barest trace of warmth in your expression, no one could deny it: You would move the world for that boy.

And break yourself doing it.

Balancing life between the Armed Detective Agency and raising a child was like walking a tightrope with knives beneath you—and no safety net. But you did it every single day.

Your mornings started before the sun rose.

You made breakfast with quiet hands, careful not to wake your little brother too early. He needed his sleep. Then came the routine: getting him dressed, brushing his hair, packing his bag, double-checking his lunch. You always walked him to school yourself, even if it meant waking up two hours earlier to get to work on time. If it rained, you carried the umbrella; if it snowed, you tied his scarf twice.

You didn't mind.

At the ADA, you were all business again. Serious, attentive, impossible to distract. Whether it was chasing down smugglers in the back alleys of Yokohama or analyzing crime scenes with Ranpo, your focus never wavered. You didn't waste words or hesitate when action was needed.

But the moment your phone buzzed with a message from your brother's school—your fingers would twitch toward it faster than you'd draw your weapon.

You finished missions with precision because your schedule had to be reliable. If you were late to pick him up, he'd wait—trusting you'd show, even if the clock ticked long past dismissal.

You were never late.

When the day's work ended, you'd be at the school gates. Your brother would run toward you, arms wide and grin bigger than the sun. And you'd kneel to greet him, to listen to his stories about math or recess or the imaginary game he and his friends invented.

You brought him back to the ADA on slow afternoons. Paperwork could always wait until he was settled—feet dangling from the chair beside yours, his backpack dumped unceremoniously under the desk, colored pencils already rolling across your files. He'd hum to himself, occasionally tapping your arm to show off a sketch of a cat that looked suspiciously like Kunikida or a wobbly drawing of the entire Agency with everyone's hair the wrong color. You'd smile, remind him to keep his math worksheet out of your coffee mug, and then return to sorting case files—half-focused, but always calm with him near.

The Agency... adjusted. Quietly, naturally. Your brother didn't just become a regular guest; he became family.

Yosano kept a separate drawer just for him—stocked with antiseptic wipes, cartoon-printed bandages, and the occasional sweet for when he looked nervous or tired. She teased him gently, always with a soft edge you didn't see often from her, and somehow, he trusted her deeply despite the fact that you flinched every time she reached for a scalpel.

Atsushi brought small things—packets of melon bread, a juice box, a toy from a capsule machine on the way to work. He never made a show of it, just casually slid them onto the edge of the desk with a smile. Sometimes, he'd crouch beside your brother's chair, ask him about the comics he liked.

Kunikida, bless him, once created a laminated list of "ADA-approved educational activities" after overhearing your brother say he was bored. The list included timed logic puzzles, geography trivia, and a math-focused scavenger hunt. Your brother glanced at it once, then went right back to drawing a manga scene where you and Atsushi fought a giant squid. Kunikida was... disappointed, but undeterred. He tried to quiz him on prefectures every time he visited.

Kenji was his favorite. On slow days, Kenji would plop down on the floor with a board game or deck of cards, playing round after round while telling stories about life back on the farm. Your brother listened with wide eyes, occasionally bursting into laughter so loud it disrupted meetings.

No one minded.

Even Dazai—unexpected, unpredictable Dazai—surprised you. One day, you were called away to chase a lead on short notice, something that would take the whole day. No one else was free. Dazai glanced up from his desk, sighed dramatically, and said, "Fine. I'll babysit. But only because children are slightly less insufferable than adults."

You returned a couple hours later to find the two of them playing Shogi, a plate of half-eaten cookies between them, your brother explaining the rules while Dazai nodded with the exaggerated seriousness of someone plotting a war. When you asked how it went, Dazai just shrugged and said, "He's alright. A bit too smart, though. Dangerous."

You knew what he meant. Your brother wasn't just clever—he had this way of getting under people's skin, of disarming even the most guarded of hearts. He didn't try to—he just was. A child who had lost too much too early, clinging to what little joy he had left.

The ADA saw that. And they embraced it.

Sometimes, your brother would get absorbed in one big project—usually on a quiet afternoon when the office buzzed with the rustle of papers and distant footsteps, the kind of steady calm that made him feel safe enough to let his creativity bloom. That day, he sat for nearly an hour, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth, colored pencils spread around him like a halo.

When he finally stood, his drawing clutched in both hands like a priceless artifact, he didn't come to you first. He stood up straighter, marched to the center of the office, and cleared his throat in the quietest voice possible. "Um... I drew something."

Atsushi looked up first, then Kenji, and within seconds everyone had turned to look. He unfolded the page and turned it around. There it was—the entire ADA office, from the stacked shelves and cluttered desks to the big window with its warm afternoon light. Every person had been drawn, labeled with slightly crooked name tags. Even you—mid-paperwork, coffee mug in hand, a little heart hovering above your head.

He was there too, front and center, grinning proudly with his usual hoodie and untied shoelaces. He had drawn himself right into the Agency's heart.

Everyone gathered around to look, voices warm with praise. Kenji clapped him on the shoulder so hard he nearly stumbled. Yosano ruffled his hair. Even Kunikida smiled and said, "You managed to capture everyone's likeness... surprisingly well."

Then the door to Fukuzawa's office opened, and your brother froze a little. He straightened again, this time in that particular way kids do when they're trying to be very polite and very brave at the same time. With quiet steps, he walked up to the president, holding the drawing with both hands.

Fukuzawa looked down at him, then at the picture. For a second, he didn't say anything, just observed it with that calm, careful gaze of his. Then he nodded.

"It's better than any photograph," he said.

Your brother blinked up at him, wide-eyed.

Fukuzawa knelt just slightly, placing a steady hand on his shoulder. "Would you allow me to hang it here in the office?"

Your brother practically beamed. "Yes, sir!"

And so, with great ceremony, the drawing was pinned up beside the whiteboard, above the file cabinets. Your brother stood beneath it, chest puffed out, glowing with pride while the rest of the ADA gave him a round of soft applause.

It stayed there from that day forward—sun-faded in the corners, but vibrant with something no case file or mission report could capture. A reminder of how deeply he had become part of the Agency, not just through you, but all on his own.

Whenever you had to come in on weekends and he wanted to stay in the dorm, you even left him home alone. Never for long. Never after dark. If you had to step out briefly and school was closed, you left him at your dorm, where it was safe, where you could call every fifteen minutes to check in. And even then, you'd leave him only with the sun high in the sky.

Every decision you made was filtered through a single, ironclad rule: He comes first. Always.

You made sure he ate. You reminded him to drink water. You kept spare gloves in your coat pocket in case he forgot his. You worked with bullet wounds, with cracked ribs, with bruised arms—but no one ever knew. You smiled when he needed you to. You reassured him on bad days.

You gave him everything.

Because long ago, you made a promise.

And you never break your promises.

The office was unusually quiet for a weekday. Kunikida was buried under mission planning, Yosano had locked herself in the infirmary (again), and Dazai—mercifully—was nowhere to be seen. The only noise came from the soft scratch of your pen as you worked through a stack of case reports, and the steady tick-tick-tick of the office clock.

And, of course, Ranpo's sighs.

Loud, exaggerated, and spaced every fifteen seconds with clockwork precision.

You didn't need super deduction to know he was bored.

"Ranpo," you said without looking up, voice even, "if you sigh any louder, I'm filing a noise complaint."

"I'm suffering, you know." Ranpo leaned dramatically over your desk, his chin nearly knocking over your coffee. "There's nothing to do. No murder. No mystery. Just you, being boring and responsible."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is. At least give me something to read. Or a cookie. Or attention."

You didn't roll your eyes—but only barely. "I'll give you a file to proofread."

He made a noise like a dying cat and slumped farther down, now half-hanging off the desk. "Unfair. You know I don't do paperwork. You're cruel."

Despite his antics, you didn't mind. Ranpo's presence, as loud as it could be, had become oddly comforting in these rare quiet hours. He never meant harm. Just attention. And beneath his self-proclaimed brilliance, you'd grown to recognize his rare moments of curiosity—ones he didn't share lightly.

After a long pause, Ranpo suddenly spoke, eyes half-lidded but focused on your face now.

"Hey… why are you taking care of your brother, anyway? What happened to your parents?"

The pen in your hand stopped.

The shift was small—but it was enough. Ranpo noticed. So did Kunikida, who froze mid-note-taking at his desk across the room. Atsushi, walking in with tea, nearly dropped the tray. No one said anything, but their stillness said enough.

You, however, didn't react outwardly.

Ranpo wasn't known for his tact. He asked questions most people tiptoed around, not out of cruelty but because boundaries often bored him. To him, information was just information.

Still, it was a heavy one to drop in the middle of paperwork hour.

You set your pen down neatly and leaned back in your chair, eyes distant, but voice calm.

"There was an accident. Our parents didn't make it. My brother was four at the time."

Ranpo blinked, straightening slightly. You didn't need to look at him to feel his attention sharpen—not with his ability, but with his human awareness.

"And you took him in?" he asked. Not in disbelief. In calculation. Trying to line up the timeline, your age, your responsibilities.

You nodded. "There wasn't anyone else who could. He was scared. I promised he'd be okay. That I'd be there for him, always."

A small silence followed. Not heavy, but thoughtful. Ranpo tapped a finger against the desk.

"Sounds like a lot," he said, unusually subdued for him. "I couldn't do that. Raising a kid. Waking up early. Caring that much." He scrunched his nose slightly, in that honest Ranpo way. "You're pretty cool, actually."

You blinked. That… might've been the most sincere compliment he'd ever given anyone without being sarcastic.

"Thanks," you said simply.

Ranpo leaned back in your chair now, resting his head on his arms. "Still boring, though."

You let out a small breath—not a laugh exactly, but close enough that he glanced up to check.

Outside, the sun was starting to dip. You checked the clock—time to pick up your brother.

"Don't mess with my desk while I'm gone," you said, grabbing your coat.

"No promises," Ranpo called after you with a grin, though something softer lingered in his expression.

As the door shut behind you, he murmured to himself: "Still cool, though..."

It was a Saturday. The sky was pale and overcast, the kind of day that made everything feel still—even the city.

You had just finished drying the breakfast dishes when your phone buzzed.

Kunikida: Emergency meeting at the office. Sorry, I know it's your day off. Fifteen minutes?

You stared at the message for a moment, jaw tightening, then looked over your shoulder toward the living room.

Your little brother was curled up on the couch, still in his pyjamas, a bowl of cereal precariously perched on his knees and the TV flickering with some colorful weekend cartoon. He looked content, warm, safe.

You hesitated, phone still in hand.

"Hey," you called gently, walking into the living room. He turned with a sleepy smile. "The office needs me for a quick meeting. You want to come?"

He shook his head immediately, mouth full of cereal. "Mm-mm. Wanna finish my show."

You crouched down in front of him, brushing a crumb from his cheek. "I won't be long. Probably just paperwork or a case briefing."

"I'll be fine," he said, looking up at you with that same unwavering trust that always, always struck somewhere deep in your chest.

You nodded, swallowing the flicker of unease. You'd done this before. Just for short periods. Never in the dark. Never at night. Never long.

Still, the checklist rolled off your tongue like always.

"Don't answer the door," you said.

"I won't."

"Don't touch the stove."

"Promise."

"Call me if anything feels weird. And answer when I call you, okay?"

"Okay, okay! I know!" He grinned and leaned forward to bump his forehead against yours in a playful headbutt. "You worry too much."

You smiled, though it didn't quite reach your eyes.

"Only because I love you," you murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of his head before standing.

He gave you a little wave as you grabbed your coat and keys.

"Be safe!" he called out.

"I should be saying that to you," you replied, a half-laugh in your voice. "Lock the door behind me."

And with that, you were gone.

The ADA office was too quiet when you arrived.

Rain had begun to fall, a faint pattering against the tall windows as Kunikida briefed you and a few others—nothing major, just an unusual pattern in some case reports. Might be a coincidence. Might be a prelude. Ranpo sat sideways in his chair, uninterested, chewing on a lollipop.

You answered questions sharply. Focused. Efficient. Still, your eyes flicked to your phone between notes.

You called once.

No answer.

You tried again.

Still nothing.

Not unusual, not yet. He probably left it on silent. Or was in the bathroom. Or fell asleep with the cartoon still playing.

But you felt it. A pulse of something cold crawling up your spine. Your heart didn't beat faster—but your thoughts did.

You stood without waiting for the meeting to end.

"Where are you going?" Kunikida asked.

"My brother isn't picking up."

Ranpo, who had been half-asleep with boredom, sat up straighter—eyes narrowing in that unsettlingly clear way of his. He didn't say anything, but you felt the weight of his gaze follow you as you turned and left the room.

Outside, the rain picked up.

You walked fast. Then you ran.

You fumbled with the keys. Rain slicked your fingers, cold and clinging, making it harder than it should've been. You unlocked the door in three practiced movements and pushed it open—

—and your breath caught.

The living room was too quiet. Too still.

You stepped inside slowly, almost unwilling to believe what your instincts already screamed at you. The cartoon on the TV had long since ended, the screen now dim and quiet. The cereal bowl sat on the table, half-eaten, milk gone warm. His slippers were by the couch.

But he was gone.

"Hey," you called, voice taut as a wire, trying not to tremble. "I'm home."

Silence.

Your heart dropped into your stomach.

You moved faster now, stepping into every room, calling his name again—once, then louder. The bathroom: empty. Your bedroom: untouched. His room: bed still messy from earlier, his favorite stuffed animal on the floor.

And then you saw it.

The window.

The latch had been forced from the outside.

And your world stopped.

You stared, heart thundering against your ribs, breath caught somewhere between a scream and a sob that couldn't make it out. You were frozen—just for a second—before the panic hit like a truck.

You were already dialing Ranpo's number.

The call didn't even go through before you turned and slammed open the door, practically running straight outside. The rain came harder now, soaking through your jacket, your hair, your skin—but you didn't feel it.

You barely made it out onto the street before someone called your name.

"Y/N!"

You spun around. Ranpo stood at the corner, an umbrella half-cocked in his hand, Atsushi beside him already looking worried.

They'd never seen you like this.

Not like this.

Your expression—normally so composed, so sharp—was wide-eyed, pale, frantic.

Ranpo's brows drew together. "Where is he?"

You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. You shook your head instead, barely able to form the word: "Gone."

Atsushi stepped forward immediately. "What do you mean, gone?!"

"The window," you said, voice too low. "Someone broke in. He didn't answer. I called—he always answers—I told him not to open the door, he wouldn't open the door—"

You swallowed hard, trying to stop the spiral. Your hands were trembling.

Ranpo's gaze sharpened. His eyes flicked toward your building, then to your face, then the phone still in your hand. All at once, his usual laziness vanished.

"This wasn't random," he said flatly. "They waited for you to leave."

"How do you—" Atsushi began, but Ranpo was already walking toward the door, his umbrella forgotten. "Stay here," he said over his shoulder, "I need to see inside."

You didn't stop him. You couldn't. You just stared down the empty street, every shadow now a threat, every passing car a missed clue.

Atsushi hesitated at your side. "We'll find him. We will. I promise."

You didn't answer.

Because promises only matter if you can keep them.

And this time, you weren't sure you could.

Ranpo came down the steps ten minutes later, his expression unreadable—too calm for someone who'd just been in your apartment, sifting through the aftermath of your worst nightmare.

You didn't say anything.

Neither did he.

But when he reached you, he pulled the soaked glasses from his face, cleaned them on his sleeve, and said, "They came in through the window. The latch was popped with a flat tool—something thin. Professional. They didn't take anything else. Not your wallet. Not your laptop. Not even your emergency money stash."

He glanced at you then, eyes narrowed. "They came for him."

You already knew it. But hearing it aloud hit like a blade across your chest.

Ranpo turned to Atsushi. "Call Kunikida. Tell him to prep the board room and alert everyone. I want the last four cases of missing children that match this pattern. We've got maybe a six-hour window if we're lucky."

"Right," Atsushi said, voice sharp with urgency as he pulled out his phone. His eyes flicked to you briefly. "We're gonna get him back."

You just nodded, mute.

Ranpo didn't ask if you were okay.

He knew you weren't.

Instead, he simply motioned for you to walk with him, falling into step at your side.

By the time you returned to the Agency, the rain had slowed—but inside, the air was thick with tension. The elevator doors opened with a chime and revealed the familiar faces of your team, already waiting.

Kunikida stood at the head of the table, arms crossed and brow furrowed. Dazai lounged in his chair but his usual smug smile was absent, replaced by a grim sort of alertness. Fukuzawa stood near the window, expression calm but eyes sharp. Kenji looked confused and concerned, and Kyoka—silent as always—hovered near the board with a map already half-pinned with notes. Tanizaki was at the computer terminal, pulling records.

The moment they saw you, something shifted in the room.

They knew.

Kunikida stepped forward. "We'll find him."

You opened your mouth to say something—thank you, maybe—but your throat closed up. So instead, you just nodded.

Kunikida motioned toward the map. "We've compiled the police reports from similar cases. All children. All taken between noon and six in the evening. No forced entries at the front—always windows or fire escapes. Ranpo's theory is correct, this was planned. Someone's targeting kids."

Tanizaki's voice chimed in from the computer. "There've been five abductions like this in the past two months. None solved. The police kept it under wraps to avoid panic. But there's a pattern."

"They're stalling," Ranpo added, walking straight to the whiteboard. "Holding the kids somewhere. Probably central, somewhere abandoned but secure. Warehouse, maybe. Old school. It's not just kidnapping. It's something else."

"Ransom?" Atsushi offered.

"Worse," Ranpo said, eyes flicking briefly to you. "They wanted someone connected to us. It's not random anymore. It's personal."

Everyone in the room tensed.

Fukuzawa spoke for the first time. "You have full resources. Whatever you need. Every one of us is on this."

You looked around.

These were your coworkers. Your comrades. Your family.

And they weren't just helping because a child was missing.

They were helping because he was your little brother. Because you were theirs.

Dazai, of all people, gave you a faint grin and said, "Don't worry. We're professionals. We've dealt with worse." His smile faded just enough to reveal the steel behind it. "They'll regret ever touching him."

You lowered your head briefly, steadying yourself against the wave of emotion that threatened to rise again.

"I just want him safe," you said, voice quiet.

"And he will be," Kunikida assured you. "We'll bring him back."

The office was a storm of quiet urgency.

Kunikida barked updates from the whiteboard while Ranpo scrawled deductions across the surface like a man possessed. Kenji and Kyoka darted between rooms, collecting case files and camera logs, while Atsushi coordinated with the police under Fukuzawa's direction.

You stood near the back at first, still, watching. Your hands shook faintly. Your heart still beat too loud, too fast.

But then something clicked.

You breathed in—shaky—and then out, slow and deep. And you shut it down.

The fear. The grief. The panic.

It didn't vanish, but you locked it behind the same steel wall you'd used in the field more times than you could count. The same calm you wore through wounds, through firefights, through pain that would have brought others to their knees.

Your brother needed you.

You couldn't afford to fall apart again.

You stepped forward.

"What do we have on location radius?" you asked, voice suddenly sharp again, focused. "If they moved during daylight, they'd need a route with minimal surveillance."

Kunikida glanced at you, gauging you briefly. He nodded.

"Ranpo's narrowed it down to a five-block radius around your apartment," he said, pointing at the board. "These three areas are black zones—little to no working cameras."

"They wouldn't use the subway," Ranpo added, chewing thoughtfully on a fresh lollipop. "Too risky with a child. They're likely traveling by car or van. Stolen plates. We've already put in a request for traffic cam scrubs."

"I'll cross-reference known abandoned buildings in those sectors," you said, already pulling open a laptop. "Kenji, can you get me the municipal records?"

"On it!" Kenji chirped, already hurrying over.

Ranpo tilted his head, eyes flicking to you.

"You're calm again," he observed, not with judgment but… curiosity.

You didn't look up. "I have to be."

Meanwhile —

Yosano was already halfway back from her last job when the message hit her phone.

URGENT:Y/N's brother missing. Abduction. Targeted. Current ADA mobilized. ETA for your return?

Her reply came almost instantly.

Tell Y/N I'm coming. She is not going through this alone. I'll be there in two hours. Three, tops.

The tires of her rented vehicle screamed as she pressed harder on the gas.

Back at the ADA office, the board filled fast. Photos. Building layouts. Police files.

Every agent worked in sync. You fell into the rhythm like muscle memory, pushing aside the ache in your chest with every clue you traced, every detail you lined up.

Dazai slouched beside your desk at one point, watching you with something unreadable in his gaze. "You're kind of scary when you're like this," he mused aloud.

You didn't answer. You barely heard him.

Every second mattered. Every second he was gone was one more you might regret for the rest of your life.

"I've got a match," Tanizaki said suddenly. "Old textile factory. Closed five years ago. Three floors. One basement. In a black zone."

Ranpo was already walking toward the coat rack. "That's it."

"How do you know?" Atsushi asked, grabbing his jacket.

"Because I'm always right," Ranpo replied, already heading for the door.

And for the first time in hours, you felt your pulse steady just a little.

Because now you were moving.

Now you had a lead.

Now you had a chance.

The van rolled to a stop two blocks from the building—an abandoned textile factory, quiet and rotting on the edges of the city like a carcass forgotten by time. Windows were boarded up, metal doors rusted shut, the whole structure barely a whisper in the urban sprawl. The kind of place you'd never look twice at.

Perfect place to hide something precious. Or to bury it.

You stepped out first, moving like your bones were made of stone, face unreadable. The only thing betraying your fear was the white-knuckled grip you had on your weapon.

Ranpo was beside you, uncharacteristically quiet. His usual smugness replaced by something deeper—something steadier. "We go in together. You stay near me," he said, not bothering to ask whether you'd follow. He knew you would. Knew you'd do anything.

Kunikida held up the plan, crisp and tactical. "Two floors cleared by Atsushi and Kyoka. Kenji and Tanizaki take the basement. Dazai and I sweep the outer perimeter and meet you at the center. Y/N, Ranpo—you're leading this."

You nodded once.

And then you went.

The inside of the factory stank of mildew and rot. Faint bootprints in the dust told you someone had been here recently—several someones.

You moved like a blade: precise, silent, deadly.

Ranpo followed close, reading the walls, the dust, the scattered items. "Three guards total, maybe four. One upstairs, pacing. The rest are near the back—makeshift holding room. They're sloppy, not professionals. Guns, though. Be careful."

Your breath hitched at that word.

Guns.

Not just kidnapping. Hostile intent.

Your brother was somewhere behind these walls, maybe gagged, maybe scared, maybe hurt—

You pushed the thought down like poison. Now was not the time.

Atsushi crashed through the upper level seconds later, feral and silent, leaving a broken-nosed thug unconscious in his wake. Kyoka was right behind him, blade dripping.

"Clear," she called.

Kenji's shout rose from the basement. "We found restraints! But no kids!"

