#the first chapter when i’m on chapter five :|

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (31 - Paradise Calling)

Chapter Summary: After several weeks of looking for her, you do eventually find Wanda Maximoff after she leaves Westview, but not in any way you ever imagined.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 3k+ | Chapter Tags/Warnings: violence, mention of blood and injury

A/N: The story continues in the aftermath of Wanda’s release of Westview. I’m still debating whether to stick with the canon concept of Billy and Tommy’s souls being real but bodiless since I started this story long before Agatha All Along entered the picture. Also, there might not be an update next week as I'll be out of town. Thanks to everyone who still continues to follow this story :) You guys are awesome. P.S. can you guess which mutant attacked y/n? :P // More author's notes here. // gif

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

The Hex dissolves completely at midnight.

By then, more and more of Westview have become accessible, its walls shrinking like the last breath of a dying storm. Throughout the wait, Monica’s order remains ironclad, which is that no one who isn’t a Westview resident is to step across the boundary.

It turns out to be the right call. Letting Wanda end it on her own terms—without pressure, or interference—is the last mercy anyone can offer. So they wait at the edge of town, in the solemn dark, while those inside slowly begin to come back to themselves.

And when the last of it winds down, Monica gives the signal. The military moves in, not with weapons this time, but with medics in tow. People stumble into the streets, dazed and hollow-eyed, like toys winding themselves up after years on a shelf. Some of them rush to scoop their children into their arms, while others just stand there, holding each other, staring at their hands like they’ve only just remembered what it means to move on their own.

It’s harder than anyone on the rescue team expected. Because how do you assess damage like this? These people aren’t injured in any conventional way. Their minds weren’t broken so much as hijacked. Puppeted. Made to smile and speak and move without their consent. It’s not madness, and it’s definitely not grief that they are experiencing. 

It’s something more…alienating. Locked in the backseat of your own body, watching your hands move and your mouth speak, knowing none of it is you. It’s the kind of trauma that leaves even seasoned therapists unsure where to begin. So the medics do what they can. Blankets for the cold, water for the dry-mouthed, and a hand on the shoulder for those who can’t seem to stop shaking. 

And you—you stay rooted at the edge of the ground where Wanda’s house once stood, silently taking in the aftermath. It’s the first time you’ve really looked at the lot you bought on a whim five years ago. It feels larger than you remembered, and standing here now, it stirs more regret than pride.

“There’s no sign of her,” Clint says as he approaches. He glances between you, Monica, and Darcy. “She’s gone.”

Monica exhales sharply. “Of course she is,” she mutters.

Agent Woo’s already packed up and gone too, reassigned mid-crisis to another urgent matter. Those left behind are burdened to help pick up the pieces.

“I guess she escaped?” Darcy offers.

You wince. “Don’t say ‘escaped.’ She didn’t—” The sentence stalls, the logic collapsing halfway out of your mouth.

Monica catches it and shrugs. “Yeah, maybe ‘escaping’ wasn’t her plan.” Then, more pointedly, “But what did you think was gonna happen? That she’d stick around? Turn herself in? Like you did, Y/N?”

Right. You’re still technically a prisoner. Still walking around on borrowed time, under a conditional release that’s quickly running out, especially now that Wanda’s vanished, and no one has a clue where she went.

You’d been hoping for a moment—just one—to talk to Wanda alone. And now, you’re starting to think your presence never mattered at all. The other you, her you, was the one who got through to her, who helped her bring down the Hex.

All you’ve ever done here was make it harder for Wanda.

“And her children?” you ask quietly, turning to Clint, your voice stripped down to worry.

Clint just shakes his head. “No sign of them. Or your copy.”

Everyone’s face falls at that. They’d all felt so real, the idea that they simply blinked out of existence is hard to swallow even if the theory always seemed to suggest that direction.

Darcy breaks the spell. “Shame, really. I kinda liked that Y/N.” She shoots you an apologetic grin. “No offense to the original, it’s just... we never got our moment.”

You manage a weak smile. “None taken.”

Monica claps her hands together. “Well, I guess… that’s it.” 

You turn to her slowly, frowning. “What do you mean ‘that’s it’?”

Monica’s hands drop to her sides. “I mean… she’s gone. The Hex is down. Everyone who was trapped is free. There’s nothing more we can do.”

Clint gives a weary shrug. “Sometimes disappearing’s the only thing a person has left.” You shoot him a glare, but he honestly seems oblivious that his words just struck you straight on.

Before you can argue further, a young S.W.O.R.D. tech jogs up, tablet in hand.

“Uh, Director?” He gestures vaguely at Monica. “We found a vehicle just outside the old perimeter. Abandoned. Figured you’d want to take a look.”

Monica glances between you and Clint. “Yours?”

You shake your head no.

“Color?” Clint asks.

“Deep maroon,” the tech says. “Old Volvo wagon. New Jersey plates.”

Clint lets out a low whistle. “That’s Wanda’s.”

You’re already moving before the words finish leaving his mouth.

“Y/N—” Monica calls after you, but you don’t look back.

Clint mutters a curse and follows. Monica and Darcy hang back, letting you go.

You’re desperate for any sign of Wanda, anything that might tell you where she went. You haven’t run this far or this fast in years, and your lungs are burning from the effort. But the thought of her out there, alone and possibly hurt, keeps your legs moving, pushing through the ache.

Soon, just past the edge of the boundary, you spot the Volvo.

You slow as you approach, heart thudding in your chest.

Clint catches up beside you. “That’s definitely hers.”

You nod, already reaching for the handle. It shouldn’t open, but it does. The door gives with a soft click, swinging open without resistance. You slide into the driver’s seat and glance around. 

“She didn’t even lock it,” you murmur.

“The keys?” Clint asks.

You check the ignition. Nothing. Then the cupholders, under the seat, the center console. Still nothing.

“Glove box,” Clint says, leaning in through the open door.

You press the latch. The compartment drops with a soft thunk, and something slides forward: a single manila folder, edges crisp, your name penned in Wanda’s looping cursive across the tab. Your breath catches. Carefully, almost like it might break in your hands, you lift it. It feels like it holds everything you’ve been chasing.

Inside, everything is heartbreakingly familiar. The property deed you mailed Clint weeks ago. Photographs you never had the courage to burn when you first became convinced that Wanda wasn’t coming back. Letters and notes you randomly wrote to Wanda throughout the years she was gone. 

And resting on top of it all, catching the faint moonlight—

Your wedding ring. The one you gave her. The match to the one you still wear around your neck.

With trembling fingers, you turn the band over between thumb and forefinger; it’s still warm, as if she’d only just set it down.

“She left this car here,” you whisper. “Because she wanted me to find this.”

Clint drifts a few steps back, giving you space but not leaving. He folds his arms and waits, giving you time to come to terms with Wanda’s clear response at having found out you lied to her. And it’s not pretty.

After a long, brittle silence, he clears his throat. “So… what are you going to do now?”

It’s the same question everyone’s thrown at you all day, and you still don’t have an answer.

Instead of answering, you whisper, “Did I make a mistake, Clint? Walking away back then, leaving her to sort through the rubble alone, was that when everything started to fall apart?”

He exhales and lowers himself onto the curb beside the car. “We all made mistakes,” he says, rubbing a thumb over a scar on his knuckles. “But no one could have known it would lead to this. We were careless, sure, maybe blind to how much she was really hurting. But this,” he says, nodding at the folder in your lap, “this was Wanda’s pain. Her choice. Not something you could have predicted.”

“I should’ve seen her slipping. I asked you to look after her and—”

“I know,” he cuts you off, shaking his head. “And I’m sorry, Y/N. I wasn’t there for her like you asked. I was drowning in my own mess, trying to keep my family together once we got them back… I missed the signs.”

You nod slowly and slip the ring into your pocket. Then, flat and quiet, you say, “I’ve still got about a decade of my sentence to serve.”

“I can buy you more time,” Clint offers. “Tell them Wanda escaped. Technically, this whole thing isn’t over.”

You huff a humorless breath. “It won’t matter. I don’t want to go back.”

Clint studies you for a long moment, brow furrowed. “You mean that?”

You nod again. “The second I saw her… I wanted to take it all back. The deal. The surrender. All those years I spent trying to convince myself that moving on was the right call.”

He sits with that for a while, then says, quiet and honest, “You know I can’t turn myself in either.”

You glance over at him. “I’m not asking you to.”

“I’ve got my family back,” he says. “I’m rebuilding. I can’t walk away from that.”

“I know,” you reply. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

He gives you a sidelong look. “Then what are you thinking? You planning to go back on the run? Because you remember what it was like after the Accords, right? We didn’t end up in the Raft, but we weren’t free either. We were always looking over our shoulders.”

A faint smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. “Wanda was with me back then.”

He raises a brow, watching you carefully.

“And somehow,” you add, voice soft, almost to yourself, “that made all of it bearable.”

After a long lull, Clint asks, “What were you hoping for, Y/N? When she saw you?”

“I don’t know,” you admit with a shrug. “Maybe that… that she’d recognize me, at least.”

“She probably did,” Clint says. “That might be why she destroyed the Hex herself.”

You shake your head, hard, unwilling to accept that. “I doubt it was that simple.” 

The idea feels impossible. You remember the look on Wanda’s face: hurt, disappointment, the unmistakable sting of betrayal. You have put that look there before, but this time it was different. This time, that betrayal caused her this guilt she now carries with her for something she’d done out of her mourning you—

When she never should have had to mourn at all.

—

With Clint’s quiet blessing, you slip into the night, becoming a fugitive once again, determined to reach Wanda before the authorities do. It isn’t enough that Wanda released the town willingly; the damage is already done. Westview’s residents remain traumatized and disoriented, and dissolving the Hex doesn't absolve her actions. This is exactly what Tony always fought for—the idea that even heroes, even Avengers, must answer to laws meant for everyone, not just hide behind the duty of saving the world.

You don’t blame them for hunting her. You just don’t trust them to understand her.

So you go first.

You swap your jacket for a plain coat, leave your comms behind, and start reaching out to contacts you haven’t spoken to in years. A woman like Wanda can’t move without leaving a ripple, and eventually, you learn to follow a pattern: unexplained power surges in rural areas upwards north. Clint checks in with you every now and then, but you don’t expect anything more. He’s busy these days—a civilian fully occupied with being a father. 

The first few weeks blur together. Deep down, you keep hoping Wanda will be the one to find you—not because she misses you or wants to forgive, but because she finally wants answers. Isn’t there at least one question she needs to ask? Maybe she hates you too much to bother. Maybe she hates you enough to stop caring about your reasons altogether.

That thought hurts more than you’d like to admit. Still, it’s nothing compared to what you’ve put her through. You don’t know how you’ll face her when the time comes. All you know is that she’s hurting—and a hurting Wanda Maximoff isn’t just a danger to the world. She’s a danger to herself.

Late one evening, while tracking rumors of strange sightings in the forested mountains of Vermont, you feel unease settle in your gut. The trees grow denser, their branches knitting overhead, and the pale yellow moon offers little light. Shadows slither and shift across the narrow trail. You stop, breath misting in the cold air, certain now that you’re not alone.

You hold still and listen. Over the thud of your own unsteady pulse comes a faint rustle in the undergrowth. It’s too careful, too deliberate to be wind or wildlife.

“Who’s there?” Your voice is brittle, an uncertain challenge.

In the dark forest, you know you shouldn’t make a sound. But if it’s Wanda—

A low growl answers, so deep and guttural it sends a chill racing down your spine. You spin, eyes straining through the gloom, just as a shadow barrels toward you. The movement is fast, smooth, and completely inhuman.

It slams into you with brutal force, all muscle and claws—definitely not Wanda—knocking you hard to the ground.

You scramble to your feet, breath ragged, eyes sweeping the darkness in search of your attacker. The figure rises slowly, towering and hunched, its skin a sick, mottled gray. Its limbs are grotesquely stretched, ending in claws slick with fresh blood (yours).

Its face—

No. That can’t be right. Tony’s snap wiped out all of Thanos’ army. This thing shouldn’t exist. So how is it standing here? How did it survive?

“What the—” you gasp, stumbling back.

It lunges again, jaws gaping open with teeth glinting sharp and savage. You swing your arm wildly, and your fist connects with its jaw. The impact jars painfully up your arm, but the creature barely reacts, snarling viciously as it swings one massive clawed hand toward your face. You dodge by inches, claws slicing the air with a sharp hiss.

You stagger back again, trying to regain your footing. Your breath comes out in uneven bursts of fogged air. The creature circles slowly, blocking any clear route of escape. You study it, desperately searching for a weakness, but its movements remain erratic, unpredictable. 

Your combat skills are still there, but you’ve aged some, and it’s not as easy to fall back into your old rhythm and speed, especially when facing such an aggressive foe.

“Stay back,” you warn weakly, your voice trembling despite your attempt at bravado.

It snarls louder, head twitching, neck muscles spasming unnaturally as it stalks closer. You backpedal and your foot slips on wet leaves, throwing you off-balance. You hit the ground hard, skull cracking sharply against something hidden beneath the foliage. Stars burst in your vision.

As you struggle to sit upright, the beast approaches slowly, enjoying this, you realize sickeningly. It flexes its claws, taking its time.

“Wait,” you choke out, tasting copper as blood fills your mouth.

It stalks towards you leisurely as if hearing nothing. It snarls again, lips peeling back to reveal teeth sharp as blades. It raises a hand for the final blow, claws poised high—

And all you can think is how ironic it is. That this is what you craved, once.

Back when you were Ronin.

When death felt like the only honest language left, and violence was the only thing that could answer it.

You spent five years chasing this moment. And now? Now, with Wanda back in the universe. Now, when for the first time in years, you actually want to live.

Now is when death decides to show up?

Of course it is.

You laugh, or try to, but it comes out as a choked breath through blood. The creature roars, the sound tearing through the trees. And as the snow drifts down and your vision begins to fade, you manage one last word, soft as a prayer.

“…Wanda.”

—

You wake slowly to warmth, a fire crackling nearby. Every part of you feels bruised, sliced open, and carefully stitched back together. Bandages wind tight around your ribs, your shoulders, your arms. Your throat burns dry, but you're breathing. Miraculously. 

You push yourself upright, careful and slow. The world sways around you as the blanket slips from your shoulders.

Blinking up at the slanted ceiling overhead—wooden, rough-hewn, beams exposed, nothing familiar about it—you realize you’re still in the forest. The earthy, damp scent of pine needles teases your nose. There’s no electricity, just lanterns, candles, heat from flame and old wood. The furniture is simple, hand-built, and worn from use.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed, your bare feet sinking into a rug so soft it draws a quiet sigh from your lips. You have no idea how long you’ve been unconscious—hours, maybe even days.

Unsteady, you find the hallway, one hand trailing the wall for balance. You pass a small kitchen, simple but well-stocked. A kettle rests near the fire, still warm, like it was used not long ago.

Out of the corner of your eye, you catch the front door slightly ajar, a narrow strip of gray light slicing into the room, dust suspended in its path.

You drift closer.

Outside, there’s Wanda.

She sits on the porch steps, wrapped in a thick sweater, her back to you. Her hair falls in loose, tangled waves, longer than you remember. Despite the biting cold, she’s barefoot, her arms draped over her knees as she stares into the woods.

You stop at the doorway, saying nothing at first. 

She looks so… peaceful. 

“Wanda,” you say at last, barely above a breath.

She doesn’t move.

You try again. “Wanda.”

Still nothing. You can’t tell if she’s ignoring you, or if your voice is simply too weak for her to hear.

Of course it was her who found you. Of course it doesn’t mean anything’s been forgiven. You take a step back, and the door eases shut behind you with a quiet creak.

You head deeper into the cabin. It’s not large, but in your condition, it feels like a maze.

At the end of a narrow hallway, you find a door left slightly open.

Something pulses beyond it—low and red and constant. Your fingers graze the frame as you nudge it open. 

The hair on your arms rises.

Wanda’s there, too.

She’s floating a few inches off the ground, legs crossed. Her eyes don’t blink. They don’t move. Just glowing red, unwavering and endless.

She’s reading. The book in her hands is anything but ordinary. Its pages shift and shimmer, symbols rearranging themselves the moment you try to make sense of them.

You open your mouth, but your voice doesn’t come. You’re frozen.

Slowly, like she already knew you were standing there, she lifts her head.

Her gaze locks onto yours.

The book snaps shut.

[sweetromanova]

Claw & Order: Part Three🐾

Natasha Romanoff x Reader

Summary: Natasha Romanoff is being accused of grand theft feline. The evidence? A very smug tabby. The problem? She kinda loves him now.

Chapter Three

Brooklyn smelled like stale beer, wet pavement and bad decisions. Natasha had smelled worse. She just hadn’t expected to spend her Tuesday morning retracing the steps of a missing cat with a very angry civilian trailing behind her. Somewhere nearby, a dog was barking like it had beef with the sky itself.

It was almost comical, one of the world’s best assassins and internationally known Avenger was stood glaring at the side of a dumpster like it owed her rent money.

“This is a waste of time.” You said, huffing behind her. “He wouldn’t come this way.”

Natasha didn’t turn around. “He’s a cat. He doesn’t respect human logic.”

“Wow. Thanks, Freud.”

“You said he liked bodega salmon.”

“He does. But only from the bodega on 3rd. This is 6th. He’s snobby, not stupid.”

Natasha turned and gave you that look. The one she probably used on international arms dealers and telemarketers. “Would you rather I let the cat remain missing?”

You threw your arms in the air. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did the former KGB assassin just get a little testy over a feline stakeout?”

“I’ve dealt with rogue A.I.s. This is worse. You are worse.”

You gasped, hand to your chest. “Did you just rank me below homicidal sentient technology?”

“I’d trust Ultron to follow a trail faster than you.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who interrogated a bagel guy like he was a sleeper agent.”

Natasha didn’t even blink. “He flinched when I said ‘cat.’”

“He was eighty seven and making change for a ten.”

“And yet he still had time to hide something behind the cream cheese tubs.”

“That was a jar of pickles.”

“Or microfilm.” She muttered, darkly.

You stared at her. “Are you actually okay? Like, medically?”

Natasha just started walking again. “Let’s go. We’ve got four more blocks and a lead on a woman who claims a ‘shadowy figure’ climbed into her laundry basket.”

You sighed dramatically. “I cannot believe I’m hunting my emotionally unavailable cat with an even more emotionally unavailable assassin.”

“Are you still talking?” Natasha said.

“I’m grieving!”

She didn’t respond but you could’ve sworn, sworn, that her shoulders shook the tiniest bit like she was maybe trying not to laugh.

The next fifteen minutes were spent walking down the block at wildly incompatible speeds. You, zigzagging ahead like a caffeinated raccoon and Natasha, strolling behind like she had all the time in the world and a coupon for catnip.

You spun around, pointing under a parked SUV. “He might be hiding under there!”

Natasha crouched for a single, surgical glance then straightened with a shrug. “Just a possum.”

“A poss- you didn’t even flinch.”

“It blinked first.”

You gawked at her. “For the second time today, are you like… okay? Mentally? Emotionally?”

Natasha kept walking. “Define okay.”

“Oh my god.” You muttered, throwing your hands up. “No wonder the cat left me. I was replaced by a sleep deprived Terminator with cheekbones.”

“He made the choice.” She said coolly, peeking under a mailbox.

You grumbled under your breath. “Probably hypnotised him with your husky voice. Or maybe you taught him Krav Maga.”

“At least I didn’t let him eat cheese puffs and call it enrichment.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That is a very specific and personal attack AND he likes those.”

“He also licks his own feet. Your bar is low.”

“I’m emotionally fragile and you’re bullying me.”

She gave you a look, one eyebrow raised, just shy of amused. “You threatened me in a federal lobby.”

You sighed. “Ok so we’re both going through things.”

-

At the third bodega of the morning, Natasha tried interrogating the owner like she was in a Bourne movie.

“Have you seen a black cat.? Green eyes. May answer to ‘Milo’ or ‘Liho’ or possibly just the sound of cheese wrappers.”

The old man behind the counter narrowed his eyes. “Lady, I’ve seen five black cats this week. One of them might’ve been a raccoon. I sell scratch-offs, not miracles.”

You stepped up behind her. “Hi. Sorry. My emotional support war criminal here is new to small talk.”

Natasha rolled her eyes. “I’ve been undercover in Moldova. I can absolutely do small talk.”

You turned back to the bodega guy. “He’s fluffy. Little white patch on his belly. Huge attitude. Answers to nothing, judges everyone.”

The bodega man lit up. “Oh! That sounds like me in high school.”

“We’re done here.” Natasha gagged, not giving you a chance to finish and simply taking your hand and pulling you out the store.

Back on the street, you dropped a few of Milo’s favorite treats near a lamppost and sighed, loudly.

“Do you have to do that?” Natasha asked.

“Yes. It’s called breathing through heartbreak.”

“You’re dramatic.”

A pigeon landed between you both. You watched it peck at the cat treats.

You mumbled, “If that pigeon steals his snacks I swear to God I will start swinging.”

Natasha handed you the little bag of treats. “Here. You’re better bait than I am.”

“I’m honoured to be considered bait by an Avenger.”

“Just don’t eat them.”

“No promises.”

-

It was much later now and both of you felt tired, stressed and you were losing hope more and more. Perhaps he was gone for good.

About twenty paces later, you muttered, half to yourself, half to the sidewalk. “He likes people who’ve suffered.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “What?”

You didn’t stop walking. “Milo. Liho. Whatever. He’s a sad soul collector. Finds them. Adopts them.”

“That’s extremely bleak.”

“He’s emotionally advanced.”

She waited a beat. “Did something happen?”

You snorted. “What didn’t?”

You stopped near a curb, eyeing a storm drain like Milo might come sliding out like a sewer rat on vacation.

You hesitated. And then, like you’d lost your grip on the internal filter holding back your spiraling.

“I lost my job last month. My firm shut down. One day I was scheduling LinkedIn campaigns, the next I was getting laid off over Zoom by a guy in a Patagonia vest who kept calling me ‘champ.’”

Natasha tilted her head. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. And then my partner, my ex, said they needed time to ‘explore their emotional landscape.’”

“What does that even mean?”

“I think it means they wanted to date someone who does sound baths every Sunday, works solely with an espresso machine and writes slam poetry but who actually knows?”

Natasha gave a quiet, unimpressed snort.

“I had to move out. Found this sad little apartment that’s technically a basement. The radiator wheezes like it’s haunted, there’s a mushroom growing in my closet and I swear I saw a centipede wearing Timberlands.”

Natasha blinked. “Timberlands?”

You waved a hand. “Might’ve hallucinated that part. Anyway. Milo was the only good part. He’d curl up on my chest at night like ‘yeah, this place is garbage, but we’re garbage together.’”

Your voice cracked, not dramatically but enough to make Natasha glance over and immediately look away again.

“I just… I know he’s just a cat, okay? But that cat saw me crying into frozen Trader Joe’s gnocchi at 2am and didn’t even flinch. He deserves better than to be alone out here.”

A heavy silence settled between you, stretching long and awkward and unmistakably real.

Then, in a quiet voice, Natasha finally broke the stillness: “I’ve cried over less worse things than this. I nearly cried when my friend Wanda found the poster saying he was missing and I realised I had to take Liho back.”

You looked over. Her expression was unreadable but there was something softer around the edges now. Like the ice wasn’t melted, exactly but it was cracking.

You wiped your nose. “Sorry. I don’t usually trauma dump on hot spies.”

“You’re fine.”

“Are you sure? I feel like I’m in the middle of a full emotional collapse and you’re just like, emotionally constipated with a six-pack.”

Natasha looked faintly offended. “I have a very healthy emotional regulation system.”

You squinted. “Do you even own a pillow that isn’t tactical?”

-

The walk back to your apartment was quiet, save for the occasional crunch of gravel and Natasha’s steady footsteps behind you. You weren’t sure if she offered to walk you home because it was late or because she sensed you desperately needed a witness to your unraveling. Probably both.

The door creaked open with an ominous groan as you stepped inside. Natasha followed, her eyes immediately scanning the space, not the clutter but the subtle signs of a daily battle fought quietly and without fanfare. The apartment was a mess. Peeling wallpaper, a cracked window covered with duct tape, an air mattress in place of a bed. And in the middle of it stood you, mascara halfway down your cheeks, holding a mug that read ‘Hang in there!’ like the universe was mocking you.

A small space heater hummed near the couch, its tiny warmth clearly a lifeline against the draft seeping through cracked window seals. Notes covered the fridge like a weird, hopeful collage: ‘Rent due,’ ‘Don’t forget to breathe’ and a hastily scribbled ‘Buy more cat food.’ You felt your throat tighten. That last note wasn’t just for you.

Natasha’s gaze landed on a small, well-worn blanket crumpled near the window, and beside it, a shallow bowl with a few stray crumbs. Liho’s corner. She couldn’t help but feel pity, you were doing your best and here you were in an apartment that had worst conditions than most of the cells they’d thrown war criminals and terrorists in over the last few years.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. You grabbed it and flicked it open, showing Natasha a photo. It was a classic cat selfie: Liho mid-lick, slobber trails shining on your cheek. The timestamp read one week ago, before he left.

“He was the only good thing I had left that didn’t feel like it might disappear.” You whispered.

Natasha didn’t reply. Instead, she simply nodded, the way she always did when words felt cheap.

Then everything came crashing down.

You dropped onto the couch, suddenly all at once. “I was so mean to you!” You blubbered, voice cracking as tears welled up and spilled over. “You’ve been so patient and I treated you like... like I don’t know what! I yelled at you in public. I accused you of… catnapping seduction- what is that?! and you were just trying to be nice and I was like AARRGH TUNA CRIMINAL!”

Your sobs hit a comedic crescendo, the kind that starts with quiet sniffles and somehow evolves into dramatic heaving and hyperventilating. You clawed at the couch cushions as if you could claw your way back to some sense of normal.

Natasha blinked. “Is… that a direct quote?”

You wailed louder, flopping into a beanbag. “I’m literally the villain here! You’re the emotionally repressed assassin with a heart of gold that spent all day helping find a cat that let itself into her room, which do you blame him?! Look at this place! And I’m the unstable cat lady who couldn’t keep her girlfriend or her job or her hot water heater!”

She watched, stunned, as you yanked a fuzzy slipper off your foot and threw it at a pile of unopened mail.

The silence after was awkward.

“…Okay.” Natasha said slowly. “You’re clearly having a moment.”

Another dramatic sob. “A low moment.” You hiccupped, looking up with wild, red-rimmed eyes. “I’m a disaster.”

“No argument there.” Natasha deadpanned. Then, after a pause, she added, “Do you want a glass of water? Or should I just call for backup?”

