#the second half of part 1 will go up tomorrow

[trriviall]

OFFLINE CHAPTER 1

Summary: a 2000's pazzi au where azzi just won a championship and paige is a ceo of a nonprofit and runs downtown LA nightlife

warnings: none

wk: 4.3 k

Azzi is on a high right now.

She might also be high.

But who cares? The locker room is loud, music and screams are bouncing off the walls, champagne is being thrown in the air, and Azzi’s cheeks hurt from her non-stop grinning.

It’s 2001 and the L.A. Sparks have just won the WNBA championships, defeating the Charlotte Sting. And Azzi? Azzi was at the center of it all. Her buzzer beater 3-pointer was what the purple and yellow team needed to win the second game, declaring them rightful champions.

For the Sparks, the first game was fairly easy. The first half was gritty; bodies flying on the floor and arguments exchanged. But by the second half, Azzi’s shots were falling, Dearica’s defense was rock solid, and Cameron was putting up points inside the paint like it was nothing.

The second game looked very different.

At halftime, the Sparks were down by 13. The locker room was silent while Coach spoke. The game didn’t start turning around for the Sparks until the fourth quarter. By then, the Sting had gotten comfortable with their lead and started playing sloppy. And if the Sparks knew how to do one thing, it was to put up a fight.

So fight they did. Every time a cut was too slow, a pass too low, or a rebound gone long, the Sparks were there. And when the clock winded down, they were down by two. So of course Dearica managed to find Cameron in the paint, who managed to find a wide open Azzi Fudd in the corner. Rookie mistake on the Sting's part, really.

So now, press was done, and the team could really celebrate. They were all in various states of undressed, champagne and sweat soaked closed tossed aside. Azzi had lost her jersey and her shoes in the chaos, sauntering around the locker room in her uniform shorts and a champagne bottle, her charming smile displayed on her lips. Cam, miraculously, was still in her jersey, though her shoes and socks were lost. Once the blonde’s eyes landed on Azzi, she stood from her locker and wrapped her slender arms around Azzi’s shorter frame. Cam smelled of sweat, lingering floral body spray, and bubbly champagne. Azzi guessed she smelled just about the same, so she had no room to complain.

“To the people’s princess!” Cam said, raising her arm that wasn’t around Azzi in the air. The rest of the team follow suit with cheers, sticky, half empty champagne bottles being raised in the air. 

“For saving our asses out there,” Dearica said, a full grin on her face. Her championship t-shirt was soaked with champagne. “Still can’t believe they left you wide open.” Azzi blushed, her cheeks flushing.

“I’m surprised it went in,” Azzi replied. Her soft voice a little more hoarse than normal. The combination of being drunk, a little high, and screaming the entire game catching up to her. Beside her, Cam scoffed, shaking her head.

“Ever humble,” Cam grumbled. She turned back to the rest of the team, a sly grin making its way to her face. “I think we should celebrate.”

“I thought that was the plan,” Rae spoke up from her locker, a blunt dangling from her slender fingers. Azzi was amazed that her lashes stayed on throughout the brutal champagne shower. “Go on a little bender. Party tonight, wake up for the parade tomorrow, party after that.”

“Where are we going to go on such short notice?” Azzi said, always the voice of reason. No club would have enough space in their VIP section for an entire team at this time of night. The locker room fell silent, Azzi’s words settling in.

“We could just push it to tomorrow night,” Dearica said, shrugging her shoulders. “I need food before I drink anymore.”

“Nah,” Kelsey said, standing up. Azzi wondered what happened to her uniform, the guard standing in a sports bra and spandex. “Cam’s got connections. She can get us into any club in L.A.. For free.”

The team eagerly turned their heads towards the blonde, who was taking a large sip from her bottle. Azzi subtly rolled her eyes, before turning her attention to her best friend. She too wanted to know what this “connection” Cam had could do for the team.

“Connection?” Cameron asked, sounding as confused as the rest of the team looked. “I don’t have any connections.”

“Cam, your sister runs the downtown nightlife,” Kelsey said. “Give her a call, I bet she can get us a VIP table somewhere nice.”

“Who’s your sister?” Sarah Ashlee-Barker asked. For once, Azzi wasn’t annoyed at her nosy questions and naturally curious vibe. She had been teammates with Cam for two years, and didn’t know who this connection was, or who Cam’s sister was. Cameron shook her head, before pulling away from Azzi. Her arm left a wet feeling on the back of Azzi’s neck, and she couldn’t tell if it was sweat or champagne. She didn’t want to know.

Cameron plopped down in her locker cubby, rummaging around in her locker before pulling out her phone. It was an all black Nokia, one of the newer versions. Azzi wasn’t even sure the model she had was out yet. Come to think of it, Azzi could confidently assume that Cam got it from another connection she had. After the press of a few buttons, Cam put the phone up to her ear, the line ringing. The locker room was silent, every player eager to catch a few words of Cam’s conversation.

Azzi wanted to know who was on the other end of the line, simply because she wanted to know what she was getting herself into. If Cam’s connection was some shady guy who only accepted payments in the form of good deeds, Azzi was more than happy to get take-out on her way home and crash in her apartment.

Azzi didn’t know if it was possible, but the locker room went even quieter when they heard a muffled voice on the other end of the line after the call connected. Azzi couldn’t make out any words, but the voice was deep yet soft at the same time. She figured he was some L.A. playboy, the type MTV wanted for music videos and girls fawned over in rom-coms.

“I need a favor,” Cam said. The room was silent, and Cam made an offended face before speaking up again. “You’re speaking to a champion right now. I just need one favor for tonight so we can all celebrate. We can’t get a good table for the entire team on such short notice, you know this. Help your sister out?”

Azzi smiled to herself when she heard the person on the other end of the line go silent, before they let out a long breath. Thirty seconds later, Cam snapped her phone shut and turned to the team with a wide grin.

“Congrats champs. We just got a VIP table at 5 Nights!”

Azzi wasn’t too sure she knew what 5 Nights was. She wasn’t even sure she had ever even heard of it. Azzi didn’t go out a lot, and never without a reason. When she did, it was mostly to her brothers club just three blocks away from her apartment. That way, if she had one too many drinks, she could stumble the quick walk home. And if she was too far gone, her brother was right there. 

Cam had told the team to put on their sluttiest outfits and meet at her apartment in an hour. Which meant they would be meeting at Azzi’s apartment because Cameron lived right across the hall from Azzi, and always seemed to be over.

Azzi wanted to roll her eyes when Cam walked into her room as she was getting ready, and told her that her outfit was too modest.

“You have an ass and abs babe, show them off,” Cam said, before tearing apart Azzi’s closet. Clothes were spilling out when Cam returned with an outfit for Azzi to wear. Azzi’s jaw dropped, and she immediately shook her head.

“My entire ass will be out, no way.”

“That’s like, the whole point,” Cam said. “Besides, everyone else is bringing their A game. Kelsey called me, she’s wearing leather shorts. Short shorts.”

“This isn’t college,” Azzi said, turning back to her vanity to finish her makeup.

“Exactly. So we can reveal a little more.” Cameron sighed when Azzi didn’t respond. Cam sat down on the end of Azzi’s bed, crossing one leg over the other. Azzi glanced at her through the mirror, her high boots falling just below her knees. Her jean skirt was teetering on the edge of too short, making Azzi have to glance twice to make sure nothing slipped.

“I have a reputation to uphold.” Azzi finally said, turning around on her stool to face the blonde. Cam glanced at her low waisted jeans and full length top, shaking her head.

“It’s like you said, this isn’t college. This is your third year in the league, venture out some more. People aren't going to try to torch you for showing some skin. Besides, who’s going to see?”

“Tabloids?” Azzi said, confused. Cam scoffed, waving a hand in the air.

“Screw the tabloids. Get sexy. Show off that ass and those abs, I beg. Take someone home. You’re a girl with needs, babe.” Azzi rolled her eyes, but there was no heat behind them. Azzi watched as Cam left the room, tugging down her skirt as she went.

Azzi had spent the past season focused on nothing but basketball. The whole team did, really. They knew that this could be their year. So she curved everyone that came her way, and anything else that could be a possible distraction. She turned up the princess charm, throwing charming grins at reporters who doubted her and the team's ability to win it all this year.

Azzi sighed and stood up, having basked in enough silence. Azzi threw on the skirt and top Cam picked out for her, before slipping on white kitten heels. Azzi grabbed a bag and threw her lip gloss and phone inside, as well as some cash before leaving her room, shutting the door behind her.

She was in for a night.

Paige was tired. 5 Nights seemed to be more packed than normal for a Thursday night, even in LA. Paige had already had to deal with an almost fight, a couple hooking up in the bathroom, and a girl crying so hard her tears were coated in her running mascara. Paige was just glad that Cam would be here soon and she could unwind. 

She was also glad that Nika was right by her side, reminding her that despite the current chaos, she did like her job. Sometimes.

“How long?” Nika asked, settling across from Paige in the rounded booth. Paige glanced at her watch, squinting to read the time through the club lights reflecting off the silver.

“Should be any minute,” Paige said. “Cam called almost two hours ago.” Nika nodded before flagging down one of the bottle girls walking around with a tray. Nika grabbed two shots from the tray, before winking at the girl and sending her on her way. Nika placed a shot in Paige’s hands, and they clinked their glasses together before knocking them back in sync.

Nika placed her now empty glass on the table, Paige following suit, before crossing her legs and looking at her best friend. “How do you feel knowing you’re going to be surrounded by hot basketball girls all night?” Paige scoffed, shaking her head at Nika’s words. Nika laughed to herself, a sly smirk on her face.

“I feel indifferent.” Paige said shrugging her shoulders, though Nika saw right through it.

“Indifferent my ass,” Nika scoffed. She leaned forward, crossing her arms over the table. “You’ve been obsessed with Azzi for months now. Honestly? I’m surprised it took you this long to meet her.”

“I have not been obsessed,” Paige tried to defend, but it fell upon deaf ears.

Nika quickly picked up on Paige’s sudden interest in the WNBA over the past few months. Sure Paige had always watched it and kept up with their season considering Cam was her sister. But recently, she wanted to watch a lot more games, forcing Nika to miss her nightly episodes of Temptation Island. It was easy to pick up on Paige’s sudden interest in keeping up with Cam’s teammates stats, something she never cared for in the past.

And it was so easy to pick up on Paige’s sudden interest in the sports section of the newspaper. Nika didn’t read the newspaper, and Paige didn’t care for it, so it typically piled up throughout the week in their mailbox until one of them caved and cleared it. However, Nika has been greeted by the sight of Paige drinking her plain black coffee in the morning while reading the newspaper, instead of arguing with her assistant on many occasions over the summer.

“Paige, you bought season tickets to Sparks games.”

“And?” Paige shrugged. “What’s the harm in supporting my sister?”

Paige could care less about supporting her sister. Well, she could care less about supporting her sister’s team. Paige had kept up with Cam’s stats and how she was doing ever since she entered the league. She knew Cam’s practice schedule, game schedule, helped her with tunnel fits, and even worked out with her sometimes. But Paige never cared to learn Cam’s teammates names, their stats, or anything about them. She had never even met them.

And it wasn’t that Paige didn’t care. It was that she didn’t care enough to work in another social group into her busy life. She had clubs and bars to manage, a company to run, a dog to tend to, and parents to please. She didn’t care to make time.

But that all changed a few months ago ahead of the 2001 season. Paige had been working out with Cam at Paige’s private gym, when Cam mentioned how excited she was for this upcoming season. Particularly, how excited she was for the return of her favorite teammate.

“I’m so excited for Azzi to be back on the court,” Cam had said, making small talk to make the minute plank go by faster. “She looked really good during training camp. Her shots were crisp and falling every time.” Paige really wasn’t paying attention, so Cam kept talking. “We would have gone a lot farther with her last year. But that’s in the past. I can tell she wants to win this year even more than the rest of us.”

Paige glanced at the clock above the door, dropping to the floor. Cam followed suit, groaning loudly and complaining about sore limbs. Paige had rolled her eyes and grabbed a sweat towel and wiped her face down.

“Not to mention she looks great,” Cam continued. “Taking a season off treated her well. She’s all long legs and charming smiles now. The paps love her. She doesn’t have a bad side, I’m telling you.”

“I’m pretty sure if the paparazzi loved her, I’d have seen her by now.” Paige said. With as many high end bars that Paige owned and ran, she had celebrities coming in and out. She liked to keep up with everyone coming in and out of her bars and clubs. And she had never heard of this Azzi girl, so how popular could she really be?

“You better look her up,” Cam had said, standing up. “She is everything everyone wants to be. I’m just glad I don’t have to guard her.”

So Paige had gone home and looked her up. And it’s safe to say that was the day Paige decided she would keep up with the rest of Cam’s team.

Now, sitting in a booth in 5 Nights, Paige was giddy on the inside. Cam was right. Azzi was everything everyone wanted to be. She had a charming smile she knew how to use, kind eyes that caught everyone’s attention, and a clean form that everyone wished they had. Paige hadn’t even met her, and she was ready to risk it all for her.

Paige spotted Cam the moment she walked in the bar. Her tall frame stood out amongst everyone else’s. Paige caught her eyes, and tilted her head, signaling she could come back. The bouncer in front of the VIP section, Morgan, didn’t even stop them. She let them right in, closing the rope behind them. Paige stood to greet Cam, the taller girl wrapping her arms around Paige. Paige could tell Cam was already a little tipsy, if her stumbling over her own feet was anything to go off of.

“Paigey!” Cam said, rocking the pair back and forth. Cam pulled back, a dopey grin on her face. “Thank you so much for getting us in. I seriously owe you.” Paige shook her head, shoving her hands in the pockets of her loose slacks.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Perfect,” Cam grinned. “First round on you then.” Cam patted Paige’s shoulder, before turning towards the booth to greet Nika. Paige rolled her eyes, but gestured for one of the bottle girls to bring a round of shots for everyone.

“Paige, these are my teammates. Everyone say hi,” Cam said, standing behind Paige. “This is her best friend Nika, she’s the nicer one.” Paige rolled her eyes again, something she often found herself doing anytime she was around Cam.

Cam insisted she introduced Paige to everyone. So for the next hour, Cam drunkenly tugged her by the arm so Paige could meet her teammates. Paige was pretty sure almost everyone was very drunk, because most of the conversations consisted of Cam’s high pitched laughter, whichever teammate they were talking to joining in, and Paige staring at them confused. Paige figured she would be the only one to remember these interactions the next day.

That was until Cam pulled her back to the booth two hours later, making Paige sit down next to her. Across from the blonde pair, Nika chatted animatedly with Azzi fudd. Paige had missed her when the team first came in, most likely hiding in the back.

The tabloids didn’t do her justice. No blurry photo online or a colorless printed one in the newspaper could compare to Azzi Fudd’s real life beauty. Her smile was radiant, and her skin was glowing. Something about her was warm, she felt like the type of person anyone would get along with. Her curls, slightly damp from her shower, sat on her shoulders, complimenting her cheekbones. From across the table, Paige admired her white top. It was the kind that was basically a bra with mesh covering the torso. Paige couldn’t see what bottoms she was wearing, but she assumed they were criminal.

“Azzi! This is my sister, Paige,” Cam said, extending her arm across the table to tap Azzi’s arm and grab her attention. Azzi’s eyes bounced from Cam to the figure next to her. Azzi’s expression didn’t change, not allowing Paige to get a read on what she was thinking. Paige extended her hand, holding it out for Azzi to shake. Azzi glanced at it, before extending her own hand.

To Paige’s surprise, Azzi’s hand was soft. Paige figured anyone with handles as good as Azzi’s would spend hours in the gym, making her hands calloused but hardworking.

“This is Paige’s club!” Cam yelled over the music. “She owns this one and a few others downtown.” Azzi glanced at Paige with an impressed expression, one brow raised. Paige blushed and shook her head, offering up an explanation.

“This is the only club I own. Nika helps me run it. Me and Nika just sponsor a lot of bars and clubs downtown.” Azzi nodded her head, picking up her drink and taking a slow sip before responding.

“Sounds like the humble way of saying they aren’t anything without you.” Paige laughed to herself, surprised at Azzi’s ability to be blunt in the softest way possible.

“Pretty much.” Paige replied. Her eyes never left Azzi’s, watching the basketball star examine her. Paige was doing the same thing. Her eyes traced the cure of Azzi’s lips and watched her long lashes flutter every time she blinked.

“What else do you do?” Azzi asked, her soft voice managing to reach Paige over the bass of the music. 

“I’m the CEO of a non-profit.” Paige said.

“What does your company do?” It was a miracle Paige was still talking when Azzi’s velvety smooth voice was practically taunting her.

“We help provide therapy to kids.Especially any kid going through a rough time.” Azzi nodded her head like she approved of Paige’s company. And honestly? Paige was glad. Azzi smiled softly at Paige, before taking another sip of her drink.

“Come dance!” Cam said, scooting all the way around the booth to push Nika and Azzi out on the other side. Nika choked on her drink before stumbling out of the booth. Somehow, Nika’s low waisted pinstripe pants looked perfect for the setting, fitting right in with everyone else’s more skimpy club outfits.

When Azzi stood up, Paige had to do a double take. She wore a mini leather skirt that sat just below a dangly belly ring. Her long legs made the skirt look even shorter than it was. But Paige wasn’t convinced it was very long at all, considering she watched as Azzi tugged it down when she stood up. Cam slid out of the booth next, grabbing Azzi’s free hand that wasn’t holding Nika’s.

“We’ll be back P,” Nika said, before leaving the VIP section to join the rest of the team on the dance floor. Paige shamelessly watched as Azzi’s hips swayed as she walked away, her flip flop heels making her walk look more attractive. When Paige finally tore her eyes away from Azzi, she was met with Cam glancing over her shoulder at her, a sly smirk on her face. Paige knew she was caught. But for some reason she couldn’t care less.

Azzi was at the level of tipsy where you were more loose than normal, able to let go, but you were still conscious enough not to make bad decisions. She knew she was tipsy, which was how she knew she wasn’t drunk enough.

She checked her gold watch as Nika dragged her to the dance floor, making Cam have to raise her hand. It was just after one, which meant Azzi would probably cool it off the drinks. Azzi felt Cam lean closer to her over her shoulder, and something told her Cam wanted to start something.

“What do you think of Paige?” Cam asked.

“She’s cool,” Azzi replied.

“What else? I was catching hella vibes from you two.”

“From what? Our two minute conversation about her job?” Azzi asked with a laugh.