Tanizaki's voice followed, grim. "It was temporary. They were moving them."

And then—Ranpo stopped.

Right outside a sealed double door at the end of the central hallway. Dust undisturbed, except for a single fresh footprint.

"He's in there," he said. "Your brother's in there."

Your heart stopped.

You didn't wait for permission.

You kicked the door in.

The room exploded in sound and motion.

A man jerked backward, surprised. Another cursed, reaching for his gun—but Kunikida shot it clean from his hand a second later.

And there—huddled in the far corner, tears streaking his dirt-smudged cheeks—was your brother.

"Y/N!"

You ran to him instantly, the world narrowing to a pinhole of sound. You dropped to your knees, pulling him into your arms. He sobbed against your chest, clinging to your jacket like he might disappear if he let go.

"I told you I'd come," you whispered, voice hoarse. "I told you I'd always come."

"I was scared," he cried.

"I know," you said, holding him tighter. "I'm here now."

But even as the tension cracked with relief—

Ranpo's voice cut in, quiet and cold. "Wait."

You looked up.

Too late.

A gunshot rang out.

Your brother screamed.

Pain hit you like lightning—radiating white-hot through your shoulder as blood sprayed the floor.

Then the second shot fired.

And this time, it didn't hit you.

You turned just in time to see your little brother's small body jerk in your arms, blood blooming like a dark flower across his side.

"No—!"

You screamed, truly screamed—for the first time in your life.

And the only reason you didn't murder the man who fired was because Kunikida was faster—slamming him into the wall, disarming and handcuffing him with surgical fury.

"Yosa-!" Dazai began, already calling for Yosano, before remembering she was still on the road.

You were sobbing.

Your hands pressed against your brother's wound.

He was crying, eyes wide and dazed. "Nee-chan…"

"Stay awake, okay? Stay awake, baby, please—"

But the light in his eyes began to fade.

And you began to break as you were barely aware of anything anymore. The sounds around you were muffled, like you'd been plunged underwater. The chaos—the yelling, the rush of footsteps, the crackle of radios—all faded to static.

There was only him.

Your little brother trembled in your arms, breath hitching shallow and fast. Blood pooled beneath you, far too much of it. Your hands were stained red, pressing against the wound, uselessly, desperately.

"I've got you," you whispered, voice breaking. "You're going to be okay. Help is coming. Dr. Yosano will be here soon."

He gave you a wobbly smile, barely there, barely conscious. His little fingers curled into your bloodstained sleeve.

"…Nee-chan…"

You leaned in, brushing his hair back from his damp forehead.

"I'm here, sweetheart. Just stay with me, okay?"

He blinked slowly. His lips moved. The words barely came out—just a whisper. A breath.

"I love you…"

And then—

Stillness.

His chest fell.

And didn't rise again.

His eyes drifted shut, soft and gentle.

And he was gone.

You froze.

Completely.

You didn't scream. You didn't cry. You didn't move. You just held him tighter, almost as if you could trap his soul inside, keep it from leaving.

But the warmth in his body was already fading.

Across the room, the rest of the Armed Detective Agency stood still—silent witnesses to the moment the strongest person they knew finally shattered.

Tanizaki was the first to react, barely holding himself together. He turned away quickly, a hand to his mouth, shoulders trembling.

Kenji stood motionless beside him, fists balled tightly at his sides. His eyes weren't full of confusion or childish misunderstanding—not this time. He understood. More than anyone expected. He stared at your unmoving form, still cradling your brother, his face fallen in a grief too mature for someone so young.

"He was… really kind," Kenji whispered softly. "He brought me a rice cracker once. Said it tasted like home…"

No one had the heart to answer him.

Atsushi's shoulders were shaking. He'd crouched down by the wall, eyes wet, fists clenched, guilt etched into every line of his face.

Kyoka stared at the floor. Her hand gripped her katana so tightly her knuckles were white.

Even Dazai, usually flippant, had removed his hands from his pockets. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were grim.

Kunikida had his head bowed, glasses pushed up to wipe his eyes. He didn't say a word. He just stood there.

Because this loss… wasn't just yours.

Your brother had been part of them, too. A little light in their strange family.

He'd drawn with Naomi on Junichiro's tablet. He'd tried to braid Kyoka's hair once and gotten it all tangled. He once fell asleep on Dazai's shoulder during a meeting, and even Dazai had smiled. He'd called Ranpo "Detective Candy," and Ranpo hadn't even corrected him.

They all loved him.

But you… he was your world.

And now he was gone.

You didn't move for a long time.

Not when Ranpo sat down beside you, resting his hand on your back in silent support. Not when Kunikida knelt beside you and quietly offered to carry him. Not when Atsushi gently said your name.

You just stayed there.

Holding him.

As if you could still keep your promise if you never let go.

After another few minutes, thhe door burst open.

"Where is he?!"

Yosano's voice rang through the space, breathless and sharp, heels clicking rapidly on the cold floor. Her coat fluttered behind her as she moved with practiced urgency. But the moment she saw you—kneeling in a pool of blood, your arms wrapped protectively around your little brother's lifeless body—she stopped in her tracks.

Silence met her.

She didn't need to ask. Her eyes swept over the room, taking in the blood, the Agency's expressions, your hollow stillness.

"No…" she breathed.

She approached slowly, kneeling beside you.

"I came as fast as I could," she whispered, eyes trained on the boy in your arms. She reached out, fingers trembling for just a second as they hovered over his wrist—searching for a pulse, even when she already knew. Her jaw tightened. "But he's gone."

You didn't react.

Your eyes stared at nothing.

Yosano looked down, anger simmering beneath her grief. "If I'd been here… five minutes earlier—"

"There's nothing you could've done," Kunikida said quietly from behind. "The shot was deliberate. Close range. They wanted us to lose him."

She closed her eyes, pulling in a deep, steadying breath. Then she looked to you.

"…You're bleeding," she said. "You've been bleeding this whole time."

Still, you didn't move.

You didn't care.

The pain in your shoulder was nothing. Background noise to the silence that rang louder than any scream could've.

It took another long stretch of quiet before Kunikida and Dazai finally stepped forward again. They exchanged a glance—Dazai grim, Kunikida gentle.

"I'm sorry," Kunikida said softly. "But we can't leave him here like this."

Dazai knelt beside you, quieter than usual. "We'll take care of him," he said. "He deserves peace."

They reached for you together.

And at first, your grip didn't loosen.

But eventually—slowly, painfully—your fingers released.

Kunikida leaned forward, arms steady as he lifted your brother with care, holding him as though he were still alive. As though the weight of his small body wasn't heavier than the world.

Dazai stayed with you, steadying you as Kunikida turned and carried him out.

You stayed behind. Still on your knees.

The blood had soaked through your clothes.

Your hands were shaking, knuckles white.

"Hey," Ranpo said gently, crouching in front of you. He had taken off his hat, looking at you. His eyes were clear and sharp—but soft. "You're still bleeding. If you keep sitting there, you'll pass out."

You blinked. Slowly. Uncomprehending.

Ranpo gave you a moment. Then he offered his hand.

"It's not a bad wound," he said. "But if you don't let Yosano treat it, it will be. Come on."

At first, your hand didn't move.

But then—

Slowly, mechanically—you placed your palm into his.

His grip was warm and grounding, far more careful than you'd ever seen from him.

He helped you to your feet.

And though your legs trembled, and your clothes were soaked with blood that wasn't yours—

You followed.

You didn't say anything. You didn't look at anyone. But you moved.

And that, for now, was enough.

The ADA's infirmary was quieter than you'd ever known it to be.

No jokes from Dazai. No arguments from Kunikida. Not even the usual complaints about paperwork.

Just silence—and the faint metallic scent of antiseptic.

You sat on the padded table, your shoulder still bleeding where the bullet had hit you. Not fatal. Nothing compared to what you'd already lost.

Your eyes were fixed on nothing. Hollow. Blank. Like everything in you had been drained and left in that warehouse.

Yosano stood over you with her gloves already on, her expression unreadable. She didn't speak at first, just knelt beside you to inspect the wound. She was always methodical with her work—but today… she was gentle.

For once, her touch was soft.

No teasing. No cruel smirk about how she'd "make it hurt to teach you a lesson."

No pain.

Just swift, quiet treatment.

She pulled out a knife, and the next thing you knew, you were waking up again — the wound in your shoulder, and the one she gave you to bring you near death, were healed completely.

Yosano helped you up, watching your face for any sign of reaction.

There was none.

Only your silence. Still. Absolute.

She took a breath, steadied herself, and spoke—quiet, but firm.

"This isn't your fault."

You didn't answer.

She placed her hand gently over the now-healed wound. Her ability had done its work. Physically, you were fine.

But your eyes said otherwise.

She hesitated. For once, uncertain of what to say.

And you, finally, spoke—but only inside your mind.

I wish it wouldn't work.

You wished her ability had failed. That she had brought you just close enough to death that she could drag you back—but that, just this one time, it wouldn't work. That your body would remain still, unmoving, and your heart would follow your brother's to wherever he'd gone.

Because the only thing you wanted in the world was to be by his side again.

But you didn't say that.

You said nothing.

The weight of it all stayed trapped inside you, heavier than any injury, deeper than any wound.

And Yosano—perhaps sensing more than she let on—simply said nothing more.

She stepped back, her gloves red, her eyes unreadable.

You sat there, alone again, in a body that had been healed…

…but without a heart.

It was a small funeral.

You had made that clear. No friends. No classmates. No teachers. No condolences from people who would go home to full tables and warm hugs and laughter.

You couldn't bear it.

Not the pity. Not the hollow comfort of people who didn't understand what it meant to lose everything—not in stages, but in layers, stripped away one by one. Your parents first. And now him. The last piece of light you had left.

He was placed in a white coffin. Small. Too small. It looked unnatural, cruel even, for something like that to exist. Coffins weren't meant for children. They weren't meant to be this size.

The service was held privately, in a secluded section of the cemetery.

Only the Agency was there.

Even now, they respected your silence.

They wore black.

Atsushi stood near the head of the coffin, eyes red and swollen, jaw clenched as though holding back tears was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His hands shook as he held a single white lily, knuckles pale. When it was time, he laid it down gently, whispering something too soft for anyone else to hear.

Kenji didn't understand at first. Not really. He had been crying since they arrived, quiet sniffles and furrowed brows. But when he saw the way you stood—still, unmoving—his expression crumpled. He looked to Junichiro for guidance, confused by the heavy grief he didn't know how to carry. Junichiro placed a hand on his back and gave him a small nod before stepping forward.

Junichiro didn't speak either. But when he knelt beside the coffin, his fingers grazed the edge gently—reverently—and stayed there a second longer than the others. A quiet goodbye.

Kunikida stood tall, solemn. Hands folded in front of him. He'd brought a single origami crane—yellow, delicate, carefully made. He laid it down with the quiet precision of a man who had memorized funeral rites, who believed in small traditions even when they no longer made sense. His grief was contained, precise—but deep. Like it was folded into him, neat and permanent.

Dazai didn't say a word. He didn't make jokes or offer obtuse philosophies. He simply stared at the coffin for a long, long time. Then he sighed. A real sigh, heavy and dry. His gaze lingered on your brother's name etched into the plaque. When he finally stepped away, he looked older than usual—like he'd seen this too many times.

Yosano arrived in silence. No heels. No crisp lab coat. Just black gloves and a quiet bouquet of white chrysanthemums. Her eyes lingered on you briefly, as though checking for signs of life. She left the flowers, paused by your side for a moment, then stepped back.

Kyoka stood alone beneath a cherry tree just outside the clearing. She hadn't approached the coffin directly. Instead, she held a small, handmade crane in her hands—paper crinkled slightly from how tightly she'd clutched it. Your brother had always been kind to her. Asked her if she wanted to play. Treated her like she wasn't a weapon. Now, she looked at the small coffin like it was something too big to understand.

Naomi had cried earlier. Unashamedly. Her makeup was ruined, and she didn't care. She'd helped your brother with his homework whenever he had a question. He had insisted she was better at it than you. She had laughed.

Fukuzawa had remained quiet from the moment the service began. Not out of coldness, but deep respect. He was a man who believed in silence when words could not reach.

As he approached he coffin, he didn't lay anything down. No flowers. No gifts.

Just a quiet bow—low, formal, respectful.

Then he straightened and turned to you.

"You protected him as long as you could," he said softly. "And he was loved."

Still, you said nothing.

But for the first time since the service began, you blinked. Just once.

Fukuzawa placed a steady hand on your shoulder.

His voice was gentle—but final.

"You do not have to carry this alone."

And then, without waiting for a response, he stepped back, letting the weight of his presence—and his words—rest gently over you, like a blanket meant to warm, not smother.

And Ranpo… Ranpo didn't hide the way he stared at you.

You hadn't moved since the start of the service. You stood near the head of the coffin, gaze fixed ahead, expression unreadable. Not a single tear. Not even the tremble of a breath.

Ranpo watched you like he was solving a puzzle he didn't want to finish.

When it was his turn, he placed a small bag of candies at the foot of the coffin. Strawberry-flavored. The kind your brother liked. It looked out of place among the pale flowers—but somehow… right.

He didn't say anything. Just rested a hand briefly on the lid of the casket.

Then he turned, stepped back beside you.

"You're not crying," he said quietly, not expecting a reply.

You weren't.

You were existing.

Just existing.

No pain, no fury, no breakdown. You stood like a statue—like something inside you had been scooped out and nothing had taken its place.

The service ended in silence.

Each member of the ADA stayed nearby, lingering as long as they dared. Not ready to leave. Not ready to let go.

But eventually, one by one, they drifted back to the black cars waiting near the edge of the cemetery.

Only Ranpo stayed.

And you.

Still unmoving. Still silent.

Even as the sun began to dip lower in the sky.

Even as the cold crept in.

Still, you didn't cry.

You had nothing left to cry with.

Life at the Armed Detective Agency never truly stopped. Not even after something like this.

Cases still came in. People still needed saving. The city still asked the impossible of them.

And slowly—painfully—the ADA began to move again.

But something was missing.

Not just the light, fleeting presence of a child's laughter echoing down the halls… Not just the impromptu visits to your office where small hands would leave behind crayon sketches on old case files or climb into your lap while you worked.

It was you.

You, who had always been the first to arrive and the last to leave. You, who met every mission with a calm mind, every injury with a steady hand. You, who had become the quiet anchor in the Agency—reliable, serious, unwavering.

But now…

Your desk remained untouched.

Your phone remained unanswered.

After the funeral, they gave you space at first. Thought maybe it was what you needed. That with time, you'd come back. That your silence was a form of healing.

But a week passed.

No messages. No signs. No you.

They started trying.

Kunikida was the first to knock on your door. Then Naomi. Then Junichiro. One after another, they stood outside your dorm, calling your name, hoping you'd speak.

But you never did.

The only thing you gave them was a single text each day, sent like clockwork, always to Kunikida.

I'm still here.

That was it.

Not I'm okay, not I'll be back soon, not thank you.

Just proof of life.

And that was only because they had feared the worst. Ranpo, especially, had started pacing whenever the texts didn't come in by noon. Yosano had tried to force the door open once, only stopped because Dazai reminded her you needed some kind of control, however fragile.

It wasn't enough.

Not for them. Not for the empty spaces you'd left behind.

Kenji still looked at your empty desk every morning when he came in, half-expecting you to be there already, a mug of tea in hand, reading reports. He once left a rice ball wrapped in cloth on your desk before heading out to a mission. He never said anything about it, but everyone saw.

Kyoka stopped wearing her hair the way she used to. You had once complimented the ribbon your brother gave her. Now, it stayed in a drawer.

Naomi left a note at your door once. Just a small folded paper: "You don't have to talk. Just let me know if you want someone to sit beside you."

She never got a reply.

And Ranpo…

Ranpo was the only one who never looked away when your name came up. He watched everyone carefully—like he was waiting for a clue to crack, a thread to tug. But even the greatest detective in the world couldn't solve what had broken inside you.

Not yet.

So they waited.

They tried to go on. Filing papers. Solving cases. Saving people.

But everything was a little slower.

A little heavier.

Because there was still a desk that stayed empty. And a child they would never hear laughing again. And a member of their family who had vanished, even though they were still breathing.

The ADA was still standing.

But it wasn't whole.

Ranpo stood at your door with his hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. The air was still—thick with early morning quiet. The kind of silence the city rarely allowed. Even the birds seemed hesitant to sing.

He stared at the door.

Then, without fanfare, pulled out a small, silver key from inside his coat.

You had given it to Kunikida a long time ago. "In case something ever happens to me," you'd said.

Back then, "something" meant getting injured in a mission. A delay. Maybe forgetting to pick your brother up from school. Not… this.

Kunikida had hesitated when Ranpo asked for it. His mouth had been tight. His hand reluctant. But he'd passed it over anyway. Said nothing.

Ranpo pressed the key into the lock. It clicked softly.

He stepped inside.

The apartment was quiet, dark despite the daylight spilling faintly through the closed curtains. Dust hung suspended in the air like it didn't dare settle too fast. The air smelled faintly of old tea and something sadder—like rooms left untouched for too long.

Ranpo didn't say anything at first.

He just walked in.

The living room was as you'd left it: tidy, minimal, practical. The only splash of color came from a half-finished drawing stuck to the fridge—your brother's.

Ranpo's eyes lingered on it.

Then he turned toward your bedroom.

The door was cracked open slightly.

He knocked once, gently. "It's me," he said.

No answer.

He opened the door anyway.

There you were, curled under a blanket, back facing the door. You didn't move. Didn't react.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, watching the rise and fall of your breathing.

"You gave us space," he said quietly, walking into the room. "We gave it back. Thought maybe you'd pull yourself out eventually."

He sat at the foot of your bed without asking. "But you didn't. And I'm not letting you disappear."

Still, you didn't move.

Ranpo leaned forward, voice softer now.

"Everyone misses you, you know. Kenji left you food. Naomi cried so much she ran out of tissues. Even Dazai's been oddly decent."

No reply.

"…And I miss you," he added, almost too fast.

That finally made something shift.

You turned your head, slowly, eyes empty. Not cold—just… lost.

"You should go," you whispered.

"No," Ranpo said simply. "I'm not here for a case. I'm here for you. And if I leave now, you're going to fade, aren't you?"

You didn't answer.

"You haven't eaten properly in days. You only text Kunikida once a day like a ghost on a schedule. You're not living."

You finally spoke, barely a whisper: "I don't deserve to."

Ranpo didn't flinch.

Instead, he leaned closer, resting his elbows on his knees.

"Your brother wouldn't want this," he said quietly. "You promised to keep him safe. But you also promised to be there for him. That doesn't end just because he's gone."

You closed your eyes.

Ranpo's voice dropped to something gentler than anyone thought he was capable of.

"He loved you. He died loving you. And now all that love's just… sitting here, going nowhere."

A pause.

"You have to do something with it."

He waited a moment longer, then slowly reached out, gently taking your hand in his. You didn't pull away.

"I'm not leaving," he said simply. "Not until you eat. Not until you move. Not until you come back."

You said nothing.

But for the first time in days, your hand tightened ever so slightly around his.

Ranpo smiled, small and sad.

Progress.

The miso soup steamed gently between you, the scent light and familiar. You sat at the kitchen table, hunched slightly forward, fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic bowl Ranpo had placed in front of you.

You hadn't spoken since he led you out of bed—gently, with no pressure, just quiet insistence. He didn't try to coax a smile or distract you with some performance. Just handed you a pair of house slippers, helped you to your feet, and guided you wordlessly to the table.

He'd even brought the soup himself, packed neatly in a thermos, carried from a little corner shop near the agency. Said it was good for upset stomachs. Said nothing more.

You took a slow sip.

The silence wasn't awkward. Not with Ranpo. It sat between you like a folded blanket—soft, and strangely comforting.

After a while, he leaned back in his chair, watching you without expectation. Then, after a long pause, he asked gently:

"Have you thought about your next step?"

Your spoon froze mid-air. You didn't look up.

"I don't know," you answered honestly, voice rough from disuse.

He nodded. "Do you want to stay here?"

The question lingered in the room. It felt… heavy. Not because of the words themselves, but because of what they carried.

This place was yours. Yours and your brother's.

His drawings still hung on the fridge. His favorite book still lay on the coffee table. His shoes still by the door.

Every corner breathed with his absence. Every silent second echoed with what used to be.

You stared into the soup for a long time.

"If I stay," you said quietly, "I'll see him everywhere."

Ranpo nodded. "And if you leave?"

"…Then it's like he was never here."

He didn't answer at first. Just let your words hang, then softened his voice.

"There's no right answer. People do both. Some keep everything. Some throw it all away. Some… do a bit of both."

You finally looked at him. He wasn't smiling. Not his usual smug grin, not even a comforting curl of the lips. Just watching you with quiet sincerity.

"I can't decide that for you," he said. "But whatever you choose… I'll be there."

You blinked.

"If you stay," he continued, "I'll stay too. Move in. Temporarily. Or longer. Doesn't matter. I'll be in the next room. You won't be alone."

Your chest tightened.

"And if you want to leave, I'll help find a new place. Something small. Quiet. Maybe near the river. We can bring whatever you want with us. Or nothing at all."

He tilted his head slightly.

"You don't have to figure it out right now. But just… know I'll follow. Wherever you go."

Your fingers tightened around the bowl.

You didn't answer, not yet. The question was too big. Too soon.

But something inside you eased—just a little.

The soup was still warm. Ranpo was still here.

And maybe, that was enough. For now.

Ranpo didn't move in all at once.

He simply started… being there.

At first, he kept his word exactly: not too close, not too far. He slept on your couch the first few nights—not that you'd asked him to, but when you wandered out of your room for water at 2 AM and saw him there under a throw blanket, you didn't wake him. You didn't ask questions.

You were grateful.

You didn't say that either.

He made coffee in the morning, always the way you liked it. Didn't ask if you wanted some—just handed you the mug, already knowing.

He restocked the fridge without asking. Your favorite tea, the kind of soup you could stomach, the brand of rice crackers your brother had loved and you now found impossible to throw out. He fixed the loose window latch in your bedroom when it got cold. He did the laundry when the hamper was overflowing. Folded it neatly and left it in the hallway.

When you forgot to take your phone charger to the living room—he brought it. When your head ached, he left a glass of water and painkillers beside you before you could say a word.

Ranpo was... a constant.

Never demanding. Never in the way. Never pushing for words you didn't have.

And yet always there.

He never tried to "cheer you up." He never told you it would get better. He never told you to move on or to let go. He understood—without needing to say it—that some things weren't meant to be healed, only carried.

And so he carried part of it with you.

He filled the silence with presence. Not noise.

On nights you couldn't sleep, you'd find him sitting on the floor, back against the sofa, flipping through one of your brother's old manga volumes. He never said he missed him too—but he didn't need to. You knew. The way he touched the page edges gently, like something sacred. The way he didn't speak when you sat beside him on the floor, close enough to feel his warmth.