You managed a laugh through the tears. “You could just... hug me?”

That earned you a rare, genuine smile from Natasha. She took a hesitant step forward, like she was about to defuse a bomb, and then awkwardly lowered herself onto the couch beside you. For a beat, she just sat there, stiff as a board.

Then, almost like she was reading instructions off an invisible manual, she reached out and gave you a quick, surprisingly firm squeeze around the shoulders. It wasn’t a movie-style, enveloping hug, more like a tactical bear hug designed to keep you upright and somewhat functional.

Her other arm hovered for a moment, unsure if she should join the party or retreat like a cat on a hot stove. Finally, she settled on resting her hand lightly on your upper arm, offering what felt like official KGB-level comfort.

You exhaled slowly, the tension easing just a little, warmed not just buy her touch but by the fact that she was trying, even if she looked like she’d rather be interrogating someone.

“Thank you Natasha.” You whispered. “I can see why Milo wanted to stay.”

With one final squeeze to your body, she let go and stood, looking around the room pitifully. 

“What now?” You hiccuped.

“Pack a bag.”

You looked up, blotchy and blotting your tears with a suspiciously crusty dish towel. “What?”

“You’re coming with me.”

“What? No. I can’t just- what about Milo?!”

Natasha crouched in front of you, voice firm. “Lucky for you I have a tonne of junior agents that need stake out training. We’ll put a junior agent on your fire escape and another at the building entrance. FRIDAY can scan all security feeds for ten blocks. If he shows up, we’ll know. But you need a hot shower and some real food.”

You sniffled again, wobbling. “You’d do that?”

Natasha stood, eyeing the peeling wallpaper and suspicious stains on the ceiling. “You think I’m gonna let you have a meltdown in a place that looks like it’s one mould spore away from being condemned?”

You cracked a weak smile. “Was that… a joke?”

She gave a half-shrug. “…Maybe.”

[monkebearness]

Our Story, Like a Romance Novel [Chapter 2: Speed Love]

Chapter 0, Chapter 1

Tags: angst, fluff, slice of life, coming-of-age

Word count: 5k

a/n: there's gonna be a scene that may or may not be uncomfortable for some readers, but the angst tag is already there. but yeah, I gotta keep the story moving, so I hope you like it.

Having connected through SNS for a while, Nien and Junghoon hit it off to say the least. Getting to know each other through texting, even though they have already been hanging out in the same club four to five times a week, sometimes a little more, within the last three to four months since he was invited into the Mad Money Club.

Within that spam to lf time, Junghoon would often find the woman somewhere near his or her department building, if not at the club’s hangout room. At first, he expected this, considering their meetings mere chance encounters… But every time Nien catches his eyes, his heart keeps thumping louder, especially as their proximities close.

A wallflower since his early adolescence, never has he felt a sensation this fluttering and intrusive. His mind would spiral all over the place, and not even his sense of reason can try and make any excuse towards his inquisitive yearning to stay with her the chance he gets.

“Hey, Junghoon-ssi…” she walks to him in her backpack. “You done with your classes?”

Sometimes, those flutters make him nervous. Another time, they elevate his patience, interest, and determination with someone. In those moments, he turns into someone he’s usually not—yet he simply couldn't care less. Not even the lovey-dovey teases of Yubin, Dahyun, and Sohyun bothered him. In fact, they somewhat encouraged the butterflies flourishing in his stomach to push himself and do something—anything, to get himself out of his comfort zone, if it meant prolonging his moment with Nien.

The only problem is, he can’t come up with anything when he’s in front of her. “Yeah?”

“You’re not sure?” The left corner of her lips slightly raise in amusement.

There are perhaps millions, if not more ways to describe how he was feeling whenever he’s around Nien. Yet that’s also what often hindered him from expressing himself.

“I mean—yeah!” He clears his throat. “It just finished, actually… But, how about you?”

“We were done about three hours ago,” she informs him in a somewhat aloof tone.

“Wait…” He wiggles his head in confusion. “Don’t tell me, you waited there—”

“What do you think?”

One thing was for sure, mainly because of how his heart keeps on racing around her.

“Mianhaeyo!” Junghoon exclaims as he rapidly bows to her out of guilt.

“Oh, no, no, no! Please, Junghoon… I’m just kidding.”

“Oh… Well, I might as well apologize for keeping a lady waiting here for a long time.”

He likes this woman very much, and he’s not letting this new opportunity slide.

“Yah…” she folds her lips, even as they curve upwards, turning her eyes away from him. “I’m just here to fetch you before the girls meet, you know?”

“So you didn’t just wait here, under the sun, for how-long…”

“What if I was? Is that a problem with you?”

He interlocks his fingers. “It’s the opposite of that… You know, I wouldn’t mind spending a little more time with you. Outside the club hangouts and all that.”

 “Oh…” Her eyes slowly grew as her smile slowly showed her crystal white teeth.

“That is,” he quickly backtracks. “If you’re not uncomfortable with it, then we can—”

“Of course, of course, not!” she almost panicked. “I’m comfortable with it, Junghoon.”

Unbeknownst to him, their encounters would end up leading them to have a small date. A meeting at the cafe and like most encounters, there’s a waiting game for one’s arrival.

Not knowing anything about flirting and talking to women he’d liked, Junghoon rushed to his friends for advice right after Sohyun gave him Nien’s number. Of course he would come to ignite brighter sparks with her by simply being himself, a certain trait that Nien herself had found to be quite enticing, even fascinating, the longer they got to know each other. But unbeknownst to him, their texts and hangouts on campus. This date came to a fruition just happened to be brought by Nien on a whim and of course, it freaked him out from his side of the screen, but instead of making his panics obvious, he expressed his glee. Nien tends to be playful most of the time. It's a part of her charm that entices Junghoon. However, when she's serious about something, she will commit to it.

[Nien: I guess we’re both set for Saturday!]

{Junghoon: We are.} {I can’t wait, Nien!}

[Nien: Neither can I, Junghoon-ah (⸝⸝> ᴗ•⸝⸝)]

He didn’t want to mess it up, especially since she’s the one who made the move to meet. Once more, he knows nothing about dating, until now. Hence, from a newer hairstyle and perfume to fancier clothing, he asked his buddies about their recommendations. Even if such a request was a burden that he owed them, he reiterated to them and to himself, “I know it’s too much to ask, but I can’t mess this up. Not for her.”

“Don’t you dare explain yourself or apologize for anything,” Yeonghwan welcomes him with open arms, placing his arm on his shoulder. “We got you on this bud!”

“Yeah, dude,” Kotone shakes his other shoulder with excitement. “We’ll make sure you’ll have the night of our life with Nien-sunbaenim!”

“Oh, he will!” Honggi insinuates her remark with a grin, patting his palms on his back. “You’ve grown up, man!”

“What do you mean?” Junghoon turns his head in confusion.

“Don’t mind him,” Myungsoo chuckles at his innocence. “But, you’ll understand what he means eventually.”

The whole day was spent on their trip to the mall. Junghoon’s earnings from Mad Money Club were more than enough to buy himself a new set of clothes suggested by his friends. Surprisingly enough, this was one of the few special moments he had spent on something and anything outside his priorities.

He learned the mannerisms, he bought the items he never even knew he needed. Now it’s time for the meetup he’s been preparing for in the last few days. It’s a Saturday afternoon when they finally meet at a restaurant. Nothing too pretentious. A cozy place where a few young couples like them are also dining in due to either their locality or Insta popularity.

He rushes to Nien’s table while trying to keep his calm. “Sorry if I was late.”

She smiles at his presence. “You’re right on time. Don’t sweat about it.”

He notices her attire. Wow, is all he can think about meeting her in person, outside campus. She herself must’ve also prepared for this. Of course she would, since she suggested going on a date with him. “You look really lovely tonight, Nien-ssi.”

“Just tonight?” her tone sounds intimidating, though he knew her enough. She’s teasing.

He almost panics. “I mean, you did, too… You’re always beautiful.” Just until he saves it.

Letting out a giggle, Nien looks down and curls up her hair to the side of her right ear.  She’s still taken aback at his remark, even though she has heard similar things before.

“Yah… You look great too, Junghoon-ssi,” she tells him. “I thought you’d wear some suit and tie, but that’d be too much for this occasion. Even in that, you look pretty fancy.”

“I guess this occasion is just special enough for me, so I even thought I overdressed.”

Her eyes grow for a second, as is her smile. “It is? Does it mean this is your first date?”

An itch strikes the right side of Junghoon’s hair, prompting him to scratch it on sight. His reaction made Nien chuckle. Despite his feeling of embarrassment, she keeps her eyes leveled to him with adoration.

“Cute,” she whispers under her breath, before facing him. “I’m not judging you. I’m just… Curious.”

“Well,” he musters up, slowly straightening his back. “It is. Is that a turn-off for you?”

“No,” she smiles. “It’s kind of the opposite.” Her eyes and smile always gets him. That remark from her alone makes him feel things up his mind, in his heart, and down his–

Don’t mess this up. Don’t mess this up! Junghoon warns himself in his mind while he faces her from his seat.

But it’s a first date, which means that mess-ups are not out of the realm of possibility. It could be an awkward interaction that goes to hell, or someone bumping into a waiter as it trickles down a domino effect that breaks every plate and glass they were serving. For these two, a worse situation would strike their moment like lightning on a summer day.

Yet thirty minutes have passed since they met. Is he really gonna have the night of his life, just like what his friends had teased him? He doesn’t know how the night will end, but with how it’s been going well, Junghoon is already feeling like it, to say the least.

Nien finds herself more allured as the man in front of her takes a bite and describes each of the steaming appetizers that just arrived, as if she’s listening to a gourmet who’s been enhancing her dining experience. Down their table, each snicker and giggle from Nien triggers a few tantalizing movements from her feet as they give his ankle light footsies, one that almost made him choke on his water the first time he felt her movements.

Surprisingly, it was thanks to his conscious mind, Junghoon’s years of locking eyes at the television, watching dramas, has reminded him of some things either to follow or ignore. A couple exchanges of jokes and compliments were the start, but receiving a handful of light, playful touches.

He senses this is something else. Something more.

Then Junghoon receives a call, and the words that follow has him paralyzed for seconds.

His sudden expression concerns her. “Junghoon-ah, what’s the matter? Who was it?”

“I–I’m sorry, Nien-ssi,” his voice trembling, just his face submitting to unimaginable fear at what he just learned. She reaches her hand to him as her daydreams drain out, his words snapping her to this unexpected reality. “Something came up. I’m so sorry.”

Junghoon gets up from his seat and leaves the cafe. Outside, he runs and runs with no care and shame about the bystanders looking at him strange or worried. Seconds have passed and he is nowhere to be seen on the street. Nien stares outside, devastated that the man she likes has now left her without any reason, although not a single reason will ever undo the damage that’s been done.

She accepts the truth unfolding in front of her. The night is already over.

Having taken a taxi and spending more of his earnings from the club, he finally makes it to the hospital after ten minutes of an anxiety-filled ride throughout Seoul. Despite his shortness of breath, he rushes straight to the receptionist and asks her about the room of a woman in her mid-eighties, named Kim Byeolyi.

As soon as she answers, he takes a few turns across the corridor until he reaches the emergency room, as fright and relief fight over his lungs—letting out “Halmeoni!”

= = =

Monday morning. Students return to class. Piles and piles of papers were returned as results were announced, alongside new ones. Yet guilt remains anchored on his mind and heart.

Junghoon did his best avoiding the Mad Money Club for a couple of days since then. He imagines how they’ll react if they see him after that night. And he wouldn’t blame them if they feel that way towards him. Or if they end up kicking him out of the club later on. For now, he had to pay more attention to his only family, despite his pitiful regret for leaving the woman he's more than willing to spend the night with.

As the clock strikes twelve noon, he could only confide in the people who he has known the longest, meeting them on the empty stands next to the campus’ football field.

“How are you holding up, man?” Yeonghwan looks at him with sympathy.

“Oh, you know… I messed it up,” Junghoon sighs. “But halmeoni is stable again.”

“We’re glad that halmeoni is doing better,” Kotone can only pat him on the back.

“Besides, I’m sure Nien will understand, man,” Myungsoo considers. “Does she know about what happened?”

“Did you tell any of them?” Honggi chimes in, emanating with worry, instead of the usual curiosity or intrigue he always brings to their hangouts. Realizing that all of his closest friends have shown and voiced their concern towards him. “I mean your club.”

“I, uhh…” Junghoon clears his throat. “I didn’t tell them…”

Outside his closest friends, no one else knew. Not even the person he trusts the most. Yet, he kept receiving texts from them. Message notifications would keep popping up, and he can longer ignore the club. Not after realizing that they became his friends too.

[Yubin: Junghoon-oppa!] [Where the hell are you?]

[Dahyun: Junghoon… We’re worried about you.] [You must have a reason why you left, but you gotta tell us about it.]

[Seoyeon: Why aren’t you answering our messages, Junghoon-ah?][What happened?]

[Sohyun: Answer your phone, Junghoon.] [Please.] [Talk to me about it.]

[Nien: Whatever happened that night…] [I just hope you’re doing okay, Junghoon-ah.] [The club wants to know if you’re okay.] [I want to know if you’re okay.]

“I'm feeling much better, Junghoon-ie,” his grandmother assures him from the couch as she lets out a cackle at the variety show on the television, later that afternoon.

He walks to her, handing her a tablet with one hand, and a glass of island on the other. “I know, but you're gonna need to drink your medicine regularly, okay halmeoni?”

“Of course, honey, I know your worries won’t go away—” she looks up, swallowing down the tablet, before taking the glass from him. “—if I don't take them.”

“Halmeoni,” he sighs. Despite knowing her intentions to lift his spirits, she can feel her grandson’s hand clenching with concern. “That’ll be for the whole month… Please.”

She chuckles lightheartedly, softly rubbing his back. “Arasseo, arasseo… I’ll drink the next one after we eat. I remember what the doctor prescribed me, too, you know?”

He sighs heavily, showing her a smile of relief. “Yeah…”

The next morning arrived… When he finally listened to his grandmother's words, also remembering what she told him a few days earlier. Despite what happened, he knows that he's always been stronger than he thinks.

He enters the club’s room. Room 238. Just as he always remembers it. The atmosphere is not the same as when he usually enters. As much as it pains him, he looks at everyone as they stare at him in silence. Most of them look at him with disquiet and concern, even though he feels he doesn’t deserve such a gaze. At least, one of the girls is staring at him the way he believes he should be treated. Xinyu must be killing him over and over again in her mind. I deserve it. After I left her best friend alone. I deserve worse. At least my halmeoni is doing better. At least my friends understand. That’s what matters more right now. Whatever happens now… That’s their reaction.

“Should I not be here today?” He breaks the silence, keeping his tense breath slow. “I can just stay out—”

“No, no…” Dahyun comes closer, emanating with concern. “Come in, Junghoon-ah.”

“We’re glad you’re okay, oppa,” comforts Yubin, rubbing his arm as he walks by.

But as he looks around, Nien is nowhere to be found among the club members. Junghoon immediately worries for her, still guilt-ridden. “Where is—”

“Don’t go anywhere near Nien-ah,” Xinyu pierces his soul with her stare of death.

Junghoon silently bows to her with regret, but her glare towards him remains merciless.

Beside her, Sohyun slowly holds Xinyu’s hands a little tighter with eyes that plead to her. “Xinyu-yah, please don’t be harsh on him.”

“Why not?” She tilts her head at her girlfriend, before looking back at him. “He doesn’t even need to be here! Not after what you did to Nien!”

“I know, sunbae…” Junghoon keeps his composure. “But I need to know where she is.”

“Not until you tell us first, Junghoon,” Sohyun pleads to him with a somber tone. Letting go of Xinyu’s hand, she takes a few steps forward. “Or at least… tell me what happened.”

Junghoon takes a deep breath, enough to push himself to explain everything to her.

After several minutes, Junghoon would find Nien at the gardens, as Sohyun briefed him. He takes a seat next to each other at a bench in the midst of the afternoon spring breeze. Not as anything more than friends who want to clear the air about what happened that night. But for both of them, that’s all that matters for now.

“I’m so sorry for standing you up like that,” he looks at her. “You don’t deserve it.”

“No. Kotone-hoobae actually told me what happened on my way here… Junghoon-ssi, I just wished you told me sooner.” She looks at Junghoon with eyes of solace and reaches his shoulder softly, pulling him in an embrace, hoping to comfort him through the only way she can in this situation. “It must’ve been hard for you, finding it out so suddenly.”

“Yeah, I should’ve,” Junghoon mutters, still feeling remorseful for his actions that day. “I’m really sorry, Nien-sunbaenim.”

They slowly break the hug. “Does anyone else in the club know about what happened?”

He nods. “I first told Sohyun-noona… The others know it was a family emergency.”

“How is she now?” Her hands still lie on top of his. “Your grandmother…”

“She’s feeling better now, but the doctor advised her to drink her medicine, so I’m gonna have to work overtime in my late shifts to earn enough to buy her those meds.”

“Don’t worry about the money too much. We can help you out with that, arasseo? Take care of her by staying close with her… I’m just glad that your halmeoni’s doing okay.”

“I feared I would mess things up. I did everything I could, but it just happened when I got the call from the neighbors and—”

“Junghoon-ah,” she stops him with a calm demeanor. “You didn't mess everything up. Your grandmother's well-being matters more. It should... You made the right call, okay? Like I said, focus on taking care of her right now. We got your back.”

“Thank you, sunbae,” he can feel his heart beating slower, as his breathing feels easier.

Nien can’t help but let out a snicker. “You gotta stop calling me that, Junghoon-ah.”

“Why not? It’s a fact that you are my sunbae, and you’re a year older than me.”

“And..? It’s been months since you joined the club. At least stop calling me sunbae.”

“Yeah, I’m a part of Mad Money, but as your ‘part-time assistant.’ Other sunbaes and students would think it’s weird that I just started calling you too casually.”

“Who cares about what others think? You gotta drop the honorifics with me. It’s the least you can do… If you truly want to stay friends with me… Unless you don’t?” She darts her eyes at him. They still get him every time, even if she’s messing around with him, even if she’s simply lifting his spirits.

“I do want to stay friends!” He raises his hands, following an instinct. One that aims not to disappoint her. “I’ll try my best not to call you that, noona—”

“Ah, ah!” she interrupts him, pointing her index finger at him like it’s a blade. “Not that one either. You may have convinced unnie and Soda-yah for you to call them that, but not me. I’m not gonna let that slide. The whole ‘noona’ thing doesn’t vibe with me.”

Junghoon laughs. Her reasoning seems well-thought-out. “So, Nien-ssi then? I mean, that’s what I called you last time and you didn’t seem to mind it.”

“Fine!” Nien finally settles with his proposal. “I’m guessing you’re not that comfortable with me just yet… And by the way, you better let me treat you to lunch. Between friends, of course. I can’t let that dinner be the end of us hanging out.”

“Well, if that makes things better for us…” He offers his hand, signaling a handshake. “I’d love to have a ‘friendly lunch’ with you some time, Nien-ssi.”

“Kol!” The woman stands up with a burst of optimism, reciprocating Junghoon’s offer without hesitation. “And by ‘some time,’ you better mean like soon, all right? The way you described those dishes on the restaurant’s menu was mouth-watering!”

“Maybe we can order them for real next time,” he suggests. Nien nods with anticipation.

Nien and Junghoon stopped treating their relationship as romantic, or anything close to that. But maybe that’s for the best, as they’d grow into something that would last longer. Nien would realize that she’s not too fond of being in a committed relationship just yet. And as for Junghoon… Time will tell. As they say, after all, there is always someone for everyone, even if they don’t hope or expect it to come to them. With their conciliation, Junghoon returns to Room 238 with Nien to face the rest of his clubmates once again.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, yeoreobun,” he bows to the rest of the club members.

“God, oppa… You know you had us worried for days,” Yubin frets further. “We thought something happened because you weren’t answering our texts! Even our calls.”

Junghoon bows to them. “I’m sorry. It just happened and I didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s okay, Junghoon-ah,” Dahyun reassures him. “Now that you told us, we’re just glad that your grandma’s feeling better.”

“Well, it can’t be helped if you had a personal emergency. I hope she has a fast recovery,” Xinyu’s tone sounds more neutral, making Junghoon feel that the misunderstanding he had caused to Nien will not be easily forgiven by everyone. Even if Nien herself forgave him. “But you left Nien without saying why... I won’t forget that.” And he won’t, either.

“I did,” Junghoon remains hesitant to answer her. “And it won’t happen again, sunbae.”

“But Sohyun-ah trusted you enough to lend your services to us,” Xinyu sounds more logical than sympathetic to his response, yet a hint of hostility remains in her tone. Perhaps still grudgeful of his fault. “Just be transparent next time, Junghoon.”

“Unnie…” Seoyeon steps up, sensing Xinyu’s passive aggression. “I trust Junghoon, too. So does Soda and Yubin-ah. I understand if you’re still not too trusting of him, but the fact is, Nien and him have already made up outside. Besides, their date last week isn’t some kind of assignment that he had to do for her.”

Xinyu feels like she’s backed into a corner. “I know that, Seoyeon-ie… I’m just saying—”

“I don’t want anyone harboring ill feelings for anyone in this room,” Seoyeon continues. “This isn't why we formed this club. We know that you have issues with trusting anyone else, but whether you like it or not, Junghoon is still a part of our club.”

“I don't hate him!” exclaims Xinyu. “I warned him so nothing like this happens again.”

“That’s enough,” Nien disrupts the feud between her sisters. “Seoyeon-ah’s right, and I can’t force you to like him. But we went out on a date because I wanted to, Xinyu-unnie. He happened to have an emergency concerning his grandma, so he left me to deal with it and he apologized for not telling me sooner.” A breath of relief leaves her body. “Unnie… Yeorobun… It’s alright now.”

Xinyu becomes swarmed with guilt, but she can’t say anything any further, otherwise the situation gets worse when it starts to be mended. She knows that she said enough. “I’m sorry Seoyeon-ah and Nien-ah…” she stammers. “And I’m sorry for my behavior just now, Junghoon-ssi.”

“It's okay, Xinyu-sunbae… I'm just thankful that I've told you girls the truth. Whatever you think of me after this, I don't mind it. I understand if you don't want me to still be around, but I'll come by and help out if you need me with anything.”

= = =

Later that afternoon, Junghoon would meet with his close friends at their usual campus hangout, a bench near the grass fields, during their dismissal. They continue to console their friend about the aftermath of his unfortunate incident and emergency last week.

“Did you finally tell Nien about your halmeoni's condition?” Yeonghwan asks him.

“I did, hyung,” Junghoon sighs in relief. “I told everyone else in the club, too. They understood, so the misunderstanding has been cleared up, to say the least.”

“Does that mean you’ll be having another date with Nien-sunbaenim?” Honggi wonders.

“Well, not exactly. We’ll have something better, though.”

“What is it?” Myungsoo cannot help but spew his questions. “You two going somewhere outside for another dinner? Maybe a stroll to the park?”

“Just friends going out for lunch,” he delivers nonchalantly.

“Friends for lunch?” Honggi’s confused at what he just heard. “What happened to the girl who you hit off with that night? I thought she was even flirting with you non-stop?”

“That’s kinda what I’m wondering too, man,” Yeonghwan chimes in. “Why didn’t you talk things out with her a little more? Maybe there’s a little more misunderstanding?”

Why didn’t he push it through? Took a little more initiative, ask her to spend more time with him, despite already making up, instead of chickening—

= = =

“I’m sorry I ruined your special night, dear,” mutters his grandmother, Kim Byeolyi. It had only been a few minutes since she woke up from the hospital bed.

“No, no… Why are you apologizing? Come on, it was nothing, halmeoni.”

She places her other hand on top of his. “It’s not just nothing for you, Junghoon-ie.”

“I’m just happy that you’re doing better, okay? Besides… We don’t have anyone else.”

“We still got our neighbors,” she reminds him with a cheerful tone, but he’s unmoved by his own coldness. Junghoon found out that her friends next door called the ambulance when she was hanging out at their market. The possibility of ‘if no one else was there,’ scares him more, but the warmth of his grandmother’s hands only makes him sigh.

He looks down on her wrinkly palms, both in despair and gratitude. Despair for what could’ve been, if no one got there in time. Gratitude that things haven’t gotten worse.

“Don’t beat yourself up… Now, go talk to that wonderful girl you just left and apologize to her, okay? Buy her a bouquet from the shop outside, if you have to… Maybe cook her what food she likes, if you want! Just don’t leave her hanging like before.”

As a couple of hours would pass, Junghoon had to wait with his own thoughts while the physicians took her through a few more tests. Despite his grandma’s sincere advice, he didn’t know how else to deal with such a nerve-racking situation. The schism of guilt and conscience raging within him. ‘My savings won't be enough to cover all costs.’ ‘Halmeoni needs more for next week.’ ‘Should I ask for a raise?’ ‘Just calm down.’ ‘You already owe them a lot.’ ‘Don’t make things worse.’ ‘You’re a coward.’

Junghoon’s heart beats in the same rhythm yet it rings in various ways, reeling him through various memories. Nien’s smile and company. His grandmother’s breathing and motherly care. The cheers and hollers of his close friends. The encouragement of the Mad Money Club in the past few months.

Yet, at the same time, his impulsive actions last night… Leaving Nien all alone. She may forgive him. She may definitely not. But that’s not what’s making his muscles twitch or his mind spiral into the pitless dimensions of analysis paralysis concerning the future. Priorities and responsibilities ramming through his daydreams and desires like they were glass.

Looking back at his grandmother, lying on the hospital bed, the young man’s heart aches at the sight of family, still keeping up her warm smile, despite her recent close encounter in the face of the abyss. He doesn’t even know if he can forget, nor forgive himself for it.

‘You gotta think this through,’ he tells himself. ‘This isn’t just about yourself, Junghoon.’

= = =

“I’m sure sunbae has a reason for changing her mind too,” Kotone considers, patting her friend’s shoulder. “I’m just glad that halmeoni is doing better... Take some time off from work if you want to, Junghoon-ah. I’m sure they’ll understand.”

“Thanks…” was what Junghoon could only say, ignoring their more pragmatic advice, though taking them to heart. “And even though Xinyu-sunbae wasn’t as friendly when she heard my explanation, I get why she acted that way.”

“Zhou Xinyu?” Myungsoo realizes. He did share a few classes with her before, even worked in the same group. “Oh, that makes sense. She's not too friendly with anyone outside her friend groups. At least not so much that she'll be sticking around with ‘em.”

“Oh,” Junghoon feels less guilty, yet remains disappointed for some reason. “That's one thing I didn't know about her… She rarely hangs out in the room whenever I am there.”