“No, from your intense eye contact and the way she eyed you walking away.” Azzi scoffed, shaking her head.

“As if. Get a grip, Cam.”

“I’m just saying, I caught mad vibes between you two. It wouldn’t hurt to get with a baller.” Azzi glanced over her shoulder with a bored expression.

“Bite me.”

Cam snorted, before Azzi fondly rolled her eyes, no real harm behind her words. Nika stopped, pulling Azzi and Cam closer to her. Azzi vaguely recognized the song being played through the loud speakers, the bass making her head buzz. Even though she was only tipsy, the loud music combined with Cam and Nika’s energy put Azzi in the right mood to let go and truly celebrate.

So when “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix-A-Lot came on, Azzi screamed, turning to Cam with wide eyes.

“Biatch! This is your song!” Cam yelled. Nika, even though she didn’t know what was going on, was matching the two girls' energy. Azzi, with a grin on her face, turned around so her back was pressed to Cam’s front, two two girls moving their hips in sync. Azzi was met with Nika’s front, who was dancing in sync with the two basketball girls.

Going to college in the middle of nowhere, UConn, there wasn’t much else to do besides party when you weren’t in class or at practice. All throughout college, “Baby Got Back” had been Azzi’s anthem. It was what got her going and brought out her best moves. Azzi had lost count on how many people she grinded on when this song started playing. Most of the time, it was her best friend Caroline when they were out celebrating wins.

Azizi felt Cam place her hands on her hips, before she turned Azzi around. Now, Azzi’s back was pressed to Nika’s front. The three girls kept it up, passing Azzi back and forth between the two. Azzi got lost in the music, her skirt riding up slightly, grinding on Nika and Cam. After all, Baby’s got back, right?

From the VIP section, Paige was dying. She had never seen anyone dance like Azzi. With the good girl narrative the tabloids portrayed her as, Paige was one of the imbeciles who fell for it. Never in her life would Paige think she would meet the “people’s princess” and then catch her grinding on two girls in the same night. Azzi carried herself with so much poise that Paige didn’t think it was something the curly haired girl had in her.

Paige quickly looked away when Azzi caught her eye from her position between the two girls, and her full lips curved into a smirk. Paige quietly cursed to herself. Never in her life would she imagine a girl would have her blushing. 

Paige was never the chaser. She was always the chased. The media portrayed her as a playboy who had a different person in her bed every night. And while that was not true, Paige was the one luring in one night stands just to never call them back. People fell at her feet, and she let them. Just because Paige wasn’t picky on who she slept with didn’t mean she was run through. She did have standards. Most of the time, whoever landed at her feet that particular night was disappointed. All Paige really craved was  a good makeout session. Once she got that, she sent the person on their way.

Paige was never the one falling at someone else's feet.

But right now, Paige would happily fall at Azzi’s feet. Heck, she would get on her knees and kiss them if Azzi asked.

[sirenontheloose]

hiiii part 33333 pleaaaseeeeee

I'm just glad some of you are obsessed with this as much as I am LMAO

pt.1, pt.2

Please Don't Clip This pt.3

Lara rushed into her room and slammed the door shut behind her like the embarrassment was physically chasing her. She kicked her shoes off without aiming, tossed her jacket onto the desk chair, and dove face-first into her bed with a groan that echoed into her pillow.

Megan didn’t even flinch from her spot on the other bed. "That bad?"

"I should’ve just stayed seated," Lara mumbled into the blanket. "Why did I go up to her table? Why did I say anything? She looked like she wanted the earth to swallow her whole and now I’m the idiot who made it worse."

"You’re being dramatic," Megan said, scrolling through her phone. "You were chill. Charming, even."

Lara sat up slightly, just enough to glare. "Charming? I interrupted her dinner to remind her of the most embarrassing moment of her year."

Megan shrugged. "Bold of you to assume that’s the worst thing she’s done this year."

Lara let out a shaky laugh, then groaned again and collapsed back onto the bed. "I should’ve just waved from the table. Or not waved. Or sunk into the floor."

"You’re spiraling."

"I’m spiraling," Lara agreed.

She flipped onto her back, staring at the ceiling. Her heart still hadn’t slowed down. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the moment again, Y/N blinking up at her, cheeks flushed, hoodie half-swallowed by her shoulders like she was trying to disappear. Lara thought she’d play it cool. She was cool, usually. However, the second she stood at Y/N’s table, every word felt like it came out just a little too fast, too soft, too hopeful. And Y/N’s reaction, that wide-eyed silence, well, it wasn’t exactly comforting.

What if she hated it? What if she was only being polite? What if the livestream was just a moment, and Lara had misread everything?

She grabbed her phone, not really expecting anything, just needing to distract herself before she overthought herself into a coma. She was about to open TikTok when her lock screen lit up. A DM. From Y/N.

hey it’s me. y/n. i didn’t think our first meeting would go like that and i’m sorry again for being a total mess during the livestream, but i meant what i said about you being gorgeous and all. so.. if you’re still in seoul and free tomorrow, would you wanna get dinner with me?

Lara sat up like someone had hit her with a defibrillator. "OH MY GOD," she blurted.

Megan startled, then peeked over at her screen. Her eyes widened. "No way. She actually, oh my God, she did."

"What do I say?" Lara whispered, clutching the phone like it might vanish if she moved too fast. "Do I say yes? Is it weird if I say yes right away?"

Megan snatched the phone from her and opened the Notes app. "Okay. Let’s start with 'hi' and work our way up from there."

Lara stared at her phone like it might combust if she touched it wrong. Her heart was pounding out a nervous beat, fingers trembling just above the keyboard while Megan practically hung over her shoulder.

"Read it again," Megan demanded, already grinning like she knew the ending.

"I’ve read it," Lara mumbled, eyes wide. "Like ten times."

"She wants to hang out," Lara blurted, too fast, too defensively, like saying it plain would make it less terrifying.

Megan squinted at her. "Lara, that’s not just hanging out."

"She didn’t say date."

"She called you gorgeous and asked you to dinner, how is that not a date."

Lara clutched her phone like it might shatter. "What if I mess it up again."

"You won’t. Just say yes, no emoji spiral, no punctuation panic, just breathe."

"I am breathing. I’m literally breathing right now."

"Yeah, you're breathing like someone who just ran a marathon blindfolded."

Lara typed each word like she was defusing a bomb with her bare hands.

that sounds really nice, i’d love to. what time were you thinking

Megan beamed. "Perfect, now send it, go."

"I haven’t sent it yet."

"Lara."

"I’m going to."

Right as her thumb hovered over send, the door swung open.

"What are you guys doing," Manon asked between bites of ice cream, already suspicious.

"Y/N just asked Lara out on a dinner date tomorrow," Megan blurted, bouncing like a kid who couldn’t keep a secret.

Lara shot her a look. "It’s not a date."

Manon froze mid-step. "No way, shut up, for real."

Lara handed her the phone wordlessly.

Manon scanned the message, then screamed into her spoon. "Lara, this is so real. You’re being courted."

Then her face dropped.

"Wait, wait, wait, don’t we have a flight tomorrow?"

Everything in the room screeched to a halt.

"What flight," Megan asked slowly, like she already regretted it.

"Gabriella promo. We’re going back to LA. They bumped it up, remember? We leave at five in the morning," Manon said, already pulling up her calendar.

"No," Lara whispered, like it physically hurt.

"Yes," Manon winced.

Lara sank onto the edge of the bed like the floor had fallen out from under her. Megan stopped bouncing.

"There has to be a way around it."

Lara didn’t say anything. She just stared at the screen like it was slipping away, inch by inch. "I should’ve just stayed seated," she muttered into her hands. "What if she thinks I don’t care now."

"She won’t," Manon said gently. "You just have to be honest."

"She probably already thinks I’m ghosting her," Lara muttered.

"She sent that like five minutes ago," Manon said, still beside her, softer now. "She’s probably still holding her phone, hoping you say yes."

Lara didn’t say anything. The excitement had fizzled too fast. She still had the message typed out, sitting there in her drafts like a promise she couldn’t keep. She stared at the screen, thumb hovering over send like muscle memory hadn’t caught up to her heart.

Megan watched her carefully from the other end of the bed, her earlier buzz fading too. "You okay?"

Lara shook her head, just a little. "I feel like I ruined it before it even started."

Manon reached over and handed her a bottle of water she had grabbed earlier, her expression gentle now. "You didn’t. The schedule sucks, not you." She sounded sure. Not just comforting her for the sake of it, but actually believing it. "She asked you out," she continued. "That means something. Whether you meet tomorrow or next week or next comeback, she wanted to see you. That doesn’t just vanish overnight."

"But what if she thinks I’m brushing her off?" Lara’s voice cracked, and she barely caught it.

"She won’t," Manon said without hesitation. "You already did the hard part. You went up to her. You said hi. If she meant what she said, and come on, she definitely meant it, this isn’t the end."

Lara didn’t answer. She just nodded once, then pulled her legs up and curled into the pillows. Megan leaned over, "We’ll figure it out. But maybe you should get some sleep."

Lara stared at the screen, thumb hovering. Then she typed, slowly.

i really want to but we’re flying back to la for work stuff tomorrow morning. i’m so sorry. can i have a rain check?

Then, before she could change her mind again, she hit send. The message disappeared into the chat, and she immediately rolled onto her back, arm flung over her face like she couldn’t bear to see what happened next.

It didn’t take long. Her phone buzzed less than a minute later. She sat up like she’d been electrocuted. Her heart was practically punching her ribs. She grabbed her phone and read the reply.

well are you free now

Lara’s breath caught. She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just stared at the screen like it might vanish if she blinked.

Megan caught the look first. "What? Did she respond? What’d she say?"

Lara turned the phone around slowly.

Manon leaned in, read it, screamed. "She did not just say that. She did not just say that, oh my God, she said that."

"Are you kidding?" Megan clutched a throw pillow to her chest. "She’s basically asking if she can see you tonight. Right now."

Lara just sat there, frozen in place, gripping her phone like a lifeline.

"Why are you not replying?" Manon was practically bouncing in place.

"I don’t know what to say."

Megan grabbed the pillow and launched it across the room. "Say yes. Say it right now before I explode."

Lara, heart hammering in her chest, tapped out her reply with fingers that could barely type straight.

yes

She hit send.

Not even five seconds passed before her screen lit up again.

where are you staying

The scream that came out of all three girls didn’t sound human. Manon hit the floor like she’d been tackled. Megan grabbed Lara by the wrist and yanked her to her feet. "You’re going. No questions."

"I’m not even ready," Lara said, half-laughing, half-panicking.

"You look hot," Megan said, already digging by the door. "Here. Shoes. Now."

She shoved a pair of sneakers into Lara’s hands and pushed her gently toward the exit. "You don’t need to change. You need to go."

Lara stood there for a second, clutching the shoes, hair a mess, nerves exploding like fireworks. But she was smiling.

She sent the address with shaking fingers before she could think twice. Then she bolted for the elevator, heart racing like it was trying to run ahead of her. By the time she stepped into the hotel lobby, her phone lit up again.

omw

Lara swore her heart actually skipped. She stared at the screen for a second too long, lips pressed tight, trying not to start smiling like an idiot in front of the staff. Y/N was coming.

She checked her reflection in the lobby mirror for the third time, smoothing down her hair even though it looked fine. The hoodie she’d been wearing since dinner still smelled faintly like BBQ, and she winced a little at that, tugging it down and brushing invisible lint off the sleeves. Too late to turn back now.

Her phone buzzed again.

i'm here

Lara turned so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet. She scanned the front entrance like she was in a spy movie, eyes darting until she saw her. 

Y/N was stepping in, hood still half-up, mask pulled under her chin. Her hair was a little messy, like she’d rushed, cheeks slightly flushed from the night air. Her eyes found Lara’s almost instantly.

She smiled. It was soft and it hit Lara square in the chest.

Lara stood frozen for a second. Then her body remembered how to move.

They met halfway across the lobby, both a little breathless. "Hey," Y/N said, voice low and warm. Lara swallowed the knot in her throat. "Hey."

There was a pause. Not awkward, just full. Like both of them knew this wasn’t nothing. Y/N then let out a soft laugh and scratched the back of her neck. "I feel like this is the part where I say something cool," she said, eyes flicking to the ground, then back to Lara’s face.

Lara didn’t even think. "I like you."

It came out before she could stop it. Her eyes widened a little, the weight of the words catching up to her after they’d already fallen.

Y/N’s lips parted, surprise flickering across her face. Then it shifted, her whole expression melting into something soft and unreadable and so full of feeling, it made Lara dizzy. "You... like me?" she said, voice barely above a whisper.

Lara nodded, heart drumming so loud she could barely hear herself. "I do."

Y/N let out a shaky breath, her lips curling into the gentlest smile. Her shoulders relaxed like she’d been holding something in without realizing.

"I like you too," she said, and it wasn’t dramatic or loud. It was just simple and certain.

She stepped a little closer, close enough that Lara could feel the warmth of her hoodie sleeve brush against hers. "Do you wanna go for a drive or something? I don’t really wanna go back yet." Lara nodded fast. "Yeah. That sounds perfect."

Y/N didn’t say anything, she just reached out, slow and gentle, her fingers brushing against Lara’s like a quiet question. Then, without rushing, she softly laced them together, careful but sure, like she wanted to make it clear she meant it.

Her thumb swept the back of Lara’s hand once, barely a touch, but it was enough to send sparks all the way up Lara’s arm.

Lara glanced down at their joined hands, her chest blooming with something warm and giddy, something that made her want to laugh and cry all at once.

Y/N looked over, her voice soft and a little shy. “Is this okay?”

Lara smiled, breathless. “More than okay.”

[kneworder]

this is the closest i have ever come to failing all my classes 😃

[enhaflixer]

hogwarts time travel au! traveling to the future and waking up MARRIED PART 1

slytherin!riki x gryffindor!reader PART 2 HERE

warnings: time travel, sex, kissing, lots of kissing, kinda angsty, they have two kids, there are pranks and rivalry and its just real cute im ngl

-

The library had been blissfully quiet for exactly forty-three minutes. You'd counted. Forty-three minutes of peaceful study, undisturbed concentration, and actual progress on your Transfiguration essay. Which meant you were overdue for—

A paper crane swooped down from nowhere, circling your head three times before unfolding itself atop your carefully organized notes. The parchment fluttered open to reveal a doodle of what appeared to be you with steam coming out of your ears and your hair standing on end. Beneath it, elegant script that you unfortunately recognized immediately:

Looking a bit tense today, Gryffindork. Did someone hide your color-coded study schedule again?

You closed your eyes and counted to ten, but only made it to four before the sound of poorly suppressed laughter broke your concentration. Across the library, lounging in a chair as though he owned the place, sat Nishimura Riki. The bane of your existence for seven consecutive years.

"Real mature," you muttered, crumpling the parchment and tossing it over your shoulder.

The paper froze mid-air, reversed direction, and neatly unfolded itself before landing back on your textbook.

"That's littering, you know," Riki called, just loud enough to make Madam Pince shoot you both a warning glare. "Not very environmentally conscious of you."

You stabbed your quill into your inkpot with unnecessary force. "Some of us are trying to study for our N.E.W.T.s like responsible seventh-years."

Riki stretched, his Slytherin tie deliberately loosened, black hair artfully tousled in that way that made half the school swoon and made you want to hex him bald. "Ah yes, another thrilling evening of revising information you memorized three months ago. Living the dream."

"Not everyone coasts by on natural talent and family connections," you shot back.

Something flashed in his dark eyes – irritation, perhaps – but his smirk never faltered. "Is that what you think? That I don't work for my grades?"

"I think," you said, gathering your belongings with precise movements, "that you spend more time planning elaborate pranks than studying, yet somehow maintain your position as second in our class."

"Second only to you," he said with an exaggerated bow. "Though not for lack of trying."

Your academic rivalry was legendary – seven years of trading the top spot back and forth, never more than a few points separating you. It would have been admirable if he wasn't so insufferable about it.

"Well, some of us can't afford to waste time," you said, shoving your books into your bag.

Riki pushed off his chair and sauntered over, dropping into the seat across from you without invitation. "You know what your problem is?"

"Currently? You're sitting at my table."

He leaned forward, undeterred. "You've forgotten how to have fun. When was the last time you did something just because it made you laugh?"

"I laugh plenty," you insisted, though the defensive tone in your voice betrayed you.

"At jokes in textbooks, maybe." He twirled his wand between his fingers – a nervous habit he'd had since first year. "You're seventeen going on seventy."

"And you're seventeen going on seven," you countered. "Wasn't it your enchanted water balloons that flooded the third floor yesterday?"

His grin widened. "Can't prove it was me."

"Professor Flitwick literally said, 'Impressive charm work, Mr. Nishimura, but please reserve it for your classwork.'"

"He appreciates creativity," Riki shrugged, then lowered his voice conspiratorially. "But that was nothing. Tomorrow's prank will be legendary."

Despite yourself, curiosity piqued. "What are you planning now?"

"Concerned for my academic future?" he teased. "Worried I might finally surpass you if I get expelled?"

"Worried about innocent bystanders," you corrected. "Your last 'legendary' prank turned the entire Ravenclaw Quidditch team purple for a week."

"That was an accident," he protested, though his smile suggested otherwise. "The color was supposed to fade after twenty-four hours."

You rolled your eyes and stood up. "Well, whatever you're planning, leave me out of it. Some of us have actual goals beyond being remembered as Hogwarts' most annoying student."

His laugh followed you as you headed for the exit. "Come on! You know you'd be much happier if you loosened up a little!"

You resolutely ignored him, which was your standard approach to Nishimura Riki. Seven years of practice had proven it was the only way to maintain your sanity.

You should have known ignoring him wouldn't work. It never did.

The next morning, you woke to find every single one of your quills had been enchanted to write nothing but love poems. About him.

Eyes dark as midnight, smile sharp as wit, Nishimura Riki, quite the perfect fit...

"That's IT!" You stormed into the Great Hall, marching directly to the Slytherin table where Riki sat surrounded by his usual admirers. You slammed the offending quill down in front of him.

He looked up with infuriating innocence. "Problem?"

"Fix. My. Quills." Each word came through gritted teeth.

He inspected the quill with exaggerated care. "I'm flattered, truly, but I don't think I inspired this passionate declaration. Perhaps you've been harboring secret feelings?"

Several of his friends snickered. Your cheeks burned, but whether from anger or embarrassment, you refused to analyze.