You'd forgotten what it was like to feel safe. To feel that someone could be relied on, fully, without condition.

But Ranpo—Ranpo didn't falter. Not once.

He was everything you needed. Even when you didn't know what that was.

And though you never said thank you—he never expected you to.

Still, you caught him watching you sometimes. Quietly. Carefully. Not analyzing. Just… watching.

As if trying to solve a mystery he didn't want to rush.

As if learning you all over again, one breath at a time.

You'd been sitting on the edge of your bed for twenty minutes, hair half-brushed, dressed in a clean hoodie for the first time in days, trying to talk yourself into walking outside.

The thought of returning to the ADA felt like standing at the edge of a high place. Not because you didn't want to go back. But because you weren't sure how to take that first step without falling apart in front of everyone.

You could already imagine it—how their eyes would follow you the moment you walked in. Full of sympathy. Of sadness. Of quiet apologies no one would dare speak aloud. You didn't want that. Couldn't take that. Not yet.

Ranpo, of course, knew.

He didn't say anything about it. Didn't ask if you were okay, or if you were going to go in on Monday. He simply waited until Saturday morning, then made you tea like always. The moment you settled down at the table, he glanced at the clock.

"Any minute now," he said.

You looked at him, puzzled. "What?"

And then, as if on cue, there was a knock at the door.

Before you could move, Ranpo was already on his feet, unlocking it.

"Good morning!!" came a voice brighter than the sun.

Kenji.

He practically bounded into the apartment, a paper bag in each arm, beaming with joy so big it nearly cracked your chest open.

"Ranpo-san said I could come if I brought enough food," he announced proudly, as he set down a mountain of bakery bags onto the table. "So I bought everything!"

There were croissants, melon bread, jam rolls, curry buns, cream puffs, matcha cookies, apple turnovers—you weren't sure the bakery had anything left.

Kenji turned to you, still smiling but softer now, his voice lowering just a little. "I missed you... a lot."

For a moment, you couldn't speak. Couldn't even look away from his face—so open, so unguarded, not heavy with pity but full of genuine happiness just to see you again.

"…I missed you too," you said. Your voice cracked just slightly. You hoped no one noticed.

Kenji did, but he said nothing. Just plopped down across from you, already pulling out pastries and arranging them neatly in the center of the table.

"I didn't know what you'd want," he said, handing you a paper napkin and a little cinnamon roll. "So I got all the best ones. You can eat whatever you want—or none of it! That's fine too."

You took the cinnamon roll.

You didn't eat all of it, but you took a few bites. That was enough for Kenji to light up like someone had turned the sun on in your tiny kitchen.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, you didn't feel entirely empty.

Ranpo didn't say much either—he just sat nearby, sipping his tea, watching over both of you with a faint, knowing smile.

Because he understood.

Sometimes, healing didn't start with the big things. Sometimes, it began with warm bread, a full table, and someone who missed you so much, they raided a bakery just to see you smile again.

The next evening Ranpo mentioned, rather casually over a shared cup of tea, that he'd be out for a few hours.

"Case," he said, sliding on his coat. "Kunikida begged me." (You knew that meant Ranpo offered, and Kunikida had just been too tired to refuse.)

You only nodded. You'd grown used to his comings and goings. He always came back, anyway.

What he didn't mention—deliberately—was that he'd also invited a few people over. People you hadn't seen in weeks.

There was a knock at the door twenty minutes after he left.

You blinked. Then stood up slowly and opened it.

"Surprise!" came Naomi's cheery voice, arms full of snacks and DVDs.

Yosano stood just behind her, elegant and cool as ever, holding a small bottle of plum wine and a tired smile. "Ranpo called. Hope you don't mind a girls' night," she said. "We brought provisions."

Kyoka was the last to enter, quiet and composed, her eyes softer than usual. She didn't carry anything but herself, which somehow felt like enough.

You stepped aside, uncertain but not protesting, and they entered your apartment like they'd done it a dozen times before. No fanfare. No awkward tension.

Naomi flopped down on your couch and kicked off her shoes, already pulling out a DVD box. "We're watching Sailor Moon. And you're not allowed to say no."

Yosano was in the kitchen, helping herself to your tea set. "I'm making honey citrus tea, and yes, you're having some," she called. "Plum wine's only if you want it."

Kyoka sat beside you gently, not close enough to overwhelm, but near enough to say: I'm here. If you need me.

You let them.

You let Naomi chatter away about the animation quality and her favorite senshi. You let Yosano pour you a warm drink and sit down like she belonged there. You let Kyoka quietly hand you a blanket when the evening air grew colder.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, the silence didn't press down like a weight. It simply existed.

Warm. Present. Accepting.

You even smiled once. Just barely. But Naomi saw it and beamed like she'd won something. "See?" she whispered to Kyoka, grinning. "Told you."

You didn't cry. Didn't break down. But you felt something loosen inside your chest—a thread of comfort you hadn't known you were missing.

And later that night, after they all left with promises to come again, you sat at the table by yourself for a moment. Letting it all settle.

The thought of returning to the ADA… didn't feel quite as impossible anymore.

Because little by little, piece by piece, the people who made up your second family were coming to you—not asking you to be okay, not demanding you return—

Just reminding you that you weren't alone.

Monday morning came like a slow exhale. The streets of Yokohama bustled with life, and the world kept turning, indifferent to the holes grief carved out of you.

You stood outside the ADA office doors for a long minute. Not frozen, not trembling—just… still.

Ranpo stood beside you without a word. His hat was pulled low, and he had his hands stuffed into his coat pockets. He didn't say anything to hurry you. Didn't joke or smile.

He just waited.

The building looked the same. Same glass windows. Same hum of old electric lights. Same crooked sign above the door. But to you, it was different.

You hadn't walked through those doors since the day your world ended.

You let out a quiet breath. And then another. Ranpo didn't move, but you felt him with you. Steady. Solid.

Then, finally, you stepped forward and opened the door.

The sound of it creaking open seemed deafening in the stillness of the morning.

The office was warm inside. Sunlight filtered through the blinds. The smell of coffee lingered in the air. Paper rustled. Someone coughed. It was—normal.

Until everyone looked up.

It was subtle at first. A pen paused mid-stroke. A keyboard stopped clacking. Even Dazai, lounging on a couch, lifted his head with surprising gentleness.

The entire agency fell silent.

You stood in the doorway, shoulders square but eyes unreadable. Ranpo followed a step behind, his presence calm, anchoring.

"Good morning," you said. Your voice was quiet. Not hesitant—just… even.

Kunikida was the first to stand. "Welcome back," he said, his voice low, careful. But steady.

Then came Kenji, already bounding across the room with a grin, but slowing to a walk at the last second, respecting the quiet weight in the air. "I'm so glad you're here," he said simply, as if it were the most important thing in the world.

Naomi waved from her desk, beaming through misty eyes.

Atsushi looked like he didn't know whether to cry or smile. So he did both.

Kyoka nodded, her expression unreadable, but her eyes warm. She didn't need to say anything.

Even Dazai straightened up, looking at you with something like respect. No jokes. No teasing.

Just understanding.

You gave a small nod in return and slowly made your way to your desk—your old desk, still exactly as you'd left it. A few papers had been tidied. A small note from Kenji sat on top, scribbled in crayon. "Your chair missed you! (Me too.)"

You sat down.

Ranpo pulled out the chair beside yours and dropped into it with a sigh, tossing a wrapped candy onto your desk. "Welcome home," he said, simple as anything.

Your fingers brushed the smooth edge of the desk—your desk—and for a moment, it felt both painfully familiar and impossibly distant. The office was quiet, gentle in its rhythm. No one stared. No one spoke louder than they had to. Life had moved forward, but not without leaving space for what had been lost.

Then your eyes drifted upward—past the shelves, past the softly humming lights—to the corner of the room where a sun-faded drawing still hung.

It was a little crinkled around the edges, the tape slightly peeling, but it was still there.

Your brother's picture.

All of them—Atsushi, Kenji, Junichiro, Naomi, Kyoka, Yosano, Dazai, Kunikida, Ranpo, even Fukuzawa—drawn in crooked, smiling lines, labeled in wobbly handwriting. And you, at your desk, coffee in hand, a little heart hovering above your head. In the center, as always, was him. Bright eyes. Big grin. Like he belonged here. Because he had.

You didn't cry. You didn't collapse.

But something cracked open gently inside you. Not in pain—but in warmth.

For the first time since the funeral, your chest didn't feel quite so hollow.

He was still here with you. Still in the picture. With all of you.

Ranpo leaned his shoulder against yours, quiet in a way only he knew how to be. He didn't say anything else, didn't need to.

You let yourself breathe again.

You were home.

The new flat smelled faintly of fresh paint and the faintest trace of lemon cleaner. The windows were wide, sunlight pouring in from every angle, touching each wall with warmth you hadn't quite grown used to yet. Cardboard boxes still sat in corners, half-unpacked, a sign that life was still in motion—even now, even after everything.

It had taken nearly a year to get to this point. A year since everything had changed. Since you'd lost him. Since your world had quietly, devastatingly cracked in half.

A year in which you had learned how to live again.

The fridge was already covered with drawings. Crayon lines forming stars and stick figures and messy attempts at animals. You had carefully placed each one there, smoothing the edges with care. He had drawn them all in moments of joy, of boredom, of childhood—simple, beautiful snapshots of the boy you'd loved more than anything.

You stood there for a moment, hand brushing over one of the pages. Your chest ached. The kind of ache that had settled in and made a home beside your heartbeat, quiet but constant. It didn't flare so violently anymore. It didn't crush your lungs like it had.

But it never left. Not fully. And you didn't expect it to.

On the walls of the living room were framed photos—one of you and your brother with ridiculous hats on at a festival. One of him asleep on your shoulder during a slow afternoon at the ADA office. One of your team all crowded into the frame at a year-end party, laughing like nothing bad could ever happen to any of you.

Each picture was a weight. But it was a weight you had to carry.

And through it all, you kept moving.

Not because you didn't feel like breaking. Some days, you did. But because, somehow, you learned how to breathe through it. How to get out of bed even on the days you didn't want to. How to ask for help when the silence felt too loud. How to let the people who cared about you stay.

Ranpo had helped more than you could ever put into words. He didn't push. He didn't prod. He just… stayed. With gentle persistence, in his own curious, compassionate way, he had given you space without ever leaving your side.

Now, he sat beside you on the couch in the new living room, your first night truly living there together. The lights were dim. The boxes were forgotten for now.

Your legs were curled beneath you, your body tucked into his side like it had always belonged there—because by now, it did. There was no hesitation in the way you leaned into him, no line between comfort and closeness anymore. His arm wrapped securely around your shoulders, holding you not like a friend would, but like someone who had chosen you—again and again, every day since.

His fingers traced soft, slow circles into the fabric of your sleeve, grounding you with each small movement. The television was off, the lights dimmed, and the city outside murmured through the windows—faint, distant, almost unreal.

"You okay?" he asked, voice quiet, brushing gently against the stillness that had settled over the room.

You hesitated, then nodded. "Yeah," you said. It wasn't entirely a lie. Just... not the whole truth. "It still hurts."

"I know," he said, no push, no pressure—just him.

You tilted your head, resting it against his shoulder, and felt his cheek come to rest on your hair like he'd done it a hundred times before. "I think it always will."

He kissed the crown of your head—light, familiar, and steady. "Yeah," he murmured, "but you're not alone. You'll never be."

And somehow, that was enough. Not to erase the pain, but to make the weight bearable. You closed your eyes, the silence stretching comfortably between you—filled only with the sound of your breathing and his, two rhythms moving together in quiet defiance of the ache.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you were going to be okay.

Not today. Not tomorrow. But someday.

Because the promise you made—to always protect your brother, to keep going for him—wasn't broken.

It had simply changed.

And with Ranpo by your side, with your family at the ADA, with your memories framed on the wall—you'd carry it forward.

Always.

Masterlist

#bungo stray dogs #bsd #ranpo edogawa #bsd ranpo #ranpo x reader #ranpo edogawa x reader #ranpo edogawa fluff #ranpo fluff #ranpo edogawa angst #ranpo angst

124 notes · View notes

c0la-queen · 1 year ago

Note

RAGHHHHHHHHH

Could you ever so kind and provide some general dating Headcannons for all the four boys?? 🥺👉👈

Maybe some extra with red leader or someone else if you’re fine with that??? 🥺💜

Mwah mwah you have amazing work <3 /p

Oh my gods I am SO sorry that this is so late!! For some reason, Mr. Tumblr decided not to notify me about your ask?? And then I was at my bestie's house this weekend, so I haven't checked my inbox until now. Begging for your forgiveness rn Anon!!

Also literally kissing you for asking for Red Leader!! Mwah, mwah!!

---

Edd

If you are dating Edd... girlie I am so sorry for your sanity.

Don't get me wrong, I love Edd! He was my first Eddsworld love, my pookie bear for real! But he's the biggest bastard of the entire gang and I stand by that.

Calls you dumb pet names to try and make you laugh. Sugar Tits (regardless of gender or lack thereof, might I add), Baby Doll, Sexy.

He WILL grab/slap your ass all the time. Even in public. Only grins when you glare at him.

This man is a horrible influence. It will be so hard to get your shit done if he has decided that you need to be spending time with him. Why worry about work or chores when you could be all cuddled up with him and Ringo on the couch?

Will sulk if you reject his attempts.

If he's trying to get shit done and you're pestering him for attention? He will drop his basket of laundry or the dishes in his hands in a millisecond.

If he's working on a commission or animation, he'll let you sit in his lap in his chair, let you sit all pretty for him while he works. When he finishes, if you've fallen asleep by then -which you usually do - then he'll carefully move you both to his bed and snuggle up to you and take a nap with you.

Speaking of cuddling, he does naturally run hot. Comes with being a big boy <3 But if you don't enjoy that, then he'll use his powers to cool down his skin for you. Anything to keep cuddling!

He also uses his powers whenever possible. Will abuse them without shame. He puts things on the highest shelf, just so you have to him for help. He'll put patches of ice on the floor under your feet, just so he can catch you before you fall (he'll never let you actually get hurt), and uses his super strength to scoop you up randomly and carry you around.

You cannot show your text messages to ANYONE. He will say filthy things, just to fluster you. Horny Bastard. Finds ways to turn even the most mundane conversations into teasing.

He'd do cute couple things with you, like painting together and swapping canvases every 5 minutes. His favorite is going to cat cafes. The cats literally love him, its like he's made of catnip with how they swarm him.

Physical affection is a huge thing with him. Even little touches throughout the day, like ruffling your hair as he passes by, or a big hug from behind while you fix food.

Overall, big teddy bear that just likes to see his darling blush.

Tom

As I've stated in previous works, Tom is a secret romantic.

He's not a traditional romantic like Matt, but he's romantic in his own way.

Likes parallel play a lot. Finds it relaxing to just sit in his room, testing new songs on his bass while you lay on his bed reading a book. Or in your room, lounging on one of your plush beanbag and organizing his Spotify playlists while you fold your laundry.

Dates with him consist of record stores, concerts, and late night walks.

He'll sing for you if you ask him to.

Very down to earth, both as a person and as a boyfriend. If you have problems, he'll listen patiently until you're done, then help you brainstorm solutions. He doesn't downplay or ignore your feelings, but he doesn't jump to emotions like others might.

He tends to sleep in late on his nights off, since he's more of a night owl than anything. You know that, so you've made it a little tradition to fix him coffee around 11. You know exactly how he takes it, and he always thanks you with a kiss on the cheek and a sleepy, mumbled "you're the best."

Very caring. He'll make sure you've eaten and had water. Will usher you to bed if he can see that you're tired, or do your chores for you if you can't do them for whatever reason. If you can't sleep, he'll make you a mug of chamomile tea and sing you a little lullaby.

When it comes to his monster tendencies, he tries to keep you away from it all. He's bitter about what he is, and he thinks that you're better off separated from that side of him.

At the start of relationship, he'd get angry if you tried to push it. He'd snap at you, distance himself, not talk to you for maybe a couple of days. Further on in the relationship, though, if you push the issue and reassure him that you love every side of him, even the monstrous one, then he'd be more willing. Willing to let you in, to let you see that part of him. He'd be nervous about it, but he'd do it because he loves you.

Matt

He is a traditional romantic! His Mama raised him right, and he drinks his Respect Juice.

Makes sure you two have date night at least once every week. Dressing up nice, going out to dinner or a play, taking a walk through the town to wind down the night. Heading back into the house, changing back into comfortable clothes. He'd wipe your makeup off for you, if you wear it.

Absolutely the kind of guy to get down on his knees in front of you and unbuckle/untie your shoes or high heels for you. He's just so devotional.

If, for whatever reason, you guys are unable to have your date night, he'll make it up to you in some way. A bouquet of your favorite flowers sitting on your bed with a little note. A passionate kiss before one of you has to leave the house. A heartfelt love letter sealed with wax.

Makes sure to text you throughout the day with sweet messages. Compliments, "I love you"s, selfies, updates on what is happening at work. Or just reminders that he's thinking of you. Misses you.

Likes to cook meals for you if its just the two of you at home. Breakfast is his forte, but he's not the worst at following a recipe.

Always amazing for advice. He'll let you talk to him while he hugs you from behind. If it's something sad, he might cry. Just the idea of you going through something negative makes him sad, too.

If he doesn't have advice for you, he'd do anything in his power to find someone who does. One of the other roommates, or even his mother, if you're comfortable with it.

Speaking of his mother, she absolutely adores you. Since Matt has such a good relationship with her, he's already told her so much about you. She thinks its wonderful that her baby has fallen in love. After a while, Matt will even bring you along to his lunches with his mother. You two hit it off instantly.

If you're okay with it, then Matt would love to show you off on his social media. He thinks you're so gorgeous, the entire world should know that he managed to land you. Its never anything invasive, and he always gets your permission before he posts things. Blocks any weird or gross comments.

Loves going on shopping dates with you. Most of the time, its at the mall or a mall in a different town, because he loves walking around and window shopping. Occasionally, he'll take you to more expensive stores. It doesn't bother him, he loves spoiling you. No matter where you two are, he'll buy you anything that you want. If you are adamant to spend your own money, he won't put up too much of a fuss, though he does prefer to pay for you.

He'll do that couples trend with you where you find nail polish that matches the other's eye color.

Gift giving is just one of his love languages in general. It makes him so happy to give his loved one things that he bought. For you specifically, he'll also throw in hand made gifts. He may not be the most talented artistically, but he'll stay awake late into the night, sitting on the floor with a YouTube tutorial playing, paper and cardboard scattered around, a pencil between his teeth, paint on his hands and smeared on his cheek. The end result may look a little crude, but he'll still present it to you with pride. And, of course, you always love it.

Tord

Tord is probably the most romantically stunted of the four. Its not that he doesn't love you, far from it really. He just grew up in an environment where love wasn't freely given, and was often limited for appearances.

His father, as the Red Leader, insisted that he keep a professional and feared image. So, Tord never saw him being affectionate with his mother.

It might be hard at first. You'll struggle. You two may fight. But you'll always make up in the end. He'll listen to you, try to understand your point of view.

He's not against physical affection, but he's able to live without it. Will indulge you whenever you ask. If he's busy, which he usually is, he'll let you drape yourself over him from behind while he sits in his chair, letting you rest your cheek on the top of his head and watch him work.

More than anything, his love language is words of affirmation. Despite being a man of few words, he'll always give you praise. He'll make sure you know that you are his, he is yours, and he loves you. Nothing will change that.

Scary dog privilege. He'll always walk just behind you in public, keeping a guiding hand on the small of your back. Stays alert of you surroundings and the people around, so that you don't have to. You don't even have to worry about people approaching you in public. One piercing glare from Tord is enough to deter anyone.

Not the best at giving advice to problems. He'll listen, but sometimes he can't quite understand why something is an issue. Doesn't invalidate your feelings on purpose, it just happens inadvertently at times. Always, ALWAYS apologizes and holds you close when he realizes what he did.

His preferred dates are nights in at home. Cuddled up on the couch with takeout watching shitty rom-coms. Cooking food that he ate growing up in Norway while you sit at the kitchen table watching. Going to the convenience store at midnight to get Ben and Jerry's in the middle of anime binges.

You become his crutch. When he's having bad paranoia on nights that are too quiet, he'll seek you out. Just having you lay in bed with him, warm and solid and breathing, always calms him down.

He will never let you meet his parents. You are one of the very few good things in his life, and he wants to keep that away from his fucked up home life. Might let you meet his little sister, but not for a long time.

Surprisingly, he does tend to talk more when its just the two of you. He allows you into his head, verbalizing his thoughts to you. He'll ramble about his projects, tell you about the history behind his culture, or rant about things that annoy him. Denies it vehemently in front of others.

He is a huge tease, second only to Edd. What's dangerous is how casual he is about it. Loves making you squirm, and he'll never even change his expression. Sometimes he won't even be looking at you, but rest assured that he is swimming in satisfaction over how flustered you are.

Red Leader

I have so many thoughts about him. Oh my lord.

This is going off the scenario where Reader is a Red Army soldier and met him through the army, after the events of The End.

I want to clarify that this is NOT following the events of TBATF!!! This is my own Red Army timeline, what I refer to in my Eddsworld bubble as "The Bad End"

There are two ways that you'd be able to catch Red Leader's attention. Either you are an extremely talented soldier that does well among your peers, enough to earn the praise of your superior officers and eventually Red Leader himself. Or, you were assigned as his personal assistant to help with paperwork and meetings, but you were so good at handling his temper and attitude that he found himself surprised.

The latter of the two is my favorite, so I'll be working under that one.

Before you, Red Leader had been through several assistants. None of them lasted more than a month. By nature, he was a moody, temperamental man. The stress of the army and oncoming war only made that worse. He saw those previous assistants as nuisances, only getting in his way. He would yell at them, berate them, drive them to the brink until they beg Paul and Pat to transfer them.

When they assigned you to him, they expected the same thing to happen. The two even made bets on how long you'd last. On your first day, Red Leader was nasty to you. Gruff and rude. But... you bit back. That took him by surprise. Instead of taking the insult and shuffling out like a puppy with its tail between its legs, you pursed your lips and gave him a stern look and talked to him in a way that nobody dared to. He should've been angry. Should have screamed at you, discharged you from the army in a heartbeat.

Instead, he found that he quite enjoyed it. He enjoyed your spitfire. Not that he'd let you know. He only gave you a noncommittal hum and dismissed you with a wave of his hand. But... he kept you around. Even found excuses for you to come into his office more than necessary. His penchant for teasing came back full force. He'd poke and prod, finding ways to make you react with that fire he so loved.

It takes a long time for him to finally make a move. Probably takes a near-death experience for him, or an injury to you for him to realize that he wants this. He wants a future with you.