“I can't blame her, though,” Yeonghwan agrees. “She's probably experienced it a lot since day one. All the catcallings, the selfless acts from guys, sometimes some girls, just so they could try getting their way in her pants… But when she met Sohyun, I guess she probably felt easier. More comfortable around her along with their pals… But she's actually a kind person, I'm sure she'll soften up on you the longer you stay with the club.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Junghoon nods. “I do know that Sohyun and Xinyu-sunbae feel like their truest selves the most whenever they're together. It's quite touching to see, to be honest.”

“I heard from Joonie-sunbae that those two are like wild animals in their dorms—”

Irritated, Kotone hits her left knuckle on Honggi’s shoulders, making him unleash a shriek of agony in seconds. Yeonghwan and Myungsoo cannot be more amused at his reaction.

“Knock it off, Honggi-yah!” she shakes her head while he backs off inches away from her. “Stop being a perv now. What’s wrong with you?”

Groaning in pain, Honggi rubs his shoulder with disdain. “I was just bringing up a rumor, which I’m expecting for Junghoon to confirm or debunk right now.”

“Umm, that’s not my business,” Junghoon chuckles. “And neither is it yours, man. But... They’re the best couple I know, that’s for sure... And I wish nothing but the best for them, you know?”

= = =

I've written this a while ago, but I added some scenes. Some slight spoilers for readers: what happens in the next one (nothing violent or anything though) may trigger some reactions, but since this is just an au fic. everything here is entirely fictional... It'll be an "angst fest," but there'll be sparks of fluff to balance it out. If you're still interested, hope you stay tuned. thanks for the read and have a good day!

[potatomountain]

C:IU CH 3

Chapter Three

Masterlist | Previous | Next

Pairing: Poly 0t8 Ateez x fem reader AU: Mafia/detective Genre: 18+ poly romance, action Word Count: Summary: "Threats" Warnings: 18+, gun violence, fist fighting, death threats, mentions of trauma, sex/suggestive talk AN: Dividers and banner made by me @potatographics. Usual beta readers tagged in masterlist! No editing done! Also- it has been a LONG time since i updated this series so if you are part of the taglist and do not wish to be notified anymore (i get it), comment and ill remove you from it <3

It wasn’t easy getting into the mindset of crime lords when their hearts were filled with turmoil over you, but the five men managed during the car ride.

At least until Mingi, in the driver seat, brought you up again. “So… I’m assuming everyone is aware of what the shitty fucker she went to see tried to do?” He winced at the feeling of Yunho digging his fingers into his thigh, glancing over and taking note of his tongue poking the inside of his cheek, an angry tell of his.

“And how aware are you of it, Malik?” Hongjoong spoke from the back, a hard edge to his tone as he sat between Seonghwa and Jongho. Their eyes met in the mirror and Mingi had the feeling he didn’t have the full story.

With a deep breath, he focused on the road. “I’m aware he tried to kiss her, but I didn’t press for more details, she was shaken up.”

“Oh he did more than that.” Jongho scoffed.

Now Mingi was even more confused, glancing at Yunho, then at Seonghwa, hoping one of them would clarify. It was the latter that spoke up. “He admitted to her face about- fuck I don’t even want to think about it- but I think it’s safe to say the only reason we don’t have one of Minjae’s men putting a hit out on this shitstain is because she wouldn’t want that… and we need his stupid fucking unit.”

“So you heard their conversation? Ah- I see.” Mingi didn’t know what was said but if it was enough for Seonghwa to be calling him a shitstain, then Mingi was all aboard the hate train. “Any idea why she was even there?”

Out of the four others, it was Jongho that spoke up. “Only an idea."

This had Hongjoong and Seonghwa turning to look at him in confusion, even the two in front were pretty shocked. “Well?”

The youngest didn’t meet any of their eyes. “She had been ranting to Yeosang about  wanting to arrest some of the guys that came into the bar and Yeosang explained that we can’t make any arrests ourselves unless they’re thought out otherwise it could backfire. She did ask if another unit made the arrest and handled the police work, if that was more viable.”

“Oh.” Hongjoong said it first, understanding where this was going. The rants they heard about through Yeosang were one of the few things that kept them hopeful you would come out on top of this whole situation; anger was a great motivator after all.

“That’s… not a bad plan actually. And she thought about that before knowing our plans.” Seonghwa smiled to himself, the pride and awe in his tone matched by Hongjoong’s grin.

“Well we’ll just have to carry it out won’t we? She tried it her way, we’ll try it our way.”

Mingi shivered at the undertone their leader spoke with, but no one protested. Instead, he pulled up to the quiet restaurant, taking note of a few cars on the street but that the building itself was dimly lit and only had two guards standing outside giving notice to what was about to go down. “Anyways, Viper time?”

The restaurant itself was a small mom and pop type that wasn’t even open in the evenings, they already had access to the camera’s inside and some audio thanks to their outfits and around the building with some bugs. The anonymity of the Black Pirates usually made it easy to scope out a place before a meeting, even if given just a few hours worth of notice. Having a tech genius on their crew also helped immensely, the buttons on their jackets and Yunho’s glasses serving as cameras and extra audio. They were nothing if not thorough.

After giving the okay to Yeosang to connect to the car and their personal devices, Yunho was the first out of the car followed by Jongho, Seonghwa, then Hongjoong. As driver, Mingi stayed behind, also to keep an eye out in case an ambush or backup was called. Or worse: police.

Their demeanor shifted, Yunho behind the duo leaders while Jongho was in the front, stepping up to the guards and introducing them as the Pirates. He showed off his fingers as if to confirm, then the four were led inside.

Only a handful of men were in the restaurant, quite a few tables pushed aside but four men sat at one in the center, with a handful of guards around the room.

“Total of ten guards. Six here, two up front and two in the back.” Yeosang's voice rang in their ears.

“We already have four men not far from the back entrance, the two in the kitchen will be easiest to take out if things get dicey. The Leaders have a car out back with a driver so that would be their escape route. Sang is tapping into their communications now.” San added on followed by some chatter in the background.

It was maybe a relief when the four heard your voice, calm and focused. “The guard on the left behind the men- he comes into the club a lot. Likes flirting with one of the girls, Cherry. Woo says he's a huge gambler and owes the Boa’s money. He'd probably turn his back on them to pay those fees.”

Of course they couldn't reply, but a glance at one of the cameras from Hongjoong told the four watching they understood. 

Jongho and Yunho pulled the chairs out and had Seonghwa and Hongjoong sitting the next second.

The buffer of the four men sitting scoffed and rolled his eyes. “You expect us to believe you're the leader of the Pirates?”

“Do you want proof?” Hongjoong hummed out with a tilt of his head, eyeing the man down. “Because if you won’t be serious about these negotiations, we can leave and you can pay us the original amount you owe us within a month.” He moved as if to get up, just for the brute to get elbowed by the more slender man next to him, shooting him a venomous glare.

From left to right, it was the head of their prostitution, the actual head of the Vipers -who appeared decently older than the rest-, the brute who was in charge of the fight ring and last, the lanky man responsible for their drugs. Hongjoong cared more about the leader, since this was his first appearance- though that was their main goal. 

A face means they can find who he is outside of the Vipers. Even if that was all they got from this meeting, it was enough.

“Already have his face being run through our data, Captain.” The techie announced even if he didn't need to. Hongjoong knew he would, he trusted him.

If Yeosang managed to cough up any useful information, they could have even more leverage to make sure this meeting went just as they wanted.

He eyed the four of them, gaze harsh on the brute that had dared to question them. “Let us get right into it then. Mars.” He motioned towards Seonghwa who a moment later pulled a folder out from his bag under the leather cape.

Once it was in Hongjoong's hands, he was quick to place it on the table facing the other four. A contract with listed payments and pictures of the properties that they wanted as well. “We don't expect all of these, but these are the options you have. Our listed conditions in the contract however are non-negotiable.”

“A contract? You can't be serious?” The head of the fight ring scoffed again, not at all intimidated by the glares he received.

“We very much are. We take our work seriously, as well as what we are owed. You were warned our help was not going to be free. Or cheap.” Seonghwa added, pointing with a leather clad finger to the contract. “Three of the 6 properties. Different percentages of our cut on products. You get use of one of our docks, as well as contacts of smugglers willing to extend their contract with us to include you. We'll supply some men to make up for the losses you took, but we have free reign to scout any of your existing men as well.”

Staring at the monitors before you, the rest of the talk fell on deaf ears after Seonghwa had said that. The three around you were still laser focused on the screens, listening to the negotiations though only Seonghwa and Hongjoong did most of the talking. You stood right behind Yeosang, San to your left and Wooyoung to your right, the mic in front of you picking up any conversation the four of you had.

Wooyoung had praised them for their location choices, though you couldn't see what they were without leaning in closer and pressing your chest to the back of Yeosang's head; not that it mattered to you right now.

You were still reeling from the weight of Seonghwa's words. “Does that mean…” you whispered, drawing the attention of the two flanking you, “they can get you out of there safely?”

The fear that had risen up when the small war between the Red Wolves and Green Vipers had jeopardized San’s life had never gone away. You hadn’t dared to ask Hongjoong what he planned to get him out, afraid you would not like the answer at all. 

Now you had it. The alliance between the Pirates and Vipers was a perfect opportunity to pull San out without blowing his cover or causing any harm. The most efficient way as well, as he could still technically fight if he needed. Not that you wanted him to. “You tell me, sweetcheeks? What does that pretty brain of yours think it means?” San replied, his tone playful and you could hear the smirk in his words as well.

That was enough of a confirmation for you however, reaching for his hand on instinct as your expression softened. “You’re going to be safe now?”

San took your hand, fingers lacing with yours and his calloused thumb brushing over the back of your hand.

“I wouldn’t say safe- nothing about this job is safe Goddess.” Wooyoung felt the need to tease, bursting your bubble a bit.

San shot him a glare over your shoulder, moving a bit closer to you as his gaze settled back on yours. “While he has a point, I know what you mean. Yes it means they can get me out of immediate danger. So you don’t have to worry any more.”

Relief flooded you, muscles relaxing and letting out a breath that seemed to take some of the tension in your body with it. “I’m glad.” Still holding his hand, you tugged him a bit closer until you were side by side enough you could lean your head on his shoulder. You didn’t think about it, just did it, embracing the warmth radiating off him.

Wooyoung whined behind you, the screens forgotten for the moment. “Be touchy with meee~"

“No.” But you had a smile on your lips as he poked at your arm. “Focus baby boy.”

He sighed, but didn’t relent on the poking even as he turned his attention to the screen. “You guys should hurry up, I’m being deprived of attention now.”

“I don’t think now is the time for such banter, Woo.” Yeosang hissed up at him, motioning to the screens. It seemed you had missed an escalation of sorts as one of the Viper leaders was now standing and leaning over the table, glaring down at Hongjoong.

Hongjoong who was leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, and a smug look on his face as he peered up under the hat at the man twice his size it seemed.

Even through the screen you could feel the tension, the charged atmosphere that would snap at the sound of a pin drop.

“I wouldn’t be acting so smug, little hobbit.” The brute snarled at the Captain, the next second 6 guns aimed at the four of your men.

Fear washed through you, detaching yourself from San’s arm and leaning against the back of Yeosang’s head to see the screen clearer. The man seemed unphased, fingers moving across his board as he was doing something on another screen- your eyes didn’t stray from this one.

“Easy baby, they’re going to be fine.” San attempted to reassure you, his hand sliding over your back, hesitating only when you flinched at the initial contact. “The vipers aren’t that dumb.”

As if to back up what he said, the leader of the four lifted two fingers and the guns were lowered. “No need for that, K, they aren’t a threat.” The man was pulled back to his seat by the viper next to him.

“Would you take us more seriously if we were?” It was Yunho who finally spoke up, a tick in his jaw you could see even in the dim light of the restaurant and camera quality. He was pissed, and now you wondered what you had missed.

What had been said or at least insinuated that would have Yunho staring at the men as if he was ready to kill them?

Nothing was said between the four leaders, but the first man, the head of their prostitution, nodded.

Your eyes widened in shock at what proceeded to play out on the screen. Yunho was quick, dashing around the table and disarming and knocking two of the six guards down, shot another in the knee with the newly acquired gun, and then tossed them to Seonghwa. Seonghwa had caught them with ease and pointed them directly at the two of the leaders that had stood up in the duration of Yunho’s actions: one at K, the other at the head of prostitution.

Jongho was much less graceful, the first guard he disarmed, he simply broke his wrist, resulting in a garbled cry as he took a hit to the stomach. He barely hit the floor before Jongho was swinging a punch at the next guard, grabbing his gun. This one was smarter, letting the gun go and bringing his fist up, connecting with Jongho’s cheek. He got one more hit in before Jongho started his own assault, handling him while he tossed the guns towards Yunho.

Who immediately pointed them both at the remaining guard. The one you had pointed out earlier. Yunho mouthed something to the man that had him dropping his gun in surrender and getting on his knees. Yunho kicked it away from everyone before pointing the guns to the back of the other two leader’s heads, while Jongho knocked out the guard then put the one who surrendered into a hold.

It had happened within half a minute, leaving you stunned.

“Still think we aren’t a threat?” Hongjoong mused, still in the same position he had been in before the brute had sat down. You didn’t relax until the guns were lowered and Yunho and Jongho were standing next to Seonghwa and Hongjoong again. Though relaxed wasn’t the right word; less on edge. There was blood on the side of Jongho’s face, probably from a cut that he wasn’t attending to. It raised the intimidation factor for sure, keeping the others in check.

“It’s always hot how those two handle things.” Wooyoung muttered under his breath, snapping your attention to him. Once your initial concern wore off, laughter bubbled out of your throat and fell from your lips. Small, choked giggles really. “What?! You can’t tell me it’s not hot?”

“I think you’re the only one who finds it hot when we pulverize someone.” San teased from the other side of you, laughing under his breath. “Looks like it’s settled now so no more fighting on their end.”

Wooyoung whined at that, a cute pout on his lips. “Damn. I was hoping Yunho could get a little bloody too. Maybe if they’re worked up enough I can finally get that eiffel tower I’ve been praying-”

“Wooyoung!” Both you and San gasp out while Yeosang looks up at him horrified. The culprit didn’t look the slightest bit ashamed however. “We can talk about this later.” San added on.

The man didn’t seem done with his fun though, leaning in towards you and whispering. “Don’t let him fool you, Sannie gets all worked up after a fight himself. The van we used for his cover- Sangie refuses to listen in because we fucked in it so much at first.”

The hiss behind you and Wooyoung’s pride at his words just had more laughter bubbling up from your chest. “Oh my god, I can believe that. You’re such a slut, it’s cute.” You bipinched his cheeks, not at all realizing you felt a bit lighter.

Not until you turned back to the screen and found Yeosang with his head back, looking up at you with a soft smile. A smile that was mirrored on the other two’s faces. Heat rushed up your neck and burned your cheeks as your focus narrowed in on the screen. It did seem to be going smoother, and Jongho did look fine despite the blood on one side of his face…

You didn’t let yourself hope until the four men were signing the contracts provided, the leader shaking hands with Hongjoong. The older man paled when Hongjoong said a name, but he recovered quickly. So Yeosang had found out about him. When had he told Hongjoong? Perhaps when you were distracted.

“Good job Sangie.” You patted his head gently none-the-less, feeling as if he deserved the praise in the moment.

“Just doing my job… they’ll be coming back soon.” Yeosang didn’t look up, but you assumed he was a bit bashful. He never took your praise well.

Before you could lay more praise on, you were being pulled back by Wooyoung. “So- Sangie can handle it from here. Let’s get a medkit ready for bear and I should have enough time to tell you a story! How about a story of a wickedly handsome rogue spy and the very beautiful and badass cop who wins his heart?”

“Heard that one before.” You teased, knowing damn well he was talking about him and you. “How about… the one of the two undercover morally grey hotties that infiltrate an illegal fight ring?”

Wooyoung perked up at that. “Oh? Are you curious about the van stories? Could always recreate the scene for you.” He was leading you over to the kitchen that also had some medical supplies in one of the cabinets.

With a glance back at San who was still with Yeosang, a soft smile tugged at your lips. “Something like that. I never wanted to ask about the undercover part, just in case it worsened my fear of San’s inability to get out of the mess. But now… I’d like to know more. How it started. Why San. And yes, maybe about this van.”

Setting the kit down on the counter, Wooyoung continued to pull out more needed items. “You know, San told you it was purely sexual the day I kissed him in front of you… you know that’s a lie right?” He was nonchalant with it, but it reminded you of the day regardless. Your surprise when this new person kissed the man you were getting attached to. “When we started this mission, it was a turning point for us. I know he told you I saved him or whatever, but I don’t think the shackles really fell for him until the Vipers.”

Realizing there was more to the story than an undercover identity and a lot of sex in a van, you sat down on one of the stools, all your attention on the man across from you. There were a lot of reasons this piqued your interest, but none greater than the need to know how San broke free of his trauma.

Maybe it could give you the answers to break free of your own. “Tell me.”

Taglist in the reblogs

Masterlist | Previous | Next

[angel06babysworld]

Almost a Family

babydaddy!rafe x blackcat!reader

a/n: do we like the new theme?🤍

Chapter Six

⋆˚✿˖° 𓂃⋆｡˚ ꕤ ⋆˚✿˖°

She heard the first cough at 1:12 a.m.

The second came faster, sharper, followed by the unmistakable sound of small feet hitting the floor.

She was out of bed in seconds, heartbeat already racing, skin cold with worry. Vivi’s door creaked open just as she reached for the knob—and there she was. Flushed cheeks. Glossy eyes. One hand gripping her blanket. The other rubbing her stomach.

“I feel weird,” Vivi whispered, voice tight with tears.

She scooped her up without thinking.

Ten minutes later, the thermometer blinked red. 102.7°.

She called him.

No answer.

Then again.

The third time, he picked up, voice thick and groggy. “Yeah?”

“She’s sick.”

That was all it took.

“I’ll be there in five.”

He showed up in sweatpants and a hoodie, hair a mess, face pale like the idea of her being scared had knocked the breath out of him.

She didn’t make a comment.

Didn’t tell him to take his shoes off.

Just led him to the bathroom, where Vivi was sitting on a stool, head slumped against her arm. The fever was making her shiver now.

“She won’t keep water down,” she said. “I gave her Tylenol already. Trying not to overdo it.”

Rafe knelt down in front of his daughter, voice barely above a whisper. “Hey, bug. You okay?”

Vivi nodded sleepily. “Daddy… I don’t wanna throw up again.”

His throat bobbed. “I know. I’m here.”

She watched them.

Watched him.

The gentleness. The focus. The way he held a cool rag to Vivi’s forehead like he’d done it a hundred times before. Like he hadn’t missed her first real fever, her first ear infection, her first three a.m. call for help.

Still, he was here now. Doing it right.

“She’s staying in my bed tonight,” she said finally. “I’ll put towels down.”

“I’ll stay on the floor.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he said, cutting her off gently. “I want to.”

By three, Vivi was asleep between them.

Not planned. Not discussed. He’d only meant to stay on the floor—but she’d reached for him in her half-dreamed fever state, and he’d climbed up beside her like it was second nature.

She didn’t argue.

Didn’t move away.

They both laid there, on opposite edges of the mattress, still enough to hear each other breathing.

“You okay?” he asked softly, eyes on the ceiling.

“I’m fine.”

“You called me.”

“She’s your kid.”

“You didn’t used to.”

She didn’t answer that.

He turned his head. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re scared.”

Silence.

He turned toward her fully now, eyes tracing her outline in the dark. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I already did.”

“Let me make up for it.”

She swallowed hard.

“You’re still here,” she said, like it surprised her.

“I never left.”

Another silence, heavier this time.

She didn’t let him touch her. But she didn’t ask him to leave either.

And when she finally fell asleep, somewhere past four, she was still facing him.

tags: @amelialovesrafe @alyisdead @illumoria @blissfulbutterfliess @sydneysslove @sc04 @matthewswifeyy @meetmeintheemeraldpool @icversvoid @honeyinthesummer @dolli333 @lolabunnyworldss @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account @rafessbaby

[24hrssofnea]

𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐀𝐆𝐄 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋

➜ pairing: juju watkins x fem!reader

➜ warnings: SOFT LAUNCH ,, THEN HARD LAUNCH

➜ post it note: the moment we’ve all been wating for…or some of us are just really impatient.

intro → playlist → chapter 1 → chapter 2 → chapter 3

→ chapter 4 → chapter 5

Chapter Five — juju’s pov 🦅 not the one to play with when it comes to wylie seagrist marshall — JUDEA SKIES WATKINS

It started with a photo. Just one.

Nothing crazy. Just Wylie on the sideline, blue nails, camera up, head tilted, sun catching the edge of her cheekbone like God Himself was tryna tell the internet: yeah, she’s the one.

I posted it on my story with a 🔵💙 emoji. No tag. No caption. Just vibes.

Soft launch 101.

Kayleigh saw it first. She slid into my DMs with one eye emoji and a girl… Followed by ten more.

Rayah texted me: delete that shit before Maliyah sees and starts connecting dots.

Too late.

Wylie didn’t say anything though. She never does. She just replied to the story with a “👀” and a single question mark. Which… fair. But I left her on read.

Because listen— I had to pace this. I couldn’t go full “you’re the love of my life and I’ve written your initials on every Gatorade cup since freshman year” in one night. We had to build.

So next came the picture of our shoes. Her beat-up blue Dunks. My custom Kobes. Our feet side by side, legs barely touching, captioned: “who wears blue better?”

Soft. Just soft enough. Let the people wonder.

Then came the TikTok. Just a day in the life. Me walking into Galen. Quick cuts. Layups. Practice. And then— A slow pan of her in the editing room, hoodie on, headphones in, biting her lip while she worked. I didn’t even tag her. Didn’t have to.

The comments ate it up.

“not juju soft launching a photographer 😭” “she don’t even hoop and she got juju spinning smh” “caption her or we rioting.”

And I was smiling. Like, smiling smiling.

'Cause they were right. I was spinning. And I didn’t care.

I told Kayleigh: “One more post and I’m hard launching.” She said, “Girl do it. You already lost your mind.”

So I did.

Hard launch.

Game day. We won. Cameras flashing. Wylie waiting for me at half court, blue nails wrapped around her camera like always.

I walked up. Pulled her in. And kissed her on the cheek.

Not subtle. Not secret. Not soft.

Rayah screamed. Kayleigh fell out. Twitter collapsed in real time.

But I didn’t post that. Nope. I posted the picture she took of me mid-game—me smiling after a steal, looking straight at her camera.

And in the caption: “my favorite lens is you.” 📸💙

I tagged her.

@lookthruwylieslens

No mystery now. No secrets. No sneaking.

Just me and her. Court and camera. Point guard and poet.

Yeah, the launch was soft at first. But this? This was flight.

[uconndallas]

Name: Whiteout

A/N: As mentioned in my last post this will be the final chapter of Whitout. I appreciate everyone who read this series so much! I'll see you guys in the next!

Summary: Paige and Azzi have been roommates all their college years teammates on the court but worlds apart off it. When a surprise snowstorm traps them together on campus overnight, old tensions boil up, and buried feelings start to surface. As the campus shuts down and the night stretches on, the walls between them begin to crumble. But can they face what’s really been hiding beneath the surface before the morning comes?

Chapter Five: After

Morning arrived quietly, like a breath.

The storm had passed. Outside the window, everything was hushed and white, the kind of stillness that comes only after something has ended and something new is waiting to begin. The world was covered in a soft layer of snow, untouched and glowing faintly in the pale light of dawn.

Inside, Paige woke first.

Azzi was curled into her side, her head resting just below Paige’s collarbone, one arm tucked around her waist like she had every right to be there. Paige hadn’t moved for hours. She didn’t want to break the spell.

For the first time in what felt like years, Paige’s chest didn’t feel tight. There was no weight pressing behind her ribs, no words clawing to get out. Just warmth. Just breath. Just Azzi.

They had kissed again, slow and careful and then not careful at all. But more than that they’d talked. Really talked. They had peeled back the years and misunderstandings and silence, piece by piece, until all that was left was the truth: that neither of them had stopped wanting this.

Wanting each other.

Paige glanced at the clock. The power was still out, but the battery was working 7:03 AM. Outside, somewhere beyond the window, the campus would slowly come back to life. Someone would shovel the steps. There would be texts from teammates checking in. The real world would start creeping back in soon.

But not yet.

Azzi stirred beside her. She made a soft, sleepy sound and blinked up at Paige.

“You’re awake,” she murmured, voice scratchy and quiet.

Paige smiled. “Barely.”

Azzi shifted, propping herself up slightly on one elbow. Her hair was a mess. She had pillow lines on her cheek. Paige had never wanted to kiss someone more in her life.

Instead, she just looked at her. “Hi.”

Azzi smiled back. “Hi.”

They stayed like that for a moment. Just looking.

Then Azzi said, “That wasn’t a dream, right?”

Paige reached up and gently touched her cheek. “No. It wasn’t.”

Azzi nodded slowly. “Good. I just… I’ve thought about waking up next to you for a long time. I didn’t want it to disappear.”

“It’s not going anywhere,” Paige said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Azzi’s eyes flickered, uncertainty passing across her face.

“But what about… all of it?” she asked. “The team. Our friends. People asking questions. Us trying to be… something. Again.”

Paige nodded. “It’ll be weird, yeah. But I think it’ll be worth it.”

“You’re sure?”

Paige didn’t hesitate. “I am.”

Azzi watched her, like she was waiting for the doubt to creep in.

But it didn’t.

“We lost time,” Paige said. “And yeah, I hate that. But we’re here now. We know better now. We don’t have to keep holding our breath.”

Azzi lowered her gaze, thoughtful. “Do you think we can really just… pick back up?”

Paige considered that. Then shook her head. “No. I don’t want to. I don’t want to pretend we’re the same as we were. We’re not. But maybe that’s the point.”

Azzi gave a small laugh. “We’re older. Wiser. Slightly more emotionally competent.”

“Slightly,” Paige echoed, smiling.

Azzi’s hand found Paige’s under the blanket, fingers slipping between hers like it was second nature.

“So what now?” Azzi asked.

Paige pulled her close again. “Now we take it one day at a time. You and me.”

Azzi closed her eyes. “That sounds terrifying.”

“Yeah,” Paige whispered. “But I’m not scared of it with you.”

They lay in silence again, the kind that didn’t need filling.

Outside, the snow had begun to melt, dripping softly from the eaves. Somewhere below, someone was shoveling the walkway. The hum of life was returning.