"This isn't funny," you hissed. "I have a Charms practical in twenty minutes."

"Hmm." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "That is a problem."

"A problem you created!"

"I suppose I could fix it..." he mused, "for a price."

You crossed your arms. "What price?"

His smile turned mischievous. "Admit that I'm the better duelist."

This was an ongoing point of contention. You'd been evenly matched in Defense Against the Dark Arts since third year, much to both your frustrations.

"Never," you declared. "I beat you fair and square last week."

"You caught me off-guard with that modified Impediment Jinx."

"Which is called strategy," you countered. "Something you might understand if you spent more time studying and less time being an insufferable prat."

He clutched his heart dramatically. "You wound me. And here I thought we were friends."

"We are not friends," you said firmly. "We have never been friends."

Something shifted in his expression – so briefly you might have imagined it – before his usual smirk returned. "Fine. I'll fix your quills because I'm magnanimous and mature."

You snorted.

He flicked his wand, muttering an incantation under his breath. "There. Crisis averted. Though I was looking forward to Professor Flitwick reading poetry about my 'raven locks' and 'quicksilver reflexes.'"

"You're impossible," you said, snatching back your quill.

He winked. "Yet somehow you put up with me."

"Not by choice," you grumbled, turning to leave.

"Oh, by the way," he called after you, "pink is definitely your color!"

You frowned, then caught your reflection in a silver platter. Your hair had turned bright, bubblegum pink.

"NISHIMURA!"

-

It took three counter-charms to fix your hair, making you late for Charms and costing Gryffindor five points. Which was exactly what Riki had intended, no doubt. Your houses were neck-and-neck for the cup, and every point mattered in these final weeks.

Retaliation was necessary. And for once, you decided to beat him at his own game.

It took careful planning, timed precisely to the Slytherin Quidditch practice. A specialized color-changing potion in his shampoo (courtesy of a reluctant Slughorn, who thought you were doing "extra credit research"). By dinner, every Slytherin at the table was staring at Riki's violently pink hair and robes.

The best part? The potion was keyed to only activate for clothing in Slytherin colors and hair of his exact shade. No innocent bystanders.

His expression when he realized what had happened was worth the three nights of sleep you'd sacrificed to perfect the potion.

"Well played," he conceded when he cornered you after dinner, his robes still resolutely pink despite numerous attempts to change them back.

You allowed yourself a satisfied smile. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"This means war, you know." But he didn't sound angry – if anything, he seemed impressed.

"We've been at war since you turned my cauldron into a toad in first year," you reminded him.

"Good times," he sighed nostalgically. "Though I think you're forgetting that I never leave a prank unanswered."

You shrugged. "Do your worst, Nishimura. I'll be ready."

-

You were not, in fact, ready.

Three days later, whispers followed you through the corridors. Students giggled behind their hands as you passed. Even the professors were giving you strange looks.

It wasn't until Luna Lovegood approached you at lunch with her dreamy expression that you discovered why.

"I think it's very brave of you to be so public with your feelings," she said, patting your hand. "Though the singing Valentine might have been a bit much."

"What singing Valentine?" you asked, a sense of dread building.

She blinked owlishly. "The one you sent to Riki Nishimura this morning. With the cherubs and rose petals? It performed in the middle of the entrance hall."

Your blood ran cold. "I didn't send—"

But Luna had already drifted away, leaving you to face the horrified realization that Riki had successfully framed you for sending him the most over-the-top, public declaration of love in Hogwarts history.

The smug look on his face when you found him confirmed everything.

"That was LOW," you growled, jabbing a finger into his chest. "Even for you."

He captured your finger, gently pushing it away. "Just giving the people what they want. Half the school already thinks we're secretly in love, given how obsessed we are with each other."

"We are NOT—" you spluttered, then lowered your voice when you realized people were watching. "We are not obsessed with each other."

"Seven years of elaborate pranks suggests otherwise," he pointed out.

"Seven years of you being an absolute menace," you corrected.

He leaned against the wall, studying you with unexpected seriousness. "You know, anyone else would have reported me to McGonagall years ago. Yet you always retaliate instead. Why is that?"

The question caught you off guard. Why hadn't you ever reported him? It would have been the sensible thing to do.

"Because," you said finally, "that would be admitting you've won."

His slow smile was different from his usual smirk – smaller, more genuine. "And we can't have that, can we?"

"Never," you agreed, finding yourself smiling back despite everything.

The moment stretched, something unspoken passing between you before you broke the spell. "This isn't over, Nishimura. I'm going to make you regret that Valentine stunt."

"Looking forward to it," he called as you walked away.

-

Your opportunity came sooner than expected. You discovered quite by accident that Riki had been working on a modified time-distortion spell – not an actual Time-Turner, but a charm that created the illusion of time passing. His plan, according to the notes you'd "borrowed" from his bag during Potions, was to make you think you'd slept through your Arithmancy N.E.W.T.

Clever, but not clever enough.

You spent a week developing a counter-charm, designed to reflect the spell back on its caster. It was advanced magic, beyond N.E.W.T. level really, but the thought of beating Riki at his own game was too tempting to resist.

The night before the Arithmancy exam, you stayed up late in the library, knowing he'd make his move when you were exhausted and vulnerable. Sure enough, just after midnight, you detected the subtle shimmer of disillusionment as he crept toward your table.

You pretended to be dozing on your textbook, wand concealed but ready beneath the pages.

You felt rather than saw the moment he cast the spell – a strange ripple in the air, the whispered Latin incantation. In one fluid motion, you raised your wand and cast your counter-charm.

"Tempus Reflectum!"

Your spells collided in midair with a sound like shattering glass. Golden light erupted between you, blinding in its intensity. You felt a strange pulling sensation behind your navel, similar to a Portkey but stronger, as if something was yanking you through dimensions rather than mere space.

The last thing you saw was Riki's shocked face, his hand reaching toward you as the magic engulfed you both.

Then darkness.

You woke to sunlight on your face and the unfamiliar sensation of high-thread-count sheets against your skin. Your head pounded viciously, like the aftermath of a poorly brewed Wit-Sharpening Potion. Groggily, you rolled over, burying your face in a pillow that smelled of lavender and something else – a woody, spicy scent that was strangely familiar.

"Five more minutes," you mumbled, pulling blankets over your head.

Wait. These weren't your Gryffindor dormitory blankets.

Your eyes snapped open, heart racing. This wasn't your bed in Gryffindor Tower. The room was unfamiliar - spacious with burgundy accents and photographs you didn't recognize.

Worse, you weren't alone.

A warm weight pressed against your side. You turned your head slowly and froze. Nishimura Riki - your sworn enemy - was asleep next to you, his dark hair tousled, face relaxed in sleep, looking several years older than he should.

"What the—" you started, voice dying as your brain struggled to process the impossible sight before you. This wasn't right. This couldn't be happening.

Riki stirred beside you, mumbling something incoherent. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first. Then he blinked rapidly, confusion washing over his features as he registered the unfamiliar surroundings. When his gaze finally landed on you, he froze.

"Wait..." he said groggily, rubbing his eyes like he might be dreaming. "What's going on?"

You scrambled backward, nearly falling off the bed in your haste. "Why are you— Where are we—" The questions tumbled over each other, none completing themselves.

Riki seemed equally disoriented, looking down at his own body, touching his face. "I feel... different. Older?" His voice was deeper, his shoulders broader. This wasn't the lanky seventeen-year-old who'd been tormenting you yesterday.

"This isn't Hogwarts," you whispered, taking in the room. "This isn't my dormitory. Why are we in a bed? Together?" Your voice rose with each question.

Realization dawned on his face, horror quickly replacing confusion. "No. No way. Tell me this isn't..."

The fog of sleep dissipated completely, replaced by rising panic. "You!" he finally accused, pointing a shaking finger. "What did you do? Where did you bring us?"

"ME?" Indignation cut through your shock. "You think I did this?" You grabbed a pillow and threw it at his head with all your strength. "This is clearly one of your stupid pranks gone wrong!"

"My pranks are never stupid," he shot back automatically, then looked wildly around the room at the photographs, at the clothing visible in the open wardrobe, at the obvious signs of a shared life. "And I definitely wouldn't prank myself into... whatever this nightmare is."

You noticed a wand on the nightstand - your wand, but somehow more worn - and lunged for it. As you did, something gold caught the light. A wedding ring on your finger.

"No," you whispered, staring at your hand. "No, no, no."

Riki noticed his own matching band and went pale. "This isn't possible."

You rushed to the mirror and gasped. Your reflection was you, but older - mid-twenties at least, with different hair and a confidence in your eyes your seventeen-year-old self had never possessed.

"If this is your idea of funny, Nishimura—" you began, whirling back toward him.

"For the last time, this isn't me!" he snapped, running a hand through his hair. "I was trying to prank you with a time-distortion spell, not..." he gestured between you wildly, "whatever nightmare this is!"

"Time-distortion?" Your eyes narrowed. "That spell you were working on in the library! The one I countered with—"

"You countered it?" Riki jumped to his feet. "What did you use? What exactly did you cast?"

"A reflection charm. It was supposed to bounce your stupid prank back at you!"

"You interfered with experimental magic?" He looked genuinely appalled. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?"

"Oh, that's rich coming from you! The walking disaster who once turned the entire Great Hall ceiling into a swamp!"

"That was brilliant spellwork and you know it!"

Your shouting match escalated until you barely noticed the small figure appearing in the doorway. It wasn't until you heard a heartbroken sob that you both fell silent and turned.

A little girl stood there, maybe three years old, with tears streaming down her chubby cheeks. She had Riki's deep, dark eyes—so dark they were almost black—but your nose and mouth. Her black hair fell in messy waves to her shoulders, with a stubborn cowlick at the crown that somehow looked familiar. She wore mismatched pajamas—a Holyhead Harpies top and bottoms covered in tiny golden snitches. She was clutching a well-loved stuffed dragon, its once-vibrant green scales faded from countless hugs.

"Mama, Dada, no fight," she hiccupped, her lower lip trembling so dramatically that your heart clenched in response. "No fight, please."

The raw distress in her voice hit you like a physical blow. This child—your child, somehow—was devastated by your argument. And though your rational mind insisted she was a stranger, something deeper, more instinctive, recognized her as yours.

You caught Riki's expression changing from confusion to concern, his usual smirk melting away completely. His entire body language transformed in an instant—shoulders relaxing, voice softening to a tone you'd never heard him use before.

"Hey, it's okay," he said gently, approaching her with cautious steps and kneeling down to her level. "We're not fighting. We're just... talking loud."

His hand reached out to smooth her hair in a gesture that seemed so natural it startled you. The tenderness in his touch was nothing like the Riki you knew—the prankster, the rival, the perpetual thorn in your side.

"Loud scary," she whimpered, clutching her dragon tighter. Its head was tucked under her chin in a practiced motion of self-comfort. "Suki no like." Her voice broke on the last word, fresh tears spilling down her already damp cheeks.

Something powerful and overwhelming surged through you—a fierce, protective instinct you'd never felt before. Without thinking, you moved toward her, your body acting before your mind could catch up. It felt like gravity—like you physically couldn't stay across the room while she was crying.

You knelt beside Riki, your shoulders almost touching as you both hunched down to her height. "We're sorry we scared you, Suki," you said, your voice coming out gentle and soothing, as if you'd comforted this child a thousand times before.

She looked up at you with those big, tear-filled eyes—Riki's eyes, unmistakably—and something twisted in your chest. Recognition flashed between you, soul-deep, impossible to explain. You'd never met this child before today, but your heart knew her.

Your hand reached out of its own volition to wipe a tear from her soft cheek. The moment your skin touched hers, a rush of emotion flooded through you—love, protectiveness, and a bone-deep certainty that whatever else was happening, this connection was real.

"Dragon scared too," she said solemnly, holding up the stuffed toy. Now that you looked more closely, you noticed the dragon had a tiny Gryffindor scarf around its neck, clearly handknitted. "Puff needs hugs when scared."

"Puff?" you asked softly.

"Short for Puffskein," Riki explained automatically, then looked surprised at his own knowledge. "I think... I gave it to her on her second birthday."

Suki nodded vigorously. "Daddy said... said Puff keeps bad dreams away."

Your eyes met Riki's over her head, a moment of mutual bewilderment passing between you. How could he know that? How could either of you feel such instant recognition of a child you'd just met?

"Well," you said, finding your voice again. "Puff is right. Hugs do help when you're scared."

Suki looked at you hopefully, arms lifting in an unmistakable request. The gesture was so innocent, so trusting, that you couldn't refuse. You gathered her small body against yours, surprised by how naturally she fit in your arms, how right her weight felt. She smelled of baby shampoo and that indefinable sweet scent that seemed to belong only to children.

When she reached one arm out to include Riki in the hug, you watched his face cycle through confusion, hesitation, and then surrender. He moved closer, completing the circle, his arm brushing yours as he embraced both you and Suki.

For one strange, suspended moment, the three of you stayed like that—a tableau of family comfort that felt both foreign and achingly familiar. You caught Riki's eyes over Suki's head, and the confusion in them mirrored your own, but there was something else there too—a vulnerability you'd never seen before.

Suki's small hand patted your cheek. "Better now?" she asked, her tears already drying as children's often do, her resilience astonishing. She looked between you with such hope, such complete faith that her parents could fix anything, that you felt a lump form in your throat.

"Yes," you managed, though nothing was better, nothing made sense. "Much better."

Riki nodded, his voice slightly hoarse when he added, "All better, Suki."

She beamed then, her whole face lighting up with such joy that it physically hurt to look at. Her smile—your smile, undeniably—transformed her tear-stained face. "Suki fixed it," she declared proudly, patting her own chest. "Suki good helper."

"The best helper," Riki agreed, with a sincerity that sounded strange coming from him.

She wiggled out of the embrace, suddenly energized now that the crisis had passed. "Hungry now," she announced, as if the emotional storm had never happened. "Pancakes? With chocolate?"

"And berries," you found yourself adding, the words coming from nowhere. "You need something healthy with all that chocolate."

"Always saying that," Suki said with a dramatic sigh that was so reminiscent of Riki's that you almost laughed despite everything. "Boring."

Riki smothered what might have been a chuckle. "Some things never change," he murmured, so quietly only you could hear.

Suki grabbed both your hands in her small ones, tugging with surprising strength. "Come on! Sara waiting!"

As she mentioned the other child, another voice called out from somewhere down the hall—a younger, less articulate voice that nevertheless commanded attention.

"MAMA! DADA! UP!"

Riki's eyes met yours again, a silent question passing between you. Neither of you had to say it aloud: how could something feel so wrong and so right at the same time? How could these children be strangers and yet feel like they were pieces of your own heart?

Suki tugged more insistently. "Sara awake. She hungry too."

You allowed yourself to be pulled to your feet, noticing as you rose that Riki's hand lingered near your elbow, steadying you as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He snatched it back when he realized what he was doing, but not before you felt the warmth of his touch—so different from the antagonistic shoves and playful jabs you were used to exchanging.

"We should..." he began awkwardly.

"Yeah," you agreed, equally uncomfortable. "The other one—Sara—she sounds..."

"Impatient," Riki finished, a hint of his usual wry humor returning. "Wonder where she gets that from."

"Certainly not from me," you retorted automatically, falling into your familiar pattern of banter before you could stop yourself.

Suki looked up at you both, her dark eyes narrowing with that uncanny perceptiveness again. "No more fighting," she warned, squeezing your hands. "Promise?"

The way she said it—like she was the parent and you were the children—made something catch in your throat. This tiny person somehow had the power to make you feel both chastised and protected.

"Promise," you said softly, and meant it.

"For now," Riki added with a ghost of his usual mischief, but when Suki's eyes narrowed further, he quickly amended, "I mean, yes, I promise too."

Suki nodded, satisfied with your compliance. "Good," she declared. "Now pancakes."

She pulled you both toward the door with the confidence of someone who knew exactly where she was going and expected the rest of the world to follow. And somehow, despite everything—the confusion, the impossibility of the situation, the fact that you were in a strange house with the person you'd spent seven years despising—you found yourself following her lead.

As you passed through the doorway, your arm brushed against Riki's, and instead of flinching away as you normally would, you felt an odd sense of reassurance from the contact. You were both lost here, both confused, but at least you were lost together.

"Temporary truce?" you whispered to him, just low enough that Suki couldn't hear.

"Absolutely," he agreed, his voice equally soft. "But for the record, I still think this is somehow your fault."

"And I'm certain it's yours," you countered, but there was no real heat in it.

Suki glanced back, caught you whispering, and gave you both a look of such knowing approval that you wondered if she'd somehow orchestrated this whole bizarre situation. For a three-year-old, she seemed remarkably in control.

"Come on, slow pokes!" she called, tugging you forward. "Sara waiting!"

The voice from down the hall called again, more insistently this time:

"DADA! UP NOW!"

You followed in stunned silence, wondering what cosmic joke had landed you in a future where you and Nishimura Riki had not only married but created this earnest little peacemaker and her baby sister.

-

After a chaotic breakfast involving Sara wearing more pancake than she ate and Suki demonstrating her surprisingly advanced levitation skills ("No, Suki, we don't float the syrup to the ceiling"), you finally managed to settle the children with enchanted coloring books in the living room.

"We have approximately seven minutes before disaster strikes again," Riki muttered, watching Sara scribble with determined focus. "Let's use them wisely."

"We need to search the house," you whispered. "Find anything that might explain what happened or how to reverse it."

You split up, Riki taking the study while you explored the sitting room. The cottage was larger than it appeared from outside—clearly magically extended—with comfortable, lived-in furnishings that blended wizarding and Muggle styles seamlessly.

The walls were covered with photographs—magical ones that moved and Muggle ones that didn't. They told the story of a life you couldn't remember living: graduation from Hogwarts (standing suspiciously close to Riki), your wedding (looking disgustingly happy), Riki in formal Auror robes receiving some kind of commendation, you in professor's robes surrounded by students.

You paused at a series of photos displaying Suki's early days. There was one of you in a hospital bed, looking exhausted but radiant, cradling a newborn bundle while Riki sat beside you, one arm around your shoulders. The look on his face—pure wonder mixed with what could only be described as adoration—was so unlike any expression you'd ever seen him wear that you had to look away.

"Found something," Riki called softly from the study. "Photo albums. Lots of them."

You joined him, settling on the floor as he spread several leather-bound albums before you. Each was meticulously labeled in what appeared to be your handwriting: "Wedding," "Suki's First Year," "Sara's Birth," "Family Holidays."