At first, he may seem a little cold in public. Not to the degree that his father was - he promised himself that he would never be like his father. Simply a more... professional air about the entire thing. It was more out of anxiety than anything. He didn't want to make you a target, didn't want to cause you to get hurt. As his army grows more powerful and takes over more and more countries, he grows more comfortable with PDA. He knows that when he is the most powerful man in the world, he doesn't have to worry about anyone hurting you.

He would probably treat you more like a spouse than a girlfriend/boyfriend right off the bat. He's older now, thinking more about the future than the present. He already knows that he wants to be with you forever, so why go through the formalities and hassle of dating?

Always makes time for you whenever he can. If he's in a meeting with his generals or another world leader, he'll sneak text messages to you. Doesn't give a shit if he's caught. What are they going to do to him, Red Leader?

If he's cooped up in his office all day, his door is always open to you. Loves having you drop by unannounced to bring him food or coffee. He'll let you climb into his lap while he works, or sit behind him in his chair and cling to him. Even if you're just sitting in a separate chair nearby, working on your own stuff. He's happy.

If you want to continue being a soldier, or his assistant, he'll let you. But he's also perfectly happy to have you simply be his partner and not have a care in the world. You could sit all pretty in his quarters waiting for him to get off duty, or use the time to pursue your own hobbies and interests. As long as you're happy and cared for, it's okay with him.

Spoils you rotten. You're Red Leader's, so of course you only deserve the best things. Anything in the world you want, you only have to ask for it. It's yours. He would raze entire cities just to see you smile.

He does enjoy taking you out on dates. While also spending time with you, he sees it as a way to show you off to the world. Dressing you up in the finest clothes that he got you, the prettiest jewelry that he bought. Taking you to restaurants and operas where everyone can see you hanging on his arm. It makes him puff up with pride.

When the two of you are alone, he's so adoring. Loves snuggling. It's a struggle to convince him to let you out of bed in the mornings, he'll just be clinging to you. If you do somehow manage to escape his grasp, he'll catch you around the waist and drag you back to bed. Won't stop until Paul or Pat message him to get his ass out of bed. He always grumbles about how "it's my damn army, I should get to sleep in as long as I want".

Sometimes, at night, he has pains in his right shoulder, the side where he's burned and amputated. It can range from a dull ache to excruciating pain. On nights that it hurts too much to move, you'll scramble out of bed and get his medication from his nightstand, gently coaxing him to take it. You'll hold him and comfort him until the pain subsides and he falls back asleep.

He doesn't like to talk about it, really. It feels weird, letting anyone see this part of his life. Letting you see his vulnerability. Letting you see him.

But he does.

#eddsworld #eddsworld x reader #eddsworld tom #eddsworld tord #eddsworld matt #eddsworld tom x reader #eddsworld tord x reader #eddsworld edd #eddsworld matt x reader #eddsworld edd x reader #requested #eddsworld red leader #eddsworld red leader x reader

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call-of-daydreams · 10 months ago

Text

🐺⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆🐺

𝓒𝔀: 𝓕𝓵𝓾𝓯𝓯, 𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓷 𝓽𝓪𝓴𝓮𝓼 𝓪 𝓯𝓸𝓻𝓬𝓮𝓭 𝓫𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓴, 𝓼𝓮𝓵𝓯-𝓬𝓪𝓻𝓮 𝓭𝓪𝔂

𝓦𝓸𝓻𝓭 𝓬𝓸𝓾𝓷𝓽: 838

𝓔𝓼𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓪𝓽𝓮𝓭 𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓲𝓷𝓰 𝓽𝓲𝓶𝓮: 3 𝓶𝓲𝓷 17 𝓼𝓮𝓬

🐺⋆˖⁺‧₊☽◯☾₊‧⁺˖⋆🐺

𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘕𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭 𝘉𝘰𝘺𝘧𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯𝘥 𝘋𝘢𝘺 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘉𝘢𝘯𝘨 𝘊𝘩𝘢𝘯'𝘴 𝘉𝘪𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘥𝘢𝘺

Soft music playing in the background filled the room as Bangchan sat on his couch, his girlfriend Y/N snuggled up against his side. She had her head resting on his shoulder, her eyes closed as she basked in the warmth of his embrace. Bangchan's arm was wrapped around her, his hand gently running through her hair.

"I could stay like this forever," Y/N whispered, her voice laced with contentment.

Bangchan chuckled and tightened his hold on her. "Me too," he agreed. "Nothing beats having you close to me like this."

"Did you know that today is National Boyfriend Day? And today is also your birthday."

Bangchan looked down at Y/N, surprise and amusement dancing in his eyes. "Is it really?" he asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I had no idea. I guess I have a lot to celebrate today, huh?"

Y/N nodded a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "You sure do," she said, her tone teasing. "You've got me, the best girlfriend in the world, and it's your birthday. What more could you ask for?"

Bangchan laughed and ruffled her hair affectionately. "When you put it like that, I'm pretty lucky," he agreed. "But you know what could make today even better?"

"You taking today to completely relax and let the boys practice without you?"

Bangchan chuckled and rolled his eyes playfully. "Nice try," he said, giving Y/N a light pinch on her arm. "But you know I can't do that. I have to make sure the boys are practicing properly and staying on task."

"Lee Know's there, he'll make sure everyone does the dance right. You know how he is when it comes to practicing."

Bangchan thought for a moment, then relented. "You have a point," he admitted. "Lee Know can be pretty strict when it comes to practice. But even so, I still feel like I should be there to help out."

"Text Minho with what they need to practice today and have him record what they do and send it to you if you're that worried but I'm not letting you leave the house today."

Bangchan considered her words for a moment, then shrugged. "Okay, you win," he said with a smile. "I'll text Minho and let him know what I think the boys should focus on for practice today. And I promise not to leave the house."

Y/N beamed at him, triumph and joy filling her eyes. "I knew you'd see it my way," she said, snuggling closer to him.

Bangchan laughed and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in close. "You always know how to persuade me," he said, his voice warm with affection. "But you know what this means, right?"

"What does it mean?" Y/N asked, looking up at him with a coy smile.

Bangchan leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a murmur. "It means I'm all yours for the day," he said, his eyes sparkling. "You've got me all to yourself."

"Good, because we're doing a self-care day. You need it and Stay will be happy you're taking a break."

Bangchan chuckled and ran his hand through her hair. "A self-care day, huh?" he said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "I can't say I'm against the idea, especially if it means spending the whole day with you."

"And here I thought that you said you can't flirt"

Bangchan laughed, his cheeks flushing slightly. "Hey, I never said I couldn't flirt," he protested. "I just said I was bad at it. There's a difference."

"Your V-Live says differently"

Bangchan huffed but then broke into another laugh. "Okay, fine," he conceded, "Maybe I am not as terrible at flirting as I thought. But you've always been good at bringing out my flirty side."

Y/N grinned at him, pleased with herself. "Of course I am," she said, her voice full of confidence. "I know how to press all the right buttons with you."

Bangchan watched as Y/n got up and began gathering various skincare products. He couldn't help but smile as he watched her flit around the room, grabbing lotion, sheet masks, and makeup removal wipes.

"Looks like you're all set for our self-care day," he said, his voice filled with gentle humor. "You have enough skincare products there to last a month."

Y/N shot him a cheeky grin over her shoulder. "Hey, if we're doing a self-care day, we might as well do it right," she said. "And that means taking full advantage of all the beauty products and indulging ourselves. So just settle back and let me pamper you."

Bangchan chuckled and leaned back against the couch cushions, his expression a mix of amused resignation and eagerness. "As you wish," he said, a hint of a smirk playing around his lips. "I am at your mercy."

"Will you let me put a lip plumper on you then?"

“Wha- NO! I don’t want to look like a pufferfish.”

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muiitoloko · 1 month ago

Note

A very specific plot, but it's one I've had in my head for years from a book I wanted to write. I know you can take it and make it better than I ever could, so here it is:

Y/N is a secretary at a recording studio when AR comes in to dub lines for a movie, but is distraught despite trying to keep her mind on her work due to a call from her soon-to-be ex husband about their divorce being finalised. AR walks in, sees Y/N, is awestruck, love at fiest sight, and immediately concerned when he sees the divorce papers signed and lying on the desk beside Y/N and her having been crying. The next day when Y/N walks in, there's a fresh bouquet of flowers waiting on the desk for her, and when AR comes in that afternoon to work on recording lines, he admits to being the one who sent the flowers and offers to walk Y/N home as he's still there finishing up at closing. Fast forward to him asking Y/N out for dinner and then Y/N is dealing with deep seated feelings because of the divorce and she needs the touch of a man, and then comes the smut.

Please have fun.

Title: Retakes

Summary: Alan lied—about the takes, about the timing, about how long he could keep his hands off her. But when truth comes wrapped in lingerie and vulnerability, he doesn’t stand a chance.

Pairing: Alan Rickman × Fem! Reader

Warnings: Smut

Also read on Ao3

Alan stepped out of the black town car with a quiet breath, smoothing his coat with a practiced hand. The morning air was crisp, filtered through faint city smog and the anticipation that always accompanied new work. He squinted up at the recording studio, tall glass and steel, unremarkable to anyone but him. To him, it was Wonderland.

He smiled faintly at the thought. Absolem. He’d been looking forward to this. The cadence. The detachment. The wit hidden behind smoke and riddles. It suited him. Perhaps too well.

“Alan!” came a familiar voice.

Tim Burton, clad in a mismatched coat and chaos-colored scarf, ambled toward him with the enthusiasm of a man whose imagination had not yet found the bounds of age. Alan smiled.

“Tim,” he drawled warmly, shaking the director’s hand. “I was beginning to suspect you were a figment of my imagination.”

Tim chuckled. “Oh, I am. But one with a schedule.”

Alan followed him into the studio, his coat draped over one arm, the other tucked in his trouser pocket as they made their way through the sleek corridors. He nodded politely at every technician, every assistant that passed them. It was reflex by now—politeness with just enough detachment to feel charming, without inviting unnecessary conversation.

And then he saw you.

You were standing just outside the sound booth, a tablet in hand, listening intently as Tim updated you on the schedule. You weren’t looking at Alan. Which was why, of course, he couldn’t stop looking at you.

Something hitched in his chest. The smallest, most inexplicable pause.

Not stunning. Not in the overly deliberate way he was used to on film sets. But beautiful, yes. And poised. Your features soft but sharp where it mattered. There was a knowing in your eyes. A grace in your stillness. A curve to your mouth that hinted at quiet sarcasm and hidden affection in equal measure.

He blinked.

Control yourself, Rickman.

He'd seen beautiful women before. He’d kissed half of them on set, sometimes more than once. Most of the time in front of an entire crew and a boom mic. He could recite the lines, hit his mark, flirt with a tilt of his brow and a flick of his voice.

But this was different.

You were different.

He didn’t know why—only that he felt the difference like a chord struck in his chest.

Tim gestured vaguely in his direction and you finally turned to him, offering a polite, professional smile.

“Mr. Rickman,” you said. Your voice was warm. Calm. Not flustered. Simply kind. “Welcome.”

He extended his hand before he could think better of it. “Please,” he murmured, voice dropping to that rich baritone, the one he sometimes forgot could still make people turn. “Alan will do."

You reached out. Your hand met his.

And there it was.

The cool band of metal against his fingers. A wedding ring. Slim. Silver. No diamonds. Worn on instinct.

His expression didn’t change. His smile remained steady. But inwardly, something in him tightened. Just slightly. Not regret. Not exactly.

Disappointment.

Of course, he thought. Of course she's married. Someone saw her first.

He pulled back his hand with practiced grace, tucked both into his pockets now, as if they’d never reached for anything.

“Well,” he said lightly, lips twitching into something dry and self-deprecating. “If I butcher the caterpillar, you’ll know who to report me to.”

You laughed—a real laugh. And it startled him, how much he liked the sound.

“I think you’ll be brilliant,” you said, glancing down at your tablet, already back to business. “You’ve got the perfect voice for riddles and passive aggression.”

Alan blinked, then barked a soft laugh of his own. “High praise. Especially from someone who hasn’t heard me scold a young actor in rehearsal.”

You smiled again, and Alan followed Tim into the booth, casting one final glance over his shoulder.

Careful, he told himself. She’s married. And she’s kind. And beautiful. And your type. And none of that means a thing.

But as the studio door shut behind him and the mic lit up, he couldn’t help but wonder—just once—if you wore that ring because you were happy…

…or because you were loyal.

Alan spent hours in the studio, chasing the exact tone he wanted—slippery, elusive, like smoke curling through a locked door. He tried rasping the lines. He tried slouching into the mic, tried closing his eyes, tried letting his voice slide like a snake across each syllable. Still, it wasn’t right.

“Again,” he said, after take fourteen. “It needs to feel like the listener is being watched. Judged. By something ancient. And mildly annoyed.”

The voice assistant, a young man with tired eyes and a Starbucks addiction, let out a polite cough. “Maybe we take five, Mr. Rickman?”

Alan blinked. Not at the suggestion, but at the “we.”

He nodded, slowly unwinding his long frame from the stool. “Five, then,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “Or forever, if I can’t find this bloody voice.”

Outside the booth, the hallway felt overly bright, artificial light humming above him. His stomach grumbled. Loudly.

Tim, of course, had vanished hours ago—“Back soon!” he’d said cheerfully, disappearing in a flurry of scarf and ambition. Alan suspected he’d wandered off to consult a costume rack or possibly a shrub.

But before he'd left, Tim had tossed over a distracted suggestion. "If you need anything—lunch, help, translation of Gen Z slang—go to [Your Name]. She runs the schedule and the galaxy."

Alan had smiled politely. He remembered the way your eyes hadn’t lingered on him too long. He liked that. You didn’t seem to orbit him like others did. You had your own gravity.

And so, with measured steps and some invisible inward groaning, Alan made his way through the corridors, hoping—innocently, of course—that you might recommend a nearby restaurant. Perhaps even… join him. As two people. Eating food. Conversing.

Married, Rickman, he reminded himself again. That ring didn’t just appear on her finger by accident. You’re not twenty-five. You don’t do this.

But then he turned the corner and stopped.

You were alone, seated at the far end of a desk, tablet dark in front of you, your shoulders curled ever so slightly inward. Your hand moved slowly, wiping beneath one eye. Then the other.

Tears.

Alan's heart paused mid-beat. He stood there for a moment, caught between instinct and restraint, but something about the soft, almost embarrassed tilt of your head made the choice for him.

He stepped forward gently, voice low and warm. “Forgive me,” he said. “I was hoping to beg a restaurant recommendation off you. But I seem to have chosen the worst possible moment.”

You startled slightly, blinking up at him with flushed cheeks and watery lashes. “Mr. Rickman—oh, I’m—God, I’m so sorry. It’s nothing. Really. Just… tired.”

Alan didn’t sit, not quite, but he lowered himself enough to meet your eyes without looming. “Actors lie for a living,” he said gently. “That doesn’t mean I enjoy being lied to.”

Your smile was brief. Fragile. “I promise I’m not usually this much of a mess.”

“I don’t believe that,” Alan said softly. “You strike me as the kind who only melts down when the building is already on fire.”

You laughed once, dry and short—and that’s when he saw it. The manila envelope. Half-tucked beneath your tablet. Its top curled open just enough for him to glimpse the header.

Superior Court – Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.

Ah.

And yet, the ring was still there.

Alan’s throat tightened. He shouldn’t be… glad. Not like this. Not at the quiet wreckage of someone else's love unraveling. But still—someone saw her first. And now, it seemed, someone let her go.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, meaning it.

You sniffed, brushing the tears away with your sleeve, embarrassment creeping in again. “It’s mutual. It’s civil. It’s overdue.”

Alan watched you a moment longer, then finally sat on the edge of the desk across from you, folding his long fingers together. “And the ring?” he asked gently, with just enough wryness to soften it. “Habit? Sentiment? Legal requirement?”

Your fingers curled over the band. Your smile was faint. Tired. “I’m not sure. Maybe all three.”

He nodded, as if that made perfect sense. And it did. People held onto things. Not because they wanted to go back. But because letting go took more time than signing a name.

You looked at him. Really looked. “Were you always this intuitive, or is it part of the actor training?”

Alan’s lips twitched. “I was born a nosy bastard, I’m afraid.”

That made you laugh. A real one this time. He watched it lift some of the weight off your shoulders, just slightly.

“I do know a quiet place, if you’re still hungry,” you offered after a moment, voice steadier now.

Alan’s brow lifted. “And would this place object to a woman crying into her sandwich and a cranky Brit muttering about vocal cords?”

You smiled—weakly, apologetically—as you reached for the tissue tucked into your sleeve.

“I won’t be joining you,” you said, voice low, careful. “Not today. I just… I’d rather be alone, you know?”

Alan didn’t flinch. He didn’t even blink. There was no visible disappointment, no performative understanding, just a soft nod—measured, respectful.

“I understand,” he said simply.

You managed another smile, grateful and small, then turned to the desk, rifling through a drawer. “There’s a place two blocks down,” you said, tugging out a notepad and pen. “No frills. Good bread. Owner sings badly in French.”

Alan chuckled softly, watching as you scribbled the address in looping script.

“I’ll tell him to prepare for a cranky Brit,” you added, tearing off the page and handing it to him.

He accepted it with a little nod of thanks, folding it neatly.

“And if you change your mind,” Alan said gently, “or if… you need someone to talk to—someone who doesn't offer advice or interrupt—I’m around.”

You smiled again, this time politely, as if to say that’s kind, but you didn’t take it seriously. He was being courteous. British. Warm, but distant. You nodded anyway, and with a faint incline of his head, Alan rose from the edge of your desk and walked away.

You sat for a while afterward, fingers brushing the edge of the note you’d written, the silence around you somehow louder now that he’d gone.

The next morning, you were back at your post, tablet charged, hair hastily tied, coffee in one hand and stress in the other. It was quiet, for the moment—no Tim yet, no studio hum. Just you and the comfort of solitude.

Then the door opened.

A man in a brown jacket stepped in, holding a bouquet large enough to obscure most of his torso. Reds. Oranges. Deep purples. Not cheap. Not generic.

“Delivery,” he muttered, peeking over the top.

You blinked. “For who?”

He glanced at the name on the tag. “[Your Name]”

You frowned. “There must be a mistake.”

“Office 302. That’s this, right?”

You nodded slowly, standing. The bouquet was absurdly lovely—wild but somehow elegant, the kind of thing someone chose intentionally, not at the last minute.

“Is there… a card?”

The man shook his head. “Didn’t see one.” He set the bouquet down on the corner of your desk. “I just do the drop-offs.” And with that, he was gone, whistling faintly as he vanished down the hall.

You stared at the flowers.

Your first thought, illogically, was Robert.

But no. That didn’t make sense. He hadn’t sent flowers when you got the job. Or when you got the promotion. Or when you spent a night in the ER with the flu. Flowers weren’t… Robert.

Still, a compulsion took over. You found yourself picking up your phone, pressing the number you knew too well. It rang twice.

“Yeah?” came Robert’s voice, distracted, as always.

“Did you send me flowers?”

A pause. “What?”

“Did you—never mind. Of course not.”

He let out a sigh. “Did someone die?”

“No,” you said softly. “Not today.”

You hung up before he could ask what you meant.

The rest of the day passed in strange anticipation. You kept glancing at the flowers, rearranging them slightly in their vase, brushing one petal with your fingertip like it might tell you something.

And then, just past four, the studio door opened again. Alan Rickman stepped in, scarf loose, coat unbuttoned, eyes warm as he offered a faint smile to the receptionist before making his way down the corridor. You felt the shift in the air before you saw him.

He stopped just short of your desk.

And when his hazel eyes flicked to the bouquet and then back to your face, you saw the flicker of something—relief, embarrassment, amusement—all fighting for dominance behind his expression.

“I take it,” he said carefully, voice low and smooth, “that the flowers arrived.”

You blinked, a little stunned. “That… was you?”

Alan cleared his throat. “I spent all morning berating myself,” he said, a touch too quickly, “convinced I’d overstepped. Too forward. Too familiar. Possibly even unprofessional.”

You looked at the bouquet, then back at him. “I thought it might be my ex-husband,” you admitted.

Alan’s brows lifted faintly. “That would’ve been… unfortunate.”

You laughed—quiet, surprised, soft. “He never sent me flowers. Not once. I think he considered them cliché.”

Alan tilted his head, and his mouth curved ever so slightly. “Then I suppose I’ve just committed a beautifully executed cliché.”

You studied him a moment. The subtle lines around his eyes. The slight pink in his cheeks. He looked pleased—but sheepishly so, like a schoolboy who wasn’t sure if he’d passed the exam or destroyed the classroom.

“They’re beautiful,” you said quietly.

His smile grew, just a little. “Good.”

A pause.

“Thank you,” you added. “For the flowers. And… for yesterday.”

Alan dipped his head slightly, as if acknowledging something unspoken between you.

“You’re very welcome.”

And with that, he walked past your desk toward the recording booth—but not before his hand brushed lightly, briefly, over your shoulder.

Warm. Gentle. No pressure. Just presence.

Just enough.

And this time, you didn’t let yourself wonder why he did it.

You only smiled.

In the days that followed, Alan became a fixture in the studio. You tried not to read into it—tried to convince yourself that he was simply being thorough. Professional. That his drawn-out sessions behind the mic were the result of artistic perfectionism and not, as your wildly uncooperative heart insisted, a thinly veiled excuse to linger near you.

But then he’d step out of the recording booth, raking one elegant hand through his silver-threaded hair, lock eyes with you, and say—

“Well. That was dreadful. I suppose I’ll need another go tomorrow.”

And your stomach would flutter like it was nineteen and at the stage door again.

You spoke every day. Little things at first—lines, scripts, jokes about Tim’s newest scarf (which looked suspiciously like it had been knit by a colorblind octopus). But gradually, the conversations deepened. He asked about your day. Your dreams. Whether you'd ever wanted to act. You told him about the stage plays you’d done in college—nothing professional—and how, despite the thrill of it, you’d somehow ended up here, behind a desk instead of a spotlight.

“And do you regret that?” he asked once, his hazel eyes sharp but not unkind.

You shrugged. “Not really. I like watching other people create. There’s something… intimate about it.”

Alan’s brow twitched slightly, and his voice dropped a note lower. “Yes,” he said, almost to himself. “There is.”

Somewhere between his quips and your awkward coffee offers, you exchanged numbers. It was casual. Almost accidental. He asked for a recommendation for a bookstore. You texted him three. He replied with a thank-you and an emoji you were fairly certain he’d used ironically, but still.

You had Alan Rickman’s phone number.

Alan bloody Rickman.

You didn’t freak out.

Not outwardly.

Inwardly? You binged Truly, Madly, Deeply and Sense and Sensibility and then rewatched Die Hard at 2 a.m., because you suddenly needed to remind yourself that he was, in fact, also terrifying. Which didn’t help. Because even when he was terrifying, he was hot.