Eventually, Paige reached for her phone. Still no signal. But that felt okay. The world could wait a little longer.

Azzi nudged her. “You hungry?”

“Starving,” Paige said. “But not enough to move.”

Azzi grinned. “Good. Me neither.”

They stayed in bed for a while longer, tangled and warm beneath the blankets. When they finally got up Azzi still in Paige’s hoodie, Paige in Azzi’s sweats they made coffee with melted snow and heated it over a tea light. It was terrible.

They laughed until their stomachs hurt.

Later, they sat on the windowsill, watching students emerge from dorms bundled in coats, some slipping on the ice, others calling out to each other like nothing had changed. Like the world hadn’t been held in pause.

Paige turned to Azzi.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything.”

“If I had said something sooner… if I’d told you that morning I wanted more would it have changed anything?”

Azzi was quiet. Then: “I think we had to lose each other first. To realize we didn’t want to again.”

Paige nodded, her throat tight.

Azzi reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Paige’s cheek. “But I’m glad we found our way back.”

“Me too.”

They leaned into each other as the sun broke through the clouds, lighting the snow in gold.

It wasn’t a perfect ending.

But it was the beginning of something that could be.

And this time, they’d get it right.

[minaaaliyah]

Chapter 1

Why couldn’t life be easy? Why couldn’t you come into this world with a blueprint—a map laid out, step-by-step, telling you what path to take and when to take it? Instead, life tosses you in blindfolded, hands tied, heart exposed. You’re left to fumble through the dark, trying to make sense of the noise.

No one said life was going to be worth living. But here you are.

A healer.

You could ease a person’s pain with nothing more than an herb and a prayer. Your mama was an herbalist, your daddy, a doctor. You’d been learning how to use what the earth gave you since before you could even say the word “medicine.” It was in your blood—something ancient, something sacred, something that flowed in your veins like second nature.

Your mama swore she knew you were special before you even took your first breath. Said she felt it in her belly—that you were a gift that kept on giving. Said you’d shine so bright you could kill someone. Of course, she was being dramatic—mothers always are—but still, mothers know. And when you started helping her in her home herb shop at the ripe age of six, you began to understand what she meant.

People would come in for chamomile, peppermint, maybe some eucalyptus for a cold. But you felt something deeper. A tug in your chest, a whisper from something unseen. You knew they were battling more than a stuffy nose. You’d walk up, press your little hand to theirs, and pray. Ask the Gods to bring them peace, clarity, safety. And somehow, it worked. Words from the mouth of a child with old-soul power behind them.

After that, Mama made sure you never forgot what you were. “Keeping a gift like that to yourself is a sin, girl,” she’d say. “And the Gods will snatch it back as fast as they gave it to yuh.”

Now, you’re twenty-five, a single mother working at Annie’s Place just trying to keep your head above water. You live above the restaurant, scraping by. There’s food on the table, bills paid—barely. Mama still helps here and there—mostly for your daughter, Yara—but she kicked you out the moment you said you didn’t want to use your gift anymore. Claimed she was doing what was right. But you know better. You feel it in your bones. She’s just waiting for that power to resurface, maybe even hoping it’ll pass into your daughter.

Still, you stay quiet. You need her.

Besides your mama, you don’t really have anyone. Your father past three years ago. You’re an only child. And friends? Sure, you have Mary and Perlene, but they’ve got lives of their own. They saw that past-due light bill taped to your door and said nothing—just shook their heads and kept it moving. You never asked for help. Hated the idea of owing anybody anything. So, you struggle in silence. You don’t cry, don’t break, don’t pause. You can’t. You’ve got a child to raise, shifts to work, bills to pay. Life’s not fairytale magic—it’s survival. But it’s yours. And you live it for her.

“Nyx, you know you ain’t got no time to be sitting up on that damn phone,” Annie’s voice called from the kitchen, carrying the scent of fresh-fried fish.

Looking up from the counter, I muttered a quiet curse. Of course she came out now. I tucked my phone into my pocket.

“Sorry, Annie. I’m just waitin’ to see if Yara got that scholarship to the private school. They said emails go out at four. It’s 4:05.”

Annie shrugged. “Girl don’t stress. She’s gonna get it. Now, help me with these plates.”

I pulled on gloves and joined her behind the bar. The place was slow today—Naomi was handling the few customers we had.

“You know, Nyx,” Annie said, handing me a to-go box, “if you need help payin’ for Babygirl’s school, I can—”

“No, ma’am,” I cut her off. “If she doesn’t get it, I’ll just get another job.”

She gave me that look—the one that could slice you straight to your soul.

“Nyx,” she said slowly, “when exactly are you planning to work another job? You’re here 10 to 5, then you’re running across town to pick up Yara. Who’s gonna take care of her? When you gonna sleep?”

Annie doesn’t lie. Doesn’t sugarcoat. Doesn’t indulge in fantasy. She gives you truth, sharp and unflinching. I looked at her like she just kicked my dog and told me it was for my own good.

But she wasn’t wrong.

Still shaking my head, I slipped my phone back out. One new email.

Dear Ms. Noorani, We are excited to share the wonderful news that your child, Yara Noorani, has been selected to receive a scholarship for the upcoming school year!

This award reflects your family’s commitment to early education and your child’s joyful spirit and enthusiasm for learning. We are thrilled to welcome you into our school community and look forward to supporting your child’s growth and development.

You will receive more information soon about next steps, including enrollment details and how the scholarship will be applied.

Congratulations again, and we can’t wait to see Yara Noorani shine!

“ANNIE!” I shouted, my voice cracking. “Oh my God, Annie—she got it!”

I spun around the kitchen, nearly knocking over the fish.

Annie just smirked. “That’s great and all, but if you don’t stop jumpin’ around, I’ma make you work a double.”

I laughed, breathless and warm all over. I hugged her tight, told her I’d see her later, and clocked out. Then I called a ride.

I rode with the windows cracked, warm summer air brushing against my cheeks as the city blurred by. The scholarship email kept replaying in my head like a hymn. She got it. My baby got it. The one thing that could lift her out of the mess I was buried in.

Mama's house was on the east side—tucked behind rows of overgrown bougainvillea and rusted garden gates, looking just like the woman who owned it: wild and unbothered by what people thought. I climbed the stairs two at a time, heart thudding, already picturing Yara’s big smile when she heard the news. But something stopped me at the top step.

A smell—faint, earthy, thick with sage and sandalwood—curling from the porch like it had a message of its own. Mama was burning again. That usually meant spirits had been nearby. Or something worse. I stepped inside. “Mama?” I called. She was in the back, kneeling on the floor, her hands deep in a bowl of red clay and water. Her head snapped up when she heard my voice. “You felt that too?” she asked.

I hesitated. “Felt what? “But I had. A subtle twist in the air. A hum behind my ribs. She wiped her hands on a towel and stood, looking older than I remembered. “They been callin’ you again, haven’t they? The spirits. The energy. You’re runnin’ from it, but it’s catchin’ up.”

I didn't answer. Instead, I gave her the news. “Yara got the scholarship.” Her eyes lit up—just for a moment—but the shadow returned quickly. “She’s gonna need it,” she murmured. “The girl’s light is growin’. And so are the eyes watchin’ her.”

Mama, please don’t start,” I said, brushing past her into the kitchen. “Just be happy. For once.”

I opened the cabinet, pulling out Yara’s small backpack and snacks, already mentally running through the checklist for the morning store run. “All I’m trying to do is warn you, Nyx,” Mama said, following close behind. “The spirits been talkin’. They said there’s a man out there—he’s coming for you. And he ain’t good news.” I sighed, stuffing Yara’s water bottle into the bag harder than I needed to.

“If you would just use that gift of yours,” she went on, her voice catching like a thread on splintered wood, “you’d understand. You could see him comin’ too.” 

“I’m not tryin’ to see anything, Mama,” I muttered, slinging the bag over my shoulder and heading toward the front room. “I’m just trying to live.” She followed me to the living room like a shadow that wouldn’t let go, her presence thick in the air.

I placed Yara’s things by the door, then climbed the stairs quietly to my old bedroom. The door creaked the way it always had. Inside, Yara lay tangled in blankets, deep in a toddler’s dream, mouth slightly open, one chubby hand curled around her stuffed bunny. “Yara, baby,” I whispered gently, kneeling beside her. “Wake up, love. The Uber’s outside.”

She stirred, groaning softly. “Mommy, I’m still tired,” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes with tiny fists. “I know, I know,” I said, pulling her upright. “We’ll nap when we get home, okay?” She nodded sleepily, letting me put on her little shoes and zip up her jacket. In the hallway, Mama stood watching us, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. She didn’t say anything this time, just looked at me like she was memorizing the moment.

Yara gave her a hug around the knees. “I love you, Grandma. See you next week.” Mama’s face softened as she bent down to kiss her cheek. “Love you too, baby. Be good. And remember what I told you.”

“I will,” Yara said, her voice already fading with sleep again. I picked her up and carried her down the stairs. At the door, I paused long enough to give Mama a kiss on the cheek.

She didn’t say another word.

I didn’t either.

Outside, the car was already waiting, headlights cutting through the dawn fog. I climbed in with Yara curled up against me, the silence between me and my mother still hanging heavy in my chest—half love, half warning. 

By the time the car pulled up near the curb, dusk had wrapped the city in a quiet, copper-toned hush. You thanked the driver, gathered your bags, and scooped Yara—now asleep with her cheek resting on your shoulder—into your arms.

The entrance to your apartment was in the back, which meant a short walk down the cracked sidewalk, then a right turn into the narrow alley behind Annie’s. Dim light flickered from the single bulb overhead, casting long shadows on the damp pavement. You adjusted your grip on the bag, hoisted Yara a little higher on your hip, and climbed the metal stairs that always groaned beneath your weight.

The apartment wasn’t much. A one-bedroom, one-bath, 750-square-foot shoebox with peeling paint and thin walls. But the hardwood floors had character—warm and worn down in places—and the little kitchen window caught the morning sun just right. It wasn’t perfect, but it was home. It kept you and your daughter safe, and that was more than most could say.

You unlocked the door, pushed it open with your shoulder, and stepped inside. The smell of yesterday’s incense still lingered faintly in the air—sage, maybe lavender. You dropped the bags by the door and laid Yara gently on the couch. She stirred a little but didn’t wake. You brushed a curl from her forehead and whispered, “We’re home, baby.”

The place was exactly how you left it—blankets strewn over the couch, breakfast dishes still in the sink, and a few toys scattered on the floor like breadcrumbs from the morning rush. You carried Yara to the bedroom, changed her into pajamas, and tucked her into bed. She murmured something in her sleep, clutching her stuffed bunny close to her chest. You kissed her temple before turning out the light.

You went back into the main room and turned on some music—just loud enough to fill the silence. A little Erykah Badu, soft and soulful. The kind of music that makes you feel like you’re floating while your hands stay busy.

You started in the kitchen. Dishes first. You emptied the dishwasher, put up the clean plates and glasses, and loaded the sink full of the mess from earlier. The rhythm of scrubbing, rinsing, and stacking grounded you—one small task after another. You wiped the counters down, sprayed the stove, and lit a citrus candle by the sink to chase away the lingering smell of grease.

The living room came next. You folded the throw blankets, picked up Yara’s toys, and vacuumed around the rug with that little handheld vacuum you hated but couldn’t afford to replace. Everything in its place.

Finally, the bathroom—always your least favorite. You didn’t do much tonight. Just swept the floor and sprayed the sink. Enough to feel decent.

Once the place felt clean and the candle's glow flickered gently in the kitchen, you turned off the music, took a shower, and slipped into bed. The sheets were cool, the room quiet except for the low hum of the refrigerator in the next room.

That’s when your mind started to wander. 

Back to how you got here.

To the gift you walked away from. To Mama’s warnings. To the man in the shadows—the one the spirits whispered about. To all the moments you’d swallowed your tears and stood tall, because crumbling wasn’t an option.

You stared up at the ceiling, the weight of the day pressing into your chest like a heavy hand. You’d made it through, just like always. But something was shifting. You could feel it—in the wind, in your bones, in the quiet spaces between your thoughts.

You turned onto your side and glanced toward Yara on the other side of the bed, where her nightlight still glowed soft and amber.

Let whatever’s coming wait until tomorrow, you thought.

And you finally closed your eyes.

Saturday morning started slow—just the way Nyx liked it.

The city outside still yawned as light crept between buildings, stretching across power lines and rusted window frames. Inside the apartment, everything was quiet except for the soft rustle of Yara flipping through her picture book and the occasional thump of tiny feet pattering from the bathroom to the couch.

Nyx stood barefoot in the kitchen, wrapped in a long robe, hair piled on top of her head. She pressed the stove knob again. Waited.

Click. Click.

Nothing.

She exhaled sharply through her nose, hands on her hips.

"That’s just disrespectful," she muttered, grabbing her phone and typing a note to herself—Call Darnell again (!!!)—before tossing it onto the counter.

Yara peered around the corner. "Mama, pancakes today?"

Nyx sighed. "We gotta go downstairs for that, baby. Stove’s playing games again."

Yara grabbed her bunny and slipped on her sneakers without complaint. Nyx got them both dressed in something decent, pulled her keys off the hook, and they made their way downstairs, the scent of smoked sausage and cinnamon already curling up the stairwell like a welcome.

The bell over the door chimed. Annie didn’t look up from the grits she was stirring. “Lemme guess. The stove?” Nyx stepped inside, Yara tugging her hand. “Dead. Again. I can’t keep feeding this child off cereal and prayer, Annie. I need real heat.”

“You need a new landlord,” Annie muttered. “I told Darnell three weeks ago to check that thing.”

“You told Darnell,” Nyx repeated, pointing to herself. “But I have to live with his half-fixin’. That’s the difference.” Annie gave her that look—the one that always said you ain’t wrong, but don’t start no mess this early—then nodded her head toward a booth. “Sit. I got sausage and sweet cornbread in the back. Let the girl eat.”

Nyx smiled down at Yara. “You hear that, baby? Annie’s spoiling you again.” Yara beamed and ran ahead to their usual seat. That’s when the door chimed again. Two men entered. The air changed.

Smoke came in first. Dressed in deep gray, with eyes that didn't scan the room—they read it. Quiet. Still. Not a man who needed to announce himself. The kind of man who made you straighten your back without realizing it. The kind of man who made you pause when your instincts stirred, and your spirit wasn’t sure if it should kneel or run.

Stacks followed, louder, lighter, full of charm. Gold ring flashing on his pinky. Laughter already rising from his chest. "Whew, Annie," he said, fanning himself like a preacher. “You still cooking with holy fire in here?”

Annie grinned. “Only thing that keeps men like you comin’ back.”

Stacks turned toward Nyx’s booth and spotted her. “Well, well, what do we have here?”

She blinked, caught off guard by the sudden focus.

Annie chuckled. “Stacks, Smoke—this here’s Nyx. Lives upstairs. Works the counter most days.”

Stacks reached out, but Nyx stayed seated, offering only a nod. "Nice to meet you, Stacks. And… Smoke?" She looked up at him now. He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod. Just stood there.

Watching.

Like he already knew her face.

Stacks laughed. “Don’t mind him. Smoke don’t say much. He thinks in thunder but speaks in whispers.”

Smoke’s gaze didn’t waver. His arms remained crossed over his chest, but Nyx could feel his energy like a drumbeat beneath the floorboards.

She looked away first.

“So y’all the famous twins Annie always talking about?” she asked, pouring Yara some juice from the small carafe on the table.

Stacks slid into the seat across from her like they were old friends. “Famous might be generous, but yeah. We run things around here. Logistics, cleanup, favors. If something needs to be handled, we’re the ones they call.”

“Interesting,” Nyx said, slicing into Yara’s sausage. “So you’re the neighborhood problem-solvers?”

“That’s one word for it,” Annie muttered from behind the bar.

Stacks winked. “We do it all. Except breakfast. That’s Annie’s territory.”

Nyx chuckled. “Well, I’m glad someone’s working around here, because my stove is on strike again.”

Stacks leaned back. “You got a man around? Someone to look at it?”

“No man,” Nyx said flatly, without apology.

Smoke, still standing, shifted.

That single movement said more than most men said in full sentences.

Stacks raised his eyebrows. “That’s rare. You don’t give off single-mom energy.”

“Oh?” Nyx raised her brow. “What kind of energy do I give off?”

Stacks grinned. “Bossy. Beautiful. Might-cut-you-if-you-say-something-stupid type.”

Nyx smirked. “So I give off accurate energy.”

Annie snorted in the background, nearly choking on her tea.

Smoke finally moved—quietly sliding into the seat beside Stacks, still watching. He didn’t speak. Not a word. But Nyx could feel him.

The way his eyes didn’t waver.

The way his presence filled the space without crowding it.

The way his silence wrapped around him like armor.

It unnerved her. But not in a bad way.

In a way that made her nervous—for reasons she didn’t have time to name.

Stacks went on talking—about the neighborhood, about Annie’s food, about some guy who owed him money and was now washing dishes for free. Nyx smiled and laughed in all the right places, but her attention kept sliding to the quiet man across from her.

Smoke hadn’t said her name.

But he was studying her like he was trying to memorize it.

Like somewhere, deep in the folds of his spirit, he already knew it.

And as they sat in that booth—Yara quietly coloring, Annie humming in the kitchen, and Stacks telling stories—Nyx felt something pull tight inside her.

A tether.

Invisible.

Ancient.

And it was tied to the man who hadn’t said a word.

Stacks leaned over the table, eyes twinkling as he took a sip of sweet tea and pointed to Yara’s coloring page. “Now hold up—who taught you to stay inside the lines like that? That’s professional work right there.”

Yara paused mid-crayon stroke, blinking up at him. Her cheeks puffed, and she dipped her chin low like she was trying to disappear into her hoodie.

Stacks grinned wider. “Aw, don’t go shy on me now. What’s your name, baby girl?”

She looked at her mama for permission.

Nyx nodded gently. “Go ahead, love.”

Yara peeked out. “Yara,” she whispered.

Stacks put a hand to his chest like he’d just heard a secret. “Yara. That’s a beautiful name. You know what it means?”

Yara shrugged a little, still coloring.

Nyx smiled to herself. She knew what was happening. Yara rarely opened up to strangers—but Stacks had a charm that was disarming even to grown women. The man had a gift, and today he was using it to unlock a toddler.

“It means ‘small butterfly’ in Arabic,” Nyx added, brushing a curl behind her ear.

Stacks widened his eyes at Yara. “Butterfly? Now that makes sense. You look like the kind of girl who’s always flyin’ somewhere.”

Yara giggled once, soft and quick.

That was all he needed.

“Aha! I knew I’d get a laugh. I used to be a butterfly myself, you know,” he said, dramatically fluttering his fingers like wings.

Yara laughed again—this time with her whole face—and Nyx tried not to melt at the sound.

“You like to draw?” Stacks asked, tapping a blank spot on the paper.

Yara nodded.

“What’s that?” he asked, pointing to a pink shape.

“That’s me and Mama and my bunny. We’re going to the moon.”

“The moon?” he said, eyebrows shooting up. “Shoot, I haven’t even been outta the city this year.”

She giggled again and flipped the page to start a new one. This time, she handed him a crayon.

“Ohhh, you want me to help? I gotta warn you, I draw like a sleepy raccoon,” he said, but took the crayon anyway.

Smoke watched the exchange without a word. Just sat there, arms crossed, jaw tense, eyes unreadable.

Nyx glanced his way—curious.

She wasn’t used to men who stayed quiet around kids. Most either talked too much or ignored them altogether. But Smoke was different. Not disinterested, not cold—just… studying. Listening. Like he was trying to understandsomething.

Stacks kept chatting with Yara, filling the space with easy warmth.

“What’s your bunny’s name?” “Bunny.” “Classic.” “You wanna color the moon?” “Okay, but I think the moon should be blue today.” “It’s your moon, baby girl. Make it neon green if you want.”

Yara smiled—open now, radiant. Nyx felt her heart loosen just a little watching them. She turned to Smoke.

“You good over there, or you only speak after sunset?” she asked, teasing—but only a little. He looked at her. And for a heartbeat, it felt like he looked through her. Then he said, low and deliberate, “I speak when there’s something worth saying.” 

It wasn’t rude.

But it hit like thunder.

Nyx blinked, caught off guard—not just by the weight of his voice, but by the feeling behind it. It was like he’d been holding back something he couldn’t name.

Something watching her the way old gods watched people who lit candles without knowing why.

Stacks broke the silence, smiling wide. “Don’t mind him. He’s just mad he can’t color as good as Yara.”

Yara beamed, clearly proud.

Smoke gave a faint, nearly invisible smirk.

Nyx noticed.

It was the first break in his armor.

And for reasons she didn’t want to explore yet, she felt it settle somewhere low and slow in her chest.

The hush in Annie’s diner wasn’t empty.

It was full—with everything they weren’t saying.

Steam rose in slow curls from Annie’s chipped coffee mug. The scent of chicory, fried sage, and cornbread clung to the air. It wrapped itself around the group like a shawl, familiar and warm. Outside, the street was lazy. The sun shone but didn’t blaze, and the sidewalk shimmered soft in the stillness of the late morning.

Yara’s soft breath was the only real sound.

Nyx shifted just enough to let her daughter lay her head in her lap. She smoothed a curl away from her brow, her hand lingering longer than usual. That girl was her world, her reason, her spine. Watching her sleep with her fists unclenched—it reminded her why she worked so hard not to fall apart.

Across from her, Smoke leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move much. But his presence was dense. Grounding. Like a storm cloud that had no plans to rain—yet.

Stacks, surprisingly, had gone quiet too. He stared into the cup of coffee Annie had poured him, turning it in his hands like it held a message. The grin he usually wore had faded—not in sadness, but in realness. Like he’d taken off his performance for just a minute and let the man underneath breathe.

It felt like everyone was holding something.

And for once, nobody was trying to fix it.

Annie pulled a chair from behind the counter and joined them, sitting sideways so her knees pointed toward Nyx. “I used to dream of mornings like this,” she said softly. “Mornings where nobody needed anything. Where we could all just be.”

Nyx looked up at her. “You mean you don’t like when folks come in yelling ‘Annie, I need a plate, and my man just left me again’?”

Annie gave a dry laugh. “Honey, I’ve been everybody’s mama, therapist, and exorcist. I ain’t had time to just sit in my own skin for years.”

Stacks raised his mug. “To sitting in your own skin.”

Annie raised hers. “To finally being around people who don’t drain it.”

Nyx lifted her water glass. Smoke didn’t lift anything, but he gave a slow nod.

And Yara, half-asleep, whispered, “Cheers…”

Everyone chuckled.

That laugh settled the room like a song’s final note.

Then Nyx spoke again—quieter this time. “It’s hard, though. Being strong all the time.”

She hadn’t meant to say it.

Not out loud.

But now it was out there, hanging in the air like incense smoke.

Annie didn’t interrupt.

Neither did Stacks.

But Smoke looked at her.

And for the first time, he said her name like he’d known it longer than she’d been alive.

“Nyx.”

Just that.

Just her name.

But it landed like a blessing.

She met his eyes. There was no flirtation there. No slickness. Just something steady. Like he saw her—and wasn’t afraid of what came with that.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn’t feel like she had to be guarded.

She just… was. Yara stirred again, reaching up sleepily. Nyx pulled her close, whispering, “Go back to sleep, baby.”

Stacks smiled. “She’s gonna be something else when she gets older. You better prepare.”

“She already is something else,” Nyx replied, brushing her daughter’s cheek. “Just like her grandma.”

“Your mama the real deal, huh?” he asked, eyes curious.

Nyx hesitated. “The kind of woman who talks to spirits before she brushes her teeth.”

Annie laughed. “That woman always gave me chills—but her hands? Healing. I remember once, back in—”

Before she could finish, Smoke suddenly stood up.

Not abrupt. Just… quietly certain.

Nyx looked up. “You okay?”

He nodded, but his gaze had shifted—like he’d just heard something only he could hear.

“Just needed air.”

He looked at her for a second longer, like he wanted to say something more.

Then he walked out, the bell over the door chiming softly behind him.

Stacks and Annie exchanged a glance but said nothing.

Nyx watched the door swing gently in his wake.

Something inside her stirred.

Not anxiety.

Not fear.

But familiarity.

Like the moment before lightning strikes—when the world inhales.

[mggssocks]

The Eighth

the eighth masterlist

pairing: Fem!Kook!Reader x Rafe Cameron

cw: a little nsfw smut but it's quick. that's it.

a/n: last chapter got so much love my heart is exploding so much rn. here's my appreciation: an extra long chapter five days before it was supposed to drop. lol thanks again.

“What?!” Becca’s voice shrieks through your phone speaker, nearly making you drop the blouse in your hand. You’re halfway through unpacking your suitcase- this time, for good.

“I just don’t see any point in going back to the OBX,” you say, folding the blouse and placing it into the drawer like it’s the final brick in a new chapter. “I mean… besides you. But even then, you’re about to start your whole family-business journey. I’d just be a distraction.”

“No, you wouldn’t! Stop saying that,” she argues. “And what about my birthday? You promised you’d help me set up.”

You sigh and sit on the edge of the bed. “I’ll be back this week to grab the rest of my stuff. And obviously I’ll be there for your birthday. But after that… it just doesn’t make sense to move back. My future’s here. You know it is.”

There’s a beat of silence on the other end before she groans. “You’re the worst. But I love you, so I’m letting it slide.”

A small laugh slips from you. “Fair enough.”

“You’re gone. Marie’s going back to Charleston once summer’s over…”

“She lives in Charleston,” you tease. “Did you forget?”

“I know,” she says defensively. “But now I won’t have any real friends around.”

“Since when are you and Marie so close?” Your brows lift in amusement, even though she can’t see you.

“We’ve… gotten to know each other,” Becca answers carefully, her tone softer, layered.

There’s a pause -just a second too long- but you let it go.

“Well, at least thank you for finally taking my advice,” you say, flipping through the hangers in your closet. “Anyway, I gotta go. Celeste and I are heading to the spa.”

“Ohhh, remember when we used to go to the spa together?” Becca replies in a playfully jealous voice. There’s still a hint of something real beneath the teasing.

“Bye, Becca,” you say with a smile, shaking your head.

“Bye, Y/N. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You hang up and sit back for a moment, looking around the room. Your new room. For the first time, the thought of not going back doesn’t make your stomach drop. It just feels… like the beginning.

-

Fashion shows. Board meetings. Watching designers drape, pin, and sketch. It all flies by in a blur of espresso, stilettos, and showroom lighting. Before you know it, it’s Thursday evening, and your driver is pulling up in front of your parents’ house.