"This is surreal," you muttered, opening the one labeled "Sara's Birth."

The images inside showed a progression: you with a rounded belly, Riki's hand resting on it with a proud smile; you in labor, gripping Riki's hand so tightly his fingers were white (that one gave you a small satisfaction); and finally, Riki holding newborn Sara, tears streaming unashamedly down his face while Suki peered curiously at her new sister.

"I look...happy," Riki said quietly, touching the edge of the photo.

"We both do," you admitted reluctantly.

You flipped through more pages, watching your impossible family life unfold. Holidays at what appeared to be his parents' home in Japan. Suki's first steps. Sara's naming ceremony.

"Look at this one," Riki said, pointing to a photo of both of you asleep on a couch, Suki as a baby nestled between you. The image captured pure exhaustion, but also undeniable contentment.

"This can't be real," you whispered, but the evidence was overwhelming. "How did we go from hexing each other to...this?"

Riki closed the album carefully. "More importantly, how do we get back to our time?"

You stood abruptly, pacing the study. "There must be something in this house—your research notes, my lesson plans, anything that might explain the magic that sent us here."

"Or how to reverse it," Riki added, rising to his feet.

"Exactly," you agreed, turning too quickly and colliding with him. His hands automatically steadied you, fingers wrapping around your upper arms.

You jerked away. "Don't touch me, Nishimura," you hissed. "Get your filthy fingers off me. God knows where they've been."

Something flickered in his eyes—hurt, perhaps?—before his usual smirk reappeared. He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper. "I don't know about God, but judging by these photos, I think I know where you'd like them to be."

Your face burned. "You're disgusting."

"And yet, apparently, you married me," he countered, gesturing to the ring on your finger. "Enthusiastically, from the looks of these albums."

You were about to deliver a scathing retort when a small sniffle from the doorway froze you both. Suki stood there, clutching Puff, her bottom lip wobbling dangerously.

"Mama and Dada fighting again?" she asked, voice trembling.

Pure panic flashed across Riki's face—the same feeling coursing through you. You had exactly two seconds to prevent another meltdown.

Without thinking, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around Riki's waist, plastering what you hoped was a convincing smile on your face.

"Not fighting, sweetheart," you said quickly. "Dada and I were just...playing."

Riki, to his credit, recovered quickly. His arm slid around your shoulders, pulling you close against his side.

"That's right," he agreed, smiling down at Suki. "Mama and I were just being silly."

Suki didn't look entirely convinced. "No more loud voices?"

"No more loud voices," you promised.

She studied you both with those unnervingly perceptive eyes, then nodded slowly. "Okay. Sara made mess. Big mess."

You exchanged an alarmed glance with Riki before hurrying to the living room, where you discovered Sara had somehow gotten hold of a pot of Everlasting Ink. The black liquid covered the toddler, the carpet, and most of a nearby armchair.

"How—" you began.

"I left for one minute!" Suki defended herself. "One minute!"

You bit back a laugh at her indignant tone—so reminiscent of your own when dealing with Riki's pranks—and turned to assess the damage.

"I'll take Sara for a bath," Riki offered, gingerly lifting the ink-covered toddler. "You tackle the furniture?"

You nodded, surprised by how easily you both fell into problem-solving mode. "Suki, can you show me where we keep the cleaning supplies?"

The crisis was half-managed when a bright silver light burst through the window. A tabby cat Patronus landed gracefully on the coffee table, fixing you both with a stern, familiar gaze.

"Mr. Nishimura. Miss L/N ]," came Professor McGonagall's voice from the ethereal cat. "Or should I say, Professor and Auror Nishimura? I am aware of your...temporal predicament. Report to my office at Hogwarts immediately. Without the children, if you please. Eight o'clock this evening. Do try not to destroy anything else in the meantime."

The Patronus dissolved, leaving a stunned silence in its wake.

"She knows," you whispered.

"Of course she does," Riki said, Sara squirming in his arms, leaving ink stains on his shirt. "She's McGonagall."

"But how? And what did she mean 'destroy anything else'?" A thought struck you. "Merlin's beard—what if our spell did more than just send us through time? What if we changed something important?"

Riki frowned. "Or broke something magical."

"The timeline itself, perhaps," you suggested, feeling sick.

"Well," he said, shifting Sara to his other hip, "at least we don't have to figure this out alone now."

You looked around at the chaotic scene—the ink-stained room, the confused children, the evidence of a life neither of you remembered building—and felt a wave of hysterical laughter bubble up.

"What's so funny?" Riki asked, eyebrows raised.

"Just picturing McGonagall's face when we have to explain that this all started because you tried to make me miss an exam."

He opened his mouth to argue, then shook his head with a rueful smile. "We are so getting detention. For a month. Possibly the rest of our lives."

Suki tugged at your hand. "Who was the cat lady?"

You knelt down to her level. "That was Headmistress McGonagall. She's...an old friend."

"The scary one from your stories?" Suki asked, eyes wide. "The one who can turn into a cat?"

"Exactly that one," Riki confirmed.

Suki considered this information solemnly. "She mad at you?"

You exchanged a look with Riki. "Probably," you admitted.

"Definitely," he corrected.

"You need timeout?" Suki asked seriously.

This time, when your eyes met Riki's, you couldn't help it—you both burst out laughing, the tension of the morning finally breaking. Suki looked between you, confused but pleased that her parents were laughing instead of fighting.

"Yes, Suki," you managed when you could speak again. "I think Dada and I are in a very long timeout."

"The longest," Riki agreed, his smile—his real smile, not the smirk you were used to—making something flutter strangely in your chest.

You quickly looked away, focusing on the ink stain. Whatever was happening, whatever McGonagall knew, one thing was certain—you needed to fix this mess and get back where you belonged. Before you started getting used to Riki's genuine smile, or the way Suki's hand felt in yours, or the strange sense of rightness that kept creeping in despite your best efforts to ignore it.

Because this wasn't your life. It couldn't be. No matter what the photographs showed or how natural it sometimes felt.

...Could it?

Meeting with McGonagall had been exactly as intimidating as expected. Even as adults—or at least, in adult bodies—you both found yourselves fidgeting under her stern gaze like first-years caught out after curfew.

"Of all the reckless, irresponsible applications of magic," she'd said, pacing her office while portraits of former headmasters watched with varying degrees of amusement. "A temporal displacement caused by a schoolyard rivalry. Albus would have found this terribly entertaining." Her tone made it clear she did not share this sentiment.

McGonagall had explained, with remarkable patience, that your spell collision had created a rare but not unprecedented magical phenomenon. You had essentially switched places with your future selves—who were now presumably navigating your teenage lives at Hogwarts.

"So does that mean we can go back?" you'd asked hopefully.

Her answer had crushed that hope. "The magic will resolve itself naturally in approximately four weeks. Any attempt to force a reversal could cause irreparable damage to both timelines."

"Four WEEKS?" Riki had choked out.

"Consider it an educational opportunity, Mr. Nishimura," McGonagall had replied, the ghost of a smile playing at her lips. "A chance to see where your choices lead. Perhaps it will inspire better decision-making in your youth."

And with that decidedly unhelpful advice, she'd sent you both back to your cottage and your borrowed life, with instructions to maintain your professional obligations and "try not to destroy the timeline."

Which was how you found yourself standing in front of a classroom of third-year students the next morning, trying to remember anything useful about shield charms beyond the basics you'd learned in fifth year.

"Professor?" A Ravenclaw girl in the front row raised her hand. "You said last week we'd be practicing against minor hexes today."

"Right," you said, stalling. "But first, let's review. Can anyone tell me the three key principles of effective shielding?"

Thank Merlin for eager students. As they rattled off answers, you discreetly consulted the lesson plans you'd found in your desk drawer. Apparently, your future self was exceptionally organized—each lesson meticulously planned with notes on individual students' progress.

Meanwhile, Riki had reluctantly departed for the Ministry, armed with a crash course in current Auror protocols courtesy of a surprisingly helpful portrait of a former Head of Magical Law Enforcement hanging in McGonagall's office.

"Just act important and delegate everything," the portrait had advised with a wink. "Standard procedure for department heads after a vacation."

Department head. Apparently, Riki had risen quickly through Auror ranks to lead a specialized unit focused on magical smuggling and illegal enchantments. Your respect for your future husband's abilities had increased considerably—not that you'd admit it aloud.

The day passed in a blur of classes, staff meetings, and trying not to reveal your temporal displacement to colleagues who clearly knew you well. By evening, you were mentally exhausted but strangely exhilarated. You'd always secretly considered teaching, and discovering that you'd achieved that ambition was oddly satisfying.

Riki returned home via Floo just before dinner, looking shell-shocked but intact. The children greeted him with enthusiasm, Suki launching herself at his legs while Sara babbled excitedly from her high chair.

"How was it?" you asked once the initial chaos subsided.

"Terrifying," he admitted quietly, accepting the cup of tea you offered. "I'm apparently in charge of seventeen Aurors and coordinating with magical law enforcement across Europe. Me. The guy who once transfigured all the Slytherin common room furniture into rubber ducks."

"Well, you always were good at transfiguration," you pointed out, surprising yourself with the compliment.

He looked equally surprised. "Did you just acknowledge one of my skills without adding an insult?"

"Don't get used to it." But you found yourself smiling anyway.

Suki, ever watchful, observed this exchange with obvious approval. "Dada catch bad wizards today?" she asked, climbing onto his lap.

"Sort of," Riki answered, automatically adjusting to accommodate her. "Dada mostly signed papers and pretended to know what he was doing."

"That's what you always say," Suki giggled, clearly accustomed to this joke.

You watched them together, struck again by how naturally Riki had adapted to fatherhood. The boy who'd once charmed your quills to write nothing but love poems about himself was now patiently listening to a toddler's detailed description of her day at magical daycare.

"Miss Penny let me feed the pygmy puffs," Suki was explaining earnestly. "And I didn't even squeeze them too hard this time."

"That's my girl," Riki said, genuine pride in his voice. "Always improving."

Later, after you'd managed bathtime (Sara could apparently generate tsunamis with minimal water) and bedtime stories (Suki insisted on three, with different voices for each character), you and Riki faced the awkward reality of sleeping arrangements.

"I'll take the sofa," he offered, hovering in the bedroom doorway.

"Don't be ridiculous," you said practically. "That sofa is barely long enough for Suki. We're adults. We can share a bed without it being... weird."

Both of you knew this was a lie, but neither acknowledged it.

You established firm boundaries—a pillow wall down the center of the mattress and strict adherence to respective sides. You changed in the bathroom, emerging in pajamas you'd found in a drawer (thankfully modest), while Riki wore sweatpants and a t-shirt that he'd clearly transfigured to be baggier than its original fit.

"Goodnight," you said stiffly, turning your back to the pillow barrier.

"Goodnight," he replied from his side. "Try not to snore."

"I do not snore!"

"How would you know? You're asleep when it happens."

Just like that, you were arguing again—the familiar pattern a strange comfort in this unfamiliar situation.

You must have eventually fallen asleep, because the next thing you knew, you were waking to a small voice and the mattress dipping slightly.

"Mama? Dada? Bad dream."

Suki stood beside the bed in her Holyhead Harpies pajamas, Puff clutched tightly to her chest, eyes wide and frightened in the dim wandlight that automatically illuminated at her distress.

Riki sat up immediately, all traces of sleep vanishing. "What kind of bad dream, Suki-bean?"

The casual endearment slipped out so naturally that neither of you remarked on it.

"Monsters," she whispered dramatically. "In the closet. And under bed. And in curtains."

"That's a lot of monsters," you said, sitting up as well.

"So many," she agreed solemnly. "Need both Mama and Dada."

She was already climbing onto the bed, worming her way directly into the center—right over your carefully constructed pillow barrier. She settled between you, looking from one to the other expectantly.

"Both stay," she insisted. "Both keep monsters away."

Riki met your eyes over her head, silently communicating in that strange way you'd developed over the past few days. You nodded slightly.

"We'll both stay," he promised. "No monsters allowed."

"That's right," you agreed. "Mama and Dada are scarier than any monsters."

Suki considered this, then nodded decisively. "Mama has scary voice when Sara draws on walls."

Riki bit back a laugh. "She certainly does."

You elbowed him lightly, but couldn't help smiling. Suki snuggled down between you, one small hand gripping your pajama top, the other clutching Riki's shirt.

"Night-night," she murmured, already drifting back to sleep, secure in the knowledge that her parents would keep her safe.

You lay awake long after her breathing deepened, acutely aware of Riki doing the same on the other side of your daughter. Your daughter. The thought still sent a jolt through you.

"This is strange, isn't it?" he whispered finally. "How quickly this starts feeling..."

"Normal," you finished when he trailed off. "I know."

"I'm not as terrible at this as I would have expected," he admitted.

"And I'm not hexing you every five minutes, which shows remarkable restraint on my part."

His low chuckle vibrated through the mattress. "Perhaps we've matured. A little."

"Apparently enough to create this," you said softly, gently brushing a strand of hair from Suki's forehead.

"She's pretty amazing, isn't she?" The naked pride in his voice made your throat tighten.

"Both of them are."

Silence fell again, but it was different now—contemplative rather than awkward. Eventually, you drifted off to sleep, the last sensation being Suki's warm weight against your side and, just beyond her, the steady rhythm of Riki's breathing.

-

The next few days established a strange new routine. You taught Defense Against the Dark Arts by day, gradually growing more comfortable as muscle memory and your future self's excellent notes guided you. Your colleagues clearly respected you—Professor Flitwick even mentioned your recent paper on practical defensive applications of Charms work published in Transfiguration Today.

Riki adapted to Auror work with surprising skill, his natural talent for thinking outside conventional boundaries apparently serving him well in investigating magical smuggling operations. He returned home each evening with increasingly fewer looks of panic and more stories of actual accomplishment.

The children attended Little Sorcerers, a magical daycare in Hogsmeade run by a cheerful witch named Penny Clearwater who had apparently been a few years ahead of you at Hogwarts. Suki was in the "Developing Wands" group for magical children showing early signs of ability, while Sara stayed in the "Baby Beasts" room.

Domestic life fell into place with unexpected ease. You discovered household charms you'd never known, apparently perfected by your future self. Riki, much to your surprise, was an excellent cook—another skill his future self had developed.

"My mother always said cooking is just like potions, but with less chance of explosion," he explained one evening as he expertly charmed knives to chop vegetables. "Usually less chance, anyway."

One week into your strange displacement, you were sitting at the kitchen table grading essays while Riki played with the girls in the living room. His patient voice floated through the doorway as he explained, for what must have been the thousandth time, why Sara couldn't ride the toy broomstick Suki had received for her birthday.

"Because she's too little, Suki. Remember when you were her age and tried to ride Uncle Jake's broom? What happened?"

"I falled in rosebushes," Suki recited reluctantly. "And needed ouchie potion."

"Exactly. So Sara needs to wait until she's bigger, just like you did."

You found yourself smiling at the exchange. The Riki you knew from Hogwarts had never shown this kind of patience. But then, you'd never really looked for it either, had you? You'd been so busy competing, bickering, retaliating for pranks, that you'd never considered there might be more to him.

Later that night, after the children were asleep, you found yourself lingering in the study, examining framed certificates and photographs. Your teaching credentials from a specialized Defense mastery program. Riki's Auror certification, with honors. A joint commendation from the Ministry for some collaborative project.

Riki found you there, two mugs of tea in hand. He offered one silently, and you accepted with a nod of thanks.

"Strange to see what we become," he said finally, examining a photo of you both at what appeared to be a Ministry function.

"Not what I expected," you admitted.

"No?"

You gestured around the study. "Look at all this. Professional success. Academic recognition. A home, a family..." You trailed off, not quite able to complete the thought.

Riki did it for you. "Everything we secretly wanted but were too proud to admit?"

You looked at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

He shrugged, suddenly looking vulnerable in a way the seventeen-year-old Riki never would have allowed. "I never hated you, you know. I was just..."

"Competitive?" you supplied.

"Immature," he corrected with a rueful smile. "And maybe a little intimidated. You always knew exactly what you wanted and how to get it. I just knew what I didn't want—to follow my father into the diplomatic service, to be serious all the time."

"So you became the class clown instead?"

"I became whatever would get a reaction." His honesty surprised you. "Especially from you."

You weren't ready for this conversation—this glimpse beneath the surface of your carefully maintained animosity. So you deflected.

"Well, apparently it worked out for both of us." You gestured to the evidence of your successful careers. "Though I still can't believe I married someone who once enchanted my hair to glow in the dark during exams."

"In my defense, you looked incredible. Like a vengeful goddess."

Despite yourself, you laughed. "I was so furious. I couldn't figure out how to counter it for three days."

"I know." His smile turned reminiscent. "McGonagall finally took pity on you. But not before I got to admire my handiwork for half a week."

The ease between you was new and unsettling. It felt like a betrayal of your properly antagonistic relationship, yet it also felt... right. As if your bodies remembered a friendship—and more—that your minds hadn't yet experienced.

"We should sleep," you said abruptly, uncomfortable with the direction of your thoughts. "Early classes tomorrow."

Riki nodded, the moment broken. "Right. Of course."

You both headed to the bedroom, maintaining the pretense of the pillow barrier even though Suki had demolished it the past three nights in a row, inevitably climbing into your bed with complaints of monsters, bad dreams, or simply "missing Mama and Dada."

But as you lay in the darkness, listening to Riki's breathing slow on the other side of the useless barrier, you couldn't help wondering: If this was your future—a respected career, beautiful children, and an unexpectedly supportive partner—was it really something you wanted to undo?

The thought followed you into dreams where seventeen-year-old Riki laughed as he turned your hair pink, but adult Riki smiled as he helped you wash it out, his fingers gentle against your scalp and his eyes holding something you weren't ready to name.

-

Morning sunlight filtered through the curtains as you carefully extracted yourself from the bed, trying not to disturb Riki. Over the past ten days, you'd fallen into an uneasy routine—you rose early to prepare for your classes while he handled the nighttime wake-ups with Sara, who still wasn't sleeping through the night.

Today you had a particularly early staff meeting to review the upcoming O.W.L. practical examinations. You gathered your teaching robes and had just started toward the bathroom when a loud chiming sound filled the room.

A glowing orb materialized above the dresser—something like a remembrall but larger and pulsing with magical energy. You approached it cautiously, poking it with your wand.

The orb expanded, revealing the face of a woman you didn't recognize—though she clearly knew you, judging by her broad smile.