You got a little hysterical during Galaxy Quest.

It was fine.

Mostly.

Meanwhile, Alan was making questionable professional decisions.

He’d finished nearly all of Absolem’s lines by the end of the third day. There weren’t many—Absolem wasn’t that chatty—and yet somehow, here he was on Day Eight, sitting in the booth with a cup of Earl Grey and murmuring, “I think I need to try that last one again. It sounded too... conclusive.”

Tim Burton, to his credit, had said nothing.

Until Day Nine.

Alan had just emerged from the booth, hair slightly askew, scarf slung rakishly over one shoulder, when he was ambushed.

Tim appeared like a gothic jack-in-the-box from behind a sound panel, arms crossed, expression deeply unimpressed.

“Oh good,” he said. “You’re here. Still. Again.”

Alan blinked innocently. “Is there a problem?”

“You’ve finished the damn lines.”

“Have I?”

“Yes, Alan. Twice. I even stitched the takes together in post just to be sure. You’ve done the voice, the inflection, the bloody smoke effect. The caterpillar is complete. He's in chrysalis now. Let him go.”

Alan exhaled slowly, adjusting his scarf with theatrical patience. “I simply want to ensure the emotional arc of the—”

“Oh, stuff it,” Tim cut in, eyes narrowing. “You’re dragging this out so you can keep seeing her.”

Alan froze. Just briefly.

Then he blinked, tone dry. “That’s a rather bold assumption.”

Tim leaned closer. “Alan. My friend. I’ve known you since you wore velvet unironically. And I know when you’re doing that thing.”

“What thing?”

“That brooding, long-game, broody thing. The one where you pretend it’s all just art and creative rigor while you’re actually falling in love and being British about it.”

Alan didn’t respond. Just raised one brow. Tim barreled on.

“So here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to invite her to dinner. Tonight. Somewhere nice. Not pretentious. With actual lighting. You’re going to say something charming—actually charming, not sarcastic and emotionally vague—and you’re going to finish the damn lines.”

Alan stared at him.

“If you don’t,” Tim added sweetly, “I’ll tell her myself. I’ll say, ‘Did you know Alan’s been faking retakes for five days just to loiter near your desk?’ And then I’ll show her the footage.”

Alan blinked again. “Footage?”

Tim smiled. “Studio security. You gaze at her like a man watching the last crêpe at brunch. It’s tragic.”

There was a long pause. Then:

“I hate you,” Alan murmured.

“Dinner, Alan. Or I will narrate your romantic failure to Danny Elfman in sonata form.”

Alan sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and muttered, “God help me.”

Later that afternoon, you were sorting the latest revisions when a soft knock came at your office door.

You looked up.

Alan leaned in, that crooked half-smile on his lips, hands tucked deep in his coat pockets.

“Hello,” he said, a little too casually.

You blinked. “Hi.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then:

“I was wondering,” Alan began slowly, “if you might join me for dinner this evening. There’s a place I know. Decent food. Poor lighting. And I promise not to monologue about Shakespeare unless provoked.”

You stared.

He looked… nervous. Not visibly. But you knew what to look for now. The slight tension in his jaw. The faint crease in his brow.

You smiled.

“I’d love to.”

Alan’s shoulders dropped just enough for you to notice.

He smiled back.

And behind a wall two rooms over, Tim Burton quietly pumped his fist and whispered, “Victory.”

The last thing you expected to do at dinner with Alan Rickman was to get sentimental. And yet there you were—elbows on the edge of the candlelit table, eyes slightly too bright, voice too loud, talking about your divorce like you were on a therapy podcast instead of sitting across from a man you’d fantasized about for the last week straight.

God. You were being annoying. You knew it.

It wasn’t even a good restaurant for this kind of conversation. It was intimate—yes—but designed for soft laughter, lingering glances, the clink of wine glasses. The bread was warm, the lighting golden, and Alan, ever the gentleman, had pulled out your chair without comment and asked if he could order the wine.

You had smiled and nodded and adjusted your dress three times before the waiter even brought the menu. And now… now you were halfway through a monologue about how your ex had once labeled your career ambitions as “hobbies” and how, on more than one occasion, he’d sighed at the idea of “emotional maintenance.”

“God,” you muttered, pushing your fork aside and sinking back in the chair, “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m talking about him. You didn’t ask for any of this.”

Across the table, Alan—gracious, composed, maddeningly kind—simply tilted his head slightly and said, “I did ask how your week had been. Technically, this counts.”

You let out a short, guilty laugh and shook your head. “I swear, I’m not usually like this.”

Alan’s lips curved into that barely-there smirk you were beginning to recognize as his version of teasing. “Trauma dumping over carpaccio? You hide it well.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “Please don’t be nice to me about this. It’s so much worse when you’re nice.”

He raised one brow, eyes warm. “Would you prefer I be cruel?”

“Yes,” you said immediately. “Be a complete bastard. Mock my emotional baggage. Call me tragic.”

Alan paused thoughtfully, then reached for his wine glass. “You’re tragic,” he said, deadpan. “Worse than a soggy Shakespeare adaptation.”

You laughed—genuinely this time. The knot in your chest loosened slightly. And then, because the universe had no sense of timing, your thoughts circled back to the one thing you absolutely could not admit: that you’d spent twenty minutes in front of your mirror debating whether to wear the red lingerie. That you’d chosen it, just in case. That your hands had trembled a little as you fastened the clasp, wondering if Alan would notice, if the night would even go there, if you could handle it if it didn’t.

Now, though, you were certain it wouldn’t. Not after this. Not after you’d emotionally backed into a corner of vulnerability and opened your mouth like a faucet. You were lucky he hadn’t excused himself to the bathroom and climbed out a window.

“I really am sorry,” you murmured, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. “It’s just… this is the first time I’ve gone out with anyone who isn’t him. And I guess I didn’t expect it to feel like this.”

Alan studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, softly: “What does it feel like?”

You met his gaze, and for once, didn’t look away.

“Like I’m cheating,” you said. “Even though I’m not. Even though he didn’t even fight for me. It’s stupid, I know.”

Alan’s fingers idly traced the stem of his glass. He didn’t smile this time. Didn’t offer a quick retort or brush it off with a joke.

Instead, he leaned in slightly, baritone soft. “It’s not stupid.”

You blinked.

“It’s honest,” he said. “And if you weren’t feeling something—loss, guilt, confusion—then I’d be concerned. The people we loved… even badly… don’t leave us cleanly. They leave fingerprints.”

You swallowed. The words struck something deep, unexpected. He didn’t pity you. He just understood.

“Alan,” you said quietly, “you really don’t have to sit here and listen to this. I wouldn’t blame you if you ran.”

He smiled, just barely. “Darling,” he said, voice velvet-smooth, “if I were going to run, I wouldn’t have ordered dessert.”

You stared at him. Then you saw the corners of his eyes crinkle, ever so slightly.

“You ordered dessert?”

“I did. Chocolate tart with sea salt. I’ve been told it pairs well with oversharing.”

You let out a shaky breath and smiled. A real smile. The kind that reached your eyes.

“I wore red lingerie,” you blurted before your brain could catch up.

Alan blinked.

You stared down at the table in horror. “Oh my God. I—forget I said that.”

He tilted his head. “Too late.”

You covered your face again, burning alive. “I’m going to crawl under the table now.”

He reached out and gently touched your wrist—warm, careful. Not pushing.

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Please.”

You looked at him.

And this time, the look he gave you wasn’t polite. It wasn’t detached or charmingly aloof. It was slow. Intentional. His hazel eyes darkened slightly, lingering on your lips, then drifting just enough to make your breath catch.

“Red, was it?” he murmured.

You swallowed. Nodded, barely.

His fingers left your wrist—but not your mind.

“Good,” he said, sipping his wine with maddening calm. “Then we’ll make sure the evening doesn’t go to waste.”

And just like that, your heart dropped to your heels. Not because you were afraid, but because you suddenly, desperately wanted to see what Alan Rickman would do about red lingerie.

And this time, you were done apologizing for it.

You gasped against Alan’s mouth as your back hit the edge of a narrow console table in the hallway of his home, the polished wood cold against your spine, his body warm and solid against the front of you. The kiss was deep, hungry—none of the genteel pacing you’d expected, no carefully laid seduction. Just need. Pent-up, deliberate need, finally given permission to unravel.

Something clattered to the floor beside your feet—metal or glass, maybe—and you started to look, your head tilting in reflex. But Alan growled low against your lips, one hand sliding around to cup the back of your head and keep you still.

“Don’t,” he murmured, his breath hot against your mouth. “Ignore it.”

You obeyed.

The kiss deepened again. His other hand was on your ass now, large and warm and possessive, squeezing once—firm, greedy. It pulled a sound from your throat you didn’t recognize, but Alan did. His lips twitched faintly against yours, satisfied. Encouraged.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he broke the kiss. He didn’t move far—just pulled back enough to speak, his voice rough and low, lips brushing yours with every word.

“These are your options,” he said, his hand still gripping your waist, fingers spread across the curve of your hip. “Same ones I gave you in the car.”

You swallowed, breathless, chest rising and falling against his.

“One,” he continued, baritone steady, eyes locked to yours, “I take you home. We stop this. I drive you to your door, and we never talk about the fact that you wore red lingerie under that gorgeous little dress.”

Your breath caught, mouth parting, but he wasn’t finished.

“Or two,” he said, his voice even lower now, almost a whisper. “You let me take you upstairs. And I peel that dress off you inch by inch. And I finally—finally—get to see what you’ve been teasing me with all evening.”

Your fingers clenched in the fabric of his coat, your pulse a deafening drum in your ears.

“Your call,” he murmured, his hooked nose brushing yours, hazel eyes unreadable but burning. “But I need you to say it. I won’t assume.”

He waited. Still. Solid. Barely breathing.

And you knew, somehow, that if you told him to take you home, he would. No protest. No regret. Just a soft nod and the quiet crumpling of a man swallowing his own hunger.

But if you didn’t—

You lifted your gaze to his.

“Take me upstairs,” you whispered.

Alan exhaled—one long, low breath—like he’d been holding it for years.

“Thank God,” he said.

And then he kissed you again—deeper, slower, but no less urgent—as his hand slid down to hook behind your knee, lifting your leg just enough to press you harder against the table, his thigh firm between yours, the heat of him making you dizzy.

This was not going to be gentle.

Not tonight.

He kissed you a little more. Caressed you a little more. Slow, thoughtful strokes of his hands over your hips, your back, the nape of your neck—like he was memorizing you, not claiming you. He murmured something against your jaw—soft, unintelligible, but warm. Then he drew back just enough to take your hand in his, threading your fingers together without hesitation.

“Come with me,” he said, voice low, velvet-smoke, utterly calm.

You followed.

He led you up the stairs, the creak of the steps underfoot oddly intimate. Everything in his home was elegant but lived-in—books piled on the steps, a half-finished cup of tea on a hallway table, dim lighting that felt more like candlelight than electricity. You wanted to pause and examine everything, but your heart had begun to thud wildly in your chest.

Then you saw the bed.

Large. Impossibly so. Dark wood frame, thick mattress, soft-looking sheets in deep charcoal grey. The kind of bed you only saw in movies. Or in the homes of actors. Or, apparently, when you let Alan Rickman take you upstairs.

And for some reason, that’s when it hit you.

Oh God.

Your steps faltered. You blinked. The red lingerie suddenly felt too deliberate. Too hopeful. Your heart dropped, thudding hard.

He’s an actor.

A famous one. A rich one. A man who could quote Shakespeare and own a mattress that probably cost more than your last three paychecks combined. And you… You were a glorified secretary. A scheduling assistant with a student loan, a broken sink, and a newly finalized divorce. You weren’t glamorous. You weren’t his type.

Oh my God. What if this was a one-night stand?

You hadn’t stopped to think about that. Hadn’t let your brain catch up to your body. Idiot. Idiot. Of course it was a one-night stand. Look at him. Look at you. He dated actresses. Models. Women with power, or clout, or at least an assistant of their own. Not someone who spent her days chasing down production notes and keeping Tim Burton from getting lost in the parking garage.

You took a step back.

And bumped right into him.

Alan had been behind you, mid-motion, hands at his belt buckle, and your sudden movement startled you both. You turned quickly, wide-eyed, face burning, and he blinked in confusion, fingers pausing at the silver clasp.

He immediately dropped his hands from his belt. His expression shifted—softened, alert, but not demanding.

“Are you—” his baritone was careful now, almost quiet. “Are you regretful?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Shame crawled up the back of your throat, hot and sharp. “No,” you murmured, eyes on the floor. “No regrets. Just…"

His eyes searched your face, waiting.

“…I need to ask something.”

He didn’t move. Didn’t pressure. Just nodded once.

“Is this…” You took a breath, fingers curling into your palm. “Is this a one-night stand?”

Alan stilled.

Completely.

No immediate reassurance. No flirty denial. Just silence, the kind that sat heavy in the space between you. You swallowed. The quiet stretched. You couldn’t bring yourself to look up.

Then, softly:

“Do you want it to be a one-night stand?”

You lifted your head. His hazel eyes were unreadable. Not cold. Not closed off. Just… waiting.

“I—” you bit your lip, heart racing, unsure how much to admit.

Alan exhaled slowly and stepped forward, just enough to be near you again—but not to touch. His voice was quiet, steady, utterly sincere.

“Look,” he said. “I didn’t spend nine days coming into that studio, pretending to still be recording, just to get you into bed for one night.”

You blinked. “You what?”

He gave a soft, almost rueful smile. “I finished Absolem on Day Three. You know it. I know it. Tim knows it. And he’s been threatening to blackmail me with security footage for days.”

Your mouth parted in shock. “You were pretending?”

Alan nodded, only slightly self-deprecating. “Pretending to need more takes. More nuance. More smoke.” He raised a brow. “When in truth, I just… wanted to see you. Talk to you. Linger.”

You stared at him, stunned. Your voice was barely above a whisper. “You did all that for me?”

He looked at you then—really looked. The smile faded from his lips, but something warmer stayed behind.

“I liked you,” he said, simply. “I like you. Not for one night. Not for the lingerie, though that’s… rather excellent, if I may say so.” His voice dipped, just enough to make your pulse jump. “I like your mind. Your sarcasm. The way you look when you’re pretending not to be tired. The way you don’t look at me like I’m some character I once played.”

Your breath hitched.

“And if I’ve misread this,” he added quietly, “if you do want it to be one night—I’ll take you home. No pressure. No bitterness.”

You hesitated. Your lip trembled, just a little. Then you stepped forward and placed a hand on his chest, right over his heart.

“You didn’t misread anything,” you whispered.

Alan’s breath left him in a soft exhale. His shoulders relaxed. His hand came up to gently cover yours.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’d rather not pretend anymore.”

Then he leaned in, slow and certain, and kissed you—less hunger this time, more promise.

And this time, it was you who reached for his belt.

Alan stilled against your mouth, breath catching the moment your fingers brushed the leather—deliberate, confident, far from shy now. He didn’t stop you. He didn’t move. He just kissed you slower, deeper, until he felt the metal buckle shift beneath your hands.

Then he pulled back—barely—but just enough to watch you.

Hazel eyes dark with something molten, his baritone soft and rough around the edges as he murmured, “Taking initiative, are we?”

You smiled. Almost smug. “I thought you liked that.”

“I do,” he said, voice lower now, eyes dropping to your fingers. “God help me, I do.”

You slipped the belt open with ease, letting the weight of it fall apart, the soft clink of metal grounding the moment. His trousers loosened under your touch, and you let your hand linger—pressing the heel of your palm against the thick outline beneath his boxers. He twitched under the contact.

Alan’s lips parted. A quiet breath. Barely audible, but felt.

You rubbed slowly, deliberately. Not teasing. Not tentative. You meant it.

“Will you let me?” you whispered, your voice warm velvet against the silence. “Will you let me suck you?”

Alan’s eyes snapped to yours. Whatever restraint he had left slipped, just slightly. His jaw tightened, the muscle twitching. His hands—previously resting lightly on your waist—curled with sudden tension, like he wasn’t sure whether to drag you up for another kiss or drop to his knees in gratitude.

He exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. “You say that like I’m in any position to deny you.”

You grinned, fingers dipping beneath the waistband, tugging down until his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, and twitching with want.

Alan groaned, head falling back for a breath, and when he looked at you again, he looked wrecked.

“Christ,” he rasped. “You’ve barely touched me and I already want to thank you.”

You sank to your knees in front of him with a smile that wasn’t entirely innocent. He’d seen this coming. Or maybe he hadn’t. Maybe he thought this was still a seduction you needed to be eased into. But now your eyes were fixed on him like a promise.

And Alan Rickman was about to learn exactly what you meant by initiative.

You wrapped one hand around the base of his cock, firm but careful, and leaned in—eyes locked to his as your tongue flicked once over the head. Just enough to taste.

Alan swore under his breath. One hand flew to your shoulder, not to stop you—God, never that—but to ground himself.

And when you took him into your mouth, slow, inch by thick inch, the groan he let out could’ve cracked the walls.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his accent rougher now, swallowed by lust. “That’s—God, your mouth.”

You hummed around him, and his hips bucked just slightly, involuntary. His cock throbbed in your mouth, hot and heavy, and the way he looked at you—like you were art and sin and salvation all at once—nearly made you moan.

“You look perfect like that,” he muttered, fingers brushing your cheek. “On your knees for me. So eager.”

You bobbed your head slowly, letting your tongue trace the sensitive underside, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t take. You glanced up at him, watching him fall apart—his head tilted back, throat exposed, the soft grays at his temple catching the light, his baritone unraveling into broken praise.

“Christ—if you keep that up, I won’t last,” he warned, eyes fluttering open just enough to watch you again. “And I’m not done with you, sweetheart. Not even close.”

You pulled off with a wet pop, smiling wickedly. “Then fuck me, Alan,” you whispered. “Hard.”

He growled—growled—and pulled you to your feet, mouth crashing into yours with filthy promise. He helped you take off your dress with deliberate care, not rushing, not fumbling—just steady, sure hands sliding the zipper down your spine. The fabric peeled away with a soft rustle, slipping from your shoulders like silk water, pooling at your feet in a whisper.

And then he saw it. The red lingerie.

His breath caught. “Oh,” Alan said softly, blinking. “Well. That’s… spectacular.”

You flushed immediately, your arms twitching like you might cover yourself, suddenly shy. You’d sucked his cock—wet, open, moaning around him like a woman possessed—and yet now, standing in his bedroom in matching red lace, you felt awkward and exposed.

Alan’s brow furrowed slightly at your expression. “Are you—embarrassed?”

You looked down, cheeks burning. “A little.”

He smiled—slow and bewildered, like he couldn’t quite make sense of it. “Darling,” he murmured, stepping closer, his hazel eyes sweeping over you, warm and intense, “you dropped to your knees and made me see stars… and now you’re blushing over a compliment?”

You huffed a laugh, covering your face with your hands. “I know. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing,” Alan said gently. “I like it. It’s… lovely. Unexpected.”

He kissed you then—slow, reverent—his hands grazing your waist, thumbs brushing the lace at your hips.

“Red,” he murmured against your lips, voice curling into that low baritone. “Definitely my new favorite color.”

You shivered.

He nudged you back slowly, guiding you to the bed, his hands warm on your waist as you sank down into the sheets. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, soft and cool against your skin, and you watched as Alan straightened, his long fingers working at the buttons of his shirt, undoing them with quiet purpose after he helped you remove your heels.

You didn’t look away. You wanted to see all of him. He shed the shirt, then the undershirt, and you took in the plane of his chest—soft but broad, lined with age and strength, not perfect, not sculpted, but real. His belly was rounder than it once was, his chest dusted with salt-and-pepper hair, and the sight of him—so human, so his—made something in you ache.

You reached out instinctively as he climbed onto the bed beside you, your hands sliding up his arms, your fingers curling into his shoulders as if anchoring yourself there. His skin was warm. Solid. Alive.

Alan settled above you, his weight gentle, his gaze unreadable for a moment. Then you whispered it, quiet and unthinking:

“Do you… bring a lot of women here?”

There was a pause.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t joke. He just answered honestly.

“A few,” he said. “Not as many as you probably think.”

You nodded, swallowing. “Okay.”

His brow furrowed faintly. “Is that all right?”

You didn’t answer with words. Just pulled him closer, arms wrapping around his neck, lips brushing his cheek.

Alan exhaled, his head bowing slightly.

Then he kissed your collarbone.

Soft. Thoughtful. His mouth trailing down, brushing the delicate skin, your sternum, the curve just above your bra.

His voice was barely a breath. “God, you smell good.”

You arched slightly, needing more, and Alan’s hands slid beneath your back, fumbling just a little.

He grunted. “Christ—these clasps are a bloody puzzle box.”

You laughed breathlessly. “Do you need help?”

“No,” he said stubbornly, brow furrowed in concentration. “I’m a trained actor. I’ve unfastened corsets on stage. I will conquer this bra.”

It popped open a second later, and you both grinned as he peeled the red lace away, revealing your breasts.

Alan paused. His eyes darkened.

And when he spoke again, his voice was rough velvet.

“Beautiful,” he said.

You got shy again. It crept up on you like a cold draft—uninvited, unannounced. One moment you were arching under Alan’s mouth, dizzy from the slow heat of his kisses, the next you were staring down at your bare chest, exposed in the soft light of his bedroom, your arms twitching toward yourself in reflex.

“Well,” you mumbled, eyes darting away. “It’s not as pretty as a model’s, for example—”

You didn’t finish.

Because Alan Rickman, with all the grace and timing of a seasoned stage actor, interrupted you by taking one nipple into his mouth.

Your gasp caught in your throat. A sharp, unfiltered sound—half-moan, half-shock—as your back arched into the sudden heat of him. His lips were soft, reverent, but his tongue—Christ—his tongue circled your nipple with a purpose that stole your breath. Not hesitant. Not hesitant at all.

His hand came up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing the nipple there, slow and rhythmic, as if reminding you to feel. To stay.

You whimpered—helplessly, without thinking—and Alan hummed against your skin, the low baritone of it vibrating straight through your chest.

When he finally released your nipple with a wet sound, he looked up at you, hair mussed, mouth glistening, hazel eyes burning with something tender and fierce all at once.

“Don’t,” he said softly. Firmly. “Don’t say that.”

You blinked down at him, still dazed. He kissed your sternum, then your breastbone, then the soft slope of your other breast—each press of his lips deliberate, grounding.

“You are not a photograph,” Alan murmured, voice low, lips brushing your skin with every syllable. “Not a painting. Not a standard to compare against.”

He kissed the valley between your breasts. “You are breath.” He kissed the other nipple, his tongue flicking once, making you shudder. “Warmth.”

His eyes lifted to meet yours. “You are real. And I find you…” His voice dipped, laced with sincerity that made your throat close. “…utterly devastating.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your lips parted, but the only thing that escaped was another soft moan as his mouth found your breast again, this time sucking gently, his hand still teasing the other nipple with slow, aching strokes.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, gripping lightly as you tilted your head back and closed your eyes.