You step out of the car, instinctively glancing at Tannyhill across the lawn. Same wraparound porch. Same house you used to sneak out of just to crawl into his bed.Now it just feels… far away. Like it belonged to a different version of you.

“Thank you,” you murmur as the chauffeur shuts the car door behind you.

The house is quiet when you enter. Too quiet. The type of silence that tells you no one’s home- and for once, you’re grateful.

You don’t have the patience for your mother’s smug “I told you so” about how much you enjoyed your New York experience.

You head upstairs and start packing two more suitcases. and when you go to look for your sewing kit, you remember exactly where it’s at and your heart sinks. You’re folding dresses when the sound of raucous laughter and revving engines cuts through the calm.

You pause. Walk to the balcony.

The street is packed. People line the sidewalk with their phones out, filming and laughing. A car crawls in reverse down the road, someone splayed dramatically across the hood, exhaling a bong rip toward the sky like it’s a music video.

You don’t need to guess whose party it is. Typical Rafe.

You roll your eyes, grab your hoodie, slip into your shoes, and snatch your keys. You’re not doing this for him. You just need your sewing kit. Nothing more.

You drive the short distance. Park a few houses down, out of sight. The place is chaos. Drunken twenty-somethings everywhere- red cups in hand, bass shaking the ground.

Children, you think to yourself, and you’re caught off guard by the word. Just a couple months ago, you were them.

Now? You feel different. Older, somehow. Maybe not wiser- but definitely not the girl who used to show up at these parties.

You slip through the front lawn, head down, hoodie up. You move like muscle memory through the crowd, avoiding faces, avoiding his face.

You know exactly where your kit is. In the sitting room. The one where you told each other you loved one another for the first time.

The memory stings, but you keep moving.

You round a hallway corner—and pause. There he is.

Rafe.

He’s laughing with some guy, drink in hand, head thrown back. Effortlessly magnetic. You duck your head and detour down another hallway, heart hammering.

In the sitting room, your kit is still there. Tucked in the corner behind the couch. Moved, definitely. He didn’t throw it out, though. He kept it. You spot the mannequin with the fabric still pinned in place. Part of you considers taking the whole thing, but it’s too bulky, too obvious. You rip the fabric off, fold it quickly-

“Hey, don’t touch my shit-”

You freeze. You know that voice. You turn slowly. There he is.

Rafe Cameron.

Arm draped casually around Sofia’s shoulder. Her expression shifts the moment she sees you.  She steps slightly out of his hold, discomfort flashing across her face.

His entire demeanor changes. The laughter’s gone. His eyes soften, like he didn’t expect to see you again, especially here.

You feel your throat tighten, but you won’t let yourself cry. Not in front of him.

You hold up the sewing kit wordlessly, forcing out a quiet explanation.

“I left this.” You don’t meet his eyes.

He blinks. Swallows. “Oh.” It’s all he says.

The weight of the summer sits heavy between you. He doesn’t move. Neither do you.

“I’m gonna-” you start, voice barely above a whisper.

But then you stop. There’s nothing left to say.

You push past him before he can see you fall apart, the sewing kit clutched tight in your arms like it might hold you together.

You move through the crowd. Down the porch stairs. Out of the noise.

You toss your things in the back seat, climb behind the wheel, and slam the door shut. You don’t know where you’re going. Just that it’s anywhere but here.

Somehow, you end up at the marsh- the one Rafe brought you to that first night. The place where everything started, when the both of you stopped pretending and actually saw each other for the first time.

Now, your knees are pressed tight to your chest, your arms wrapped around them, staring blankly at the dark water stretching in front of you. The marsh is quiet, save for the occasional chirp or rustle in the trees, but all you hear is static in your own head. A buzzing from the weight of it all crashing down on you.

Life is moving too fast. Too much.

And you’ve been trying to outrun it since the second you landed in New York.

That phone call. Her voice answering his phone. You shoved it so far down in your brain it doesn’t even feel real anymore. Probably some sort of trauma response. But seeing him tonight -really seeing him- with her?

His arm draped so effortlessly around Sofia, like it belonged there. Like the last two and a half months never happened. Like you didn’t say “I love you” in that exact same room where he stood tonight, letting another girl anchor herself to him like she knew him better than you ever could. It burns.

Your chest aches as the tears start to come. Slow at first, and then all at once. The memories, the pain, the humiliation. It feels like mourning a life that barely even had time to exist.

And then—

“You’re here.”

You don’t need to turn around to know who it is. It slices through the silence, warm and familiar, even now.

But still- you do. You turn. And there he is.

Buzzed hair damp, probably from the humidity or maybe the beginnings of rain. Eyes glassy. Breath uneven. His party-boy sheen is gone. It’s just him, stripped down in the moonlight.

You look away quickly, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your sweater, praying the darkness hides the wreckage on your face.

“Yeah… I am,” you say, trying to sound indifferent. You fail.

He steps closer. “Mind if I sit?” he asks, nodding toward the spot beside you.

You barely respond, just shift slightly to make room.

A flash of lightning splits the sky above, casting everything in sharp silver for half a second. A warning, maybe. Or a sign.

He settles beside you. The space between you is small, but it feels like miles.

“I didn’t expect you to come back,” he says, voice low, eyes locked on the water like it’s safer to look at something else.

You let out a hollow laugh. “I’m not really back. Just picking up some more stuff.” You pause. “So… yeah. I guess I made up my mind.”

He turns to say something, but before he can-

“You moved on pretty fast,” you say, finally meeting his gaze.

He blinks. “I’m not moved on.” His voice sharpens. Defensive. “You think I wanted this?”

“You didn’t not want it,” you fire back. “You gave up, Rafe. You didn’t fight for me, you didn’t call, you didn’t even text. You let Sofia answer your phone like nothing between us even mattered.”

He stands now, breathing harder. “You think that’s what this is? Me moving on? I was drunk. She picked up my phone because I was too messed up to know where it even was.”

“Don’t,” you say, standing too. “Don’t blame the alcohol or the party or anything else. You ended things. You pushed me away. You told me if I left, we were done. So I left.”

“And that was a mistake,” he mutters.

“Yeah, no shit.”

The thunder rumbles in the distance. Rain starts. Light at first. Barely more than a drizzle.

“You said you loved me,” you say quietly, eyes on his. “If you did -really, truly did- you wouldn’t have ended things the way you did.”

His eyes shimmer, but he doesn’t let the tears fall. Not yet. “I thought I was doing what was best for you.”

“I wanted you.” Your voice cracks. “I would’ve fought for us. You were just… too scared to fight with me.”

Silence. The kind that feels loud. And then it starts pouring. A heavy, curtain-like rain that soaks your hoodie and your short and makes the whole world blur around the edges. You’re crying again. But you don’t care.

You step closer. “You say you love me, Rafe, but when it mattered- you shut down. You ran. You always run. So no. I don’t believe you ever loved me. I don’t think you ever could.”

He’s silent. Frozen. Staring at you like he wants to say everything but can’t find the words.

You scoff through your tears. “That’s what I thought.”

You turn, soaked, heartbroken, shaking..but then-

His hand wraps around your wrist. Firm. Certain.

“Wait,” he breathes, spinning you around so fast your chest bumps his.

Your breath catches.

His voice drops, rough and shaking. “What do you think about this?”

And then- He kisses you. Not soft. Not sweet.

It’s everything. Angry. Desperate. Like he’s trying to prove every word he couldn’t say. And for a moment, the rain, the hurt, the heartbreak- It all stops.

You’re soaked- and not just from the rain.

The moment your back hits the leather seat of Rafe’s car, it’s clear where this is going. His mouth crashes against yours, urgent and unrelenting. There are no words. None needed. You’ve both already said too much, and yet not nearly enough.

His hands roam under your soaked hoodie, gripping your waist, peeling the fabric off like he’s starving for you. Your tank top follows, tossed somewhere into the front seat. And then it’s him- his shirt, his jeans, every barrier between you stripped away until all that’s left is skin and heat and rain-slicked desperation.

You don’t even remember climbing into the back seat. Maybe he pulled you. Maybe you pulled him. But it doesn’t matter now. His body is between your legs, his glistening tip sliding slowly along your entrance, teasing you, taunting you. Your hands brush against in his damp hair as he trails kisses down your neck, grazing your collarbone, biting gently at the shell of your ear.

And then-

He thrusts into you.

A broken moan escapes you both, loud and raw. He holds you closer than he ever has during sex- like he’s trying to crawl inside you, like he’s trying to stay. His thrusts are deep, slow, and intentional, hips grinding against yours with every movement. It’s not just sex- it’s something else entirely. Something heavier. More dangerous. More real.

Your lips find his again, mouths moving in sync, tasting each other through moans and shallow breaths.

Rain drums hard against the roof of the car, but it’s not loud enough to drown out the sounds between you. The wet slap of skin, the soft gasps, the cries of pleasure. Steam fogs the windows, wrapping you both in this cocoon of lust and love and unspoken heartbreak.

“Rafe,” you whimper, breath shaky.

He hears you this time. “I’m here, baby,” he breathes against your lips, biting gently on your lower one, then trailing kisses along your jawline.

Your head falls back. Eyes roll. One hand braces against the fogged window, streaking down with condensation. The car rocks beneath you.

“I’m so close,” you cry out, voice trembling. You pull him closer, your lips finding his in a messy, desperate kiss.

“Cum for me,” he growls, holding your face in one hand. “Cum all over my dick, pretty girl. Show me how much you missed me.”

He laces his fingers through yours, grounding you, anchoring you.

“That’s it -right there-” you gasp, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m cumming-”

Your thighs clamp around his hips, and your body goes rigid- completely still as the orgasm rips through you. White-hot. Paralyzing. Perfect.

“Oh, baby,” he moans into your neck. His thrusts grow sloppier, more frantic. He’s close. So close.

And then he stills. A soft curse under his breath, followed by a deep, guttural moan as he spills inside you, hands gripping you like he never wants to let go.

The only sound now is your breathing. Heavy. Labored. Quiet.

You both move slowly, silently, gathering your clothes in the dim light, pulling them back on like armor. No words exchanged. Not yet.

You clear your throat, adjusting your hoodie. “I should get going,” you murmur, eyes fixed on the rearview mirror, not on him.

He nods and opens the car door, stepping into the wet gravel. He reaches a hand out to help you down, knowing your knees are shot. You take it. His touch still lingers when you let go.

“Yeah,” he says quietly, walking with you to your car parked nearby. The rain has lightened, but the world still feels heavy.

Thank God you’d put the top up on the convertible earlier.

He opens the door for you. You slip in. He doesn’t close it right away. Instead, he leans against the window frame, chin resting on crossed arms, staring at you like he’s memorizing your face.

“I love you,” he says softly.

It almost breaks you. You want to melt into him. You want to say take me with you or come with me. You want the whole fairy tale. But this isn’t a story with a perfect ending. Not tonight. So instead, you give him a small, pained nod.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

He steps back as you start the engine. But just before you shift into gear-

“Hey,” he says again, and you look up. His eyes are pleading. “Promise me you’ll keep in touch.”

You pause. The words claw at your throat. You wish you could say yes. God, you want to say yes. But you know better.

“I can’t,” you say truthfully.

And then you’re pulling away.

You drive off into the night, the sound of gravel crunching beneath your tires. Tears blur your vision, but you don’t stop.

Not this time.

- 

The familiar weight of landing in New York hits your chest the second the plane touches down- though this time, it doesn’t feel like a trip. It feels like a turning point. You stare blankly out the window as the chauffeur navigates through the familiar rush of yellow cabs and honking horns, the skyline rising in front of you like it’s daring you to start over.

When you arrive at Celeste’s building, the doorman greets you by name this time. The little things -like that- make it feel real. Permanent.

You step into the penthouse, expecting to feel overwhelmed, but instead, it’s like the city has exhaled just for you. Celeste is, as always, dressed like she’s about to be photographed for Vogue- today in tailored wide-leg trousers and a silk blouse, sorting through a stack of mail with a glass of green juice in hand. She glances up as the door clicks shut behind you and offers you that signature smirk of hers. Knowing. Effortless.

“Hey, you,” she says, setting the mail aside, fully turning her attention to you. “Back in the city for good?”

You try to sound upbeat. Normal. Like your heart isn’t still bruised. “Hey. Yeah, looks like it.”

You nod once, tight and unsure, like saying it out loud might make it more real. Celeste reads you like a book but doesn’t push. Instead, she lights up like she’s been waiting for this moment.

“I actually have a little something for you,” she says, opening a drawer and pulling out a small black box.

Your brows lift. “What’s this for?”

“Just open it,” she insists with a twinkle in her eye.

You walk over, the heels of your boots clicking against the marble, and open the box. Inside, nestled in soft velvet, is a gleaming silver key.

You blink. “A… key?”

“To your own apartment!” she grins, practically bouncing.

You blink again, this time slower. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious.”

You laugh, stunned. “Is this your really polite way of kicking me out?”

She gasps playfully. “Never! I just figured you’d feel more creatively free in your own space. You’re building something. You deserve to do it in your own place.”

You look at the key again. It shines like a new beginning. “When do I move in?”

“Well, I’ve got to get to the studio for a shoot, but this weekend for sure. Oh! And we are definitely going furniture shopping.”

-

The weekend blurs into a frenzy of shopping for fabrics and furniture, installing bookshelves, choosing wall art, and figuring out if you’re a “scented candle girl” or not (you decide you are). The apartment is high above the chaos of the city- quiet, sunlit, and breathtaking. A place that feels like yours. You barely have time to think about Rafe. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think about you.

Chelsea texts to say Rafe stopped by. Brought flowers. A little box. A note. You promise to respond. But you don’t. You tell yourself you’re busy. The truth is, you’re scared of what answering him might do to the carefully built walls around your new world.

Nights are harder. You unpack your OBX things alone, piece by piece, item by item. A hoodie. A half-full sketchbook. The sewing kit. The mannequin.

You sit on the edge of your bed at 1:03 a.m., phone in hand, his contact open. You think of calling.

But instead, you imagine him asleep. At Tannyhill. Or not asleep at all. Maybe with someone else. Either way, you lock your phone and press it to your chest.

-

The weeks slip by like water- fashion meetings, showroom launches, networking brunches. You’re productive. Pulled together. Floating between espresso machines and editorial boards like you’ve been doing it your whole life. There are flashes where you feel like yourself again. Then there are moments where you wonder if you’ve just gotten really good at pretending.

You’re wandering the halls of the Met one late afternoon, alone, trying to trigger some spark of inspiration for your next collection. You linger in front of a massive piece that feels too abstract to be brilliant but too deliberate to be random.

“This is stupid, right?” The voice pulls you out of your thoughts.

You glance to your side. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, tousled dark hair and that New York City jawline. He’s beautiful. Effortlessly so.

You raise a brow. “Stupid’s a strong word for a piece that’s hanging in the Met.”

He grins. “Alright, pretentious, then.”

You cross your arms, turning slightly toward him. “It’s commentary on chaos versus intention. Maybe it’s not meant to be pretty. Maybe it’s just honest.”

His smile deepens. “Okay, art school. I stand corrected.”

You laugh -actually laugh- and it surprises you. The tension in your chest loosens a little.

“I’m Owen,” he says, offering a hand. “Photographer. Born and raised here. Are you one of those impossibly cool transplants?”

You take his hand. “Y/N. Designer. Recently relocated. And yes, impossibly cool.”

He tilts his head toward the museum café. “Can I buy you a coffee to make up for calling your art stupid?”

You hesitate, glancing down at your phone. “I actually have to be somewhere in a few. But… I wouldn’t mind keeping the debate going sometime.”

He grins again, slower this time. “You’re smooth.”

You shrug. “I’ve been told.”

He pulls out his phone and opens a new contact. “Then let’s make it official. Number?”

You trade phones and type in your info. A moment later, your phone buzzes with a text.

[Unknown]: I owe you a latte and a second opinion on pretentious modern art.

You glance up at him with a soft smile. “Looking forward to it.”

You smile softly as you step back out into the golden hush of early evening. The sidewalk is bustling. The city smells like roasted peanuts and ambition. But as you make your way through the crowd, your mind drifts.

You think of Rafe.

You shake your head and try to focus on the present- the sound of car horns, the art still swimming in your head, Owen’s text lighting up your phone.

But the ache? It lingers anyway. Like a bruise in a place only you can feel.

-

The city glows below, windows lit like stars scattered across the skyline. You’re tucked up at your desk by the window, sketchpad in front of you, a soft pencil dragging across the paper as you bring a new design to life. Your Mac is on in front of you, FaceTime connected to Becca, who’s lying across her massive bed back in the OBX.

“I swear to God,” she says, mid-rant, “if my mother tries to set me up with another guy who ‘owns his own landscaping business,’ I’m committing to girls only. I’m done.”

You grin without looking up. “So girls only now?”

“Girls only,” she confirms, sighing dramatically and rolling onto her back. “Men are exhausting.”

At that moment, both your phone and Mac ding. Instinctively, your eyes lift to your Mac screen.

Unknown Number: You doing anything tomorrow night?

You pause, blinking. You don’t recognize the number, but you already know. A smirk tugs at 

your lips as you pick up your phone and type back:

You: I’m sorry… who is this?

“Who’s got you smiling like that?” Becca’s voice cuts in, amused.

Your eyes flick back to the screen just as the reply comes in.

Unknown: You’ve gotta be kidding me. Camera guy? Bad at reading art? Does any of that ring a bell? You schooled me earlier today on it.

You laugh to yourself, shaking your head.

“Y/N!” Becca’s calling again, waving a hand in front of her camera.

You type quickly:

You: Ohhh. Yeah, you were pretty bad at reading art.

“Okay, spill,” Becca says, sitting up and propping her phone on her bed. “Who is he?”

You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Just this guy I met earlier today at the Met. I was looking at one of the new installations and he came up and started talking trash about it. I couldn’t not correct him.”

Becca gasps. “You schooled a stranger?”

“I couldn’t help myself.” You grin as another message pops up:

Unknown (now saved as Owen): So???

You: ‘So’ what?

“What’s his name?” Becca asks, practically bouncing.

“Owen,” you say, and you can’t stop yourself from smiling. Not on purpose- just instinct.

“Owennn,” Becca drawls teasingly. “I like that. Is he cute?”

“He’s actually really cute,” you admit. “And a photographer.”

“Oooh, artsy. That’s very New York of you.”

Owen: You doing anything tomorrow night?

You: Most likely not doing anything. What’s up?

Owen: A friend of mine is hosting an art exhibition. You should come.

You raise an eyebrow at your phone.

Becca watches you with narrowed eyes. “So is Rafe just… gone? Like, totally out of the picture now?”

You pause, your pencil hovering above the sketchpad. “I don’t know,” you say with a shrug. “I mean… what picture is there to be in? He ended it.”

Becca makes a face, then hesitates.

“What?” you ask.

“Speaking of him,” she says slowly, “he won’t stop harassing me about you.”

Your heart dips unexpectedly. “What?”

“I wasn’t sure if I should even tell you or if you wanted to hear it. But he keeps texting, asking how you’re doing, if I’ve heard from you. He’s… kind of a wreck.”

You don’t know what to say. Your chest tightens but you quickly sit up straighter, clearing your throat. “I don’t know what he expects,” you say. “He made his choice. And I made mine.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“I just thought you should know,” Becca says gently. “I didn’t want to keep it from you.”

You nod, eyes flicking back to your phone. Owen’s message is still glowing.

Owen: It’s in SoHo. Chill crowd, I promise. Come have fun.

You press your lips together, then type:

You: Okay. I’m in.

Becca catches the subtle shift in your mood but doesn’t press.

“Owen better be worth it,” she teases instead.

You smirk and shake your head, looking back down at your sketchpad. “I’m just trying to make friends.”

-

You step into the warehouse, the scent of paint and champagne mingling in the air. The space is dimly lit with warm amber bulbs that hang loosely from the ceiling, casting a soft glow over the exposed brick walls and concrete floors. Occasional bursts of flash from both professional cameras and iPhones flicker through the room like fireflies.

Clusters of people sip from slender champagne flutes and laugh in that low, throaty way that only people born into wealth seem to perfect. At a glance, you could almost believe they’re just normal twenty-somethings living the starving artist dream. But it only takes a few seconds to tell- these aren’t broke New Yorkers chasing artistry. These are the children of CEOs and hedge fund managers, reveling in the aesthetic of struggle like it’s performance art.

You shift slightly in your powder blue backless halter top and tailored black capris that kiss just below your knees. The outfit is simple, elevated, and perfect for the fading end-of-summer warmth. And yet, you feel entirely out of place. You can feel the stares, subtle but unmistakable, trailing you like perfume as you walk further into the gallery.

You pull out your phone.

You: I’m here. Where are you?

As you lower your phone, your eyes scan the artwork- colorful, chaotic, interesting in a raw kind of way. You pause in front of one, arms crossed as you tilt your head thoughtfully.

Then you hear it- an enthusiastic voice floating across the room.

“Thank you! Thank you so much for coming! You guys are amazing!”

You glance toward the source and spot her. She’s moving from group to group like sunlight, radiating ease. She’s got blonde hair styled in a messy ponytail tied with a vintage scarf, a pale pink off-the-shoulder t-shirt tucked into white bloomer shorts, and beat-up, hand-drawn Converse covered in doodles and signatures. She looks like Gigi Hadid if Gigi had a passion for art school critiques and lavender incense.

She sweeps her bangs out of her eyes and makes direct eye contact with you, her bright smile catching you a little off guard.

“Well, I know I haven’t seen you before,” she says, walking right up to you.

You offer a polite smile and extend your hand. “Hi, I’m-”

“Oh, sorry- I’ve got this germ thing.” Still, she takes your index finger between hers in a loose little shake that somehow feels more genuine than any firm handshake you’ve had. You laugh.

“-Y/N,” you finish.

“Noel,” she replies, her cheekbones practically casting shadows in the moody lighting. “Thanks for coming to my exhibit. I seriously appreciate it.”

“Y/N!” a voice calls from behind you.

You turn and spot Owen, striding over in a white long-sleeve layered under a black T-shirt, well-worn jeans, and his camera slung around his neck. He looks like he just walked off a ‘cool guy at an indie film festival’ Pinterest board.

“Ah, I see you’ve met Noel,” he says.

“I have,” you smile, glancing between them.

“Oh, you two know each other?” Noel asks, pointing between the two of you with a curious look.

“Barely,” you tease.

Owen clutches his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Wow. That’s bestie to you.”

You laugh -really laugh- and feel some of your nerves melt away.

“We met at the Met yesterday,” you explain.

“She schooled me on art,” Owen adds with a shrug.

“I like you already.” Noel loops her arm through yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

You’re surprised- but not unwelcome to it.

“Wait, wait- Noel, are you cheating on me already?” another voice rings out.

You turn to see a tall, stunning girl walk over. She looks like a young Kimora Lee Simmons- statuesque, glam without trying, dressed in sleek trousers and a cropped blazer with a diamond tennis bracelet that sparkles every time she moves. Her presence is commanding in that effortless New York way.

“Don’t pay her any mind,” Noel says with a grin, squeezing your arm lightly.

“Hi,” the girl says to you with a slow smile, already assessing your vibe with ease.

“Y/N, this is Allegra, my roommate. Allegra, Y/N, Owen’s friend,” Noel says. 

Allegra narrows her eyes at you, then points a manicured finger in your direction. “Wait a second… you’re the girl who moved in at Lucent apartments, aren’t you?”

You blink. “Um- yeah, I guess I am.”

“I knew you looked familiar. I saw you coming in with Celeste the other day. She’s basically Manhattan royalty, by the way.” Allegra smirks. “Nice to finally meet our mystery neighbor.”

You nod with a nervous smile, but she’s already waving it off like she’s claimed you as one of her own.

The rest of the night becomes a blur of laughter, art debates, and light gossip. You find yourself trailing after the trio like a lost puppy- Noel’s bright warmth, Owen’s quiet charm, and Allegra’s bold confidence make it easy to fall into step. Somewhere between sips of rosé and Noel dragging you to see her favorite piece (“it was inspired by a dream I had after eating expired cheese”), you realize something surprising.

You could really see yourself being friends with them. Allegra reminded you so much of Becca’s attitude and Noel had that same sweetness of Marie.

-

“Do you ladies need me to walk you up?” Owen asks as the four of you step out of the cab in front of your building. The city hums quietly around you, late-night traffic whispering in the distance. He’d been sweet enough to cover the ride, despite Allegra’s half-hearted protests.

Noel raises an eyebrow, a few stray paintbrushes and a folded sketch in her hand. “What, to like… protect us?”

Owen shrugs. “Well… yeah.”

Noel bursts out laughing. “What are you gonna do? Blind someone with the flash of your camera?”

Allegra tosses her hair over one shoulder, smirking. “Or maybe hit them with an aggressively artistic critique?”

The two of them crack up and you stifle your own laugh, trying not to completely gang up on him- though the image was funny. Still, there’s something endearing about his concern.

“We got it,” Allegra says with a wink as she slips her arm through yours, leading you and Noel toward the front entrance.

“Bye,” Owen calls, one hand in his pocket and the other lifting into a lazy wave.

“Byeeee!” Noel chimes back, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet street. You glance over your shoulder and smile, waving with the hand not tangled up in Allegra’s.

The elevator ride up is slow and golden-lit. Allegra leans casually against the mirrored wall, like she’s in a Vogue street-style spread without even trying.

“So,” she starts, eyeing you with genuine interest, “where are you from?”

“Outer Banks. North Carolina,” you reply, shifting your weight slightly.

Noel perks up. “Is that like… beachy?”

You smile at her phrasing. “Yeah, it’s a string of barrier islands off the coast. Small town. Lots of boats. Lots of gossip.”

Allegra hums. “Sounds like an Instagram dream but also my personal nightmare.”

The elevator dings softly and the doors glide open.

“You guys from here?” you ask, stepping out into the hallway.

“Born and raised,” Noel says proudly, tucking her brushes into her tote. “Well, technically Westchester, but still. Close enough.”

“I’m from L.A. Originally,” Allegra says. “Moved here at eighteen to kickstart my modeling career. Got bored of having palm trees in every picture.”

You knew it -her bone structure, that effortless confidence- she had to be a model.

As you approach your door, Noel strides across the hallway and grabs the handle of the one directly across from yours. She stops suddenly and gasps.

“No way!” Her voice is way too loud for nearly two in the morning.

Allegra quickly shushes her with a finger to her lips. “Noel,” she hisses. “It’s 1:47 AM.”

Noel ignores her, spinning back to face you. “You live here?”

You nod, slightly amused. “Moved in a few weeks ago.”

Allegra’s eyes widen slightly. “Small world.”