"Fucking finally! I've been trying to reach you since yesterday!" the woman exclaimed. Her curly hair was piled haphazardly atop her head, and she appeared to be wearing pajamas. "Did you get my message about Friday? Because Marcus is taking the kids to his mother's, and I'm desperate for a girls' night."

You froze, desperately trying to place her. This must be a friend of your future self—possibly your best friend, given her casual manner.

"I, um—" you stammered.

"Oh shit, did I wake you? What time is it there?" She squinted, then gasped dramatically. "Is that Riki in bed behind you? Sorry! Although..." her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, "since I've got you both, I might as well ask. That thing you mentioned last month? The tongue thing?"

Your face burned as you realized what kind of "thing" she was referring to.

"I tried it with Marcus but I must be doing something wrong because he just looked confused, and honestly, after three kids you'd think I'd have figured out how to keep things interesting," she continued, seemingly oblivious to your discomfort. "But you always seem to have Riki thoroughly fucked—he practically glows every time I see him—so clearly you're doing something right."

You heard a muffled sound from the bed and glanced back to see Riki stirring, his eyes opening with confusion that quickly transformed to interest as he caught snippets of the conversation.

"I mean," your friend continued, lowering her voice even more, "last time we talked, you said it was all about the pattern you use with your tongue and how you have to maintain eye contact the whole time? And something about using a specific angle? I tried but Marcus kept laughing and saying it tickled."

Riki's eyebrows shot up, and he propped himself on his elbows, now fully awake and listening intently.

"And then you mentioned that thing with the ice cube beforehand? Did you mean like directly on his—"

"I REALLY need to go," you interrupted desperately, but your friend was on a roll.

"—because that seemed extreme, but then again, your sex life is legendary. Remember at New Year's when you two disappeared for an hour and came back looking like you'd been mauled by something? And Riki couldn't stop smirking for the rest of the night? Merlin's balls, whatever you did to him must have been spectacular."

At this point, Riki had both hands clamped over his mouth, his entire body shaking with barely contained laughter.

"Anyway," your friend continued, blissfully unaware of the chaos she was causing, "I just need a refresher. When you grip his thighs, is it more about the pressure or the—"

"FOR FUCK'S SAKE!" you finally shouted, frantically tapping the orb, trying to end the call. "I'M ABOUT TO BE LATE FOR A MEETING!"

"Oh! Sorry!" she said, finally noticing your distress. "But just quickly—that position you mentioned, the one where you—"

"SILENCIO!" you bellowed, finally succeeding in muting her. But the call continued, her lips moving silently as she enthusiastically mimed what appeared to be a particularly athletic maneuver.

Behind you, Riki had lost his battle with composure. He was now howling with laughter, rolling on the bed and clutching his stomach.

"Holy shit," he gasped between fits of hysterical laughter. "Eye contact the whole time? Ice cubes? What the fuck do our future selves get up to?"

You finally located the deactivation rune and jabbed it violently. The orb vanished with a small pop, leaving mortified silence in its wake.

Well, silence except for Riki's continued uncontrollable laughter.

"I will hex you into next week," you threatened, your face burning hot enough to fry an egg.

"The fucking tongue thing!" he wheezed, tears streaming down his face. "And apparently I get 'thoroughly mauled' at New Year's? No wonder future-me always looks so damn pleased with himself!"

"Would you SHUT UP?" you hissed, grabbing a pillow and launching it at his head.

He caught it mid-air, his Quidditch reflexes intact even as he gasped for breath between laughs. "I can't—I can't breathe—"

"Good! Die, then!"

"Aww, don't be embarrassed," he teased, finally regaining some control. "Obviously our future selves enjoy fucking each other. We have two tiny munchkins as proof of that." He gestured toward the nursery with a grin. "Concrete evidence of at least two very successful encounters."

"This isn't funny, you absolute ass!" But your embarrassment was being overtaken by reluctant amusement at the absurdity of the situation.

"It's extremely funny," he countered, sitting up and wiping tears from his eyes. "Your face when she started mimicking that position—"

You launched yourself across the bed, determined to silence him before he could continue. Your hand clamped over his mouth as you landed half on top of him, using your body weight to pin him down.

"Not. Another. Goddamn. Word." You glared down at him, trying to look intimidating despite your undoubtedly bright red face.

His eyes crinkled at the corners, amusement evident even with his mouth covered. But then something shifted in his gaze—the laughter fading into something warmer, more intense. You suddenly became acutely aware of your position: straddling his lap, one hand over his mouth, your faces inches apart.

His breath was warm against your palm. You should move. You should definitely move. But your body seemed frozen, caught in the magnetic pull of his gaze.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up and wrapped his fingers around your wrist, gently pulling your hand away from his mouth. The casual strength in his grip sent an unexpected shiver down your spine.

"Is this how you keep me thoroughly fucked and satisfied?" he murmured, voice pitched low in a way you'd never heard from seventeen-year-old Riki. "Pinning me down until I submit?"

Your breath caught. The air between you felt charged, crackling with a tension that had nothing to do with your usual animosity.

"I—" Whatever you might have said was lost as a piercing wail erupted from the nursery monitor on the nightstand.

"DAAAAADAAAA!" Sara's voice shattered the moment. "UP! UP NOW!"

Riki closed his eyes briefly, a mixture of frustration and resignation crossing his features. "Fuck. Perfect timing, as always," he muttered.

You scrambled off him, nearly falling in your haste to put distance between your bodies. "I should—shower. Meeting. Early."

Eloquence had apparently abandoned you entirely.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, running a hand through his already disheveled hair. "I'll check on Sara."

"Right. Good. Yes." You edged toward the bathroom, clutching your teaching robes like a shield.

At the door, he paused, throwing you a look over his shoulder. "You know we're going to have to continue this conversation eventually."

"What conversation?" you asked, aiming for innocent and missing by several miles.

His smile was slow and knowing. "The one about all the ways our future selves apparently enjoy fucking each other. And maybe that tongue thing. Seems like valuable information we shouldn't waste."

With that parting shot, he left to tend to Sara, leaving you leaning weakly against the bathroom door, your heart racing and your mind filled with images you had no business imagining.

-

You'd just finished putting Sara down for her nap when the distinct crack of apparition sounded from the front garden. Wand instantly in hand—a reflex from your Defense teaching—you moved cautiously toward the window.

A petite Japanese woman in elegant midnight-blue robes stood at your gate, a large ornate box floating beside her. Her hair was pulled into a sleek knot at the nape of her neck, and though she must have been in her fifties, she had the posture of someone half her age.

"Riki!" you called, recognizing her from the family photos. "Your mother's here!"

There was a crash from the kitchen, followed by a string of muffled curses.

"My WHAT?" he hissed, appearing in the doorway with a look of undisguised panic. "Why? Did you know she was coming?"

"How would I know that?" you whispered back frantically.

"You're the one who's apparently been married to me for years! Don't you have a schedule or something?"

Before you could argue further, an imperious knock sounded at the door. You both froze like guilty first-years caught out after curfew.

Suki, oblivious to your distress, came barreling down the hall. "GRANDMA!" she squealed, reaching for the doorknob before either of you could stop her.

The door swung open to reveal Riki's mother, her stern expression instantly transforming into a warm smile at the sight of her granddaughter.

"Suki!" she exclaimed, setting down her floating package to sweep the child into her arms. "Have you been practicing your Japanese?"

"Hai, Grandma!" Suki replied proudly.

"Good girl." She kissed Suki's forehead before setting her down, then turned her attention to you and Riki, who was hovering awkwardly behind you.

"Darling," she greeted you with unexpected warmth, moving forward to embrace you. "You look tired. Is my son helping enough with the children?" She didn't wait for an answer before turning to Riki. "Riki! Your hair is a mess. Are you still sleeping until noon? You have responsibilities now!"

Without warning, she reached up and slapped the back of his head—a feat requiring her to almost stand on tiptoe, given the height difference.

"Mom!" Riki protested, rubbing his head. "It's good to see you too."

"Is it? When was the last time you visited?" She grabbed his ear and tugged, pulling his head down to her level. "Do I need to remind you of the importance of family?"

You bit your lip, trying desperately not to laugh at the sight of fully-grown Auror Riki being treated like a naughty schoolboy. The look of helpless resignation on his face suggested this was a regular occurrence.

"We've been busy with work, Mom," you intervened, taking pity on him. "Please, come in. Would you like some tea?"

She released Riki's ear and beamed at you. "Always so polite. This one knows how to show respect, Riki. You should learn from your wife."

"Yes, Mom," Riki muttered, rubbing his ear.

"Grandma bring presents?" Suki asked hopefully, eyeing the box that had resumed floating beside her grandmother.

"Just one special delivery today," Hana replied, guiding the box into the living room with a flick of her wand. "For your parents."

You led everyone into the kitchen, where you busied yourself preparing tea. Riki, clearly trying to behave, pulled out a chair for his mother.

"Such good manners," Hana observed with mock surprise. "Did your wife teach you that, too?"

"Mom..." Riki began with a long-suffering sigh.

"I'm teasing, Riki," she said, but slapped his arm anyway. "Mostly."

You placed a teacup in front of her, grateful that your future self apparently knew how she took her tea.

"Now," Hana said after taking a delicate sip, "about the item you asked me to find."

You exchanged a quick glance with Riki, neither of you having any idea what she was referring to.

"I've brought it, just as promised," she continued. "Though why you couldn't have asked for it during your visit last month instead of by owl, I don't understand."

"Work has been... unpredictable," you improvised, hoping it was a plausible excuse.

Hana made a dismissive gesture. "Always work with you two. But I suppose that's why you're both so successful." There was genuine pride in her voice, despite her criticisms.

"Suki," she said, turning to her granddaughter who was attempting to climb onto Riki's lap, "would you show me your new drawings? The ones you told Grandma about in your message?"

Suki nodded eagerly. "In my room! I drawed a dragon eating ice cream!"

"Drew, Baby," Riki corrected automatically.

"That's what I said, Daddy," Suki replied with the confidence of a child who could never be wrong. She took her grandmother's hand and began tugging her toward the stairs.

"I'll just be a few minutes," Hana said, allowing herself to be led away. "Riki, make yourself useful and start dinner. Your wife works all day teaching those hopeless children to defend themselves. The least you can do is feed her properly."

"Yes, Mom," Riki replied with practiced patience.

The moment they disappeared upstairs, he turned to you. "What the hell is going on? What did you apparently ask her for?"

"How should I know?" you whispered back. "Maybe it's in that box she brought?"

You both turned to look at the ornate package still floating in the living room. It was wrapped in deep blue silk with silver constellations that actually twinkled and shifted across the fabric.

"Whatever it is, it's fancy," Riki observed. "And apparently important."

"We can't open it until we know what it is," you said reasonably. "Your mother might expect a specific reaction."

"I haven't seen her this... pleasant... in years," Riki admitted. "Usually there's at least twenty minutes of criticism before she even considers smiling."

"She seems quite fond of me," you couldn't help noting with a slight smirk.

"Of course she is," Riki grumbled. "You're exactly the type of person she wanted me to be—studious, responsible, organized. You probably color-code your lesson plans."

"I do not!" you protested, then caught yourself. "Well, future-me might, but that's beside the point."

Before you could continue, Hana reappeared, sans Suki. "She's showing Sara her drawings now," she explained. "That child could talk for England in the Olympics."

"Wonder where she gets that from," you said, giving Riki a pointed look.

Hana laughed. "Exactly what I was thinking." She moved to the box and gestured for you to join her. "Come, I'll show you what I found. Riki, start the rice. The women are talking."

Riki rolled his eyes but obediently moved to the kitchen, muttering something about "impossible women ganging up on him."

Hana drew you to the far side of the living room, lowering her voice. "I wanted to give this to you privately first," she said, untying the silk wrapping. "So you can decide how to present it to him for your anniversary."

Anniversary? Your heart rate picked up. Exactly how close was this supposedly important date?

The silk fell away, revealing a carved wooden box with the Nishimura family crest inlaid in mother-of-pearl. Hana opened it carefully to reveal a stunning platinum pocket watch nestled in velvet.

"It belonged to his grandfather," she explained, lifting it gently. "Riki adored it as a child. Used to beg to hold it, would sit for hours watching the constellation dial shift with the seasons."

She opened the watch's case, revealing an exquisitely detailed night sky in miniature, with tiny stars that glittered and moved in real-time. The craftsmanship was breathtaking.

"His grandfather promised it to him when he became a man worthy of it," Hana continued, a soft smile playing at her lips. "But he passed before Riki finished Hogwarts."

She pressed the watch into your hands. "When you wrote asking if I still had it—if I would consider letting you give it to him for your fifth anniversary—I admit I cried. You understand my son in ways I never could."

Fifth anniversary. The words echoed in your mind. You and Riki had been married for five years in this timeline.

"I..." you began, genuinely moved by both the gift and the sentiment behind it.

"No need for words," Hana said, patting your hand. "I know you'll present it perfectly. Just promise me you'll take a photograph of his face when he sees it."

"I promise," you said sincerely, carefully returning the watch to its case.

"Good. Now hide it away before he—"

"Before I what?" Riki asked, returning from the kitchen with a dish towel over his shoulder.

Hana moved with surprising speed, snatching the box and thrusting it behind you. "Before you stick your nose where it doesn't belong!" she scolded, reaching up to tug his ear again. "Honestly, Riki, eavesdropping at your age!"

"I wasn't—" he protested, bending awkwardly to accommodate her grip on his ear. "Mom, please!"

"Go back to the kitchen," she commanded. "The rice will burn."

"It's in a spelled pot, it can't burn," he argued.

She released his ear only to slap the back of his head again. "Don't contradict your mother. Go. Shoo."

Riki shot you a pleading look, but you merely shrugged, hiding your amusement poorly. He slouched back to the kitchen, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like "traitor."

Once he was out of earshot, Hana handed you the box again. "Hide this somewhere he won't look. Do you have such a place?"

You thought quickly. "My lesson plan cabinet. He'd rather face a Hungarian Horntail than look through teaching materials."

Hana nodded approvingly. "Smart girl. This is why I always said you were too good for him."

"I don't know about that," you said, surprising yourself with the sincerity in your voice.

Hana's expression softened. "Neither does he. That's what makes you perfect together." She straightened her robes briskly. "Now, I should supervise his cooking before he ruins dinner. His father was the same way—brilliant man, hopeless with domestic spells."

As she marched toward the kitchen, you heard her exclaim, "Riki! What are you doing to those poor vegetables? Here, let me show you again..."

You slipped the box into your teaching bag, mind reeling. Five years of marriage. A thoughtful anniversary gift that Riki would apparently treasure. A mother-in-law who clearly adored you and whom you called "Mom" with ease.

This life—this future—kept revealing layers that made it harder and harder to dismiss as a nightmare or a prank gone wrong. Because parts of it, if you were being honest with yourself, didn't feel wrong at all.

They felt alarmingly, confusingly right.

From the kitchen came the sound of Riki's protests, followed by his mother's firm instructions and what sounded like another light slap. Despite everything—your displacement in time, your confusion about your feelings, the lingering embarrassment from this morning's call—you found yourself smiling.

Some things, apparently, never changed. Even in a future where everything else had.

-

Two days after Hana's visit, you were grading essays in the study when the fireplace flared green. Instinctively, you reached for your wand, still not entirely comfortable with the casual magical security of your future home.A man's head appeared in the flames—mid-thirties, with an easy smile and close-cropped hair. "Riki! You home, mate?" he called.

You hesitated, unsure how to respond. Thankfully, Riki appeared from the kitchen, and you were surprised to see genuine delight spreading across his face.

"Jake!" He rushed to the fireplace, the dish towel in his hands forgotten. "Merlin, it's good to see you."

The relief in his voice was palpable—this wasn't just recognition of someone from this future timeline, but someone he genuinely knew.

"Good to see me? You saw me three days ago at the office," Jake's floating head laughed. "Listen, just checking about tomorrow night. Seera's been on my case all week about what time you two are arriving."

Riki blinked, momentarily thrown. "Tomorrow night?"

Jake's expression turned exasperated. "The department dinner? Don't tell me you forgot. You RSVPed weeks ago."

"Right. The department dinner," Riki repeated, shooting you a panicked glance.

"Unbelievable," Jake said, but his tone was affectionate rather than annoyed. "I've been reminding you about deadlines since you were nine, and you still forget. Good thing I called. Seera would hex me into next week if you two didn't show—she's been looking forward to catching up with the professor here." He nodded in your direction.

You gave a small wave, noting how Riki seemed to relax into the familiar dynamic with Jake.

"It's just..." Riki began, running a hand through his hair, "with the children and everything—"

"Don't even start," Jake cut him off. "You already arranged for Molly Weasley to watch the girls. You told me yourself last week. Said it was your anniversary gift to yourselves—an evening without sticky fingers and bedtime tantrums."

Your eyes met Riki's, a silent message passing between you. He looked both relieved to be talking to someone from his past and confused by the new information.

"Right," Riki said, recovering his composure. "Sorry, just a long week. What time is it again?"

"Seven for drinks, dinner at eight," Jake replied. "At Theodesia's in Diagon Alley. The private room upstairs." He paused, then added with a knowing smirk, "Formal dress. You know how the boss loves any excuse for everyone to get fancy."

"Great," Riki said with more genuine enthusiasm now. "Looking forward to it."

"You'd better be. Seera's been practicing her speech all week." Jake winked. "She's determined to toast the department's most disgustingly perfect couple on their anniversary milestone."

"Our... right." Riki's hand went back to his hair—a nervous tell you'd noticed over the past weeks. "Wouldn't miss it."

"Excellent! See you both tomorrow, then," Jake said. His head started to withdraw, then popped back. "Oh, and Riki? Wear the blue dress robes. Your wife once told Seera they make your ass look fantastic."

With that parting shot and a laugh, he disappeared, leaving the fireplace ordinary once more.

Riki stared at the empty fireplace for a moment, a complicated mix of emotions crossing his face.

"You know him," you said, not a question but an observation. "From before all this."

"Jake Sim," Riki nodded, sinking onto the sofa beside you. "He lived down the street from us when I was a kid. Seven years older than me, but he always let me tag along when his friends played Quidditch. Taught me how to fly, actually." His voice softened with fondness. "Kind of the big brother I never had."

"That must be nice," you said carefully. "Having someone familiar in all this strangeness."

"It is," he admitted. "Weird to see him so much older, though." He glanced at you. "Apparently he works in the Auror department with me. That explains a lot—he always said he wanted to be an Auror."