His kisses descended slowly.

Each one deliberate, warm, unhurried—like punctuation marks tracing a sentence he hadn’t finished writing. His mouth lingered between your breasts, down your ribs, over the soft curve of your belly. Your breathing was shallow now, fingers tangled in the sheets, your hips lifting ever so slightly in anticipation with each inch he traveled lower.

Alan noticed.

Of course he noticed.

“Easy,” he murmured, the words pressed into your skin just above your navel. His baritone curled around the syllables like a silk ribbon. “You’ll get what you want.”

His hands skimmed along your thighs, thumbs dragging slow lines inward, coaxing your legs farther apart. And then—

He kissed your pussy over the panties.

You gasped, hips jerking slightly off the bed, but he held you down with those long, steady hands, palms flat against your hipbones like anchors.

“Stay,” he murmured. “Let me do this.”

You whimpered as he kissed you again—mouth pressing firmly over the lace, his breath hot, tongue flicking in slow, maddening motions against the damp fabric. He groaned softly when he felt how soaked you already were, his nose brushing the soft elastic, his voice muffled but amused.

“Fucking beautiful lingerie,” he murmured, lips dragging across the lace. “Red lace. Perfect bloody color. Where did you buy it, hmm? La Perla? Agent Provocateur?”

You stiffened. There was a beat of silence.

Alan glanced up, a brow arching just slightly. “Go on. Indulge me.”

“…Walmart.”

He froze.

Actually froze.

His mouth paused mid-kiss, his body gone utterly still, as if someone had hit the mute button on reality. His hazel eyes blinked once, then again, brows lifting slowly in what you could only describe as theatrical disbelief.

And then—

He laughed.

A real laugh. Loud, rich, startled. The kind of unrestrained, belly-deep laugh that tore through the air like warm thunder. His whole body shook with it, head bowing slightly, forehead resting against your thigh as the sound tumbled out of him like a damn breaking.

You stared, horrified. “Oh my God—Alan—stop—it was on sale—!”

That only made him laugh harder. His hands were still holding your hips, but now he was gasping for breath, his baritone cracking slightly as he wheezed, “Christ—I was—about to praise the stitching—like it was bloody bespoke—”

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m taking it off. Right now.”

Alan’s laughter gentled then, tapering into chuckles as he raised his head, still breathless, still smiling, his hazel eyes gleaming. “Don’t you dare,” he said, voice low and fond. “That might be the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You peeked at him from behind your fingers, mortified. “Walmart?”

“Precisely,” he said, still grinning as he leaned over you, brushing a kiss to your inner thigh. “Darling, any woman who can make Walmart lingerie look like Parisian seduction incarnate deserves to be absolutely worshipped.”

You giggled helplessly, shoulders shaking, your embarrassment melting into affection and arousal all over again. “I was trying to be sexy,” you whispered, breath hitching as his hands slid down your thighs again.

“And you are,” Alan murmured, nuzzling against your center once more. “Incredibly. Devastatingly. Sexy.”

He pressed another kiss to your clit through the lace, humming softly as he tasted you again.

“And now,” he added, voice low and dark, “I’m going to make you come in this cheap red lace, and you’re going to remember it every single time you pass a clearance rack.”

Your mouth fell open.

And then his tongue slipped beneath the edge of the panties—

—and you stopped remembering anything at all.

He ate you like a starving man. No restraint. No patience left. Just raw, reverent hunger—buried between your thighs, his mouth working your sex like it was salvation, his breath hot against your slick skin as he groaned low in his throat, as if your taste alone could wreck him.

And it did. God help him—it did.

Alan had gone down on women before. Of course he had. He was British, not barbaric. But never like this. Never with this desperate, shaking need that made his fingers dig into your thighs, made him groan with every flick of his tongue, made him want to stay down here forever.

Walmart.

The word echoed in the back of his head and he nearly laughed again, mouth wet against your cunt, tongue dragging firm and steady against your clit. Walmart. He still couldn’t believe it. The lingerie that had haunted his thoughts all dinner, clinging to your hips like a lover, had cost less than his lunch.

And yet you looked divine in it.

Better than divine. A fucking revelation.

A wonderful, wicked woman—real and soft and sharp-tongued—wearing red lace and moaning under his tongue like it was the only prayer you knew.

He groaned again, arms locked around your thighs, mouth pressed to you like a man drowning. Your hips bucked, desperate, your fingers tugging at his hair, your breath hitching in tiny, wrecked whimpers.

He wasn’t gentle. Not now.

He licked you with purpose—broad, firm strokes from slit to clit, then slow circles around the swollen bud, teasing and pressing until you were gasping his name like it hurt to say anything else. When your thighs trembled and your cunt pulsed around nothing, aching, needing, he sucked your clit between his lips and flicked it with his tongue, fast and focused, until your cry caught in your throat.

He could feel you coming undone. Could hear it. Smell it. You were so close, your hands clawing at the sheets, your body arched off the bed, every breath a plea.

And then—

He stopped.

Pulled back.

You whimpered—high, frantic, a sound of sheer betrayal—and Alan’s mouth hovered just above your cunt, lips wet, chin slick, his hazel eyes dark with something you didn’t understand yet.

But you would.

He looked up at you, brow lifted, voice wrecked and rasping but still smooth. “How many times,” he murmured, low and dangerous, “did your ex-husband make you come in a night?”

You blinked, dazed, the edge of your orgasm still buzzing in your spine. “Wh—what?”

Alan tilted his head slightly, breathing hard, his mouth so close to your cunt you could feel the ghost of his words on your skin. “Robert. How many times did he do this to you?”

Your eyes fluttered. “I… I don’t know. Three? Maybe two?”

He watched your face closely, waiting.

You swallowed hard, your hips twitching in frustration. “It’s been a while,” you admitted. “A long while. I don’t—he didn’t always—” You bit your lip. “Sometimes I faked it.”

Alan blinked once.

Then he exhaled slowly, a soft, deep sound of pure disbelief and growing fury. You whimpered again, your hands flying to your own thighs, trying to chase that pleasure back, to find it again before it faded completely—but his hands stopped you. Firm. Gentle. Final.

“No, darling,” he said, his baritone curling around the syllables like smoke. “That’s mine to give you.”

And then he buried his mouth in your cunt again.

Like he meant it. Like it was his job.

Like he had something to prove.

You screamed—helpless, broken, as his tongue found your clit again, faster this time, relentless and skilled, each flick calculated, devastating. His lips wrapped around the swollen bud and sucked hard enough to make your hips lift off the bed, your entire body tensing as that orgasm ripped through you like a snapped wire.

“Fuck—Alan—”

But he didn’t stop.

Not when you came. Not after.

He kept licking, kept sucking, kept teasing your clit until your legs shook uncontrollably and your fingers clawed at his hair, babbling, begging, gasping.

“I can’t—oh my God—I can’t—”

“Yes,” he growled, the vibration of it sending another shockwave through you. “You can. You will.”

Your second orgasm tore through you like fire. Wet. Violent. Shaking. And Alan only groaned, sucking you through it, one hand moving to press gently on your lower belly as he licked you like he was trying to commit you to memory.

Wonderful woman, he thought wildly, half-delirious with the taste of you. Where the hell have you been all this time?

Married. Of course.

His tongue dragged through your slick folds, slow now, reverent, as your body twitched with aftershocks.

But he wasn’t done.

Not nearly.

Alan kissed the inside of your thigh, the curve of your hip, then slid two fingers into you—slow, careful—and pressed upward until he found that spot. That aching, hidden place. You gasped, fresh and wrecked and already unraveling.

He kissed your stomach.

Then your sternum.

Then your lips.

You tasted yourself on his mouth, hot and slick, and he whispered against you, “That’s two.”

You blinked up at him, dazed.

Alan smiled—a soft, wicked thing—and began again.

You’d forget Robert by sunrise.

But you’d never forget Alan Rickman’s mouth.

He made you come a third time with just his thick fingers and his voice in your ear. No tongue. No thrusts. Just that steady, curling pressure inside you—two fingers stroking exactly where you needed them, coaxing another orgasm out of your trembling body while his voice spun low and dangerous spells against your throat.

“Good girl,” Alan murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re doing so well for me. That’s it. Give it to me, darling. Let me feel you come.”

You shattered like silk torn at the seams.

Your whole body clenched around him, your thighs trembling, hips lifting, mouth open in a silent cry as the third climax crashed through you. Alan groaned against your shoulder as your cunt pulsed around his fingers, wet and desperate, your slick dripping down his knuckles.

He slowed only when your breath stuttered and your legs began to twitch.

Then, carefully, reverently, he eased his fingers from you, pressing one last kiss to your shoulder as you collapsed back against the bed, boneless and ruined and gloriously limp.

You barely registered the words he whispered next.

“Catch your breath, sweetheart. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

He slid from the bed like a gentleman fleeing temptation, long limbs moving with catlike grace. His cock was still painfully hard—thick and flushed, bobbing between his thighs—and you were distantly proud that you’d wrecked him too, even if only a little.

You watched through half-lidded eyes as he disappeared into the en suite bathroom, muttering something about a condom and bloody drawer organization. But not before he paused at the doorway and, with a casual flick of the wrist, turned on the ceiling fan for you.

Air stirred overhead—cool, clean, grounding.

You exhaled slowly, letting your body melt into the bed, your limbs splayed like a woman freshly exorcised.

Three orgasms.

Three.

You laughed softly to yourself, still winded. “Jesus Christ.”

No answer. Just the hum of the fan and the distant sound of Alan rummaging through drawers.

You let your gaze wander around the room.

You hadn’t really looked earlier—too distracted, too flustered, too busy being undressed (physically and emotionally). But now, in the afterglow, your curiosity stirred. Slowly, your eyes adjusted to the golden lamplight, drinking in the space.

It was exactly what you’d imagined and nothing like it all at once. Elegant. Understated. Warm woods and dark tones, with subtle splashes of color—burnt orange, navy, moss green. A bookshelf took up one entire wall, every shelf full, some books stacked horizontally in chaotic rebellion. Plays, scripts, worn hardbacks with crinkled spines. Shakespeare, of course. But also poetry. Physics. A biography of Galileo. A thin, crooked copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar nestled between Nietzsche and The Tempest.

You stared.

“Oh my god,” you whispered aloud.

Professor Snape’s bedroom.

You were lying in Professor Snape’s actual bed. Or—technically—Alan Rickman’s bed. But that distinction was hard to hold when you were naked in soft sheets, covered in your own slick, surrounded by warm lighting and very expensive furniture.

Your gaze slid to the coat rack in the corner, where an old, heavy wool overcoat hung like a ghost. Black. Familiar. Possibly the same one from Love Actually?

You didn’t know whether to swoon or scream.

Hans Gruber’s room, your brain reminded you unhelpfully.

Oh Christ.

You rolled your head the other way, trying not to cackle. Rasputin’s room. Colonel Brandon’s room. Absolem’s room, your mind added, helpfully and cruelly.

You covered your face with both hands and groaned.

You were naked in Absolem’s bed. A talking caterpillar’s bed. A smoking caterpillar’s bed. You burst out laughing, a low, delighted noise muffled by your palms.

Alan’s voice drifted from the bathroom. “What on earth is so funny?”

You wheezed. “I’m having a mild existential crisis.”

There was a pause. Then, in that slow baritone laced with dry amusement: “I do hope it’s not the decor.”

You peeked toward the bathroom door. “Do you keep a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar next to Nietzsche on purpose?”

A soft chuckle. “Of course. Balance is everything.”

You let out another laugh, breathless and warm, still basking in the scent of his cologne on the sheets. He emerged a moment later—barefoot, bare-chested, condom in hand, silver hair mussed and damp from where he'd splashed water on his face.

And when his hazel eyes landed on you, legs still spread, body flushed and pliant in the soft lamplight, his smirk faded into something quieter.

Something reverent.

He crossed the room slowly and knelt on the bed beside you, one hand brushing your thigh, the other cupping your face as he leaned down to kiss you.

Not hungry. Not greedy.

Just… there.

Present. Gentle. Bare.

“Ready?” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours.

You nodded.

But your voice was steadier than you expected. “Yes,” you whispered. “But only if you promise to read me Nietzsche after.”

Alan grinned against your mouth, low and wicked. “You’ll be lucky if I let you walk tomorrow.”

He rolled the condom down his length with careful fingers, his eyes never leaving yours. The sound of the foil tearing still echoed in your ears, faint and final, a little sad. You wanted him bare. Wanted him deep. Wanted that primal, overwhelming closeness—but not tonight. Not yet.

Alan shifted his weight and settled between your thighs, the mattress dipping beneath his knees. He was careful with your hips, his large hands firm but reverent as he slid them under your thighs and pushed your legs up—up, until your knees were bent toward your chest and your ankles rested on his shoulders. The position opened you completely, baring you to him, stretching you wide and vulnerable under his hungry gaze.

You blinked, breath catching. “Oh.”

Alan raised a brow, voice low and amused. “Not what you expected?”

“I thought you were going to be… traditional,” you murmured, flushed.

He smirked—slow and devastating. “I am. This is the oldest position in the book.”

And then he thrust.

Slow. Measured. Thick.

Your mouth fell open, a breathless gasp escaping as the head of his cock breached your entrance, the condom slick but distant, the drag of it foreign and maddening. Your cunt stretched around him, the walls fluttering with the ache of taking him—God, he was thick—and you whimpered, eyes squeezing shut as the pressure bloomed deep.

“Jesus,” you choked, back arching off the mattress.

Alan stilled—halfway in—his hands curling around the backs of your thighs, holding you in place.

“Too much?” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper, rough with restraint.

You shook your head wildly. “No—God, no. Just—keep going.”

He nodded, a single slow movement, and sank deeper. He filled you inch by inch, pushing past the tight heat of your entrance, stretching you until your legs trembled on his shoulders. The condom dulled the sensation for him—he couldn’t feel the slick suction of your cunt the way he wanted to—but still, he groaned low in his throat as your body accepted him, slow and snug, wrapping around his cock like a vice.

“You feel… incredible,” he rasped, head bowing toward your shoulder, sweat already beading at his temple. “Fucking perfect.”

You whimpered again, the burn fading into something sweeter, deeper. Your fingers gripped the sheets, your mouth falling open as he bottomed out—fully sheathed inside you, the thick ridge of his cock pressing against a place you hadn’t known was there.

Alan stilled, watching you carefully, his hazel eyes dark. “There?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”

He grinned—wicked, pleased—and drew his hips back, slow and deliberate, until just the tip of him remained, teasing your entrance.

And then he thrust forward—sharp, precise.

You screamed.

Stars. Real ones. Your vision dotted with white as he struck that sweet, perfect spot again, his hips grinding forward just enough to keep the pressure there, to push you toward the edge with ruthless skill.

“Fuck,” Alan hissed, his jaw tight, his voice a broken rasp. “You take me so fucking well.”

He rocked into you again—harder this time—and the bed creaked beneath you, the slap of skin against skin joined by your choked cries, the heat of your slick wrapping around the condom and dragging every groan from his throat.

Your legs slipped from his shoulders, trembling, and he let them, bracing one thigh with a hand while the other arm slid under your back, lifting your hips just enough to change the angle—and oh god—

“Alan—fuck—don’t stop—”

“Not planning to,” he growled.

He kept hitting that spot, again and again, his hips snapping into yours with filthy precision, his thrusts deep and unrelenting. You sobbed his name, fingernails scraping down his back, your thighs quivering with every impact. You could feel your orgasm building again—your fourth—rising fast, wild, unstoppable.

“I’m gonna—Alan, I’m—”

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice low and firm, a director calling action on your climax. “Let go. Now.”

And you did.

You shattered beneath him, your cunt pulsing wildly around his cock, your vision white, your cry sharp and unrestrained. Your whole body convulsed, your arms flying around his neck, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you tethered to earth.

Alan groaned—deep, pained—his thrusts faltering as you clenched around him. “Fuck—you’re—Christ—”

He thrust once more, hard and deep, and came with a grunt, his body shuddering as he filled the condom. His hips stilled, his breath ragged against your neck, one arm still locked around your back as if he couldn’t let go.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Just breath. Heartbeats. The trembling afterglow of something holy. Then he slowly withdrew, groaning low at the sensitivity, and collapsed beside you, chest heaving.

You stared at the ceiling, still shaking, limbs splayed like a crime scene.

Alan turned his head slowly, blinking. “Four?”

You nodded faintly, eyes wide. “Four.”

He smirked. “Well,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “I suppose I am a traditionalist after all. One for each season.”

You turned to look at him, dazed and gleaming with sweat. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” he said, brushing your hair back, “are magnificent.”

You rolled into his chest, breath still catching.

He held you close.

And for the first time in what felt like years—you slept without dreaming of someone else.

#alan rickman #alan rickman x reader

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zeroseuniverse · 3 months ago

Note

how zb1 acts when their crush is a natural flirt without even noticing (for example small things like glancing at their lips, or winking in passing ect)

Zb1 W/ Naturally flirty S/O

Taglist:@zaycie @sh0dor1 @tinyelfperson @lezleeferguson-120 @llunaticc13 @1daily2lele7 @etaernaluvv @hanninova

Jiwoong

Internally combusts. On the outside? Calm. Cool. Composed. But inside? Sirens. Red alerts. You glance at his lips while he's talking and murmur something like, "You’re cute when you concentrate," and his brain just malfunctions. He leans back slowly, squinting at you. “…You’re doing that on purpose, right?” You blink innocently. “Doing what?” That’s when he knows he’s done for. His ears go pink and he hides behind his hand with a breathy laugh. “You’re dangerous.”

Zhang Hao

He's so easily flustered by you. He'll be mid-sentence when you wink and he’ll physically glitch. “M-mmh… sorry, what was I saying?” When you say things like, “You’d look cute with a lip ring,” while glancing down at his mouth, he needs a moment. He’ll politely excuse himself with a soft “be right back,” then go scream into a pillow. He eventually starts suspecting you’re doing it on purpose—until you say something flirty and then walk away like nothing happened. That’s when it hits him. You don’t even know. Now he’s fighting for his life in silence. Constantly.

Hanbin

Blushes so fast it should be a world record. You ruffle his hair and call him “handsome,” all casual, and this man short-circuits. You could wink in passing and he’d need to sit down. He thinks you’re the biggest tease… until he realizes you’re not trying. That makes it worse. Like—how is he supposed to keep his composure when you’re effortlessly wrecking him?? He starts getting so soft around you. Tries to subtly flirt back, but ends up tripping over his words half the time. "You're… um. You’re good at existing. I mean. You look nice. Existing."

Matthew

At first he tries to out-flirt you. He thinks you are flirting and he’s like, “Bet. Two can play this game.” You wink at him → he throws in a flirty smirk You call him “baby” jokingly → he says “only for you” …but then he notices you doing the same thing to other people. And you’re not even trying. His whole brain: “wait… they’re just like that??” Now he’s not flirting anymore—he’s pining. He’ll just stand there like 🧍 trying to pretend he’s not affected while his heart’s doing parkour. “Yeah I’m fine,” he says, clearly NOT fine.

Taerae

So dramatic about it. You tilt your head slightly and give him a tiny smile and he’s like "…are you trying to kill me??" Legit gasps when you wink. Clutches his chest like a K-drama lead. He’ll ask you straight up one day, “Do you know what you do to people when you talk like that?” You’re confused. “Like what?” Now he’s spiraling. “Never mind. Just… just don’t do that when I’m holding something. I might drop it.” The boy is so whipped. Will never recover. Not even trying to hide it.

Ricky

You already live in his head rent-free, so every time you do something effortlessly flirty, he’s just… blinking in stunned silence. You lick your lips while thinking → he stares You call him “pretty boy” in passing → he replays it like a religious experience Unlike the others, though—he starts getting possessive. Not in a toxic way, just a quiet “I want them to look at me like that only.” He doesn’t say anything. Just starts moving a little closer. Giving you heart eyes back. And one day he catches you looking at his lips again and whispers, “Do you want me to kiss you, or do you just like staring?”

Gyuvin

Loud externally, melting internally. You touch his arm casually or lean in to whisper something near his ear and he screeches. “AHHHHH—DON’T DO THAT I’M DELICATE.” Then immediately follows it with, “Wait… do it again.” He thinks you’re being playful on purpose until he hears you say something equally flirty to a barista or friend and goes 🧍‍♂️ “Okay so… they just… exist like that???” From then on, he becomes hyper-aware of everything you do. Constantly looking like a lovesick puppy who doesn’t know where to put his hands.

Gunwook

Is so good at pretending he’s unaffected. But you glance at his lips while he talks, or say “You look cute when you're mad,” and he just… swallows hard. "Thanks," he says with a totally neutral face—but his ears are bright red. He’s usually so confident, but you throw him off his game. He’ll go home and just stare at the ceiling like “What is wrong with me.” Eventually, he builds up the courage to ask: “Do you flirt with everyone like that?” When you answer, “Like what?” with total sincerity, he dies on the spot. RIP Gunwook 2005–now.

Yujin

Doesn’t even try to hide how flustered he gets. You pat his cheek or wink as a joke and he instantly becomes quiet, eyes wide. You’ll ask if he’s okay and he just nods quickly, refusing to look you in the eye. Eventually he blurts out, “I think you’re flirting with me.” You blink. “Oh—was I?” He stands there blinking too. “…Were you not??” Poor boy is so confused. Doesn’t know if he’s delusional or in love. Or both.

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bennyboyfics · 6 months ago

Note

do you take requests? if soooooo ben comforting girlfriend through a bad day / panic attack it would be so cute

Hard day || Ben Shelton x tennis player!reader

A/n: Ty for the request :)

Wc: 947

Warnings: none

MASTERLIST

The bustling training area was alive with the familiar sounds of tennis balls bouncing, rackets smacking, and shoes squeaking against the court floor. Yet, the noise barely registered in your mind. All you could focus on was the lingering frustration from a training session that had gone far worse than you’d hoped. Every missed shot, every error, and every critical word from your coach echoed in your head like a broken record.

Your shoulders slumped under the weight of your racket bag as you walked through the facility, avoiding eye contact with anyone. You weren’t in the mood for small talk or forced smiles. All you wanted was some quiet, some air—anything to pull you out of the heavy cloud hanging over you. But then you saw him. Ben stood at the far end of the hallway, leaning casually against the wall, wearing his usual training gear—a fitted tee that showed off his toned arms and shorts that rested low on his hips.

His ever-present easy grin was there, but it faltered the moment his eyes met yours. Concern immediately softened his expression, and without hesitation, he pushed off the wall and started walking toward you. You didn’t realise how much you needed him until that moment. Before you could even greet him, Ben’s long strides closed the distance between you.