“Astoundingly small,” Noel says in a much more hushed tone. Without warning, she wraps you in a tight, excited hug. “We’re literally neighbors!”

Allegra raises an eyebrow and gives you a more reserved, almost too cool hug- the kind where her arms barely touch you but still somehow feel polite.

“Well,” she says, flipping her hair over her shoulder, “welcome to the building. And thanks for showing up for the art show. That meant a lot to her.”

“Of course. Thanks for kind of adopting me for the night.” You grin, unlocking your front door.

The three of you exchange quiet goodbyes before you slip inside and click the door shut behind you.

The heels come off first.

You lean against the wall for a second, the silence of your apartment washing over you like a long exhale. Then you smile -genuinely, softly- as you realize that for the first time in a long time, you don’t feel like an outsider.

You feel… home.

-

It’s officially one week before the first day of fall- and just two weeks before you’ll have to head back to the Outer Banks. You’re trying not to think about that too hard. For now, you’re tucked inside a thrift store in the East Village with Allegra and Noel, weaving through tightly packed racks of vintage coats and worn-in leather jackets.

You tug on a long camel trench and examine yourself in the dusty mirror near the corner.

“You’re giving cool-mom-at-school-dropoff,” Noel comments, deadpan as ever, while she flips through a rack of oversized corduroy blazers.

“She needs something edgier,” Allegra declares, sweeping over with a ridiculous faux-fur bucket hat that looks like it crawled out of a 90s music video. She plops it on your head without warning. The three of you burst into laughter as you turn to face the mirror, your reflection looking like someone who accidentally time-traveled from a Beastie Boys tour.

Then your phone starts ringing. Becca. She’s FaceTiming you.

You quickly swipe to answer, tugging the bucket hat off your head. “Hey, Becs!”

“Hey,” she replies, slightly breathless. Her phone is propped up on a treadmill at the gym- she’s mid incline walk, cheeks pink, hair up. “Where are you?”

“Thrift store. Jacket shopping. It’s about to get cold and I’m wildly unprepared,” you say, brushing a lint-covered sleeve off your shoulder as Noel places another tragic-looking hat on your head, sending both girls into another fit of giggles.

Becca squints. “A thrift store? In New York?”

You roll your eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I mean, I get the ones in Kildare. They’re basically curated. But New York City thrift stores? That’s… bold.”

Allegra immediately grabs your wrist and flips the camera so it faces her.

“It’s a New York thing,” she says smoothly, flashing Becca a perfectly casual smirk. “You wouldn’t understand.”

There’s no venom in her tone, but it still makes your stomach twist slightly.

Becca presses her lips together, raising her eyebrows like she’s biting back an opinion. You know her well enough to read her thoughts before she says them. So before any passive-aggressive digs can happen, you swipe the camera back to your face.

“Anyway,” Becca says, changing the subject. “Just calling to remind you my birthday is in exactly two weeks.”

“I know, Becca,” you say with a smile, balancing your phone on top of the shelf of racks as you flick through a rack of quilted jackets. “I don’t need reminders for things I’d never forget. I already bought my ticket- I’ll be there two days early to help set up.”

“Okay, well… that’s the other thing,” she says, tone dropping. Her pace on the treadmill slows.

You freeze a little, glancing up at Allegra and Noel, now throwing what they’ve dubbed “ugly hats” at each other across the aisle. One lands on the floor and earns them a death glare from the teenage employee behind the counter.

“What ‘other thing’?” you ask cautiously.

“Rafe is also helping.”

You blink. “I’m sorry… in what world is Rafe Cameron helping set up for your party? And why?”

Becca exhales. “Apparently, he and Beau are friends again. I don’t know all the details. But if you ask me? He’s using Beau to get to me to get to you. Classic Rafe move.”

You sigh deeply, head tilting back slightly as you stare at the ugly fluorescent lights above.

“Anything else I should know before I book a hotel instead of staying with you?”

Becca hesitates. “Yeah… but I’ll save it for when you get here.”

“Great,” you mutter, sarcasm clear. You say your goodbyes, and after the call ends, you slip your phone into your pocket, shoulders heavy.

“So…” Noel starts, her voice light and curious. “Who’s Rafe?”

“And seriously, what kind of name is that?” Allegra adds, tossing a vintage wool beret back onto the hat rack.

You exhale slowly, stepping toward the exit. “He’s my ex. And I honestly don’t know.”

Allegra and Noel exchange a look as the three of you step back out onto the sidewalk, empty-handed.

“He’s gonna be at your friend’s birthday?” Noel asks, already adjusting her oversized denim jacket.

“Apparently,” you say with a tight, exhausted smile. Just the thought of seeing Rafe again has your stomach in knots. Not because you miss him -though you do, in ways you haven’t admitted- but because you’re not ready to answer the question of why you haven’t responded to him. Why you’ve left all his texts unread. Why you’ve made it so easy for him to believe you’ve moved on.

“You need a pick-me-up,” Allegra says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Sushi? I know a place in SoHo. It’s low-key but their spicy tuna rolls are transcendent.”

You nod quickly, grateful for the change of topic. “Yes. God, yes.”

The three of you link arms, laughter trailing behind you as you disappear into the golden hour glow of the Lower East Side, pretending -for now- that your past wasn’t about to catch up with you in two weeks.

-

Your stomach twists as you turn into the long, curved driveway of Becca’s house, the gravel crunching beneath your tires like it’s warning you to turn back. Familiarity should bring comfort, but today it just heightens your nerves.

You don’t see Rafe’s black SUV anywhere- your eyes scan the area twice just to be sure. But there is a new, sleek Porsche parked off to the side. You can’t tell if it’s his or Beau’s. It could belong to either of them, and honestly, that uncertainty only makes your anxiety worse.

You kill the engine and sit for a second, hands still on the wheel. Just breathe.

Grabbing your duffle bag from the back seat, you walk up to the house. You don’t bother ringing the doorbell. Her parents are out of town, conveniently avoiding the chaos of their daughter’s birthday weekend. Classic. Still, even after all these years of friendship, they never quite warmed up to the idea of you letting yourself in like this was your second home. Maybe it was a wealth thing- boundaries and status, even among best friends.

The front door clicks shut behind you, muffling the sounds of muffled music and distant voices. You head straight down the hall, past the grand staircase, through the foyer lined with glossy family portraits, and toward Becca’s favorite part of the house- the theater room. Well, favorite aside from her bedroom, which was more like a curated showroom of mood boards and mid-century modern dreams.

As you round the corner, you collide -hard- with a firm, familiar chest. The contact knocks the breath out of you, and your fingers tighten reflexively around your bag strap. You look up. Rafe.

His hair is more buzzed than you remember, and he smells like expensive cologne and laundry detergent and summer. Your throat tightens. For a second, neither of you moves.

“…Hey,” he says, voice low and uncertain. He doesn’t sound surprised you’re here- more like caught off guard by how early.

“Hi,” you say, stepping back quickly like distance will give you composure.

He stares at you, jaw clenching slightly, like he’s holding back words that have been sitting on his tongue for weeks.

“Rafe! Can you grab more waters for the cooler?” Becca calls from inside the theater room, her voice cheerful and oblivious to the sudden tension in the hallway.

You take the moment to sidestep around him, not looking up again until you’re safely inside the room. And when you do glance back -just for a second- he’s still standing there. Still watching you. Like he hasn’t seen you in months. Like he’s afraid to blink. And just like that, your heartbeat kicks up again.

You hate how much it still affects you.

“Becs!” you shout, dropping your duffle bag to the floor as you step into the theater room.

Becca is halfway up a ladder, taping a curly string of party décor to the ceiling. She looks down at you and beams.

“Y/N!”

She doesn’t even think- she jumps from the ladder without a second thought and launches herself at you. You yelp as the two of you tumble backwards, collapsing onto the plush theater chairs in a heap of limbs and laughter.

“Ow!” you cry through a laugh, clinging to her. “Are you trying to kill me before the party even starts?”

“She’s trying to kill herself,” Beau calls from the other side of the room, where he’s fiddling with some laser lights near the stage setup.

“Hush, Botox,” you tease without looking at him.

Becca gasps dramatically but doesn’t snap back- she’s too giddy. She’s hugging you like you’ve been gone for years, not weeks, and you hug her back just as tightly.

Once you’re both upright again, she brushes glitter off her leggings while you catch your breath- only to glance up and freeze.

Rafe’s just walked in, a heavy case of water bottles balanced in his arms. The moment your eyes meet, something sharp twists in your stomach. You drop your gaze just as quickly.

“Over here,” Beau calls, gesturing to the snack bar setup.

Rafe silently detours, dropping to one knee as he begins loading the bottles into the mini fridge. His shoulders are tense, but his gaze flicks up to you more than once as he works.

Beau comes over and throws a one-armed hug around your shoulders. “Glad you made it, trouble.”

You smile, distracted, and glance back toward Rafe before turning your attention to Becca, who’s unplugging the vacuum and wrapping the cord in her arms.

“You could’ve warned me,” you mutter under your breath, lips barely moving as you smile in that painfully fake, we’re-in-front-of-other-people kind of way.

Becca glances at you and mimics the exact same forced smile. “You knew he’d be here.”

“Not this early!” you hiss, still smiling, both of you locked in this weirdly telepathic girl-code exchange of facial expressions and fake grins before you break into real laughter.

“We’re going up to my room,” Becca announces to the guys as she tosses the vacuum cord over her shoulder.

Beau nods. “Cool. We’re ordering pizza- what do you want?”

“Pepperoni, please,” Becca calls back.

“Pi-” you start to say, but Rafe cuts in from behind the counter, not even looking up.

“Pineapple,” he mutters.

Your eyes snap to him.

Beau looks between the two of you, eyebrow raised, clearly clocking the tension.

“Yeahhhh,” Becca says quickly, clapping her hands. “We’re going upstairs now.”

She grabs your wrist and guides you toward the hallway. “Call us when the pizza gets here!” she tosses over her shoulder as you both leave the room, her voice a little too bright, a little too fast.

As soon as the door swings shut behind you, you exhale.

She doesn’t say anything for a few steps. Then: “Well, that wasn’t as awkward as it could’ve been.”

You groan. “It’s barely been two minutes.”

“And look at us- already surviving.”

You bump her shoulder lightly with yours. “We’ll see.”

You and Becca are sitting cross-legged on her bed, knees almost touching, her hands gripping yours like she’s about to deliver life-altering news. She’s got that look on her face- eyebrows pinched, lips pursed, eyes dancing like she’s fighting the urge to burst.

“Becca, you’re scaring me,” you say, narrowing your eyes.

“Just… don’t freak out, okay?” she pleads, squeezing your hands once before pulling hers back to brace herself. Her eyes squeeze shut. “Marie and I slept together,” she blurts, then immediately shoves her fist into her mouth, eyes wide and panicked like she just confessed to murder.

There’s a full five-second delay in your brain. Like a loading sign. Spinning. Spinning.

“Like… slept slept together?” you ask slowly. “Or just… same bed, passed out after a movie…?”

Becca groans. “Slept slept together,” she repeats, cracking her eyes open, waiting for your judgment.

You blink at her. Then again. “Wow,” you finally breathe. “I have so many questions.”

She exhales sharply, half laughing, half still bracing. “Remember when you and Rafe went to breakfast that one morning? And you told us to hang out?”

You nod slowly. “Oh, trust me, I now know exactly what kind of ‘hanging out’ went down. Ew.”

“I was gonna tell you,” she insists, flopping back onto the bed. “That night we were on your balcony? When you were crying and I told you to go after him instead? I had the perfect opening!”

You lean back on your palms, eyes wide. “Wait… is that why you said you were done with guys?”

She blushes instantly. And then bursts into laughter, covering her face with her hands.

You laugh with her, shaking your head. “Oh my god, Becca.”

“I mean… girls are still men, in some ways,” she groans into her hands. “But like, at least this one moisturizes and smells like lavender.”

“I need a minute to recover,” you say, pretending to fan yourself.

The two of you fall into light chatter, laughter trailing into comfort. Eventually, Becca groans and hops off the bed.

“I think I have an eyelash stabbing my retina,” she says dramatically, disappearing into the ensuite bathroom to investigate in the mirror.

Just as she closes the door behind her, there’s a soft knock at Becca’s bedroom door.

“Y/N!” she calls from the bathroom, voice muffled. “Can you grab that?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m getting it,” you mutter, rolling off the bed. You open the door- and freeze.

Rafe is standing there, a plate in each hand and two bottles of water awkwardly tucked beneath his arm. His eyes unreadable, flicking from your face to somewhere over your shoulder and back again.

You’re surprised. But not really.

“I brought these up… for you guys,” he says, his voice low, like he’s not sure if this is going to earn him a thank you or a door slammed in his face.

Your mouth opens a second before your brain catches up. “Thanks,” you say dryly, reaching for the plates.

He nods, then grabs the water bottles from under his arm and reaches past you to set them down on the dresser near the door. You notice the way his arm brushes yours- probably not by accident.

As you start to close the door, he hesitates. “I, uh-” he points to one of the plates, the one clearly meant for you. “I picked the ham off the pineapple. I know you don’t like it.”

You glance down at the plate. Then back at him. Your walls threaten to slip. “Thanks… again.”

He shrugs, shoving his hands deep into his pockets like it’s the only way to stop himself from saying more.

And then -because of course he can’t help himself- he leans a little closer, that smug half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You always get that look when you’re about to close the door on me,” he murmurs. “Just like you did that night in the rain- right after you let me fuck you in the back of my car.”

Your breath catches. Heat shoots to your cheeks.

Your eyes widen. “Oh my god,” you whisper, scandalized.

Rafe raises both eyebrows innocently, clearly smug.

Without another word, you slam the door in his face- not hard, but not gently either.

From the bathroom, Becca calls, “What was that?!”

You walk back to the bed with the plates and water, cheeks burning. “Rafe being Rafe,” you mutter, flopping down and groaning into the pillows.

Becca pokes her head out from the bathroom, eye red and watery. “Was he shirtless? I feel like that is something he’d do.”

You throw a pillow at her, laughing.

-

You’re in the kitchen flipping pancakes, the warm scent of butter and syrup wafting through the air. You’re dressed in a black bikini, a semi-sheer white sarong tied low on your hips. Your hair is out, natural and untamed, curls soft and framing your face. You hadn’t bothered to style it today- and somehow, that made you feel more like yourself. More like home.

Behind you, Becca dances barefoot around the island, her playlist blasting through the portable speaker as she chops a medley of strawberries, kiwi, and mango into a giant fruit bowl.

“With how loud your music is and how good those pancakes smell, you better be making some for us too,” Beau’s groggy voice cuts through the beat. You turn your head and laugh as he steps into the kitchen, shirtless and rubbing sleep from his eyes.

“I’m making damn near the entire box,” you say with a grin. “Trust me, Becs and I aren’t about to eat a dozen pancakes on our own.”

“Speak for yourself,” Becca calls from across the kitchen.

You flip the final batch onto a plate and start assembling them into four neat servings, layering fruit for yourself and Becca and leaving two plates plain.

That’s when Rafe walks in. He’s in a white ribbed tank and low-slung shorts,he clearly just rolled out of bed. Your eyes meet for a brief moment- just long enough to make your heart flutter in spite of yourself.

You quickly pass a plate to Becca. “This one’s for him,” you say under your breath.

She raises an eyebrow but takes it anyway, walking it over to Rafe without a word. Still, when you turn around, you nearly crash into him.

“Sorry,” you mumble, stepping back.

He steadies the plate in one hand. “Thanks… for the pancakes.”

You nod once. “Yeah… No fruit?”

“Not today,” he says with a shrug, then glances at your plate and back to your face. “You think I should get some?”

The question is simple, but something in the way he asks it makes your stomach tighten. You raise an eyebrow and smile, unsure why it feels like middle school-level flirting all over again.

“You should probably get some,” you say softly.

His grin creeps in slowly. “Do you want me to?”

You bite your lip, trying not to look too amused. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?” he repeats, that teasing lilt in his voice now, like he’s enjoying this more than he’ll admit.

You chuckle. “Yeah.”

“I’ll get some just for you.” He’s already reaching for the fruit bowl, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he scoops a generous helping into a smaller bowl. You catch him glancing at you from the corner of his eye.

You take the bowl from him and set it on his plate, your fingers brushing his in the exchange. His gaze lingers for a second longer than it should.

“You look really pretty,” he says suddenly, looking down as he adjusts the bowl next to his pancakes like he’s trying to hide the heat rising to his face.

You freeze for half a second. The compliment lands heavier than you expected.

“Thank you, Rafe,” you say quietly, warmth spreading through your chest and up your neck.

“Y/N!” Becca calls through the sliding door, already stepping out toward the patio with her plate and a drink in hand.

You grab your own plate and cup, your pulse still dancing from the interaction.

“Yeah! I’m coming,” you call back, but your eyes flick back to Rafe one last time before you follow her out. He’s watching you walk away.

And for a moment, it feels like everything -the tension, the history, the attraction- is suspended in that charged space between pancakes and fruit.

You push the door open, the summer air hitting your skin as you step outside, trying to shake the feeling that you’re still carrying Rafe with you. Even out here.

“Tell me you weren’t just in there flirting with him,” Becca says flatly, popping a strawberry into her mouth as she reclines back on the lounge chair beside you.

You roll your eyes, chewing on a bite of pancake. “We were having a normal conversation, like functioning adults. Shocking, I know.”

“Reminder: he broke up with you. Over the phone.” Her tone is calm but edged with just enough sass to land the blow.

You wince and narrow your eyes. “Jesus, Bec. You don’t have to remind me like that.”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugs. “Don’t let him sweet-talk his way back into your life. You’ve come too far for that.”

“I ignored him for weeks after the breakup,” you say, your voice tight. “And that was after we slept together.”

Becca’s head snaps toward you so fast her sunglasses nearly slide off. “Wait… what?”

You freeze, a half-chewed bite of pancake turning to dust in your mouth. “Oh.”

Her brows shoot up. “Did you just say you had sex with him after you broke up?”

You swallow hard and glance away. “Technically, yes.”

She spins on the lounge chair to fully face you, abandoning her plate altogether. “Y/N.”

“Okay, fine,” you groan, pushing your sunglasses to the top of your head. “We did.”

Her mouth drops open in pure betrayal. “When? When the hell did this happen?”

“Shhh!” You reach over and swat her arm, scanning the patio door nervously. “Keep your voice down.”

“Well maybe don’t drop breakup bombshells like that poolside and I wouldn’t have to yell.”

You sigh and tuck your legs underneath you. “It was when I came back to grab more stuff. I wasn’t planning on seeing him- swear. But I went to the marsh to clear my head and… somehow he showed up too.”

Becca raises a brow. “You’re telling me this was a coincidence?”

“I don’t know, maybe.” You shrug, embarrassed. “One minute we’re arguing, the next it’s pouring rain, and we’re in the back of his SUV and he’s-” You pause, waving a hand vaguely. “-doing things.”

Becca blinks. “Okay. First of all? Public, post-breakup sex in a rainstorm? Iconic. That’s some Titanic level drama. Love that for you.”

You smirk in spite of yourself.

“But second of all,” she continues, “how did you not tell me this? I’m your best friend. This is the kind of stuff we live for.”

You groan and sink deeper into your chair. “Because I’ve been trying to forget it happened myself, that’s why.”

“Forget what?” Beau’s voice interrupts as he and Rafe push through the patio door, both holding plates stacked with pancakes.

Your eyes widen. You glance at Becca like please say nothing.

“None of your business,” she says breezily, standing up as she spots the massive wheelbarrow full of bright pool floaties behind them. “What are you two doing?”

Beau sets his plate down on the nearest table. “Blowing up floaties. We got dolphins, flamingos, one of those ridiculous oversized pizza slices-”

“Wanna help?” Rafe asks, looking mostly at you.

Becca doesn’t miss a beat. “Absolutely not.”

You take a long sip from your iced coffee and look away, pretending to suddenly find the trees in Becca’s backyard fascinating. Because if you look at him again, even for a second, you might not be able to keep pretending last time wasn’t unforgettable.

-

You and Becca are waist-deep in the pool, rotating through floaties under the guise of “testing” them. In reality, the boys are doing all the heavy lifting -Beau manning the electric pump, Rafe handling the ones that need manual inflation- while you and Becca lazily drift around, swapping floaters every now and then.

You’re currently slung over a giant yellow banana float like a sleepy panda on a tree branch, arms and legs draped dramatically, your sunglasses hiding the fact that you’re shamefully watching Rafe.

Why did he have to take off his shirt? And why does he look so hot blowing up pool floats? You’re pretty sure no one’s ever had that thought before, but here you are.

The sun reflects off the water, and you feel yourself slowly drifting toward the pool’s edge, still clinging to the banana float and trying not to stare too hard as Rafe finishes with a donut-shaped one.

He walks over to the edge where you’ve floated, shirtless, tan, and looking maddeningly unbothered. His hand wraps around the front tip of the banana float, halting your journey. The water ripples against you.

“Heyyyy,” you whine, startled from your daydream. “I was floating.”

He laughs, low and amused, and plops the donut float into the pool beside you. “Time to switch out,” he says with a smirk, like he’s talking to a child refusing to get off the swing.

“I don’t feel like switching.” The protest barely leaves your mouth before he’s stepping into the pool with zero hesitation, water sloshing around him. In one smooth motion, his arms are around your waist, lifting you like you weigh nothing. You let out a small yelp as he gently drops you into the donut float.

“I would’ve gotten up,” you grumble, adjusting your position. “This is just… a lot. All these float switches? I think my fingers are officially prunes.” You lift a hand for dramatic effect and flop your head back.

“Oh yeah,” Rafe says, climbing out of the water again, his shorts clinging to his legs. He shoots you a playful look over his shoulder. “You’ve definitely got the hardest job here. Lounging in the pool while we blow up thirty inflatables.”

“You forgot the part where I also have to rotate every five minutes so my tan doesn’t get uneven,” you add.

“Tragic,” he calls back, grabbing another deflated float from the pile.

Becca, across the pool on a flamingo float, calls out, “If she complains one more time, throw her 

on the pizza slice and spin her around.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Rafe says with a teasing glance your way, his lips tugging into a familiar smirk- the kind that makes your heart beat faster than you’d like to admit.

You sink a little deeper into the donut float, willing your pulse to chill out.

Because God help you… he’s still got it.

[beerok23]

The Trouble with HELL (13/19)

A GO Podcasters/Investigators AU (rating: eventually E)

The Trouble with HELL by beerok23

Summary:

Award-winning true crime podcast Va-voom, sorted! has been on hiatus since his author, Anthony Crowley, has published his first murder mystery, Murder on the M25. When his associate Nina begs him to follow a story on a train crash, he meets PI Aziraphale Eastgate, and he soon realises that the charming Apparition in tartan is the real voice behind his favourite podcast, Mr Fell's Mystery Haven. Crowley can't possibly imagine that Aziraphale is starting his own true crime podcast to investigate the same story. Feeling the pressure of competition, Crowley goes back to his first love and wages a Podcast War against the angel until they both realise that the case is bigger than they originally thought. With so much at stake, will they keep working against each other, or will they put their differences aside and learn to trust one another to uncover the truth?

Chapter 13/19: Down the river (6k words)

Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley walk down the river to get back to Tadfield. They are a bit lost, both literally and metaphorically speaking. When Aziraphale wants to do something nice for Crowley, he has to suffer the (exhilarating) consequences.

Excerpt from Chapter 13:

“Crowley, I was thinking–” “Uh-oh.” “Stop it!” Aziraphale chuckled. “That weird guy in the Bentley said that we had something that didn’t belong to us.” “Mm-hmm.” “He thought we knew where the real tests were.” “Yeah, that struck me, too.” Crowley sighed. “What’s your professional opinion on the matter, PI Eastgate?” Aziraphale flashed an amused grin at him. “I’m starting to think that maybe Dalrymple didn’t have them in the briefcase.” “You think he put them somewhere safe?” Crowley asked, following his reasoning. “‘t could be. I wouldn’t put it past him,” Aziraphale agreed, his voice so low and sexy that it made him shiver. (Add it to the scruffy five-o-clock shadow, and Crowley wanted to kiss the living daylights out of him – or lick the angel’s face, again, he wasn’t that picky.) “What if he didn’t, though? What if you missed something at the theatre?” Aziraphale suddenly stopped in his tracks, his face turning into a shocked and affronted expression. “You aren’t suggesting that I have them?” Crowley was as appalled as he was. “No! Azir– angel, that’s not what I meant–” Aziraphale’s glare turned into a somewhat softer look. “You want to frisk me, demon?” Well, fuck it. Another offer like that, and see what becomes of rule number one. Crowley smirked the smuggest possible smile. “Not tonight, angel. I have a migraine.” Aziraphale stared at him with wide eyes, his mouth twitching at the corners.

Read Chapter 13

Start from Chapter 1 💜

[serenadeonacanoe]

Untitled, 2025 (GD x OFC) Chapter 7: March 25th

Pairing: G-Dragon/Kwon Jiyong x OFC Genre/Warnings: Slow Burn, Tour Life, fluffyfluff, yearning, eventual smut, 2014 ==> 2020 ==> 2025.

It’s 2025 and the King of K-Pop is back. He and his music are everywhere. On the charts, all over social media and smack in the middle of Maddie’s work schedule. Sometimes she still can’t believe this is her actual job now - documenting the chaos behind the scenes and trying to make sure no one on his team gets lost, bruised or accidentally starts a viral scandal.

What’s even harder to believe? That she and Jiyong met five years ago. Actually… scratch that. They met ten years ago too. Time has a weird sense of humor like that and things get blurry when you’re busy, nostalgic, and maybe just a little bit smitten. Also, life throws more daisies your way than you’d expect.

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6

More on AO3 —————————————–

Summer 2014

The sky looks too cheerful for how I feel. Blue, sunny, a few lazy clouds. Birds are chirping. It’s offensively peaceful for a day full of hangovers. I’m standing by the gravel driveway, sunglasses on, hoodie up, suitcase beside me like I can’t wait to leave and… well yeah, I really can’t wait to leave. Everyone’s pretending to be fine after last night’s party. Maybe they are, but it smells like old beer and regret here.

I’m not mad. Just ready to go. “Hey, Daisy.” I turn. It’s Jiyong. Of course. He's holding a coffee cup like a prize. Sweater hood pulled low, hair underneath a mess, tired. Still looks too good for someone who should probably be hiding from the world. “You leaving without saying goodbye?” he asks, voice all smooth like this is charming, like it’s a joke. I blink. He smirks. I hate that it still does things to me.