"So," you said, returning to practicalities, "department dinner tomorrow."

"Apparently." Riki looked less panicked now, almost reassured by the connection to his past. "Formal. With at least one person I actually know."

"And a toast to our anniversary." You groaned. "Perfect."

"Let me check the details," Riki said, summoning his work organizer from his bag and flipping through to tomorrow's date. "Here it is. 'Annual Auror Division Recognition Dinner. Special achievement acknowledgments.' And in smaller writing: 'Jake and Seera Sim confirmed, Table 3.'"

"Recognition dinner? Is your future self getting an award or something?"

"I have no idea." Riki looked genuinely alarmed by the possibility. "I'm still trying to figure out where to find case files in my office."

You rubbed your temples, feeling a headache forming. "So now we have to attend a formal dinner with people who know us—our future selves—well enough to comment on how your ass looks in dress robes, make anniversary toasts, and possibly present you with some kind of award."

"Don't forget we apparently arranged childcare with Molly Weasley," Riki added. "Whom neither of us has spoken to in this timeline."

"Shit." You dropped your head into your hands. "This is getting more complicated by the day."

Riki was quiet for a moment, then said thoughtfully, "Maybe we should look at this as an opportunity."

You raised your head. "An opportunity for what? Public humiliation?"

"Information gathering," he corrected, looking more confident than he had in days. "Jake knows me—the real me. And he obviously knows our future selves well too. He might be able to help us understand how we ended up... here." He gestured vaguely between you. "Plus, if this is some kind of work event, I might learn more about what my job actually entails."

He had a point. And if you were honest with yourself, you were a bit curious about your social circle in this future life—especially this childhood friend who had clearly remained important to Riki into adulthood.

"Fine," you conceded. "But we need a strategy. Signals if one of us is getting into conversational quicksand."

"I'll step on your foot if you start heading into dangerous territory," Riki suggested.

"And I'll spill my drink on you if you do the same."

"Seems fair," he agreed, then glanced at the clock. "Should we... call Molly? Confirm the childcare arrangement?"

"As much as I'm dreading it, probably," you admitted. "We also need to figure out what to wear to this thing."

Riki stood up. "I'll check the wardrobe for the allegedly ass-flattering blue robes. You handle Molly."

"Why do I get the hard job?" you protested.

"Because she already loves you, Professor," he said with a grin. "Everyone does, apparently."

You threw a quill at him, which he dodged easily as he headed upstairs.

After an awkward but ultimately successful Floo call to Molly Weasley—who indeed seemed already aware of your childcare needs and waved off your attempts to confirm details with a cheerful "Of course, dear, just bring them over before six like usual"—you headed upstairs to assess your own formal wear options.

The master bedroom closet revealed an impressive collection of teaching robes interspersed with more formal attire. Near the back, you found several elegant dress robes and gowns that your seventeen-year-old self would never have imagined owning.

You were examining a particularly stunning deep green gown when Riki emerged from the bathroom, holding up a set of formal midnight-blue dress robes with silver embroidery along the cuffs and collar.

"Found them," he announced. "Think these are the ones that make my ass look fantastic?"

"I wouldn't know," you said primly. "I've never made a habit of assessing that particular feature."

"Liar," he said with a smirk. "I've caught you looking."

"I have not—" you began, then stopped at his triumphant expression. "You're just trying to get a rise out of me!"

"And succeeding." He grinned, then nodded at the green gown in your hands. "That one. It's phenomenal."

You glanced down at the gown, surprised by his comment. "You think?"

"I know." His voice had lost its teasing edge. "You wore something similar to the Yule Ball in fourth year. I remembered thinking..." He trailed off, suddenly looking uncomfortable.

"Thinking what?" you prompted, curious despite yourself.

"Nothing important." He focused intently on his dress robes, inspecting them for non-existent lint. "Just that you looked... nice."

The admission hung in the air between you, unexpectedly weighty. You'd gone to the Yule Ball with a Ravenclaw boy whose name you barely remembered now. You hadn't even realized Riki had noticed you that night.

"Well," you said, trying to sound casual, "I suppose this will do, then."

"We should probably practice," Riki said abruptly.

"Practice what?"

"Acting like... you know. A couple." His cheeks had colored slightly. "If these people know us well, they'll expect certain behaviors. Interactions."

"Like what?" You weren't sure if the flutter in your stomach was anxiety or something else.

"I don't know, exactly. But probably more than the awkward distance we've been maintaining." He gestured between you. "People who've been married for five years don't flinch when they accidentally brush hands passing the salt."

He had a point, loath as you were to admit it. Your attempts at playing happy couple in front of the children were unconvincing enough; fooling adults who knew you well would be even harder.

"What did you have in mind?" you asked cautiously.

"Just... getting more comfortable. Small things." He stepped closer, tentatively reaching for your hand. "May I?"

Your heart stuttered as you nodded, allowing him to take your hand in his. His fingers were warm, slightly calloused—Auror training, perhaps, or years of Quidditch.

"See? Not so terrible." His voice had dropped to a lower register that sent an unexpected shiver through you.

"I suppose not," you managed.

He took another half step closer. "At an event like this, I might... put my arm around you." Slowly, telegraphing his movements, he released your hand and slid his arm around your waist.

You tensed briefly, then made yourself relax into the contact. It felt strange—Nishimura Riki touching you without it being part of some prank or competition—but not unpleasant.

"And you might lean into me a little," he suggested. "Like it's natural."

Hesitantly, you shifted your weight, allowing your body to rest slightly against his. He was solid, warm, his familiar scent—sandalwood and something uniquely him—enveloping you.

"Better," he murmured. "Almost convincing."

You looked up, intending to make some sarcastic remark, but the words died in your throat. His face was much closer than you'd realized, his dark eyes studying you with an intensity that made your pulse quicken.

"People might expect us to..." he began, then paused. "That is, married couples usually..."

"Usually what?" you whispered, though you knew perfectly well what he meant.

His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then back to your eyes. "Dance," he finished, stepping back abruptly and breaking the moment. "We should practice dancing. For tomorrow."

"Right," you said, ignoring the confusing pang of disappointment. "Dancing. Good idea."

"I'll, um, let you finish looking through your options," he said, backing toward the door with his blue robes still clutched in one hand. "Need to check on the girls anyway."

He disappeared down the hall, leaving you alone with a racing heart and the lingering sensation of his arm around your waist.

You turned back to the closet, fingers brushing against the green fabric of the gown. A formal dinner with colleagues who knew your future selves intimately. An anniversary toast. And Riki in robes specifically noted for how well they fit him.

Tomorrow night promised to be interesting, to say the least.

part 2

TL: @ziiao @seonhoon @beariegyu @somuchdard @ddolleri @zzhengyu @annybah @elairah @dreamy-carat @geniejunn @kristynaaah @zoemeltigloos @mellowgalaxystrawberry @inlovewithningning @vveebee @m3wkledreamy @lovelycassy @highway-143 @koizekomi @tiny-shiny @simbabyikeu @cristy-101 @bloomiize @dearestdreamies @enhaverse713586 @cybe4ss @starniras @wonuziex @sol3chu @simj4k3 @jakewonist @azzy02 @addictedtohobi @cherrybeomm @urmomdotcom5678 @jaeyunsbimbo @yongbokified @changbinniescurlyhair @en-whims

[husbandhoshi]

title: royally screwed [m]

pairing: joshua x f!reader

wc: 30.8k in total; part 1: 15.4k, part 2: 15.4k summary: between remembering last night’s party and pleasing your unrelenting family, you think being a princess is hard enough. then you’re thrust into an arranged marriage to royal darling joshua hong—straight-laced, infuriatingly obedient, and everything you’re not. pretending to be the perfect couple? impossible.   notes: romcom + smut (part 2), modern royalty!au in which yn is the princess of cotria/joshua the prince of acros (both fictional), enemies to lovers, arranged marriage, quarterlife crisis/coming of age, very very slow burn. lots of swearing, lots of alcohol, lots of feelings. very special thanks to @meiozis for all their help with worldbuilding and @wuahae for bearing with me through the endless drafts, scene changes, second guessing, horrible word choices, etc. you are the only reason this got done, and i love you to the moon and back <3 [read part 2 here!]

Here, in the dark, there is just you. 

The strobe lights press into your skin with all the brilliance of the sun, there's half a Modelo running down your leg, and you think you kissed the stranger behind you last week, but if you close your eyes, it's just you. No rules, no five second curtseys, no talk about the throne or whoever's ass happens to be keeping it warm at the moment. 

Here, you're nobody, and it's perfect. 

"I'm getting more champagne," Somi says, her voice careening over the music. "You sure Jihoon doesn't want any?" 

You glance back at him. He's flattened up against the back wall, holding your purse, like a raccoon caught going through the trash. This is one of the many trials he's forced to endure for your entertainment, but it's his job–not as your closest friend, but as your legally employed bodyguard. 

"No, he's on duty." 

"Right," she slurs. "Sometimes I forget you're a literal princess." 

If only it were that easy. Five drinks in and you think you can still feel your mother's vice grip on your arm and all the little white crescents of her french manicure. 

You love this song–at least, you think you do. You're too drunk to tell, but it doesn't matter. The dance floor is muggy, sardine-packed with one warm body after another, and it's heaven. The crowd moves, and you move with them. Shakira waits for no one. 

Somi must have secured another bottle of Cristal already. Soonyoung, your other partner-in-crime, hands you a flute and you take it, the glittery foam already bubbling over the lip. 

"Cheers." Out of his too-drunk mouth, it sounds like a new word altogether, but you bring your glass to his anyway. 

Tomorrow, you have a meeting with your parents. This, unlike all of your other involvements, is actually important, they said, and their voices had wound around you like a snare. 

When it gets late, Jihoon will sling your arm over his shoulders and haul you back to the palace, still tipsy and holding your stilettos to your chest like a shield. Tomorrow will come, and it's then when you'll have to try to be good. It's a useless, stupid affair, but you'll go through the motions anyway. 

But tonight, there is you and the music and the wonderful laughter of your friends, and you don't have to be anything at all. 

"Cheers," you tell Soonyoung, and you drink. 

--

There are four large topiaries in the palace garden: all lions. They stand tall in their planters, majestic and hairy with French lavender. Today you notice that the rightmost one's nose has been pruned off by accident, and he stands, snoutless, staring at his green brothers and sisters. 

You know this because this is the view from the study, and it has never changed. There is only one study in the east wing, and it is small and useless and the perfect room for your parents to sit you down and remind you that you do not, in fact, own a single thing about your own life. 

There is nothing new about this ritual. Even as a child, when you were more desperate to please, you could never be the right kind of daughter to your parents or princess to your country. Again and again, you landed yourself here, in trouble once more. 

So you stopped trying–you would find these four walls anyway, no matter what you did. Why not enjoy your Fridays instead?

By now, you’ve memorized the carvings on the armrest of the chair you’re in (a knobby column, then underneath, the whorl of a seashell). There are thirty-four terracotta stones on the way to the fountain, all spaced perfectly apart, sanded down to the millimeter. 

The scene remains unchanged. Your mother now stares down at you over the bridge of her nose, with that tight-lipped frown you've gotten so used to. Your father paces near the window, either wondering why you can't be softer, more pliable, like your older brother Jeonghan, or, alternatively, why one of the lions is missing a nose. Maybe both.

"Enjoy yourself yesterday?" your mother asks. 

"Yes," you reply, out of other answers.

"Wonderful. Then our early morning briefing with PR was good for something. You should be grateful last night's pictures won't make it out of the darkroom." 

Her voice, bitter and incisive, makes the hangover bubble up in your stomach. You and the tabloids weren't exactly on good terms, but it wasn't your fault so many people seemed to care about what you were wearing or who you were out with. 

"What did you want to meet about?" you ask, hoping to change the subject. 

You can't put your finger on it, but there's a cloying, heavy energy hanging on you. You feel as though you're on the precipice of something, although that could just be the consequences of all that Cristal ready to reintroduce themselves to your digestive system. 

Your mother clears her throat. 

"We have arranged for you to marry someone." 

And all at once, it seems as though all the air has been sucked out of the room. There's a sharp pain lodged somewhere between your chest, your stomach, and your unhappy liver. The larks sing emptily in the garden. 

"What?" Your voice sounds like it's unraveling somewhere in your throat. Quickly, frantically, you grasp at the faraway possibility that it can't possibly mean what you think it does. Marry? You can’t even remember the last time you thought of going on a second date with someone. Now you might actually throw up. 

"Prince Joshua, of the Hong family. The crown prince of–" 

"Acros. I know," you interrupt, the words jumping out of you in shock and anger. 

Of course you know who Joshua Hong is–Acros is a tiny, unremarkable country nestled into the border of your much bigger one, and Joshua their crown jewel. If you were the nation's problem, he was their darling. A bland thing to coo at when life got boring, the walking embodiment of a media training session. Smile and nod, smile and nod. He might as well be AI generated.

You wouldn't last a day with him. Not with your impatience, your opinions, or that loud mouth your parents always scold you for. Your mind swims with the mental image of the two of you on a gaudy parade float, doing that stupidly slow wave everyone seemed to insist on.

"Wonderful. So you'll pack a bag? The Hong family will be thrilled to meet you tomorrow," says your father.

"Why?" you ask. Your voice wobbles, treading over that childlike waver you never learned to control. "Is this to punish me?" 

"My dear, your brother will be ascending to the throne soon," your mother answers, looking you dead in the eyes. "It’s his face that needs to be on the front page, not you in another abomination of a swimsuit. The Hongs will keep enough of an eye on you.” 

She's right. She's always been right. Maybe not about the swimsuit, but you haven’t exactly been the PR princess your family needed you to be. If anything, you would think it made Jeonghan look better by comparison, but you know that your parents would prefer you to make appearances in something other than Deuxmoi’s Sunday Spotted. But the royal charade never fit you well either; it clings and sticks and bunches up at the seams like a cheap Halloween costume. 

"The Hongs thought their country would benefit from our money. It was an easy decision, really," your mother finishes, as if that makes you feel any less like a silly, bikini-clad pawn in a game of chess you never asked to play. 

"Does Jeonghan know?" 

"He sees its purpose,” your father says simply, like that was all that mattered. “You will too, in due time.”

He nods solemnly, which is how he closes every conversation–just another turn of the silent knife. As your parents turn to leave, their silken garbs trail behind them like ink in still water. Business as always, especially with you. 

"Your brother will be coming home from his press tour this week," your mother says on her way out. "You mustn't ruin this for him. The car leaves for Acros in the morning." 

There's a mean, barbed feeling in your heart. You don't know whether to scream or to cry, so you do what your mother taught you to do. You sit, stilled by a feeling of hopelessness, and let yourself be emptied. 

--

When you were thirteen, you learned how to ride a horse. 

Not the impractical, side-saddle way drilled into you when you were a little girl, with your skirt billowing over the fender and catching in the stirrups, but how to really ride a horse. 

It was on a night much like tonight–indigo and starless. Your brother had climbed up the marble trellis, his teenage, noodle body a perfect fit for scaling the lattice, and threw a stone at your window, just like you had seen in the movies. Jeonghan was still young, then, rebellious and unchanged by the throne. 

It was him who laced up your riding boots, hoisted you on your first horse, and pressed the reins into your palms. You remember the unforgiving hold of the leather saddle, not yet broken in. You were so sore the next day, you were bed-bound–truly a punishment worse than death, if not for another reminder that everything you do ends up hurting you a little. 

"It's great," Jeonghan had told you, breathless and haloed by the moonlight. "You can just ride. nowhere to go and no one to answer to." 

You had spent the summer this way. Every night, you learned the sound of the forest at twilight, chasing Jeonghan's mud-splattered palomino. In the mornings, breakfast consisted of rubbing the sleep out of your eyes and whispering about whatever misadventure you had found yourselves tangled in the night before. 

That was before he had come of age. Before your father gave him the Throne Talk, and before he was whisked away into endless meetings and etiquette lessons and parliaments. Your inside jokes became foul, overripe in his newly coached mouth. He even learned to play golf, and he hated golf. 

Past August, you don't think you ever got your brother back.

You slide the oaken doors of the stables open, feeling your arms squeeze underneath your riding shirt. Here, it’s always quiet after sundown.

It hasn't changed since the day you first snuck in with Jeonghan. You let the green scent of the hay fill your lungs, the sleep-stir of the horses like music to your ears. Dokyeom has left the tack room open by "accident" once more, likely to avoid catching you picking the lock with a bobby pin like he had a few months ago. 

"Hey, you," you whisper, coming to the stall of your own horse. Astrid, a bay thoroughbred, was Jeonghan's gift to you on your 18th birthday, a wistful reminder of a summer now past its prime. "No surprise here, but I had a really, really bad day." 

Astrid, oblivious, noses at your palm in search of a nonexistent sugar cube. Somehow, this brings the anxious chatter of your mind to a crescendo—would Astrid come with you to Acros? When would that happen? More importantly, when were you moving? You think of a too-warm summer morning, the ridiculous, oversized brim of one of your mother's sunhats, and a moving truck. That, and a country ready to delete you from its ranks. 

It's now, with the bridle in your fists, that you hear the wheedling groan of the stable door as it slides open. Without thinking, you quickly push out the first excuse you have. "I apologize, I was—" 

"It's me." 

Jihoon. 

You would tease him about his fear of ponies—perhaps it's because he is quite literally the same size as them—but you think hearing another person tell you off would officially push you over the edge. You don't want to be dramatic, but you don't even know if Acros even had horses. 

That, and somehow he's both the first and the last person you want to see. The guilt feels a bit heavier when you know his life is about to change too, in no small part due to your own failings.

"Jihoon, I…" you start. There’s an apology that’s been sitting on your tongue, one you haven’t quite learned to spit up yet. You don’t know who it’s for—yourself, or everyone else—but Jihoon interrupts you before you can finish your thought. 

"You forgot your jacket," Jihoon replies. 

For once, you can't read him. You wonder if he's thinking about if he'd get along with the other bodyguards, but, more likely, he's probably pitying you. You're the last person in the world that should be in an arranged marriage, and even someone who kills people for a living could tell. 

"I'll be in the foyer." 

You don't exchange any more words. Jihoon knows that there is nothing he can say that will erase what's about to happen, and like always, he is right.

After you saddle up, Astrid takes you to the forest like usual. Honestly, you've lost count of the times you've come out here to cry, usually about a boy you don’t even like, or, worse, Jeonghan declining your weekly Facetime session again. But now, you think you both know this time is very different. 