His strong arms enveloped you in an instant, pulling you tightly against his chest. Your bag slipped from your hand, dropping to the floor with a dull thud, but you didn’t care. All you cared about was the way he held you like he could shield you from everything that had gone wrong. “C’mere, baby,” he murmured. His voice was warm, soothing, and so achingly familiar that it made the tension in your body begin to melt away.

You didn’t even think before your arms circled his neck, and as if it were second nature, you jumped up. Ben caught you effortlessly, his hands steady as they supported your legs around his waist. He held you like you weighed nothing, his strength grounding you as you buried your face into the crook of his neck. “Bad day?” he asked, his voice soft and close to your ear. You nodded wordlessly, feeling your throat tighten.

The comfort of being in his arms made the emotions you’d been holding back all day rise to the surface. “I can feel it,” he continued, his hand rubbing soothing circles on your back. “You’re all tense. Want to talk about it, or you just need me to hold you for a bit?” “Just hold me,” you whispered, your voice muffled against his skin. He chuckled lowly, the sound rumbling through his chest. “That I can do.”

Ben stayed true to his word, holding you like you were the most precious thing in the world. His large hands splayed across your back, grounding you, while his thumbs brushed gently against the fabric of your shirt. The faint scent of his cologne and sweat was intoxicating, familiar and comforting all at once. “Y’know you’re way too hard on yourself, right?” he said after a moment, his tone still gentle but with a hint of firmness.

“One bad session doesn’t mean anything. You’re still the same incredible player, the same badass I’m proud of.” You pulled back slightly to look at him, your hands still clutching his shoulders. His eyes locked onto yours, full of nothing but genuine care and affection. “I just—I don’t know. I feel like I’m stuck. Like I can’t get it right no matter what I do.” Ben shook his head, his lips quirking into a small smile.

“You’re gonna have days like this. Hell, I’ve had plenty. Remember that one match I played in Melbourne last year? Lost my damn mind, smashed a racket, looked like a fool—and you still told me I was great after.” A soft laugh escaped your lips at the memory, the heaviness in your chest easing ever so slightly. “That was pretty bad.”“Exactly,” he said, his grin widening. “But you didn’t let me wallow in it, did you? You’re allowed to have rough patches, but they don’t define you. You’re too good for that.”

The sincerity in his voice made your eyes sting, and you quickly looked away, resting your head on his shoulder again. “Thank you,” you murmured. “Always,” he replied, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “Now, how ’bout we ditch this place, get some food, and I let you pick the movie tonight? You can even pick one of those cheesy rom-coms I pretend to hate but secretly enjoy.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “You don’t hate them, Ben.” “Shh, don’t ruin my image,” he teased, his voice light and playful. For the first time that day, you felt the weight lift.

#ben shelton #ben shelton fanfic #ben shelton fanfiction #ben shelton imagine #ben shelton x reader #ben shelton au #ben shelton tennis #ben shelton x fem!reader #tennis fanfic #ben shelton x you #ben shelton angst #ben shelton fluff #ben shelton smut #tennis au #tennis fanfiction #tennis #tennis x reader #fanfic #Ben Shelton x tennis player!reader

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angelyuji · 9 months ago

Text

dear diary

bruce wayne x reader (kinktober week 4)

tw // stalking, kidnapping, voyeurism, masturbation, pattinson!bruce is silly and a cutiepie

18+! minors dni!

november 1 : riddler’s floor has left the city a mess. i can barely hold on, helping the people affected and trying to understand what’s going on with penguin. i can’t focus.

november 5: you’re pretty. you were getting mugged when i came. you looked pretty as you cried, arms wrapped around my neck. i asked if you wanted me to escort you home and you nodded so cutely. you’re apartment was as cute as you, every decoration was an extension of you. you’re so pretty, (y/n).

november 8: i broke into your home when you were at work. i wanted to be closer to you, i want to know things about you no one else does. your apartment smells like you, the shampoo, the detergent, your perfume. i felt myself get overwhelmed as blood rushed down there. it’s hard to keep myself contained. for now, i’ll keep an eye on you. just in case.

november 15: you leave your windows wide open; you always do. you drop your bag on the couch and start your routine. crossing the date off on your calendar with a purple sharpie, you turn on your oven for a store-bought pizza and head to your room. you slowly undress in your bedroom, standing in front of the mirror and checking your face. i can see every curve, every mark on your body. you’re so beautiful. a car horn surprised the both of us, bringing me back to patrol and you start to pull on pajamas. i wish i could touch you, show you how beautiful you are. i’ll come visit tomorrow, to make sure you’re safe.

november 20: the city was restless as thanksgiving neared. i guess even the darkness in the city would panic as the holiday approached. i watched you restlessly flit through the apartment, setting up couches and beds. one moment you were in the living room, setting up coaches, and the next you were in the kitchen, mixing things in pots. i wish i was there with you, helping you, meeting your family… i need to keep my focus on gotham.

november 28: i told myself to leave you alone, but i managed to end up in front of your apartment once again. i’m sure alfred will laugh at me. i watch you with your family, smiling and laughing. i need to feel you. fuck, i need to clear my head.

december 13: i caught myself watching old recordings of you. just one glance at your bare skin and i can feel my resolve crumbling. i wish i could bring you here, so i could just stop thinking of you all the time.

december 20: i dreamt about you. it felt so real. i could feel your soft arms wrapped tightly around my neck as i plow into you, desperate and aching. i woke up hearing your moans in my head and my thighs sticky with my own cum. i felt like i was 13 again, cleaning the sheets while alfred slept. look at what you’re doing to me, (y/n).

december 24: i got careless. i thought i saw you and i got careless, stabbed in the side by a scared kid stealing from an atm. in the haze of blood-loss, i hadn’t realized where i ended up until i saw your eyes peering down at me. “shit.” i heard myself talk without realizing. your warm hands helped me up, and i felt a laugh bubbling out of me as you shoved me through the open window into your apartment. every noise you make is so cute, i barely registered the pain. i felt myself hit the floor when it all went dark.

december 25: the first words you said when i opened my eyes: “merry christmas!” you smile sheepishly, i could feel your hands fixing my bandages. i felt the cowl on my head, untouched, but somehow you had taken off my suit. “sorry, google told me to change them every couple hours, so i bought a bunch of supplies while you were… asleep.” you look away. i try to sit up and you help me settle in.

“why did you help me?” my voice sounded rough and you bring a cup of water to my lips. i drink from the cup, water spills down my chin and you use a hand to wipe it away. i feel my heart skip a beat at the loving touch.

you shrug, “you saved my life before. how could i leave gotham’s knight dying at my fire escape?” i feel a smile pull at my lips. every glance, every involuntary movement, every word, everything about you made my heart swell.

i couldn’t trust my words, so i hum. night comes quickly and you put on a movie, feeding me slowly. it was nice, it was everything i had dreamt of. you are everything i imagined and more… you’re perfect.

december 26: you woke up, confused and scared, screaming at me. i’m sure it’ll be hard at first, but with time, you’ll get used to your new home. alfred had disapproved at first, but he knows how happy you make me, how much more careful i’ll be. i won’t have to worry about you anymore, knowing you’re home with me forever.

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icyg4l · 9 months ago

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Should You Shoot Your Shot?

hello beautiful people! i have been so busy with school & honestly, i haven’t been feeling up to par. i have some ideas drafted up but i would like to hear some suggestions from you guys. i am gonna turn my ask box on again! i would like to hear more than just fs readings though. also, i will continue with my halloween themed tarot series! look out for two drops in one day, my lovelies. if you would like to book a reading with me, go to my very first pinned post. thank you! :) without further ado, please select the pile that you are drawn to!

top left-to-bottom right: (1-4)

pile one: you are a strong soldier, my love. i feel like the person you're interested in has a lot of suitors and because of that, it will be hard to fully capture their attention. i feel like you need to soften your approach. if you're the type to post thirst traps or to post obvious subliminal, this person will overlook you. i honestly think that your best bet is to act unbothered. in your case, being laidback will work great in your case. also, I keep hearing "come harder just because". what I am getting from this is that you need to be more creative with the way that you shoot your shot. you may be surprised at who you may attract.

cards used: ace of flags, the high priestess, five of flags, elder of pentacles.

extras: butterfly shrimp. princess fiona. it's my d*ck in a box! christmas carols. new video game record. papa's pizzeria. shuffle the deck. gardener. fast-paced. fish hooks (2010).

pile two: i can tell that you have a type, pile two. you're the loving, nurturing type. you probably spoil your lovers with gifts and affection. however, you need to know when to pull back when you aren't receiving what you want. in your situation, you should go for it. shoot your shot! however, there is nothing wrong with wanting to take some initiative. however, based on your past experiences, you should try not to go all out this time. take your time. in the past, you could have been ghosted frequently or taken advantage of. you need to assert your boundaries. you are the prize, babe. go in with the attitude that this is not someone you need, but rather someone that you'd like to keep you company. if they want you, then they'd show you that through reciprocated action. remember that.

cards used: ace of lanterns, three of chalices, nine of flags, child of chalices, queen of lanterns, four of flags, child of flags, the house mother.

extras: wasted liquor. "spectacular". popular by demi lovato. hair in the wind. focusing on myself. self-worth. "sweetpea". diamonds dancing. parental issues. abandonment wounds.

pile three: baby, you don't have no business being romantically involved with anyone at this time. i heard the phrase "emotional turmoil". you recently could have gone through a drastic change in your life, specifically more to do with a loss (breakup, loss of a family member, job loss, etc). right now, there is a focus on your time of healing. you need to build up your spiritual endurance. if you are ready to give up on yourself, how can you give to others properly? if you decide to go and deal with this person, you won't be satisfied. this reminds me of a child getting attached to a toy and then ends up getting attached to another because it's newer. that's not healthy. people's emotions are not to be toyed with, pile three. it's possible that your gut issues will intensify if you decide to go against the grain and deal with this person. it's not worth it, babe. just wait your turn.

cards used: death, the star, the castle, queen of chalices, four of chalices, child of lanterns, the moon, eight of lanterns.

extras: sweet potato fries. count your blessings. paint the perfect picture. saweetie. 2000s photos. overly-emotional. comfort foods. sock-it-to-me cake. foreplay. rush. high rise.

pile four: pile four, it looks really good for you. not only should you shoot your shot, but there is a high chance of you connecting with this person on a spiritual level. therefore, this will actually result in something serious. i feel that this is a divinely orchestrated union. it's possible that you two could have mutual connections. it's possible that you could have been in the same place at the same time as them (red string theory hahaaa). i feel like your spirit guides are waiting for you to initiate the conversation. it's time to make shit happen. send the dm/message. it'll all be worth it. this is your time to shine, lovely.

cards used: eight of plants, the brujx, three of chalices, the grande dame.

extras: rose. sade listener. hijab. sweat. forty five degrees. kisses down low. i love the color pink. long legs. picky eater. choosey lover. secure attachment style. papa grande.

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butlervibesonly · 3 months ago

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hi there! I am pretty sure you’ve seen the photos where Austin is probably recording Elvis’ music! I was thinking maybe you could write something where Y/n and Austin are dating already during his Elvis filming and she just see how tired he is, how drained he must be, so she maybe comforts him, takes care of him? Thank you! ☺️🩵

𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬, 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞! | Austin Butler

• Pairing: Austin Butler x female reader

• Warnings: mention of exhaustion, swearing, and fluff!

• Proofreader: hope y’all didn’t expect anyone but @eternal-love herself! 😏🤭

Playing Elvis, moving like him, singing like him, talking like him… it was all hard since the very beginning. You knew it, Austin knew it — but he never gave up. No matter how hard it was for him, he always put the best into it. Did everything he possibly could to not play Elvis, but bring him back on the big screen.

You can see it on his face that Austin is getting tired. He wakes up every day at around 4 am to spend more hours in the makeup and hair trailer to transform into Elvis. He spends hours learning the script, the movements, the vocals. It’s a lot. And the pandemic is not making it any easier.

The two of you are now stuck in Australia, and you both miss your families, your home. Not going to lie when you say that you are getting worried. Not about the movie, but about him…

It’s around 10:30 pm and you were waiting for Austin in your shared trailer for hours now. He was recording some songs for whole day, and the more the minutes pass, the more you’re getting worried. So you decided to go and look for him.

Walking through the set where this all is happening is incredible. Everything screams ‘Elvis’, the costumes, places, … When you arrive to the recording studio you meet some people from the crew who know you thanks to Austin. You smile at them all, knowing they are leaving to bed.

And then, you see him… Austin is sitting on the floor, hair messy, hugging his legs while he unconsciously stares into nowhere… There are dark circles under his blue eyes and it makes your heart ache. You look at him with so much sympathy and affection.

Stepping closer, he doesn’t even notices your presence at first, until you sit beside hime, tour hand on his shoulder. “You’re tired, baby,” you say softly, soothingly rubbing his back. “Come to bed, you need to rest.” you offer him, almost audible plead in your voice.

“But I- I need to…” he tries to explain, but you cut him off before he can continue. His voice is hoarse as his vocal cords are strained with all that singing. “No, love… no buts. You’re tired. I can see it. I can hear it. You will continue next time but you need to rest.” you reassured him, your hand comforting his tense muscles.

Austin sighs, knowing you’re right. “Yeah… you’re right, babe…” he hoarses, taking your hand in his. It’s almost like he is seeking comfort… You take his hand without a doubt and stroke his soft skin. “C’mon, we will go to bed.” you help him stand up. Before you go, Austin gathers his stuff and takes your hand again.

It’s taking all of his last strength to even walk back to your trailer. He is practically leaning against you, preventing himself from collapsing on the ground. “Just a little more, love…” you whisper as you two approach your trailer.

Once inside, you lock the door and turn to him. You step closer to him and wrap your arms around him. Austin immediately melts into your touch, his chin resting on your shoulder, breathing your scent. “Go take a shower, baby. I will make you some food and you can go to sleep, hm?”

“Okay…” Austin whispers out, reluctantly letting go of you. You watch him taking his grey sweatpants, the only thing he sleeps in and goes to the little bathroom. While he is showering, you just make him some quick sandwich, knowing the least thing he wants to think of now is food. But he needs it, he needs energy.

After a while, he is fresh out of shower, his now black locks covered in water drops. “Come, sit.” you smile, placing the sandwich on the table. Austin smiles softly, sitting down. He must have been hungry, because he digs in immediately, eating like he hasn’t eaten in months.

You sit down opposite the table, taking your phone. While Austin eats, you decide to text Baz, trying to take some day off for Austin.

You: Hey, Baz! I was wondering today… Austin seems to be really tired. Can he take a day off tomorrow? Just to regain some strength…?

Baz: Sure. I saw him today, he must be really drained. Take care of him, no problem x

You: Thanks! ☺️

You look back up at Austin and he is looking at you, his eyes tired, his expression almost vulnerable. Small smile creeps up on your lips and you take his hand. “Was it good? Want some more?” you ask softly. Austin shakes his head. “No, I am full. It was good. Thank you, honey.”

“I am glad you like it. Let’s get some sleep.” you gently tug his hand, as he stand up. He follows you into the bed and as you two lay down, he snuggles to you, again seeking some reassurance, comfort and warmth. You wrap your arms around him, and he is lying on you with half of his weight.

His arm is around your waist, his head resting on your chest, one of his legs tangling with yours. You are cradling him against you, holding him tightly, one had rubbing his back, while the other strokes thought his Elvis black hair.

“I love you so much…” he mumbles, his body moving slowly as he breathes. You smile, kissing his forehead. “I love you too, honey.” Austin’s breath gets slower, deeper as he begins to doze off. Because this is something he needed for a long time now. Just to lay in your arms, resting and feeling like everything around is not important.

You keep rubbing his back even though you know he is asleep just to let him know that you’re here and you’re not going anywhere. After, you slowly reach for his phone and you turn off his 4am alarm just to make him sleep longer in the morning. He needs some sleep. He needs to rest.

And like so, the two of you sleep in each other’s arms until the very morning. Around 10am Austin begins to wake up slowly, but surely. He opens his eyes, and when he notices that the sun is suspiciously higher than he’s used to when waking up this early, he panics. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” he swears under his breath.

He sees that you’re no longer in the bed with him, and he is scared that he overslept and that he is running late, so he reaches for his phone and looks at the time; 10:12am. “Damn it!” he slips from under the covers, standing up. But then he sees you, calmly standing in the small kitchen of the trailer.

“Y/n, love, why didn’t you wake me up? It’s past 10 am, I overslept!” he says, panic in his voice. You approach him, placing your hands on his shoulders. “Because you’re not going anywhere today, baby.” you explain calmly. Austin’s face is filled with curiosity and confusion. “What?”

“You will not film today. You won’t do anything that includes the movie making. I talked to Baz last night and I asked him to give you a day off, maybe even some more, because we both know how tired you are and you deserve to rest.” you explain again, stroking his shoulders. You already know that he will protest because he needs everything around this movie to be perfect.

“But, baby, I-“

“No, love. Please just listen to me now… You're doing the first last thing for that movie. But I can see how tired you are, Austin. I can see how you have a lack of sleep, are exhausted and drained. Please just take a break for a while. It will not rush anywhere. Baz agreed with me. I’m going to take care of you. I will just make you feel better. Just let me, please.” you cup his cheeks gently.

He looks down at you and sighs. Again, he knows that you’re right. He is fully exposed to you now, his feelings taking over his body and so does his exhaustion. “I know that you want this movie to be perfect. I can see how hard you work for this whole project ,and I’m sure that Elvis would be proud if he saw you. He would be proud that his legacy is celebrated by someone who wants to make the best impression of him.”

Austin is looking into your eyes and he knows that you want the best for him. He knows that you care for him, and he loves you more than anything for that. All he can do in this moment is to wrap his arms around you and pull you into a hug. “Thank you…” he whispers. “Thank you, love.”

You smile and return his hug back, just as reassuringly as you did last night. “That’s why I’m here for you.” You say and hold him for a little bit longer. “I will make you some tea for that voice of yours, alright?” Austin nods, knowing that his vocal cords are at the lowest.

“You go back to bed, I will bring it to you.” you smiles at him reassuringly, and he nods, but before he goes, he kisses you sweetly. The familiar warmth spreads through your chest, end he leaves for bed. You make him some tea, hoping it will help.

When you come back, you seem him snuggled under the covers, small smile on his face. You can’t help but smile softly, as you sit on the edge of the bed. “Your tea is ready, Mr. Butler.” you joke, stroking his forehead with your fingers. Austin peeks from under the covers, seeing the steamy cup in your hand.

“Careful, it’s hot.” you warn him, when he takes it from you. Austin scoots up, resting his back against the headrest, and takes few sips. The warmth spreads through his throat, the mix of honey and herbs sweet on his tongue. “Thank you, darling.” he smiles, opening one free arm to you.

Without any hesitation, you climb beside him, cuddling against him. Finally you two have some free time together, peaceful and loving. “I am the luckiest man alive.” he murmurs, before taking another sip. You lift your head up to kiss his cheek. “And I am the luckiest woman.” you smile.

Austin is being pampered by you whole day. You two have been napping together, eating some sweets, cuddling, watching movies, … Practically, you two have finally some quality time together after all this hard work, stress and rush. Austin couldn’t be any happier, receiving the best care.

And you? Oh, how you love taking care of your sweet boy.

#austin butler #austin butler fanfiction #austin butler x reader #austin butler imagine #austin butler x you #austinbutler #austin butler fandom #austin butler x y/n #austin butler fic #austin butler imagines #elvis 2022 movie #elvis 2022

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dreaming-medium · 2 years ago

Text

Thanksgiving With You

Relationship: Lee Minho x reader

Tags: Pure fluff

Summary: Your plans to go home to America for Thanksgiving are uprooted the night before you're supposed to leave. Unable to stand seeing you upset, Minho decides to take matters into his own hands and make sure you get to celebrate no matter what.

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The TV was on in the shared apartment, all of the boys were laying all over the couches in various comfy positions. Legs tangled up in knots, blankets draped over different laps.

Living in the same building as one another definitely had its perks, that’s for sure. Even if everyone starts their days in their own apartments, by dinner time, everyone congregates to one.

Today, you and Minho’s apartment was the lucky winner.

When you answered a roommate ad two years ago, you didn’t know it would come with seven other men on top of that. But, you wouldn’t change anything that’s happened since then.

Felix’s head rests on Hyunjin’s lap while he plays on his phone with Changbin watching over his shoulder. Seungmin takes up two seats while Jeongin sits on the ground next to his legs. Minho is lounging in the corner seat of the couch, Chan on his left, Jisung on his right.

For the first time, they’re all silent. Each of their conversations were cut short when a news broadcast cut through the movie they were “watching”.

A female news anchor sat behind a desk looking directly into the camera.

“We interrupt your program with a breaking news report from The National Weather Service. Please be advised that there is extreme adverse weather expected to affect Seoul beginning tomorrow. All airports, roads, and businesses will remain closed starting tomorrow, November 22nd, until further notice.”

Normally, none of the boys would care about a storm. This meant time off from work, time to relax and stay inside while everyone gets some much needed rest but…

“Minho!” your voice calls out into the living room. Your roommate perks up off the couch, tearing his eyes away from the news broadcast. “Can I borrow your neck pillow? I’m going to need it for the flight. Sixteen hours on the plane is going to be killer without it.”

His jaw clenches and he looks around at the other boys on the couch who all have equally flustered expressions. They each stare at one another like deer in headlights.

“Ah,” he hums and looks around the room.

Oh, you were so excited to go home for Thanksgiving, how was he going to tell you that the airport is closed due to the incoming storm? Why does he have to be the one to break the news to you?

The news anchor continues talking about the snowstorm, predicting record levels of snowfall and high speed winds.

All month, all you could talk about was how much you missed Thanksgiving: the turkey, the parade, the pie, everything.

He didn’t really understand it.

“Minho?” You ask again when he doesn’t answer. Your figure appears in the doorway into the living room.

As soon as you stand in front of all of them, their heads snap towards you.

Your eyes widen, obviously startled. “Guys?” You ask, laughing nervously. “Why are you all looking at me like that?”

Felix moves a bit, his mouth opening to say something before the news anchor cuts him off again.

“Again, we repeat the broadcast: Please be advised that there is extreme adverse weather expected to affect Seoul beginning tomorrow. All airports, roads, and businesses will remain closed starting tomorrow, November 22nd, until further notice.”

Your mouth drops open and you step further into the room to look at the TV.

“What?” You say to yourself, your heart dropping to your stomach. Everyone else’s does as well from your devastated tone.

Chan reaches forward with the remote, turning the volume up for you to hear.

“No, no…” you whisper.

Minho watches you, feeling his own heart break for you.

“M-Maybe I can book a flight for tonight. The storm starts tomorrow, maybe I can get out at the last minute.” You practically run back to your room, frantically looking for your phone.

All of the boys stay silent.