“You’re cute when you’re mad.” “Oh wow. You really just said that?” He shrugs. “You’re not mad?” he asks, stepping a little closer. “No” I say honestly. “Just not impressed.”

He tips his head like that’s new information. Like I’m supposed to be flattered he’s even here talking to me. I can tell he’s still drunk. Or maybe that’s just who he is. His smile falters. Just for a second. But he catches himself and goes back to grinning like this is still salvageable.

That’s when Daesung walks past us with a huge plastic bottle of water. “You two flirt way less sexy in daylight” he says without stopping. “We’re not flirting.” I call out after him. Jiyong raises an eyebrow. “Speak for yourself.”

And that is when I walk away. Not fast. Not dramatically. Just done. I’ve got a train to catch and enough dignity left to not waste another breath on him. Still… in the car, on the ride to the station, head resting against the window, I find myself replaying the look on his face. That tiny crack in his confidence. That moment where maybe - just maybe - he didn’t have it all together. Not that it changes anything. But it lingers a little.

March 2025

It’s the 25th. The album is out. Übermensch is here. A couple of days have passed since that snowy walk but it feels like a lifetime ago.

We’ve seen each other nearly every day since - at work. Surrounded by people. Surrounded by deadlines. Surrounded by too much caffeine and not enough sleep. Everyone is exhausted in that giddy, running-on-adrenaline kind of way. No one has time to breathe. Let alone flirt.

We’ve texted. Brief little things. Updates. Memes. One photo of one of his cats. Nothing romantic. Nothing that said hey, remember how we kissed like our lives depended on it?

It’s fine. We’re fine. I’m not spiraling. Okay. I might be spiraling just a bit.

I didn’t want to be of course and at first I didn’t even want to admit it, but fuck. It’s always in the back of my head.

The worst part is he seems normal. Not cold. Just… busy. Charming to everyone, polite to me. A couple of long glances across meeting rooms, but nothing that lands. I start to wonder if I made it bigger in my head than it was. Maybe it was the snow. Maybe he felt something for five minutes and then went back to being whoever he is now. A pop star with a schedule that has its own gravitational pull. I tell myself not to take it personally.

The day comes and goes. Some of it - a lot of it actually - feels like a dream. Hard to grasp, in a way, because we worked so long and hard on this album. It’s hard to believe it’s finally here, people are listening.

Tonight is the album release party at a swanky venue downtown and I was hoping to enjoy the night but I still feel so much pressure when I get ready. This is still work after all. Maybe come tomorrow it will get better? Or will we forever run after the next thing and then the next thing… Or am I just being anxious because of everything?

When I arrive it feels good… but at the same time I disappear into the background. There are so many people I know and so many I know of. Pictures are being taken and flashes illuminate the otherwise dark red-tinted room. Is this a party? Or just the photo op of a party?

I sigh at myself. What did I expect.

Well… at least a pretty tight hug.

Instead I try to at least have a good time.

It’s after midnight and I am standing in a hallway toward the back entrance of the venue. I needed a quieter moment, a strong coffee and a moment to lean against this table after dancing for quite a while. My feet hurt. My voice is hoarse. A part of me wishes I was drunker. Another just wants to go to bed. And a third one wishes I wasn’t thinking about Ji.

Of course it’s hard not to. I’ve seen him all night. Deep down I know I’m being hard on myself but what can you do.

Daesung walks past me toward the exit, probably to sneak a smoke outside and grins wide at me. I know that grin. He’s trying to make me smile as well because he can tell I am not a hundred percent, he is good at that. The sound of his footsteps gets me out of my thoughts. I check my phone once he’s gone and wonder whether I should just go home. My duties for today are done done done.

That’s when a second pair of footsteps comes up, much quieter and not quite as startling anymore.

When I look up, Jiyong has already walked up next to me. He’s now also leaning against the table and just props his chin onto my shoulder, pretending to look at my phone with me. A hesitant smile from him. Then me smiling as well.

My heart is about to explode. I feel… shy and somewhat relieved. Confused but happy. It’s a lot. “Hi,” he says, looking up. He doesn’t move away. Still leans over at me, but now we’re on eye level. “Hi.”

For a second we just… look at each other.

It’s strange how familiar he feels and also how much space we’ve let grow between us the last few days.

“I’ve been hoping to catch you alone all day. Several days actually.”

Mad, almost concerning, how these two sentences from him make all that spiraling disappear for a moment. Thank fucking god. I wasn’t alone in this. Well, I was. But we were on the same page. Just not together, unfortunately.

“Busy. I get it,” I answer, trying to be casual for some reason, pretty sure that my face gives me away anyway. To be honest, I have no idea why I say that. It’s stupid.

He nods. Then adds, almost shyly “I couldn’t stop thinking about you though.”

I swallow, look down at the steam from my coffee cup. Then I sigh all my relief away and now I’m the one who lets her head fall to his shoulder.

Ji moves an arm around my back and puts his cheek to my head and we just stand there for a second.

There are so many things I want to say but now that I have the chance my head is so empty. I just want to be here with him… quiet for a moment. And so we are.

Until I finally break away to look into his eyes again.

“I hope… I really hope this album does as well as it deserves. Like… you deserve. I hope people appreciate it because…”

Why am I getting teary-eyed. I haven’t even expressed what I mean. That I’m proud of him. That he doesn’t need the praise but I still hope he gets it because the music is so great and every stupid little detail and… I’m tired but happy now and��� too many words. Too little at the same time, so I stop and stand there with slightly open mouth.

He just looks at me and presses his lips together. Raises one hand to gently let the side of his thumb glide across my temple. Nods slowly a couple of times, as if to say It’s okay, I get it. And I think he really does.

I take another deep breath and then I just hug him. That might be reckless but I don’t care, because finally, the pressure is gone. All of it. Work and the stupid questions in my head. Nothing is clear yet, but I think there is nothing I can do.

Of course that is when Daesung appears again, muttering curse words and something about “nobody has lighters anymore these days.”

But he stops right away, mid-sentence, mid-step and starts grinning when he sees us. Makes another four steps until he is right next to us. Throws his arms around both of us at once like we’re in a sitcom.

“OH… my gawd” he practically shouts. “You guys are totally fucking.”

I almost choke. Jiyong makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “We’re not,” I manage. “Yet” Jiyong adds under his breath.

Daesung gasps like he just won a prize. Gossip Gold, basically. “I KNEW IT” he announces to absolutely no one. “Oh this is crazy, I can’t believe you finally… oh wow.” Then he bounds off again, still laughing. I panic for a second before I realize that whatever this is is safe with him. He loves gossip but he’s been doing this for long enough.

We’re left blinking. Jiyong looks at me with wide, amused eyes. “Well… that’s one way to get found out.” I nod, laughing into my cup before I take another sip.

And just like that, everything that was heavy lifts. Not everything is fixed. Not everything is said. But we’re back in orbit.

Jiyong shifts just a little closer. Not obvious. But close enough that I can feel the warmth of his hand brushing against mine. And then, gently, deliberately, his fingers slip into the space between mine. I glance down like my hand suddenly belongs to someone else. His thumb grazes mine once. Just once. And I swear to god it short-circuits something in my chest. I look up at him. He’s still smiling, but softer now. Like we’re in a bubble and he knows it. His hand tightens just slightly around mine.

Then I start smirking because I just remembered that... “So… yet? We aren’t fucking yet?” He audibly sucks in some air, rolls his eyes and is actually a tiny bit embarrassed, I can tell. But there is also a hint of a mischievous smile on his lips and the combination of all that is so intoxicating.

Instead of saying anything he moves both arms back around my waist and rests his face back against my collarbone. His currently very green hair is tickling me a little and I move one arm around his back, the other to the back of his head. Let my fingers glide into his (well, a little crispy) hair. For a second I close my eyes while there is the biggest smile on my face. I am so goddamn happy.

It’s a short moment that could have ended quite badly. We got luckier than we probabyl deserved there. So in the end that is all it is. A few minutes of hugging and shared silence. We return to the party hesitantly but both know it’s better that way.

By the time I get home, my cheeks are still warm. It’s the alcohol and the fact that it’s still really cold outside. 

But it’s the hand-holding. It’s the yet. It’s how much lighter I feel compared to a couple of hours ago.

I kick off my shoes, toss my coat on the back of the chair and lean against the wall for a second, just breathing. The city is quiet outside my window. My phone is still in my hand. I stare at the screen, thumb hovering, considering. Maybe I’ll just send a goodnight. Something chill. Something casual and completely non-deranged like hey hope you made it home safe and also I’m still thinking about your hand in mine and my brain’s made of fireworks now ok cool sleep tight.

Before I can type anything, my phone buzzes.

Jiyong: made it home, you there yet? Jiyong: you looked really pretty tonight btw

I smile so hard it hurts.

Me: same Me: home I mean Me: but also… thanks Me: you didn’t look too bad either Me: for someone emotionally attacked by daesung

Jiyong: tragic

Me: he might have printed shirts already Me: there might be a shipping name

Jiyong: might take me years to recover Jiyong: unless you and I can hang out again sometime soon Jiyong: that might help Jiyong: just us this time

I bite my lip. Consider typing something witty, but then don’t. What he wrote didn’t make much sense, but I am so glad he asked.

Me: I’d like that

I beam. Alone in my apartment. At my phone. Like an idiot. But not really an idiot. I am not an idiot. I am just fucking smitten. Why be unkind to myself about that. It feels amazing.

Me: Soon?

Jiyong: Yes please Jiyong: Sleep tight, Dais.

[avifaunaa]

i tasted ash and knew [ it was you ] [ r.v. ] [ pt. 7 ]

Authors Note: all I can say is that I’m sorry? Life gets busy and hard sometimes but you’ve all been very patient and I’m super grateful. Also — we get some of Rio’s POV in this!

Masterlist

PART ONE | PART TWO | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE | PART SIX | PART EIGHT

Summary: The Familiar Bond has saved your life and your mental status — but Rio knows it’s only a matter of time before the magic that comes with creating such a Bond with you starts manifesting itself. Meanwhile, in the future, Wanda Maximoff once again crashes through the perfectly curated reality Rio has attempted to keep you entrapped in.

Content Warnings: Reminder that this story is dark in nature so please remember that; otherwise here’s this chapters’ warnings: period typical fifties views, internalized homophobia [ brief, worked through ], fluff and smut, knee grinding [ r!receiving ], fingering [ r!receiving ], slight dumbification [ r!receiving ], subspace-ish, praise kink [ r!receiving ], manipulation [ Rio ], misuse of magical abilities [ Rio ], Stockholm Syndrome, Fluffy!Rio, there is some Agatha bashing HOWEVER it comes from a biased, filtered POV wherein R doesn't have Agatha's side of the events of AAA and WV, pregnancy and symptoms that come with it, Wanda planning Wanda-like-shit

Word Count: TBA

1955

A featherlight caress surrounded you as the whisper-quiet lifting of your nightshirt drifted along your skin followed by lips pressing along the skin of your spine.

You shifted on the mattress with each new sensation tugging you from pleasant sleep. The lips continued to leave carefully placed marks along your lower back and as your awareness returned, you felt a weight down on your hips.

“Hmm, I know you’re awake,” the familiar, low voice husked into your skin, teeth drawing out sensitive shivers that exposed you even more.

You breathed into the pillow as you turned your head so you could cast a look backward, opening bleary eyes to look at your lover.

Rio was a vision when she was in your shared bed like this — where neither of you had to pretend to be something else and wear skins of carefully crafted lies for society in order to live.

Here, in this moment, as the early pink and orange light spilled through the curtains and casted Rio in a bright glow, she was so unfairly ethereal.

Her hands moved down the shape of your body, placing extra attention at certain points she knew got noises she liked from you and working her lips back up your spine until you felt her warm breath against your ear and her body lay flat against your back.

“So sleepy, my Angel is,” Rio murmurs. Delicate kisses follow the statement behind the shell of your ear — a spot she found months ago when you’d explored your body with her in ways you never got to with your husband.

Sex was an activity you were starting to become more and more open about the longer you remained with Rio — who remained ever-so patient with you as you took time to process your emotions and the way she made you feel. Especially after sex occurred.

Rio had worked hard to undo the mess that you’d become in regard to sexual activity; lying down, taking it, and assuming your need for the pleasure was no longer necessary.

The guilt that engulfed you after your first time with Rio — after every time you continued to do it — started appearing less and less. After your head injury, you stopped caring all together.

Society was not ready for this tender, forbidden thing you and Rio shared. But that was fine with you — you didn’t think you could share this part of her with anyone else anyways.

Fingers danced around the curve of your ass teasingly, the featherlight touches grabbing your focus and forcefully returning it to your lover.

“Rio,” you hummed, tilting your body slightly under her. She let you readjust, her hips lifting until you were on your back. She settled back down atop you, hips notched against yours, one knee dipping into the mattress while the other found home between your lifted legs.

“Hi,” she greeted, leaning down for a kiss that you eagerly returned. “Sorry for waking you, but I simply couldn’t help myself. I needed to have you.”

The words spoken so aloud and without shame sent a rush of heat through your core. You resisted the urge to clench your legs together — her knee would block the movement, thus catching onto your arousal if she hasn’t already.

You lifted a hand to run your fingers along her left arm, which held her up with her elbow buried in the mattress close to your head.

“So soon, already?” you asked, faking disinterest. “You just had me. Last night.”

Rio’s eyes were sharp and her lips twitched at the corners; whether she picked up on the beginning of your teasing or saw your response as a challenge was unclear. Either way you were getting a reaction you sought out.

“I want you again,” she purred, leaning down to place well-aimed kisses along the hollow points of your throat. “As many times as I can before something absolutely ridiculous forces us out of this bed.”

Your eyes flutter and your hand drifts up from her arm to tangle in the strands of her dark hair, encouraging her to stay where she was.

“Mm . . .” Not a reply, but it was hard to produce anything of substance when she nibbled so sweetly and began to run a hand up and down your thigh.

“Please?” A kiss, a squeeze on your ankle as she drew it along her waist and pushes herself closer against you — into you — with nowhere left to go. “I’ll make you feel so good.”

You pretend to contemplate her request even when you knew your answer, soaking in the increasingly needy kisses along your skin, hot breath sinking into every pore and claiming you.

The smallest twitch was caught under her worship and her lips curved at the junction between your collarbone and throat.

“Please, please, please,” she continued in a husky whisper with teeth dragging along your skin. A shudder rippled through you, cracking apart your play and easily exposing your desire.

Her need for you was overwhelming and still so shocking, how she begged for you even as she claimed you like you were her most prized possession sent you into a headspace you believed didn’t exist.

A sharper nip, closer to your pulse. “Please.”

You had nothing left to play — no faking outs for teasing, no indifference. All you could give her now was your desperation.

A breathy “yes” was all she needed in the end. Your tongue was heavy and she had cleverly led you into that foggy state of arousal wherein she knew that your eventual amusement in teasing Rio would break and give way to your newfound pleasure she gave.

The pharmacist gave you one last squeeze along your ankle, eyes locked on yours. There was no smug triumph in them, nothing indicating that she won a battle. Only pure need for something only you could provide her.

You kept your leg where she had wrapped it around her waist while watching her shift above you slightly, adjusting her position and sliding her fingers down until they found you exactly as she hoped you’d be: soaking wet.

“God,” she breathed, an expression that could have been awe crossing her features. They brushed along the outside of your entrance just so slightly that your hips jerked on instinct.

You bit the inside of your cheek when your clit hit her knee, breathing in sharply and growing still. But Rio saw it: the way you reacted and the color that grew aggressively more red along your cheeks as you burned.

She watched you intently and then moved just so — digging her knee into your bundle of nerves as if seeking a reaction.

“Rio,” you whined, head dropping briefly backwards at the shudder you felt course down your spine. “Rio’mere.”

“What is it, my sweet angel?” your lover crooned, leaning down to meet you halfway. You lifted your head and scratched your fingers through her hair, tugging, asking, begging.

She allowed it. She kissed you with passion like you see in movies, but you don’t think those could ever compare to the real thing. This was . . . This was deeper than just two lovers struck in the throes of emotion.

What this was — it was deeply more human than movies could ever hope to replicate especially with the way Rio claimed how taboo romance in society was.

Or illegal, in your case. You weren’t sure you’d ever see romance like yours and Rio’s in the theater. It was something you barely understood until Rio — you doubted the rest of the world would understand unless they were in your place.

“Ngh—“ an unintentional yelp rose from you as Rio started rocking her knee against you deeper, breaking the kiss and leaving the both of you breathing heavily against one another.

Her gaze on you was demanding and fierce as her hand, barely slick from where she touched you, danced upward from your pussy and brushed along your cheekbones.

“Am I somewhere sensitive?” Rio asked in a way that both irritated and aroused you. She had her knee pressed to your cunt, grinding it into you with achingly intentional precision.

You tried to say something, attempted to respond, but then her knee moved upward and jabbed with just slightly more pressure indicated that she seemed to exactly know what would empty your brain.

Garbled nonsense is your articulated reply to her, trying to keep your eyes from closing and losing yourself to the sensations she was drowning you in.

Rio’s gaze darkened to something a touch more predatory, and then her fingers were back against your wet pussy again.

“You’re so pretty like this,” your lover murmured, mostly to herself. She paused her grinding and kept her knee firmly still on your clit as she moved above you, adjusting.

“So mindless, so open.” You hear her and the words land — but as quickly as they do, they take off again. They’re lost in the haze you’ve sunken into.

In that time, the straps of your night shift fell down your shoulders and hung limply on your arms. The shift threatened to fall further and expose your breasts but you did not try to fix it.

Instead you curled your fingers deeper into Rio’s scalp and tried to pull her closer. You needed her contact, her touch, the burning sensation she left along your skin.

“Fuck — I wish I could just — photograph this for a frame on the wall,” the raven-haired woman hissed, leaning down again and nuzzling into your neck.

You squeaked when she brushed against your hardened nipples — too sensitive with the shift covering them and bordering on painful. Thankfully, she left those alone for now and increased her grinding.

“Do you want me inside, Angel? Want to cum all over my fingers while you ride my knee?” She worded it as though it were a question, but whether or not you answered you knew it was happening.

The intensity of your pleasure would be astronomical once she got her fingers inside of you. You would be undone in a matter of minutes and perfectly put back together and locked up with a key only Rio had to your entire state of being.

“Pl-please,” you managed when she didn’t insert them. “Rio, please. Need them.”

Rio grinned in such a way that you could not help but believe that she looked like a piece of art come to life just for you alone. It was a selfish thought, but it was a thought you indulged nonetheless.

“Good girl.” Those words were -- in and of themselves -- a permission of their own as you reeled into her body. Your lover crooned above you as she felt her fingers squeezing her, ironclad, and making it difficult to thrust. That did not mean she was a woman who gave up. Not one bit. Her eyes grazed along your body and she could not believe you were all hers.

Her lips curled around one of your nipples as her pace increased, letting out a guttural noise when her fingertips brushed along the spongy wall inside of you.

You felt it when she did, of course you did, and a sharp shudder rippled through you underneath Rio. Her knee shifted, she lifted her hand just so --

You locked up underneath the woman, a wail cutting off before it truly had a chance to escape you as her effort finally was rewarded in full. The orgasm that rushed over you fed Rio life in the world wherein all she knew was death.

She pulled off of your breast, adding teeth very lightly to draw out the pleasure, and smashed her lips against yours. She needed to be against you, inside of you more than she already was. She needed you so deeply and so animalistically that her ears rang.

The only thing that mattered right now was this moment and what she could give you.

But eventually you started sliding down the slope that she led you upward to -- your body relaxing and loosening beneath her and the grip your walls had on her fingers going with it.

Your movements and hers both slowed until all that was left was heavy breathing and sticky skin and emotions that Rio felt so strongly that she could no longer deny was from the Bond she had created and used upon you.

Her nose brushed across your cheekbone as your chest and hers came to lay upon one another in the aftermath. She had yet to remove her fingers and you did not ask her to remove them like you usually did after lovemaking.

You usually took some time to recover after sex but this was something else. You were overwhelmed but you couldn't place the exact cause in order to address it.

The best way you could describe it was a buzzing, full feeling that weighed your veins down and somehow made you feel like your blood was thicker than it should be inside of your body.

"Are you . . ." Rio broke the silence, causing you to open your heavy eyes to peer up at her. She paused, gaze shuttering in a way you're unfamiliar with.

"Am I what?" you whisper back, adjusting your body slightly. Her fingers scraped inside of you and both of you stopped. Stopped moving, stopped breathing, stopped existing. Like it would spark a fire of a nature that could not be doused.

"Never mind," she snarled, suddenly encasing you in another hard kiss as she once more started up, throwing you back deep into oblivion of pleasure.

2025

You kneeled along the sidewalk that led to your front door, sifting through mulch and soil as you planted hydrangeas into the ground from their pot.

Tommy was laying in the grassy expanse under the large oak tree, ever the watchful companion even in an upper-class neighborhood where your biggest concern was nosy neighbors.

All to familiar. Some things would never change over the years.

Rio had been on edge, however, believing that there was a constant danger hovering just above your head. The source was one Wanda Maximoff -- the Scarlet Witch, the downfall of RIo's ex-girlfriend.

You sort of think you really like Wanda just for that alone. As you had come to know Rio, so did you realize who Agatha was and the way she had used Rio.

Wanda Maximoff had brought Rio's greatest regret to her knees and still Rio returned to save her, revive her power. And Agatha throws it back in her face again.

So when you notice Tommy's long legs moving and standing to block your body with his, head low and eyes staring hard and unblinking, you look up and aren't disappointed to find the witch crossing the street toward you.

"Wanda," you greet first, sitting up and dusting your gloves off over the flowerbed without getting up from where you sat on your knees. "Hey."

She stopped just at the edge of your property line and returned the greeting with a surprised smile, "Hello. I remember you from a few weeks ago — you're Rio's . . . wife?"

She was insinuating an entirely different meaning with her carefully worded inquiry, approaching the topic cautiously as though she expected it to summon Rio from the shadows.

"It’s okay to call me her Familiar,” you replied, more of a confirmation to the underlying, unasked question than what she had worded verbally.

You noticed the slightest of head tilts and your lips quirked. You realized very quickly that unlike Rio, Wanda was more expressive. She showed her reactions in just a few moments of interaction.

It was refreshing in a sense, even after so many years of knowing Rio’s little tells that helped you figure out what she was trying to tell you or what she was feeling.

“You’re not married?” the redhead wondered.

You stuck the garden towel head first into the dirt, deciding that you could use a break from the gardening anyways. “No, not in the legal sense. Rio and I never really . . . got there?”

The shrug of your shoulders had her brows furrowing.

“Why not?”

A pause because you did have to think about it. Why.

You could give this woman who you barely knew a lie, a watered down answer, something to please her but the little magic you obtained from Rio through the Bond didn’t thrum like it does when there’s a threat.

“I met Rio a long time ago,” you finally say, disrupting the birdsong and breeze that had started up in your silence. “A long time ago meant that people like Rio and I were persecuted, but not for witchcraft.”

Green eyes met yours and what you saw was a pain that echoed inside of you, familiar and old and deep. A pain you had buried with no headstone so that it couldn’t be identified ever again.

The witch wasn’t using magic on you or Rio would be back and on her like a bat out of hell. This was your own doing, your own resurfacing and she was identifying with it in her own way.

“I’m sorry,” Wanda replied. She didn’t ask you to delve deeper or reopen the wound for her. “I know what . . . What persecution is like.”

“Do you?”

It hadn’t meant to be accusatory, but you couldn’t help your sharp tongue and the clench of your jaw. Tommy reacted to your tone and growled low at Wanda — his one and only warning.

“Before Thanos,” Wanda started, nearly choking on the beginning of her sentence, “some of the Avengers were on the run. I’m sure you saw some of that on the news.”

“A little.” You kept a glance between her and Tommy, who was still staring hard.

Wanda brought a ringed hand up to her mouth and brushed a knuckle against her lips, completely ignoring your canine protector and gaze going distant.

“I was among those on the run — and . . . He came with me. Ran with me, for me. Vision,” she trailed off and the name in which she spoke was barely whispered into the air, drowned out in grief, “He and I were . . . So in love that I think I could’ve been content to stay on the run and settle somewhere deep in the country and never be found. Marry him.”

A breath slowly shifted out of your lungs and you made slow work to peel off your gloves, sprinkling dirt into your lap.

You worked to, at the same time, wrangle your emotions into a controlled environment as Wanda spoke so freely to you. The Scarlet Witch was telling you her life story and you couldn’t ascertain if there was an underlying motive, which made you nervous and if you felt it too strongly, Rio would come storming through.

You flexed your fingers, pretending to stretch them out after removing your gloves. You tested the energy in the air but your magic remained sleepy inside of your veins, unbothered.

Wanda hadn’t even so much as activated her magic since being over here. You would have felt the remnants — a gift thanks to your Familiar Bond.

Your eyes returned to find green engulfing you, no longer as readable as they were before. For a moment the two of you simply stared at each other. Then:

"Why didn't you? Run away with him, get married, be lost?"

You felt it was a fair question — she had asked you something personal and you had answered honestly.

A gleam in her eyes lit for only the briefest of moments, then disappeared again. She looked away entirely as though to hide in plain sight.

"I could give you the multiple excuses I’ve been telling myself all these years,” she said bitterness heavy in her throat, “We weren’t ready. We never had time between hopping from safehouse to safehouse. We were young and stupid.” Her lips grazed one of the rings on her finger as a sour smile tilted her lips, “But I’ll give you the truth. I was a coward and so was he. We lived in such a suffocating fear that any attempt at happiness would be our undoing.”

You were quiet and watchful in her presence, letting her know you were listening. But you also did not know what to say to her. That you resonated with her? Because sure — in a way, you did. But while it was similar in how it made you live life, made you exist in a lonely pocket . . . The persecutions themselves were entirely different and made your experience unique from Wanda’s.

She didn’t seem to notice your internal battle, her eyes gazing off down the street to some neighborhood kids chasing each other down the sides of two houses. She lowered her hand, twisting one ring aggressively before tucking the hand into the pocket of her jeans.

“I was a coward,” she eventually managed to get out, strained, “and because of that, it led me to do things I regret. It introduced me to the Scarlet Witch, and now I have to learn how to live with her in my head and try to come to terms with the damage I’ve done and the consequences I can’t escape.”

And for some unknown reason, what she said to you somehow safeguarded a sense of trust that was difficult to place. You swallowed and your throat was dryer than sand paper, and you wanted to cool down.

Wanda Maximoff needed a friend, and maybe some lemonade.

You gripped your loves and breathed out, "Tommy, down."

Wanda's eyes flashed toward the dog as he returned to your side in a snap, body flopping down and his attention no longer targeted on Wanda.