"Astrid," you groan. "Joshua looks like a Ken doll from hell. He probably pronounces tomato like tomahto and has a closet dedicated to his tweed collection. I can't marry him." 

Astrid is none the wiser. You wish she was human for a moment so you could show her the crater-sized hole that "prince joshua google images" left in your browser history. 

"Do you think he only listens to classical music? I think a Kim Petras song would kill him instantaneously." 

The mental image of Joshua Hong being struck down by the first ten seconds of Throat Goat makes you laugh, but you still don't feel far away enough from the truth.

You remember your 21st birthday, a balmy spring Friday. Jeonghan had been helping out at the local youth theater, and the opening night of their production was coincidentally the same day. Jeonghan had never been one for theater (last time, he had fallen asleep during Mamma Mia, of all musicals). You knew the press turnout was expected to be huge, but the whole thing felt like one big charade to you. 

So you had planned your big birthday bash—you only get one 21st, after all—that day. The paparazzi fell for it, hook, line, and sinker. Unsurprisingly, drunk, hot girls made for a better story than Greek theater. 

You remember the raw, stinging look Jeonghan had in his eyes the next morning. He didn't even have to say anything, but you knew. The memory carves out an abyss in your chest. You knew you should have done better for your brother, but he didn’t even feel like your brother anymore. 

Still, actions have consequences, and this was a hell of a consequence. Even out here, the inconvenient reality of it seems closer than ever. but you're out of time. The night fades fast, especially ones like these. 

So you press your heart to Astrid's mane, the pale moon high over the both of you, and you ride. 

--

Late spring is kind to Acros. 

The tulips push their bright heads out of the dirt, winking and blazing in the daylight, and the green fields stretch so far they look like water. 

You had spent the car ride with your nose pressed to the window, watching all the sun-bleached buildings zip by. You mustn't ruin this for Jeonghan. It spins around in your head like an old pair of shoes in a washing machine. 

Now you stand in the grand foyer, your parents on either side of you. Jihoon hovers behind, holding the overstuffed duffel bag you had rushed to pack this morning. 

A hushed arrival such as this was unbecoming of your family, but it was necessary. Your parents had stressed that the arranged part of the deal was not meant to be public knowledge because it was bad for optics. To you, the arrangement was actually the entire deal. That, and you and optics never exactly got along. 

Waiting for Joshua and his parents gives you a moment to observe what could be your new home, although you’re still waiting for the miraculous plot twist that will save you from your fate. 

That being said: you’ve set foot in plenty of nice places, but if HGTV ran segments for castles, this would certainly be the blueprint. It’s smaller than the palace in Cotria, but you like that—it’s cozier, less cold-seeming. 

The filigreed ceilings vault dizzyingly high, and the chandelier above the muraled walls is set afire with the noontime sun. The blushing azaleas cascade from their pots, and they line the hallways with joyous pops of white and pink. Breaking the spell is the distant staccato of several sets of footsteps on marble, and you straighten your back, as if by divine command. 

Three figures approach you: Joshua and his parents. Even from a distance, you can see the trained walk of royalty, their shoulders straight enough to hold water. You’ll give credit where credit is due—they look even less thrilled to meet you than you are to meet them.

Unfortunately, up close, Joshua is more handsome than the cameras would betray. He's taller than you had imagined, too. Without trying, it looks like he jumped out of a shitty Disney movie, one where the prince says two words and still gets the girl. More than that, you notice how his face is like glass—unwavering, cruelly still. One wrong move, and you'd break him. 

"Your highnesses," you say, lowering your head in a pronounced curtesy. 

Joshua bows in response, like clockwork. He reaches for your hand, then brings it to his lips to kiss the back of it. 

At once, you feel your hackles jump up, even though many a man has done far nastier to you. You can’t tell what pisses you off more: a, the fact that he smells like a hotel lobby, or b, that he managed to get his mouth on you in less than five seconds. 

"I'm elated we have the privilege of welcoming your daughter into our home," Joshua's mother says. Like him, she is staggeringly elegant and even harder to read. "She's beautiful." 

Fortunately, she has picked the one compliment that your parents can agree on without lying through their teeth. You watch them laugh and titter amongst themselves, and it's now that you notice Joshua has been looking at you this whole time.

You think look is too kind of a word, though. It's something colder than that, more clinical, and you really don't like it. Your stylist had spent upwards of two hours today in front of your vanity this morning, mostly in a losing battle with a pair of fake lashes, and you wonder if one of them is crooked. That, or Joshua is similarly wondering just how he will endure a life wedded to you. 

"Joshua, please," his mother chides, and you watch him almost immediately pivot towards her, like he’s on wheels. "Where are your manners? You should show the princess around. Get to know each other a bit before press tomorrow." 

Press. Of course. Your least favorite word. You vaguely remember your parents mentioning it in the car this morning, but it must have gotten lost among all the other terrible things they'd told you. 

Your head starts to hurt. Joshua keeps smiling at you, empty, doll-like.

"Yes, I'd love that," you say, feeling like a deflating balloon. You were hoping his company will be better than watching four grown adults fall all over each other, but you're starting to doubt that. 

Joshua offers you his arm, and you take it anyway. 

"We'll be off then," he chirps before bowing once more. His freakishly shiny shoe nudges yours to remind you to do the same. Begrudgingly, you listen, watching your shellacked, angry expression in the patina of his loafers. 

Not a good start, but what did you expect?

You tamp down your irritation and let him lead you into the Great Hall. It's a shiny, golden tunnel, studded with glossy oil paintings of his parents, his grandparents, then the next set of old people before them. Their eyes stare at you, pools of hazy paint in their moon faces. You briefly imagine your painting up there, with Joshua's hand hovering meekly over your waist, unused to being more than two feet away from a woman his age.

"It's nice to finally meet you," Joshua says. "I think I've only seen you in pictures." 

He's referencing the one of many “encounters” you've had with the paparazzi, a la yesterday night. They take trashy photos, overexposed and grainy from the camera flash, with your ass most likely in the frame. 

You choose to let it slide—you have no choice, really. At least you have an ass. 

"The pleasure is mine," you reply. "I believe you were at the cricket championships a few months ago, right?" 

"Correct. Do you watch? I don't believe I saw you." 

"No, but my brother was there." Your footsteps echo against the marbled walls. "Just trying to think of your last public appearance," you offer unhelpfully, since you and he both know those are few and far between. 

"That's right. He mentioned you were busy," Joshua replies. "Glastonbury was that weekend, was it not?" 

He's right. It was, but you don't like the insinuation he's making. You weren't at Glastonbury anyway—your parents wouldn't let you attend, and Jihoon was unwilling to come up with a cover story for you. Because you would rather watch paint dry than attend another cricket game, you instead spent it with takeout and reruns of Rupaul's Drag Race. 

"Can't recall," you answer. "Doesn't matter. I'm not one for cricket, anyway."

"Didn't know you had a choice."

You watch Joshua halfheartedly gesture to the Great Hall. The seemingly mile-long dinner table is empty now, save for a gratuitously piled fruit bowl. 

Your country frequently hosts guests, but the Hongs are notoriously insular. You imagine the four of you, crammed together at one end of the table, making horrendous small talk every morning over wilted danishes and raspberry preserves. Somehow, your mood worsens even more than you thought possible.

"Can I see the library?" you ask in an attempt to pivot. 

"Of course. Do you enjoy reading?" 

"A normal amount." You pass by another set of windows and take note of the rose garden outside, verdant with the May sunshine. Astrid has a bit of a penchant for eating roses, which would definitely complicate your plan to smuggle her in. No matter—you’ve done worse. "I studied political science at university, so I got a healthy dose of it." 

"Didn't we all?" Joshua chuckles.

He pushes the door open to the library, which is just as lavish as the rest of the palace. You wonder how well-worn it is, how many spines have creases in them, how many dedications were speckled with a funny annotation or two. But judging by first impressions, you wouldn't be surprised if all the books still had their dust jacket on. 

"I mean, I read an insane amount of Dan Brown," you reply. "Not many of us can say we've solved the Davinci code, you know." 

You hoped this would crack a laugh out of him, but his grin is thinner than an eyebrow from the 2000s. Truthfully, you would compare this conversation to a death by a thousand papercuts, but somehow that feels preferable to the guillotine of discussing the terms and conditions of your rapidly impending marriage. You feel as though that would be violating some rule you aren't yet aware of, and you're unwilling to endure the patent leather consequences of another faux pas. 

"I've heard of it," says Joshua after much thought. "My parents were shuttling me between meetings and private lessons, so, unlike some, I was quite busy during university." 

You're not about to explain that you were equally as busy as him. Something tells you that he'd be too prideful to believe you anyway. 

"How difficult. Surely you were able to have some fun," you say, your voice betraying your distaste. "Or were you too good for that?" 

Too far. 

"I did what my position allowed," is Joshua's terse reply, and you know you've crossed a line. Still, it dazes you that the man standing next to you may have never done anything for himself in his life. Even Jeonghan did, before your parents really tightened the reins. 

The air buzzes with a silence sharp enough to make you bleed. You wish literally anyone else was standing next to you, but you realize there are no more horses or emergency cabs or Jihoons to rescue you from this one. 

"How about I take you to our room? I hope you'll find it comfortable." 

You glance to your right to catch a glimpse of Joshua. He smiles, a dutiful press of the lips, and you watch it ripple.

--

"Jihoon, it is so much worse than I thought." 

You sit on the plush carpeting of your bedroom floor, amongst your small disaster of things. Jihoon examines you, one eyebrow raised, as he leans against the bedroom door. 

"He's not around, right?" 

Jihoon shakes his head.

"I don't get it," you sigh. "I go out. I get drunk. I have a little fun on the weekends. I don't see how any of this makes me a bad person." 

"You know how traditional your families are." Jihoon bends down to pick up a hair bow that jumped ship from the vanity. "It's just how it is." 

"He treats me like some high school delinquent. I tried, but he has no sense of humor. No joi de vivre. I think he would actually explode if he knew I went out two days ago." 

"Give it time," Jihoon supplies unhelpfully. "I don't know French, but he can't be that bad. You just met him." 

“Yeah. Usually that’s a good thing. I’ve fucked people i know less about.” 

Jihoon shakes his head and laughs, one of those little cackly ones he reserves for your company. 

"Well, you have been with worse," he tuts. "Definitely worse." 

"Jihoon, be serious. This is the rest of my life we're talking about." 

“I know." He draws his lips into a line, likely searching for the right thing to say. "This sucks. I wouldn't be good at this either." 

"You're talking to me. I don't think there's a single royal thing I can do right."

He's out of words, so he bends down to awkwardly pat you on the head, which, in all your years of knowing him, is the most affection he can muster. This is why you prefer horses to Jihoon for therapy, although you appreciate the effort. 

"I'd stay, but they want me to go to some meeting," he says, jerking his thumb towards the door. "I'll see you tomorrow." 

So he leaves you, desolate and linen-covered. Back to square one. 

The room seems to echo with how empty it feels. The bare walls are painted champagne, a rich, indifferent color. They soar to an arched ceiling lined with baroque crown moulding. There's a large window facing the garden, framed by deep green velvet. Atop the vanity cradled to the wall, the ivy of the wrought mirror curls at the edges, as if escaping. The chandelier hangs low, fat and pear-shaped, and its crystals douse the room in gauzy lamplight.

At least the canopy bed looks comfortable. It's the one thing keeping you from calling this place a veritable jail cell, which still seems like an understatement. For once, you miss your own bedroom. Granted, it didn’t look much different on the surface. but despite all the paneling and the heavy velvet, you still like to think it had some personality. You still keep your pillow pet on your bed (a horse named Robert). The back wall is chipped from a Gossip Girl poster your mom made you take down.  

Before you’re able to get too sentimental, the unwelcome sight of your future husband steals you from your thoughts. 

"Evening," Joshua says, stepping into the room. He's so quiet, it takes you aback. "Still unpacking?" 

"Sorry." You gesture around you. "I underestimated my ability to overpack."

"You should have told the staff," he says, surveying the damage. "Do you need help?" 

"No," you insist. Somehow the prospect of him getting on the ground to sort out all of your things upsets you, even more than him touching all of your unmentionables. "No. Please. Just ignore me."

"Alright." 

Joshua seems to take no issue with that, gratefully. He takes a seat on the chaise at the foot of the bed. He's got a copy of Anna Karenina under his arm, probably to weigh the pros and cons of cheating on you. You don't blame him—in fact, maybe it would make your doomed marriage exciting enough to be tolerable. 

"PR event tomorrow," you start, folding up a nightdress. "Bet you're excited for that." 

“As excited as one can be before announcing their arranged marriage," he replies dryly. "But surely you have enough experience with the press for the both of us." 

So that’s how he wanted to play. Fine. You wouldn’t let him walk all over you a second time. 

"Well, I'd hope all those classes you took would be good for something."

"That's rich, coming from the case study on bad media training." 

"Oh, please," you snap. "At least I know how to have a good time." 

"I was having a great time before I was informed this was happening." 

"Forgive me. I had no idea you were so invested in my personal life." You huff as you heave an oversized armful of clothes to the closet. “Think TMZ has any job openings?” 

"Very funny," he retorts. Joshua holds up a skimpy black dress that's fallen from your pile, one well acquainted with the midnight grease of one too many nightclubs. "You dropped this, by the way. I don't really think the nightlife here will be quite to your taste, though." 

"Oh right, because this is where happiness goes to die, huh?" You snatch it back from him, feeling the knot of anger in your gut flare. 

The room seems to pulse with an uncomfortable silence, red-hot with unsaid words. You recognize the all too familiar way Joshua sets his jaw back, and you're transported all the way to the study in the east wing, snoutless lion, terracotta steps, and all. He’s not any different from anyone else, so you’re not sure why you expected anything else. 

You do the only thing you can do—bite your tongue. 

"Look," you finally say, gathering the wherewithal to call for a truce. "I know that we didn't ask for this." 

Joshua laughs. Actually, it's the first time you've heard it since you've met, and it would be an otherwise tolerable, even nice, sound if it wasn't directed right at you.

"Right, because who doesn't want to have to babysit someone for the rest of their life?" 

You take a hard swallow.  You've both done enough damage for tonight, although you'd love to see his expression when you call him the live-action version of Frollo from The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Maybe another time. 

Instead you think of Jeonghan, stuck in his meetings and sunk into this new, starched form of himself that you find difficult to recognize. Still, he's your brother, and you'd hate to see him suffer for it. 

"Stop. I'll be good," you say. "I promise. I know there's a lot at stake for the both of us." 

You can hear Joshua's long, drawn exhale. The furrow dug between his brows flattens out, and he seems to be reminded of everything they taught you both in Conflict Resolution 101. 

"I apologize. I got out of line," he says. You watch the cogs turn on that unfortunately pretty face of his. You hope he finally reveals that he has a much better, kinder personality that he was waiting to debut, but he doesn't. Instead he picks up yet another fallen item from your stash and hands it to you (this time, a much more presentable blouse). 

"I know we don't like each other—" You hold up a hand to interrupt him from lying to you. “—but we can do our best for the cameras. Because that matters. Hate me all you want in private." 

"Okay." He gives you a defeated look, which is all you suppose you'll get out of him today. "Deal." 

That night, there are no more backhanded compliments, quips, or mean-spirited attempts at sarcasm. 

You sink into your side of the bed, a damask-woven vat of quicksand, and watch the spears of light dance on the ceiling. If you had known your last outing was the one a few days ago, maybe you would have drank a little more, stayed out later. Maybe you wouldn't have even gone home. 

Joshua has been reading on the other side of the bed, which seems like oceans apart. The metronomic turn of his pages would have put you to sleep if it wasn't for this new fear, a black, trembling one, that's now taken residence in your chest. It feels like you are further from yourself than you've ever been, and you don't know how to get back. 

"Is it too bright for you?" Joshua's voice, now tempered by the stillness of the evening, pulls you out of your thoughts. "I can turn the lamp off." 

"It's ok," you groan. "Can't really sleep. Don't worry about it." 

He doesn't say anything. Instead you hear the oiled pull of the bedside nightstand before he places something on the bed beside you.

It's a book. Specifically, one of those trashy romances that they only sell at the airport because no one would be brave enough to read them anywhere else.

"It's no Dan Brown," he says. "Hopefully still to your liking." 

You sit up against the headboard and flip through the pages. The prince of Acros owning a book with the words "juicy", "mewling", and "best friend's brother" in the first fifty pages are enough to tide you over for the night. Probably the next week, to be honest.

"Yes, indeed, your highness. Of the raunchy summer fling." 

Joshua smiles, and this time, you think it's a real one. 

--

You hate mornings. 

You thought this one would be different, probably due to the fact that you would soon be standing in front of a few too many cameras to announce your tragic fate to the entire world. Unfortunately, it's like all your other mornings—rushed, nauseous, and now with all the added anxiety of a semi-non consensual public appearance. 

"Five minutes!" you holler as best you can, a hair pin wiggling in the corner of your mouth. Rule number one of a hard launch: don't be caught looking complacent. Even if the other half of the launch would rather be with anyone other than you. 

Joshua's in the attached bathroom doing his hair. Like everything else he does, it is painfully calculated. He might be the only person in the world who takes "pea-sized" seriously as a measurement tool. 

But even as he so carefully measures his pomade, pump by pump, you don't miss the way his eyes skim over your figure as you lean over the vanity chair to apply your lipstick. Maybe it's because your ass is practically vacuum sealed into your sundress, or maybe he's just looking for another fight to pick. Either way, there's a small part of you that takes pride in this, even if just a little. 

"Ready?" Joshua asks, switching off the bathroom light. You hate to admit it, but he looks good in a sports jacket. You remind yourself that you had to literally rock-paper-scissors this morning to use the vanity mirror because you fogged the bathroom up after your shower. "It's not a pageant." 

"Shush. You are so rude. Never interrupt a girl when she's getting ready." 

In the mirror, you watch Joshua huff behind you. Then he procures a little black box from his pocket, and a crazy sort of feeling washes over you before you remind yourself to be normal. Ten-year-old you would have cried and threatened arson if she knew this is how you would eventually be proposed to, but you have no choice. 

You're sure Joshua feels the same. He was probably hoping for something classic with all the works, and instead he's got a pissed-off Jihoon and you, internationally renowned harlot. Funny how things turn out.

"Any minute now," bitches Jihoon from the other side of the door. 

You close your compact and turn around to face Joshua, who's still fumbling with the box.