Apple pie this, mashed potatoes that, homemade pineapple … something. Minho couldn’t remember what you had said. You would always talk too fast when you were excited.

It only got harder for him to understand when you would go into English.

On top of all of this, you haven’t been back to America since you moved here two years ago. It was going to be your first time home.

You were just so busy when you started your new job that there was never any time to take off.

And now that you finally could? It’s falling through your fingers.

“Such a shame…” Hyunjin is the first one to break the silence. His voice carries the same sadness that they all hold on their shoulders.

Minho keeps looking down the hall where your room is, hoping to try and hear anything— any news of an earlier flight, a phone call, anything.

Only a few moments pass before Minho gets too antsy to sit still. He stands up from the couch and makes his way down the hallway.

Your door is cracked open a bit.

When he gets closer, he hears you on the phone. “N-No, you don’t understand, I was going home for the holidays— Yes… Yes I understand that everyone else is too, b-but I haven’t been home in two years.”

You sound so heartbroken, it’s physically killing him.

“There are no open seats? ….. the 5:30 flight? That’s in… that’s in ten minutes I live forty minutes away from the airport!”

Minho leans against the wall behind him, your open door to his left.

“There’s nothing else? … No, I understand. Thank you very much for your time... You as well.”

There’s a long moment of silence and a thump against your mattress.

Ten more seconds pass before he hears hiccups and sniffles coming from inside your room. That’s when Minho caves in, coming up to your door frame.

He can never withstand hearing you cry, on the rare occasions that you do.

You look so small curled up on the edge of your bed, your head in your hands. Your suitcase is open on top of your bed with various clothes and toiletries all over the place.

Your shoulders shake as you sob quietly into your hands.

A frown pulls at his face. Minho reaches up and knocks gently on the doorframe.

Your head shoots up in surprise, hands furiously wiping away the tears under your eyes.

“Oh, hey Minho!” You try to smile, but the tears won’t stop, but you continue wiping them away. “Sorry, um… I don’t think I need your neck pillow after all.”

A sob wracks your chest.

“Sorry,” you apologize again and wipe the tears some more.

His frown depends and he walks over to the bed, taking a seat directly next to you.

“You don’t need to apologize, Y/N.”

You sniffle and look down at your lap, the sleeves of your sweater coming over your hands. “It’s dumb to be this upset, I know. I was just really looking forward to Thanksgiving, you know?”

His entire side is pressed against yours. His warmth seeps into you in a comforting manner.

Minho listens to you carefully. He’s never been the best at comforting a crying person, he knows that, but he’s learned that all you ever crave when you’re upset is someone to listen.

“We have this tradition in my family, god, it’s been so long since I’ve been able to do it,” you sniffle and wipe your eyes. “We wake up around nine, and my sister and I make cinnamon rolls and watch the Macy’s parade from New York while we eat them. Then, while we get ready we watch the National dog show and ugh…”

He leans back on one of his hands placed behind you on your bed. The cogs in his brain are already turning.

Cinnamon rolls… Parade…

“God, I really missed my mom’s Pecan Pie.”

“Pecan Pie.” Minho mouths to himself. You don’t see it.

You sniffle.

“I’m so sorry, Y/N,” he whispers to you, his hand coming up to rub your back gently.

“It’s alright, there’s always Christmas. The airline said they can move my ticket without me losing money. I guess it’s better to go then.” You hum and wipe the tears off your face again.

Not knowing what else to say, Minho stays quiet, his hand continuing to rub up and down your spine.

He knows next to nothing about Thanksgiving; it’s an American holiday. All he knows are the little things he’s seen in movies: turkey, hats with buckles on them, eating until you explode.

What parade did you say? Macy’s Parade? Okay…

Minho loses track of how long you both sit there, you trying to pull yourself together while he rubs your back.

His eyes dart around the floor unfocused as he makes a mental checklist in his head. He’s definitely going to need to employ the help of the seven other men in his living room if he hopes to pull this off.

“Thank you, Minho.” Your voice pulls his attention. He looks over at your face, hand pausing between your shoulder blades.

Your eyes are red rimmed and cheeks are rosy from all your crying. A sad smile sits on your face that doesn’t meet your eyes.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he responds, getting a bit flustered under your gaze.

You move your head to rest on his shoulder, like second nature, his arm wraps around your shoulders and keeps you close.

Butterflies swirl in his stomach at the contact. Yes, you’re his roommate, but it was in the last six months or so that his heart started seeing you as so much more.

It all started with you cooking his favorite dinner when you knew he had just had one of the worst days of his life.

He had texted you around noon complaining about the rough day he was having, you consoled him shortly, and that was that.

The day had dragged on, getting worse and worse; he opened the door to your shared apartment around midnight to find you moving around the kitchen.

When he peered over your shoulder and saw his favorite meal, his heart melted.

“To cure your bad day,” you smiled at him.

He fell so hard for you, there was no coming back.

Minho turns his head to rest his chin on the crown of your hair.

“Well, I have off work; maybe I can take the day to catch up on a project without being bothered to join meetings.” You trail off.

“Or you could take the day to relax.” He chuckles.

You pause. “Nah.”

He laughs again and hugs you close.

“I better unpack everything.” You peel yourself out of his arms. Minho’s body already feels so much colder without you pressed against him.

“I’ll leave you to it.” Minho stands up from your bed and makes towards the door.

“Minho,” you grab his attention. He turns back to look at you.

You’re smiling at him again, but the sparkle is missing from your eyes.

“Thank you, really.”

“Of course, Y/N.”

Minho pulls your door closed behind him and makes his way down the hall. He has a mission and a checklist.

And he needed to get to the grocery store tonight if he wanted to pull it off.

----------------------------------------------

Three quick knocks rap against your door at 9:00 AM sharp on November 23rd.

With a disgruntled groan, you shift around in bed and pull the blankets up over your shoulder more.

After a few seconds, the door cracks open slowly, the hinges creaking loudly in the silent morning air.

A huff-like laugh forced through the invader’s nose.

Slippers pad against the carpet of your room and the mattress dips down on the side of your bed.

Gentle, warm fingers push your hair off your forehead. Your eyes squint a bit and you snuggle further into your blanket.

“Minhooo…” you whine without opening your eyes. “I have the day off, remember? I don’t need to wake up.”

“Ah,” he hums, fingers still carding through your hair. “But the parade is on.”

Your brain is still booting up. All your movements pause, your eyes snap open and you look at the man sitting on the side of your bed.

He’s in his cooking apron; the blue one you got him for his birthday last year.

“What?”

That smirk of his spreads over his face, his eyes squint the more he smiles down at you. “The parade is on, Y/N, don’t you want to watch it?”

With wide eyes, you stare at your roommate. “The.. parade? The Macy’s Day Parade?”

He hums with a beautiful, genuine smile. “I didn’t think you wanted to miss it.”

You sit up and kick the blankets off, leaping out of bed and down the hallway. Minho’s laughter follows you.

Sure enough, playing on your TV, is the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade, from New York City.

“Wha…” you trail off. If it’s 9 AM here… it’s only 7 PM the night before Thanksgiving in New York, how is he…?

Your eyes scan the TV to see the small graphic that displays “2022” in the corner.

He’s playing a recorded broadcast of last year's parade. A laugh of disbelief bubbles out of your chest and you whirl around to look at your roommate standing in the hallway.

“Minho!” You squeal.

“We still have to bake cinnamon rolls, come on.” He waves you to follow him to the kitchen. Your jaw drops and you can only stare at him.

Minho looks over his shoulder and sees you’re not following him. “Are you coming? I’m not baking them by myself!”

Another snort of disbelief forces its way out. Your one hand reaches over and pinches your arm.

“No, I’m awake,” you whisper to yourself.

The sound of the parade announcers talking in their thick New York accent makes you feel right at home. There was a specific sound quality of audio that comes from these events and it brings you right back to the East Coast.

Minho walks into the kitchen and you follow after him with an extra spring in your step.

———————————————

“And here comes Snoopy and his good friend Woodstock!” The TV announcer says happily.

You take another bite of your cinnamon roll, chewing happily and watching the TV. Doongie curled up next to you, tail swishing around.

Minho can’t decide what he wants to watch more: you or the TV. You’re positively beaming, and he hasn’t even told you the best part yet.

He scratches Soonie’s head absentmindedly.

There’s a couple knocks on the door.

“Come in!” Minho calls out.

The door creaks open. “Minho, your timer went off. I think you need to baste the turkey.”

Your head whips around to see Felix poking his head into the apartment. He makes eye contact with you and his smile brightens instantly.

“Hi, Y/N! Happy Thanksgiving!” Felix chirps from the door.

“Thank you?”

Minho stands up off the couch, “Thanks, Felix, I’ll be right over.”

“Gotcha, see you soon, Y/N!” Felix closes the door behind him.

You look up at Minho. “Turkey? You’re making a turkey?”

He stands in front of you and smiles. “I am, you can’t have Thanksgiving dinner without turkey, right?”

“You– Are we..?”

“We are. But not until after the parade, and the dog show, of course. I told everyone to come around 2:00, that works, right?”

You stare up at him, cinnamon roll still in your hand.

“Y… Yeah, that works.” You truly cannot believe your ears. Are you sure you’re not still sleeping? Do you need to pinch yourself again?

“Good, I’ll be right back.”

Minho moves past you towards the door, scratching your head a few times as he passes by. You make no move to fix your hair after he leaves.

Slowly, you take another bite of the roll, eyes spacing out watching the parade.

Inside your chest, you can feel your heart stutter and swell, heat rising to your cheeks and turning your ears red. He’s really doing so much for you, isn’t he?

----------------------------------------------

“Y/N! Come on out, Chan and Jisung are here and Jeongin needs help with the mashed potatoes!” Minho calls down the hall.

Like a kid on Christmas, you peel down the hall, adjusting the earring you’re wearing.

You’re in a black turtleneck tucked into a cute light brown pencil skirt with black tights and fuzzy socks. The most typical Thanksgiving outfit.

Your favorite jewelry adorning your body.

The four boys turn around and greet you happily. Each of them in their own fuzzy sweaters and comfy pants.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” They all say to you in unison.

“Ah, happy Thanksgiving!” You cheer back and wrap Jisung and Chan into a tight hug since they were the closest. “Thank you so much for this!”

Both of them wrap an arm around you with giddy smiles. “It was all Minho’s idea,” says Chan. “If you wanna thank anyone, thank him.”

“Or you could help, instead.” Minho teases from behind the kitchen counter, sliding over a can of cranberry sauce.

“Oh my god!” You squeal and come around to grab it. “Where did you find this? I didn’t think any stores in Korea sold this!”

Minho hums happily and stirs a pot on the stove. “There’s an American store a few blocks away. It’s where I got most of the groceries for today.”

A timer beeps at the same time the door swings open.

“Hot bird coming through!” Felix calls into the room. “I have a turkey too!”

Everyone gives Felix a pity laugh as briskly walks towards the kitchen and places the cooked turkey onto the counter. The smell that wafts through the house is heavenly.

Jisung hands you a glass of sangria with a wink. You clink glasses and take a small sip.

Changbin walks through the door after Felix, holding a stack of about three pies in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.

“Happy Thanksgiving!” he calls inside as he kicks his shoes off.

Everyone responds with the same greeting.

“Minho, where do you want desserts?”

“Just put them on the side by the main table for now!”

There’s more hustle and bustle next to you while Jisung attempts to use the can opener for the cranberry sauce.

“Y/N, could you help me? I don’t think I’ve ever made mashed potatoes before…” Jeongin trails off in front of a pot of boiled potatoes.

You beam at him and skip over to his side. “I absolutely can, it’s a lot easier than you think!”

Chan walks over to the living area with the couches.

“What do you usually have on the TV at home?” he calls in to you.

You’re dumping all of the potatoes into a mixing bowl while you answer him. “Typically, my dad commandeers the TV and has football playing all day, but I really don’t want to watch old football reruns.”

Jeongin watches over your shoulder as you shake the bowl to settle the potatoes. “Could you grab the butter and milk from the fridge?” You ask him and he nods and walks off.

Seungmin comes in with Hyunjin, both of them holding trays of food.

You greet the two of them happily.

While Jeongin is gathering the ingredients from the fridge, you take a moment to look around at all of the boys in your apartment.

They must have looked up ‘What to wear to Thanksgiving’; each of them is in a sweater and dress pants. Some of them have turtlenecks underneath the sweater, some don’t, but they all look like the same font as one another.

“What can I do to help?” Seungmin asks, him and Hyunjin further crowding the kitchen.

“Go set the table with Hyunjin.” Minho points to the long dining room table, shooing them out of the already small space. Plates, napkins, forks, knives, glasses– everything you can think of, is placed on the corner of the table in stacks and piles.

“I’ll help too!” Felix chirps and makes his way over with the two men.

“Y/N!” Changbin calls your attention. Both him and Chan have beer bottles in their hands, bodies facing the TV. The two of them look like dads with the way they’re standing. “What about a Christmas movie? Is that allowed on Thanksgiving?”

Jeongin plops the milk and butter on the counter next to you.

You call back into the living room. “Yeah, that’s fine! But make it a good one– a classic! Oh! What about Christmas Vacation? That’s my favorite!”

“I’ll find it, don’t worry!” Chan responds.

Another timer beeps, Minho opens the oven and pulls out a tray full of fresh rolls. Jisung finally wrestles the can of cranberry sauce open.

Your heart grows three sizes.

“Ten more minutes on the Pineapple Bake.” Minho says to himself but you hear it.

Your head snaps around so fast it might tumble off your shoulders. “Pineapple Bake? You made Pineapple Bake?”

A flush crawls up Minho’s neck to his ears when he turns and meets your sparkly eyes.

“You had mentioned it…” he trails off and finds something else on the counter to fidget with.

“How did you get the recipe?”

“Ah, well,” he rubs the back of his neck nervously. “I have your mother’s number from when you first moved in and all.”

“You texted my mom?”

“Is that alright?”

The hustle and bustle of the seven other bodies around your apartment fades into the background. Even with Jeongin standing directly next to you, he seems to disappear.

“You texted my mom and asked for her Pineapple Bake recipe?” You choke out again, your eyebrows raising, lips parting in an emotionally shocked expression.

Minho visibly gets a bit more nervous at your repeated question. His jaw clenches and he plays with the tie of the apron. “Did I overstep?”

Without any warning, you cross the few steps of the kitchen towards him and throw your arms around your roommate, burying your face into his shoulder. Small tears of joy well in the corners of your eyes, throat constricting with so many emotions.

After a moment of hesitation, Minho wraps his arms around you and rests his cheek on top of your hair.

“Thank you, Minho,” you whisper to him, squeezing him even tighter.

Minho’s shoulders visibly react from your hug, relaxing from the tension of the past few moments.

He smells like the holidays, the softness of his sweater is so comforting against your cheek. You just want to bury your nose in it and drown in the scent.

“This means so much to me.” Your words are so sincere, he could cry from hearing them. His arms tighten around you, eyes closing to relish in your hold.

He basks in it. Despite a third timer screaming in his ear, he continues to hold you like if he let go, you would disappear forever.

Having you in his arms like this has always been the equivalent of drinking warm tea before bed. It sends a wave of comfort and safety through his entire being.

The timer continues to beep.

“You can thank me after you eat.”

You giggle, any sadness he’s ever felt disappears for a split second.

Hyunjin calls into this kitchen. “Can you please turn that thing off before I go insane?”

Minho sighs, the air blowing into your hair. He keeps you close for a few more heartbeats before letting go.

“It’s time for dinner anyway.”

----------------------------------------------

Everyone was quiet, the TV still playing Christmas movies in the background. The streaming service that Chan had put on had autoplayed movie after movie while you ate dinner and then dessert.

The last surprise Minho had for you was that he also had asked your mother for her Pecan Pie recipe two nights ago.

Everything about today left you floored and speechless. Your heart has never felt this full in your life.

All eight of them sat around the table looking uncomfortably full. The table that was once filled with every side dish known to Thanksgiving enjoyers, every dessert you could dream of, was now littered with empty dishes.

“We should just be thankful for being together. I think that’s what they mean by Thanksgiving, Charlie Brown.” Marcie’s animated voice rings through the apartment.

Again, your throat tightens up with so many happy emotions, you clench your jaw to keep them down.

From directly next to you, Minho must’ve noticed your expression, his hand reaching under the table and resting on your knee, squeezing it once to comfort you.

You look over at him.

His heart catches in his chest.

There’s that sparkle in your eyes. The one that disappeared two nights ago, he got it back. His entire face softens as he stares at you as if you hung the moon and vice versa.

“I need a nap,” Felix groans from his chair.

You hum and look over at him. He’s slumped in his seat, head back, eyes closed.

“That’s the best part of Thanksgiving, sleeping with a full stomach.” You tell him.

“Full is an understatement.” Jeongin adds.

“I think I found a new favorite holiday…” Changbin trails off.

“Ditto,” adds Chan.

“Yeah? Well maybe we can have a Friendsgiving next year and do it all over again.” You tell the table.

Minho groans. “I’ll need more help next time, then!”

Everyone grunts in agreement.

You reach under the table and take a hold of Minho’s hand still on your leg. Your fingers wind together and you beam at him again with that dazzling smile.

“I would do anything to do this again.”

----------------------------------------------

“I still can’t believe they took that many leftovers,” Minho mutters, dipping the sponge in the sink.

“I can’t believe we had that many leftovers.” You dry a dish with the towel and place it on the other clean ones.

The exhaustion from eating is still heavy in your bones; but both you and Minho decided it was better to get all the washing out of the way so that you could just relax for the rest of the night.

It felt like you’ve been washing dishes for hours.

Soft twinkling of Christmas music plays through the speakers of the TV from the movie.

“Minho?” You ask suddenly, your voice is a bit weak and unconfident.

He looks over at you with his undivided attention, one eyebrow raised.

“There’s one more Thanksgiving tradition I didn’t tell you about.”

His eyebrows furrow more and he puts the dish down in the sink full of sudsy water. “What is it?”

Smiling, you put the towel down.

“Will you dance to Christmas music with me? To ring in the Holiday Season.”

Minho’s taken aback for a moment, he laughs– almost in disbelief. “Really?”

You bite your lip nervously, nodding once.

With a playful smile, he grabs the towel and dries his hands. “You want to dance? We can dance, Y/N.”

Squealing, you happily skip to the living room. “Alexa, play Christmas music!” You call out and she immediately begins to play music at the perfect volume.

Frank Sinatra’s ‘I’ve Got My Love to Keep Me Warm’ plays through the speaker. The happy saxophones and trumpets blare and your spirits lift even more than you thought they could.

You bounce on your heels to the beat a few times, swaying with the rhythm in a silly way.

When you turn around, you see Minho stepping towards you to the beat. One of the happiest looks ever on his face. His hair still slightly styled from this morning, just a bit more relaxed as the day went on.

His sweater is so cozy with a black turtleneck underneath, heather gray dress pants on the bottom. Lee Minho looks like the Holidays wrapped up in a warm, cable knit package, and he’s currently dancing towards you.

Once he is up on you, he takes your one hand and places the other on your waist. Both of you look like absolute goof balls, swaying and bobbing to the rhythm of Frank Sinatra in your living room.

The scent of Thanksgiving dinner still hangs in the air; the warmth from the ovens and stove hasn’t faded one bit.

Minho leads you all around the living room in a beautifully clumsy dance. The smiles on your faces never drop, even for a moment. They only grow with each giggle passed from one to another.

His eyes stay locked with yours the entire time. Nothing could interrupt your moment,

You mouth the lyrics to him; it’s English, so he’s not really able to keep up as much. But the emotion is there. And just the idea that you’re singing to him makes his heart soar.

“What do I care how much it may storm,” you sing, “I’ve got my love to keep me warm.”

Minho spins you around, you squeal with happiness with your arm above your head. He brings you back in and grabs your waist with both hands, lifting you into the air and twirling more as the music swells. You place both of your hands on his shoulders for balance.

He gently places you back on the ground, the song ending and fading into the next one.

Michael Buble’s ‘I’ll Be Home For Christmas’ follows it up. The rhythm of the song slows down the energy in the room dramatically.

Neither you nor Minho let go of one another. Instead of backing away, the two of you step even closer. Your arms wind around his neck, his hands interlock on your lower back.

Your eyes look all around his perfect face, meanwhile his stay locked on your eyes. He’s so enchanted by you, it feels like you placed him under some sort of spell.

If he could, Minho would do this entire day over and over again until he died, just to see this beautiful look in your eye each time, to hear your glee filled laughter after each surprise.

Instead of moving around the room, the two of you simply sway side to side in time with the beat of the song. Minho spins the two of you very slowly in place.

A beautiful, festive, Christmas bubble begins forming around the two of you.

“I cannot even begin to tell you how much today meant to me, Minho.” You break the silence between the two of you.

He chuckles. “I’m glad I was able to do it for you, Y/N. I don’t think I’ve ever run to the store that fast in my life.”

Mirroring him, you laugh softly. “I can only imagine what you looked like trying to get everything together.”

He moves his head side to side. “I had a lot of help.”

You shake your head. “This was quite possibly the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“You deserve it.”

Another laugh from you. He just watches you. He watches each emotion cross your face with such admiration, with such a fond, sweet gaze, it could rot your teeth.

Piano keys tinkle in the music. Michael Buble’s smooth voice wrapping around your private bubble.

“I am endlessly thankful for you, Lee Minho.”

His gaze softens even more.

You’re his soft spot. You– beautiful, wonderful, joyous you– are Lee Minho’s weak point.

Slowly, the swaying to the song begins to slow down as you both get lost within one another. Everything about the scene was like a movie, down to the storm swelling outside your window.

Minho’s eyes flicker down to your lips for a split second.

You grin. His heart thuds in his chest.

“I don’t suppose you got any mistletoe?” you ask cheekily.

His eyes widen for a second, but he quickly catches on to your joke. “That wasn’t on any of the Thanksgiving websites I found.”

“Oh well.”

Without another word, and with the goofiest of grins on both of your faces, you pull Minho in for a kiss.

His entire world stops when his lips meet yours, everything pauses and the only thing that exists is you. Nothing else matters except for the girl in his arms.

The world could end right now and he would be the happiest man on Earth.

Both of his arms tighten around you, one hand comes up to cup your cheek, cradling it softly.

Your arms around his neck bring him even closer to you.

His kiss is everything, it’s sugar cookies rising in the oven, it’s a sunrise on the beach, it’s waking up to the smell of cinnamon rolls on Thanksgiving– everything.

It’s everything you’ve always needed. He is everything you’ve always needed.

Eventually, the two of you pull away from one another, but not without a last few stolen pecks on the other’s lips.

The kisses end up short, you both keep smiling and pulling away, too happy to continue.

Minho keeps his eyes closed, his thumb brushes over your cheekbone. “I think I have a new favorite holiday.” Another peck to your lips.

You giggle and kiss him again and again, “Me too, Lee Minho.”

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