"The cowardice you speak of is not concept that is unique to you," you told her as you started to get to your feet with some struggle and gesturing to your home, "In traumatic events, I found that we do what we need to do to survive and . . ."

You trailed off as Wanda approached, following you and Tommy toward the door. You let out a breath, ". . . and sometimes when those traumatic events affect us so greatly and yet those around us seem to not notice it, and we go without what we need to manage it, our mind does what it can to fix itself. Even if that means making mistakes we wish we could take back."

You held the door open for the redhead to come in, an invitation to your space that Rio had denied her previously. She entered and waited for you to shut the door, taking in the surroundings with undisguised interest.

Her eyes then returned to you and narrowed just so.

"I don't think what you did at Westview makes you a villain, Wanda," you told her — for if anyone could help define a villain, why not you? Why not you after Rio? — "I think it was a response to everything that’s happened to you, and it was your way of coping with it when nobody else seemed to see or hear your pain."

Wanda’s lips thinned, her face expressing in a way that reminded you of someone who’d been punched at close-range. Still, she didn’t refute your claim.

Instead she decided to keep following you into the kitchen; where you were going to make some lemonade and sit down with a lonely woman who had lost everything twice over and was alone in a world that despised her.

She was Rio's mirror in an a heartachingly broken way that drew you to her, to befriend her. Rio refused to discuss Wanda but if she could sit down with the redhead she would understand what you saw:

Two sides of the same coin, dealt hands so terrible that their choices led them into destroying what it means to live in reality and what feeling the pain that came with it.

Rio noticed the flowerbed half done when she appeared on the end of the property. The darkened sky gave way to the yard lights that neatly decorated the sidewalk up to the front porch and drive way.

Her hands tucked themselves away within her pockets, her suspenders, neatly dry-cleaned dress-shirt, and slacks mostly for show.

To their neighbors and other mortals they entertained in their domestic life, she was a forensic pathologist — newest career disguise and a long shot from the pharmacist she used to mask herself as.

Rio had juggled multiple different ideas for what to play her career as this go round; she had done pharmaceuticals and a detective, both of which were ironically connected to her true line of work.

If reaping souls and taking them to the afterlife could be considered work when thats what one was created for.

Rio was borne with a singular purpose and the older she got, the more curious — or rebellious, perhaps — she got about what she could do that she wasn’t made to do.

Either way it gave her a sense of humanity in the sort of similar to when she first met you and had the urge to play pretend.

Despite your current knowledge on who she is — what she is — it still allows Rio to feel normal.

As if Death could ever be anything than what It truly was at Its’ very barest bones. Rio couldn’t truly lie about herself or her nature, but she gave herself this small piece of something that was hers.

The deity paused, still as can be, inside of the entryway when laughter that didn’t belong to you was heard from where she was, door still ajar and handle wrapped around her fingers.

If she had a heart, the racing would have eased upon hearing your laughter follow soon after followed by you saying something that caused a discussion to break out between you and whoever was in the home.

Rio swallowed hard as she shut the door, as silent as Death, makes her way down the hallway of the home that she had so meticulously prepared and curated for you and your comfort.

What greeted her sent a course of fear and rage mixed together through her entire being, coiling together like two angry vipers pledged to strike at the same time.

She crossed her arms and leaned against the handcrafted archway, eyes locked onto the way you bit into a store-bought peanut butter cookie while Wanda Fucking Maximoff leaned against the island diagonal to you, grinning.

“Nearly burned the house down,” you said, covering your mouth so as not to laugh and spit crumbs everywhere. Your cheeks were flushed. “I’m terrible at baking. I can cook everything else, but Gods — ask me to do something with baked goods and I just can’t.”

Wanda’s laugh was genuine enough that the fear leaked out of Rio, instead replacing it with a jealousy that the rage fueled tenfold as she tapped her fingertips across her elbow as the scene played out.

Your eyes glanced to the side, as though sensing Rio, and you only froze for a moment before you grinned. “Hi, Rio. How was work?”

“Mm, busy.” Rio’s dark eyes searched yours, looking for any sign that you were distressed. She took a handle of the Bond between you and tugged it, demanding a response.

You pushed off the counter and move her direction. She wraps her arms around your slightly-protruding waist as she engulfs you, nosing into your hair. You still smelled earthy and like soil, with some of that peanut butter like touch from the cookies you’d been snacking on.

“Having fun?” Are you okay? is what was really asked.

You pulled back from her protective embrace just enough to look up at her, smiling so sweetly that she hoped to wonder if it was all genuine.

“Yeah,” you murmured, leaning up on your feet just to kiss her cheek, lips soft and warm against her cold skin. A brush of life against hard Death. “Wanda and I got to talking — I invited her in for a lemonade and time escaped us.”

Rio carded one hand through your hair, humming as you spoke and keeping one arm around your waist still. “I’m glad you had a good day, Angel. And that Wanda is being a good friend.”

You bit your lip in a recognizable way — the way that told Rio you were holding something back. Perhaps until Wanda left.

Your magic was steady, stable, undisturbed. It eased some of her concerns but her eyes still rose away from you to Maximoff.

Wanda held her half-empty glass to her lips, elbows leaning along the countertops and eyes following Rio and you like she was trying to decrypt an ancient, unreadable text.

Reader, Rio, and Wanda will return in Part Eight

PART EIGHT

Tag List: @dandelions4us , @flow33didontsmoke , @girlsgotissues , @crescentcrush , @6stolenangel9 , -- if I forgot anyone, please let me know!

[enjakey]

THE CERTAIN ROMANCE OF WINGS AND WAR

PAIRING: [JAKE SIM x FEM!READER]!MAFIA AU

SETTING: Seoul, Korea → Santorini, Greece

TROPES: Mafia au | soulmates au | angel/devil wings au | childhood best friends au | frenemies au | I didn’t know I loved you until I lost you | eloping/running away | family friends au | found family au

TW/N: cheating, blood, drugs, mentions of sex, alcohol, lots of cussing, mentions of murder, guns, therapy, psychological trauma, abandoning children, adoption care, estranged families, physical abuse, anger issues, characters make terrible decisions, some characters have sexual relations but not romantic, mentions of a lot of fucking each other over (betrayal), can't trust anyone.

In a world where people grow wings when they’re in love, all anyone seemed to want is to find their soulmate.

Jake thought he’d found his perfect love. The wings on his back said so. But the woman he trusted disappeared overnight, leaving nothing but betrayal in her wake. For her, love was just a tactic. Business was the only game she played.

Raised by a powerful mafia family, Jake eventually took the reins of the empire when their father stepped down. Sunghoon stood as his right hand, while Jungwon and Niki- inseparable and unflinching- were the muscle that held their world together.

By their side was Y/N and her family- allies bound not just by loyalty, but legacy. Her father had built the syndicate with theirs, and the two families rose together.

Their world seemed untouchable- until it wasn’t.

Jake’s misplaced trust would spark a war no one saw coming. And when it led to the death of Y/N’s brother, Jay, the fallout shattered everything. Love had brought wings. But betrayal would leave scars that followed them for years- across cities, across borders, across time.

Chapter breakdown

Prologue 0; the beginning of the end

PART ONE; five years later

Chapter 1; prolonged interlude

Chapter 2; a long lost friend

Chapter 3; abominable rendezvous

Chapter 4; to run or not to run

PART TWO; six months later

Chapter 5; abscond

Chapter 6; redamancy

Chapter 7; cheers to a new beginning

Chapter 8; an elaborate ruse

Chapter 9; the cherry on top

Character breakdown

The first mafia family (the adopted children of David and Helen)

Jake Sim

Park Sunghoon

Yang Jungwon

Niki

The second mafia family (the children of Martin and Nayna)

Y/N

Jay Park

Additional characters

Emily- Jake’s ex

Erwin- Emily’s twin

Lola- Erwin’s girlfriend

Heeseung- Y/N’s fwb

Alice- Jungwon’s girlfriend

Chiara- Jay’s soulmate

Sophie- Niki’s fwb

Yeji- Sunghoon’s estranged sister

Athera- Jungwon’s 2nd love interest

Sunoo- Y/N’s coworker

I hope I come around to writing this. I’m just putting this out there. God knows when I’ll start writing this but yeah.

Originally, I’d planned this series out for Wattpad and it was inspired by Tom Holland cuz back then, he was OG like I started writing fanfiction for him.

Now, I think I can work ENHYPEN into this story and I’m so excited to write this.

In the original story, Jake is a dad and Y/N is the favourite aunt until these two fall in love. I’m not sure if I want to continue with that plot or not. Yall can let me know in the comments or by sending me an anon or whatever!

Every single Enhypen member is mentioned, by the way. The casting might piss some people off but in my head, it makes so much sense.

If you guys have any questions, feel free to ask me. If yall want chapter spoilers (like in bullet points) I can leak some of those too (wink wink).

Hope yall are excited for this!

[moonglide]

Carol and Susie elemental analysis (chapter 3/4 spoilers)

To preface this, I only thought about this because of Persistant Variables over on AO3. It is an INCREDIBLE fic (it’s also finished!! So go read it!!) that cooked in a lot of aspects, but what I’m focusing on right now is that BewareTheDragon (the author), made the Ice/Order and Fire/Rude elemental pairs. (They also completed the trio with Dust/Chaos, but that’s not really relevant to this post). And I think that they were already good pairs, but in light of the new chapters, they work especially well. (Actual analysis under the cut).

Carol, of course, really, REALLY, embodies Ice/Order. There’s the obvious factors that she’s a reindeer, her whole family is Christmas/Winter themed, and that her color scheme is what it is. But there’s also how she always keeps her AC on full blast. Her hand on Kris’s shoulder is described as “icy.” She’s a very cold person in general, and so far hasn’t shown much emotion at all outside of “calm fury,” if that makes sense. And order is a big facet of her character. Everything under her control HAS to be frozen and in its proper place. In her house, Dess’s room is still. Unchanging. Exactly as she left it when she disappeared. Noelle’s show of care (the paper mache snowflakes) were bronzed and hung up to never be touched by the outside world. The grand piano just sits in the room adjacent to the kitchen, and hasn’t been touched in years.

But her house isn’t the only thing under control-she’s the mayor. She’s pretty much ALWAYS been the mayor. She always will be the mayor because she runs unopposed. Any and all crime is swiftly eliminated to protect her perfect town. Hometown is pretty static and unchanging. (Also, she’s supporting Asgore’s “you-know-what”-likely his attempts at courting Toriel-to get things back the way they were. And this isn’t technically confirmed yet, but she’s TOTALLY trying to bring Dess back. Like, 100%.)

And then there’s Susie. Fire/Rude embodies her perfectly. I mean, for starters, Rude Buster is the only Rude-elemental attack in the game, iirc. In Persistent Variables, Ralsei describes the Rude element as a “defiance against existence”-and while I wouldn’t go that far, I think it’s definitely a defiance against stasis, and the status quo. It’s not Chaos, which tears apart Order at the seams, but it’s still rebellion. It’s constant change, even against the order within herself. Susie pretty much facilitates ALL of the major character growth in Deltarune. It’s because of her that Kris is no longer an outcast loner. It’s because of her that Ralsei hopes that the prophecy can be changed, and that he thinks of himself as a less worthless than he initially thought. It’s because of her that Noelle, at least in the dark world, gains the courage to stand up to an analogue of her controlling mother. It’s because of her that Berdly (dark world only, again, but he thought it was a dream) is more receptive to accepting help from others (and not being so goddamn high and mighty (which is part of HIS own Holy/Electric elemental pair but that’s another can of worms)).

When Ralsei tries to teach her Heal Prayer (probably a holy/electric spell) she instead learns Ultimate Heal, which unlike Heal Prayer, gets better and better with each successive use. And sure, Gerson is the one to encourage her to use her healing, but she was the one to reach out to Ralsei and try to learn in the first place.

When it comes to fire, the connection’s a little less strong, but it’s still there. She’s a dragon, and Gerson says that she’s THE dragon in Dragon Blazers, which is based off the prophecy. He also says, “I see a future lit up in your eyes. Burnin’ bright. Burnin’ black. Burnin’ up everything”. And while the whole “garden is charred in an inferno of jealousy” thing probably refers to Asgore’s fire powers, chapter five will take place during the festival. Which. You know. Is a very easy place for jealousy to arise. Also, iirc, there was an interview where Toby said he originally wanted to give a character a fire spell, but ultimately decided against it. Which totally could be Susie.

And these things quickly put Susie and Carol at odds. Susie is a new girl in Carol’s perfect town that’s changing things. You can SEE when Susie sits down at the foot of Dess’s bed, Noelle is shocked. Carol has raised her to think of the past as unchanging and untouchable. But you can also see when that effect melts away and Noelle decides to sit down too. Same with the guitar. Nobody’s used the red (orange. It’s orange. But whatever.) guitar in ages, and it stayed that way until Susie grabbed hold of it. Noelle, again, is shocked-but then she thinks for a moment, and relents, and decides that Susie should play it. To breathe new life into the past. And when Carol gets home, and sees that Susie is holding the guitar, she’s affronted, because Susie is, from her perspective, defiling Carol’s attempt at preserving the past.

All this to say, especially with the other protagonist traits that Susie has, I’m convinced that if Deltarune weren’t a video game where we were forced to play as Kris, and instead literally any other form of media, Susie would totally be the main character. Especially in a non-dark world AU where it’s just small-town drama.

Idk. I probably missed something. But tell me what you guys think.

Edit: I completely forgot to talk about the prophecy!! Susie rebels against the prophecy and that’s another connection to the rude element. Ok bye.

TL;DR: Carol’s associated with Ice/Order because her whole deal is perfectly preserving the past, and Susie’s associated with Fire/Rude because her whole deal is rebellion, facilitating change, and melting the ice that Carol is making. Also, go read Persistent Variables over on AO3.

[pimento-playing-hopscotch]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you for the tag, @henrygrass

This is from the upcoming chapter of my TK and Sophie fic -

2021 -

“TK and Carlos didn’t take things slow when they met,” Sophie pointed out. "They were definitely hook up first, relationship second."

“First of all,” Nancy began, “the amount of sharing that goes on in your family is not normal and should be studied. Secondly, would you agree that TK and Carlos have ceased being TK and Carlos and are currently two shattered and mangled hearts walking around in human form?”

“Very true.” Sophie sighed. “I hope they work it out.”

“I hope they do too.” Nancy sat back down on the couch. “I really do. And I know that Carlos and TK respected each other from the start. But this isn’t even about them. We aren’t TK and Carlos. We’re Nancy and Sophie. And I want to get to know you first because I respect you, and…” Nancy couldn’t bring herself to say what was on her mind – because I’m very worried that no else ever has.

“But, we’re in agreement?” Nancy prompted. “We’re going to take this slow?”

“I guess.” Sophie tucked her long legs under her on the couch. “And I appreciate you saying that stuff. It’s just…. weird. In a nice way," she added. "But different. For me, anyway. The last time I had a first date that didn’t end… in that way, I was like seventeen.”

“Uh huh.” Nancy nodded. “But you’re open to trying new things?”

“Always.” Sophie nodded. “Unless they’re covered in ranch. That stuff’s just gross.” She looked at Nancy hopefully. “When we’re taking things slow… can we still kiss?”

Nancy smiled. “Of course. I don’t need to take you home just yet.” Sophie — Nancy’s girlfriend — smiled as Nancy scooted closer and kissed her. They kissed until Ladybug jumped on the couch between them.

“Why, Lady?” Nancy asked her cat.

“She just likes me,” Sophie teased.

“She’s not alone there,” Nancy murmured. Sophie smiled and looked away; did she just blush? Nancy wondered. Did I really make Sophie Strand blush?  

 Nancy didn’t want to get too in her head about that, and she did have something else she wanted to ask.

“The person you dated when you were seventeen,” she asked between kisses, “were they… a lot older than you?”

“No?” Sophie shook her head. “Not like, older older. He was only like… twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four?” Nancy clarified, trying not to appear too shocked.

“Well, when I was seventeen,” Sophie said. “By the time I was eighteen, he was twenty-five.”

No pressure tagging - I tag @anewkindofme @laneybishop89 @kiankiwi @carlos-in-glasses @ssealie @lavenderrdaughter @carlossreaders @afiendishthingynisba @annoyingcloudearthquake @chicgeekgirl89 @heartstringsduet @firstprince-history-huh @wincestisnotabuse @eclectic-sassycoweyes @carlos-tk @paperstorm @carlosandhistwinktk @everlastingday and anyone else who wants to do it- open tag

[just-dreaming-marvel]

From Now On ~ 1

FROM NOW ON MASTERLIST

Word Count: 2,090ish

Summary: Tony Stark and you meet. Basically a rushed intro.

Notes: This is a short chapter. I promise the chapters will get longer. Please send in reactions!

Reminder: I DO NOT do taglists. Please don’t ask. Please follow and interact! I appreciate any reblogs, likes, comments, and asks!

1995

You were twenty-five, attending a Stark Industries weapons expo as part of your assistant job with a security company. It was an entry-level position that meant you mostly took notes, fetched coffee, and tried to stay out of the way while men in expensive suits talked about efficient ways to destroy things.

You weren’t impressed. The expo was loud, over designed, and reeked of testosterone and high-yield explosives. The air buzzed with false charm and handshake politics. You kept your head down. Until someone bumped into you, holding a sloth in one hand and wearing an unnecessarily sharp suit.

“Whoa— careful, Miss…?”

You looked up, and there he was. Tony Stark. Billionaire. Stark Industries’ golden boy. Hair slightly windswept, grin tilted just enough to be dangerous, and clean shaven.

“Uh, you bumped into me,” you muttered.

He gave a mock-apologetic bow. “Then allow me to make it up to you. Free weapons tour, the Tony Stark himself as your guide. Limited time offer.”

You stared at him, wondering if he was serious. But you had heard the rumors. Then, awkward, you replied, “I’m good, thanks.���

That made him laugh. “Wow. The first woman in this building not drooling over a missile or me. I thin I’m in love.”

“I— I’m just here for work.”

“Ah. A mystery professional.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to make you nervous. “Tell you what— I’ll let you guess which of these shiny death machines is my favorite if you tell me your name.”

“I don’t need to know your favorite, Mr. Stark.”

He blinked at you, trying to see if you were serious or just playing him. “Still, could help your boss, right? Knowing my favorite?”

You sighed, and against your better judgement said, “Y/N L/N.”

He smile like he’d just won something. “Well, Y/N, don’t wander too far. I might need you to explain how gravity works when I inevitably fall for you again.”

You rolled your eyes.

But you kept seeing him. At the coffee stand. In the back row of a seminar. He waved each time, too casually to be a coincidence. Then he cornered you during a tech showcase, smiling like you shared a secret.

“Are you going to let me buy you dinner?” He asked.

“No,” you answered simply.

The rest of the day, you continued to run into Tony. He kept asking you out to dinner and you simply told him no each time. At the end of the day, as you were walking out, Tony cornered you, yet again.

“You’re really not going to let me buy you dinner?” He questioned.

“You’re persistent,” you stated.

“I’m Tony Stark. It’s kind of my thing.”

“Fine.”

You only agreed to dinner with him to get him off your back, or so you told yourself. 

Dinner turned into a walk. The walk turned into drinks. Drinks turned into three hours of talking about everything but weapons. He made you laugh and he was a surprisingly good listener. When he dropped you off at your hotel, you were sure he was going to try to go to your room with you. But he didn’t try anything.

Tony just touched your hand, briefly, and said, “Don’t disappear on me, Y/N. I want to know how this story ends.”

~~

You didn’t disappear, only because Tony wouldn’t let you. He some how found your workplace— the direct line to your office.

The first time you answered and it was him, it freaked you out. Not because you didn’t recognize the voice— you did, instantly. That smooth, low drawl, soaked in confidence and charm. Tony Stark was hard to forget. What did freak you out was that it was your office landline. A number you hadn’t given to anyone outside your department, let alone a man you spoke to a few times at a weapons expo.

“Hey,” he said, like he called you every day. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything world changing.”

You stared at the phone in disbelief for a solid three seconds before answering. “How did you get this number?”

“I’m Tony Stark. Come on. Don’t make me say it.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I made some calls. Okay, one call. To a guy at your work who owed me a favor. The rest was charm and pure determination..”

You stood from your desk, shutting your office door with a shaky hand. “That’s not okay. This is my work line.”

“And yet… you picked up.”

You didn’t know whether to hang up or yell at him. “Because I thought it was my boss.”

“Do I sound like your boss?”

“No. He has better boundaries.”

Tony chuckled, low and unapologetic. “Fair. Look, I know this is probably wildly inappropriate by HR standards that don’t exist yet, but I wanted to talk to you. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

“I was planning to send a letter, but my handwriting’s terrible and I didn’t want to seem like a creep”

“You tracked down my number and called my office. I think we’re past ’seem’.”

“Then let me at least earn a less-creepy title. How about ‘persistent admirer with great taste in women’?”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched. You tried to keep your voice cool. “Why are you really calling?”

There was a pause. No smooth quip. Then, quiet, “Because I meant what I said. I want to know how your story ends. And I don’t think one night was enough to find out.”

You should have hung up. You should have said something professional and firm. But your fingers didn’t move, and your voice came out quieter than expected. “You flew home two days ago.”

“Yep. And the first thing I did was try to figure out how to reach you. That’s gotta mean something, right?”

You glanced at the notepad on your desk, the half-written report, the coffee you hadn’t finished. “It’s 1995… People don’t just… track down strangers.”

Tony snorted. “You think Howard Stark built the backbone of the defense industry by playing it safe?”

You rolled your eyes— but smiled, just a little.

He took the silence as his opening. “Let me take you to dinner. A real one. No suits, no missiles, no sales reps with too much hair gel. Just us. Talking.”

You resisted. 

“Please? One meal. Worst case, you find out I’m terrible company and never speak to me again. Best case… you find out I’m slightly less terrible company than you assumed.”

A long pause. “No. Goodbye, Mr. Stark.”

Then you hung up.

~~~

The faxes started the next day.

The first one was a cartoon drawing of him being rejected, complete with a speech bubble that red, “She’s too smart for me. I’ve never wanted her more.”

Then came the coffee delivery. “Bribery attempt #2: caffeine.”

A week in, you received a cassette tape with his voice on it— singing a terrible version of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You with backup from what sounded like a few disgruntled Stark engineers. 

You rolled your eyes, but kept the tape anyway.

His assistant called next. “I apologize in advance,” she said flatly. “He won’t stop asking me to find out your lunch break schedule. I promise, I am on your side.”

You laughed. “I don’t even know what side that is.”

“The sane one.”

~~~

Two weeks passed. Tony called again— this time in the evening, on your landline at home. That number, you hadn’t even given to your firm. You stared at the ringing phone, suspicious, then finally picked up.

“I’m not stalking you,” he said immediately. “I’m creatively networking.”

“Tony.”

“I’ve decided to try something wild. I’m going to stop bribing you.”

“Finally.”

“And instead I’m going to ask: would you let me talk to you— just talk— for five minutes over coffee? In public. No limo. No tux. No expectations.”

You stayed silent.

“I’ll even let you pick the place.”

You sat there, weighing it. You weren’t sure why you were even still on the phone. Maybe it was the steadiness in his voice. The lack of showmanship for once. Maybe it was that part of you, deep down, that had never stopped thinking about him either.

“I’m not promising anything,” you said.

“I’ll take it.”

~~~

Tony Stark didn’t just flirt with you. He committed. And somewhere in the middle of the chaos he always carried, he carved out room for you.

You didn’t want to like him. You didn’t want to fall. But he didn’t just want your attention— he wanted your thoughts. Your opinions. Your time. He wanted to know what books you read. What made you nervous. He remembered things. He asked questions and showed up— even if at the most random of times.

Tony made room for you in his schedule, even when it meant arguing with Obadiah. He flew to your city for dinner even if he had to leave again in the morning. He sat through your work gala in a tux, smiling at you like you were the only person in the room.

You learned that he had nightmares sometimes. That he kept old newspaper clippings about his dad tucked away in a drawer he never opened. That he talked to his cars like they were people and called one of them ‘baby’ when he thought no one could hear. He let you into the quiet places— the vulnerable ones.

And one night, not long after this thirtieth birthday, you found yourselves in the kitchen of his brand new Malibu home. It was two in the morning. You were barefoot in one of his shirts, laughing as he tried to make pancakes with flour and no eggs. He burned the first batch. You were teasing him about it when he turned serious.

“Wait,” he said.

You stopped mid-laugh.

He pulled something out of the drawer— a rusted old washer bolt from one of his earliest prototypes. He held it between his fingers like it was precious. “I could give you a ten-million-dollar ring,” his voice was quiet. “But I think this one means more.”

You stared at him, eyes wide.

His grin wavered, just slightly. “You’re the first thing I’ve ever built a future around. Marry me?”

You didn’t even think. You said yes before he could take it back.

~~~

But being Tony Stark’s wife wasn’t always easy.

The world saw the headlines: genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. You saw the man who worked until his hands shook. The man who forgot to eat and lost hours in his workshop.

And then there was Obadiah Stane. He smiled in your face and treated you like a footnote. You didn’t like him or trust him. He scheduled Tony for meeting he didn’t remember agreeing to. He pushed weapons deal through when Tony was too distracted to fight them. You tried to raise concerns, but Tony brushed them off.

“Obie’s just keeping things together,” he said more than once. “He wants the company to succeed. He wants me to succeed.”

But you saw the patterns. Every time you made plans, something came up. Every time you needed him, Obadiah needed him more: contracts, weapons demonstrations, government visits.

Your third wedding anniversary, you made dinner. Tony promised to be there. You even wore the dress he liked, the soft navy one that hugged your curves and made him stare. But he didn’t show. The food got cold and the candles burned down.

JARVIS played his message at 10:44 pm. 

“Obie says we had to meet with some NATO generals,” Tony’s voice planned through the speakers. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t forget. I’ll make it up to you.”

You didn’t send a reply.

When he finally came home, he looked wrecked. His tie was half-undone and eyes bloodshot. You stood in the kitchen with your arms crossed. He dropped his keys and looked at you like he knew he had already lost.

“I’m trying,” he said quietly. “I really am.”

You looked away.

“Baby…” He stepped closer.

“I know you’re trying,” you whispered. “But I’m scared that one day you’ll stop remembering what you’re trying for.”

He wrapped his arms around you and buried his face in your shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. We can take off this weekend. I’ll tell Obie that this weekends all yours.”

But he didn’t tell Obadiah that. Tony let Obadiah continue to pull the strings. Because Obadiah knew that he didn’t need to drive you away, he just needed to keep Tony too busy.

next chapter >