"I'm sure this is not what you anticipated," he says, finally cracking it open. “But—" 

"No speech. Just put it on." You stick your left hand out, still glittery from last week’s manicure. "Not like it means much anyway." 

"Yeah."

And just like that, it is done. You feel the shock of Joshua's huge hands over yours, then the unceremonious bite of the cold band. He doesn't linger. 

You hold your newly engaged hand in front of you. The ring must have looked better in the box—on you, it seems out of place, gaudy, yet another thing you can't quite fit into. It squeezes your finger a bit, but it'll do. 

"Ready?" he asks. 

"Let's get this over with."

If romance wasn’t already dead, then it died here, today, in your prison cell bedroom. 

You have no time to lament this, as Joshua’s already half out the door. Quickly, he seems to shed his foul, argumentative inside personality and slip into a second-skin, one that is more poised, gracious, and luminous.

Today's objective is supposed to be simple: friendly, premarital pictures to accompany a written statement to the public announcing your engagement. No paparazzi, no journalists. Still, you're starting to see why your parents decided it was a good idea to stick you with this guy. 

In the foyer, your families await you. It's as if their gaze can slow time—at least four people approved your outfit, and still, the weight of their eyes on you, ever appraising, is crushing. Immediately, your mother starts rearranging the strands of hair on the top of your head and fiddling with the sleeves of your dress, like you're some sort of doll. 

"Come, come," a member of the PR team urges. "Everything is set up. We'll be quick." 

There's a frenetic, tense energy over the palace. It's clear that this marriage is a gambit no one is happy with, and today would make it very, very real. 

Outside, there is a lone photographer. The sun, morning-ripe, reflects off his camera lens like a third eye. The lawn, freakishly green, sprawls out around you, and the blue spruce frames the scene, perfect by design. 

"I just need you to stand next to each other and smile," he says. "That's all, right?" He directs this towards your PR team, about seven too many for a task like this. One of them whispers something in his ear. Your parents watch from the shaded doorstep like wax figures in a museum. 

You and Joshua stand shoulder to shoulder, yearbook photo style. 

"Bit closer," the photographer calls out, and you smush yourself against his arm, close enough that you can appreciate he's got some muscle on him. "Alright. Hold still." 

Click. You've always hated the flash, but you root yourself obediently to the concrete. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Click. 

Your mother interrupts her conversation with a staff member—likely haggling over the minutia of the statement—and says, "Look happier," as if you're in some dystopian advertisement for a new car. 

"She's talking to you," Joshua says through the grit of his fake, pink smile. 

"Right, because you're such a peach." 

You just want to go back inside and have breakfast. 

You place a tentative hand on Joshua's bicep and turn to him, beaming like you would at a hot bartender when there are five other people waiting for a drink. 

There's a glimmer of surprise in his expression before he matches you. You can see why people dote on him so much—his cheeks get round, and his eyes magically gain the sparkles that people pay for on Facetune. God really seems to have wasted a perfect face on him. 

"Move your hand up so we can see the ring." You obey, feeling the firm cord of his arm underneath you, and you wonder where the gym is in the palace. Joshua was certainly gatekeeping it from you. "Perfect." 

You stand there, living your America's Next Top Model nightmare, before the photographer hits you with, "A kiss for the camera, yeah?" 

All the blood drains from your face. You think you actually say Huh? aloud. Joshua opts to turn to his parents to intervene, which would be funny in literally any other scenario except this one. 

"You heard him," his father replies. "Act like you're actually engaged." 

Honestly, it was a fair request. No one wanted to take any chances. Plausible rumors of an arranged marriage would backfire spectacularly. Jeonghan wouldn't see the front cover of anything ever again, and the entirety of Acros would wonder just how deep in the shitter they were that Joshua was forced to marry you. 

Your parents were already so far into the conspiracy, you overheard them talking about using unpublished paparazzi pictures and rebranding them as times you snuck off to see your unfortunate lover. Point taken. 

"Okay, okay," you laugh nervously. "Of course." 

You face Joshua, steeling yourself, and lean in. The world seems to fall away, but not how you like—it feels as though you've been sucked out of your own body and dropped into a new one that doesn't know what a kiss is or how to do it. 

He's just like anyone else, you tell yourself. You're at the club. They're playing Everytime We Touch by Cascada. 

Soon all you know is the heat of your cheeks, the shaking flat of your palm over Joshua's shoulder, and the wet pressure of what feels like a pair of lips, soft but also very unwilling. 

Click. Click. Then it's over. Everyone huddles around the camera, like animals to a watering hole. Shame, hot and heavy, seems to drape itself over you. 

"Can we get one more?" the photographer asks.

Fuck. Your stomach drops. You can't even glare at Joshua. 

"Sure thing," Joshua says easily, unaware he was the reason it went so badly in the first place. 

You take a deep breath. You imagine a good Kylie Minogue song and a tall stranger with pecs that could fit into a bra, and your eyes flutter shut. 

You decide to go for it this time. Unfortunately, you and your inept partner are on entirely opposite pages again, and you almost miss each other by a mile. When you do get it right, it's messy, two teenagers fumbling in a closet with the lights off. 

Once everyone sees this massacre, it seems they resign themselves to the same conclusion you had long ago. Someone throws a thumbs up above their head, and everyone clears out so fast, it's like nothing ever happened. 

Soon, it's just you, Joshua, and your mother with a red pen and the manuscript. Your heart is still buzzing in your chest, even though you and Joshua are now standing at a distance that makes you believe in the cheese touch again. 

"Now that wasn’t so bad," she says, before escorting the two of you back inside. Perhaps lying cushions the blow of a bad decision, but you're already in too deep. The script, the cameras, even your mother's glossy words—your life is starting to feel like a permanent movie set, and you don't know how to clock out. 

The first thing you do is take off the ring. It's starting to look more and more like costume jewelry on your untrained, bumbling hand. Even still, you can still feel its ghost on your finger, see the glare of the camera flash in the laser-cut facets. 

Worse, you watch Joshua shrug off his sport jacket, likely wondering how exactly that went so wrong, and you can feel that same sensation, still warm, right over your lips.

--

"Save me, red wine, save me." 

Home, sweet home. You're back in Cotria for the rest of the week. This morning's stint was the only thing you had on the schedule, and you told Joshua you had some business to attend to at home. 

Said business was a Niçoise salad and half a bottle of wine, but no one had to know that part. Your struggle meals were your own business, and you think you will actually disintegrate on the spot if you have to sit through another conversation about World War II with Joshua's dad. The one you had at dinner last night was plenty. 

The restaurant you’re at is a familiar haunt, but not too familiar. The ass-kissers and the groupies have gotten good at keeping their heads on a swivel, and you’re not exactly planning on another encounter with a camera. But here, the crowd is quiet enough, the food good enough, the service fast enough. It’s enough, which you’ve come to prefer. 

That's the other thing about Cotria—there’s an overabundance of everything. Department stores, parlors, dog cafes, polished bars with overpriced cocktails. It’s almost a rarity to find a place like this, quiet enough to actually talk. 

"You must be in the fucking trenches," Somi says, shaking her head. "When's the press release getting published?"

"Next week," you groan. "The good news is that they want us to go to the derby afterward."

"Okay, miss horse girl," Somi says, clinking her wine glass against yours. "You betting this year?" 

"No, I shouldn't." You shovel another forkful of leaves into your mouth. "But I really hope I get to watch it instead of pretending to like a guy the whole time." 

"I didn't see you pretending in uni," Somi says, cocking an eyebrow up at you. "And those guys are ugly. This guy isn't." 

"Okay, wait," you protest. "Ugly cute. Don't get it twisted. And they don't act like sentient wet paint. This guy sucks." 

You're reminded of the moment before you left the palace this morning. Joshua saw that same black dress that he used against you make its way into your bag, and he gave you the dirtiest stink eye you'd ever seen. 

I'm not above tattling. They were the first words he'd said to you after The Incident. 

Good thing you won't have to, you replied. He didn't even see you out because no one was standing around to clap him on the back for being a good fake fiancé. 

"Whatever." Somi picks a tomato off your plate in exchange for some of her fries. "I wouldn't mind it, is what I'm saying." 

"You slept with the bouncer to get into Annabel’s." 

"Fuck off. He was actually really good. Club entry was just a bonus," she laughs. "That reminds me—you're coming to my birthday, right? Or do you have wifely duties now?" 

"Of course I'm coming!" you insist, feeling the word duty hit like an actual bullet to your chest. "I wouldn't miss it for the world." 

"Just making sure! You know I gotta have my people around." 

You had known Somi since you were in diapers. She's the cousin twice removed of a baron, or a count, or maybe even a viscount–you never were good at keeping track of those kinds of things. Even though you had seen her at countless brunches, coronations, and garden parties, you don't think you actually became friends until you ran into her at a college party in Mykonos. She sidled up to you, smelling like strawberries and the bleachy sting of hair dye, and handed you a cucumber margarita. 

The beer here sucks, she had whisper-shouted to you, right over the shell of your ear. Wanna dance? You were inseparable ever since. 

"It's going to be huge. There are, like, 200 people on the guest list right now. Soonyoung rented a villa, There's gonna be a champagne tower, and the music won't suck. Guaranteed." 

"That sounds perfect," you sigh. "Please tell me there's gonna be a pool. I need to show off my new swimsuit." 

"Duh." Somi rolls her eyes, glittery under her extensions. "The perfect opportunity to show the world that their hottest bachelorette is a bachelorette no longer. Also, we invited Pitbull.” 

“Shut the fuck up. Wait, is he actually coming?” 

”Dunno. Wouldn’t be very Mr. Worldwide of him to flake, though.” 

Pitbull or not, you think of the heat of the strobe lights, the electric trill of the too-loud speakers. You're dancing in a dress that looks like a chunk of the moon, with the little neon ties of your bikini top peeking out the sides. There's a peach highball in your hands and no one is telling you what to do, how to do it, or that you're doing it wrong. 

Then you think of Joshua. Maybe he'd loosen up after a few drinks. Maybe he'd dance with you, put those hands to use on your hips and kiss you like he should have earlier today. Maybe he'd even be good at it. The thought makes your cheeks sting.

“Should I invite Joshua?” Somi says, wrinkling her nose at how you immediately grimace. “What if he’s actually a blast?” 

"No! No. Absolutely not." 

“What if he’s—” Then she drops her singsong voice to a whisper. “Hung? Don’t tell me you haven’t seen those pictures of him in the Galapagos.” 

Unfortunately, you have. A lurid, glassy image of your soon-to-be-husband in a sleazy pair of swim trunks comes into vision. You push past the smile, the unfair pecs, and remind yourself of that horrible, self-righteous twist of the lips that he always has. 

Yes, that’s right. That’s the Joshua you know. 

You grab the wine from her and drink it right from the bottle. 

–

Of course it had to be the one time you’re not late to an event that you forget you had swapped everything in all your purses around. You double check your bag—empty. 

You’re already down by half of your worldly possessions (still at home, your real home), and you probably left the other half on Joshua’s bathroom counter. Yesterday, you got derailed mid-task by Joshua lighting the grossest candle ever. You never thought you’d ever fight over candles of all things, but you couldn’t let him walk away from that conversation thinking wet dirt was a normal, socially acceptable, scent for a bedroom. (—It said moss on the label! —So, dirt. —Moss is not dirt. Maybe you need to go back to school.) 

You fling open the bathroom door, still checking the pockets of your handbag, before you collide into a big, sopping wet wall. 

“What the—?” You look up. The wall is not a wall. No, in fact, it is your fiancé, bare fucking naked. 

Your heart jumps up to your throat. It feels like you walked right into a porno, and you can hear Somi’s self-satisfied, witch cackle right in your ear. His dark hair seems to fall into his eyes just right, a nice change from how he normally gels it up, and you watch the beads of water from the shower, torturously glittery, run down his jaw, the hollow of his neck, right onto his chest. 

Men should not be allowed to have bigger boobs than you, at least, not dowdy Joshua Hong, who normally has the sex appeal of an eraser. And God forbid your eyes travel downward and confirm Somi’s sick and twisted hypothesis, past the washboard abs, the v-line, the trail down his— 

“Sorry, did you need something?” You blink again and Joshua suddenly has a towel wrapped around his waist. And he’s eyeing you like you ate a million cloves of garlic and then proceeded to spit on him. “Or are you just going to stand here and ogle me?” 

“I wasn't—no!” You start snatching things off the counter, anything really, and throwing them into your bag. “I just needed to grab stuff for my… my thing. You’re in the way.” 

“Right, because you need four q-tips and my razor to read a children’s book,” Joshua replies, plucking the offending items out of your purse. “It's almost 12:30, by the way.” 

“Shit. Fuck,” you stammer. You can’t glare at him anymore because you know where your eyes will end up and it is not on his face. “Stop distracting me. Whatever.” 

“Have fun,” is the last thing Joshua tells you before you close the bathroom door, that portal to hell, right back up. 

What you can’t do is return the image of what you saw back to where it came from, the wicked, glistening form of Joshua and his B cup tits. He looked so good, it makes you angry. 

Later, on the walk to the library, you reach for your lip gloss. Instead, you pull out q-tip number five and get mad all over again. 

–

The car ride to the derby feels like your own personal Saw trap, if Jigsaw wore a ridiculous hat and was actually your mother. 

Your engagement was announced to the public just a few days ago. It came with no fanfare, no warning. You were sitting on your bed, making your way through the smut Joshua called a novel, when the news app on your phone kindly notified you that you were now a taken woman. 

To some degree, the media uproar fascinated you. The idea that people with actual journalism degrees were writing headcanons about your honeymoon when you hadn’t even seen Joshua since The Bathroom Incident was surely entertaining, to say the least. But, like everything, the unsaid pressure of being a perfect princess, now part of an even more perfect couple, hangs heavy over you. 

You remind yourself this is supposed to be fun. A real couple would be pawing at each other in the backseat, perhaps pregaming with champagne or fan-casting their pick for Spirit the horse. Instead, you’re stuck rehearsing your pitch to the reporters when they inevitably ask you about how the hell this happened. You wish you could tell them you’re not quite sure either. 

Silently, you look at Joshua. Joshua looks out the window. The world rumbles under you. 

[10:15 am, race 1]

The air seizes, swirls with clay-colored dust in the morning sun. The clubhouse is already heady with the low buzz of conversation—you watch the freckled sunhats and oily toupees bob up and down in the swell of the crowd, deep in the morning’s small talk. You wonder how many of them are talking about you, given how recently the news hit. You’re used to people ignoring your media appearances, not celebrating them. 

Someone, tipping their head down to greet you, hands you a program. Joshua elects to tuck his in his back pocket. People don’t come to the derby to watch the races. Instead, it’s an excuse to gossip, day drink, and gamble, which would ordinarily be a good time for you if you weren’t overly invested in the racing circuit. 

All the way from the entrance to your seats, you were met with a tidal wave of camera flashes, all hungry for a glimpse of your first public appearance as a couple. Alongside this, a decidedly worse flurry of congratulations paired with an overly familiar touch to the shoulder or a limp handshake. Joshua is quick to respond with either a smile or some trite platitude. Your least favorite: We couldn’t be happier. Now he’s just lying for sport. 

“We should find the reporters doing interviews,” Joshua says the second his ass touches the chair, unfazed by the onslaught of perhaps a million different people. “The Sun probably wants to talk to us.” 

You’re not listening—you can’t let on that this whole ordeal is mildly terrifying for you. He has enough reasons to dislike you, and stage fright wouldn’t exactly be a good addition to the list. 

The racehorses have lined up at the track, their manes catching the daylight like holy fire. You like the one on the end. He looks like Peanut, Jeonghan’s stubborn palomino. 

Joshua says your name insistently, curdled with the annoyance that you’ve now become acquainted with, and you catch a stray camera flash from the stands. You have an audience, and the audience demands a show, even if they’re second-rate journalists like the scum from The Sun.  

“Darling,” you reply flatly. “Relax. Let's enjoy the races.” 

The horses stretch their long legs, anxious for the thunderclap of the starter’s pistol. Joshua raises a tired eyebrow before the same realization dawns on him. 

“Absolutely.” He clears his throat. “Darling.” 

You wrap a hand around his arm—somehow he makes hand-holding seem like third base—and watch his shoulders sink with a sigh, like you just popped him. 

Likewise, your highness. Likewise. 

A shot crackles through the air, and you’re off to the races. 

[12:43 pm, race 2.]

"I just have to know—how did you guys meet?" 

You know the duchess of Pemarlia to be beautiful and unashamedly nosy, and she has yet to prove you wrong on either account. 

The last time you saw her was on the beach at Lake Como last year, where she spent the entirety of your conversation asking if Jeonghan was single (and peeking into your bag to see what brand of lipstick you were wearing). Like everyone, she always seems to have a look of appraisal on her face. What makes her different is that she never really bothers to hide it; instead, she wears it like an en-vogue accessory. 

She eyes you with an intensity, sizing up your dress, your tawdry sunhat, your ring. You wonder if she’d agree that marriage didn’t look good on you, but any shorter of a dress, your mother would call you a stripper. And God forbid you leave the house hat-less. 

Now she’s no minotaur. This shouldn’t be much of a problem, save for one very small issue: you actually hadn’t planned your answer to this. You had quibbled over it briefly in the car, but you were too focused on your interview pitch to worry about minor gossip. 

"Well," Joshua starts. Through his smile, you can hear the warning edge of his voice. “It was quite ordinary.” 

"Actually," you cut him off. Not only would his version of this story be boring, it would also be horribly out-of-character for you. You did not come this far for your cover to be blown by Joshua’s lack of imagination. "Josh's parents hosted a—" 

"Brunch," Joshua finishes. Whether his teeth are gritted because he's grinning or frustrated is none of your business. “It was Easter brunch, wasn’t it, sweet pea? Four years ago?” 

The pet name makes you want to puke. Now he’s just trying to piss you off, but you know this is his attempt to play along. He's annoying, not dumb. 

"Yes, we sat across from each other.” You playfully dig your elbow into Joshua’s rock-hard side. “He was giving me the eyes the whole time.” 

You watch your hapless victim giggle, her spidery lashes wide with intrigue. Joshua is a little less pleased. 

“If you could call it that,” he replies. “I think you had chocolate on your nose.”

“Which you so kindly wiped off for me, dear.” You try to peek around the flaxen billows of the duchess’s blowout to watch the horses behind her, but to no avail. “After a morning of staring, we had to do an Easter egg hunt, planned by Joshie himself. I had no idea he loved silly little games like that.” 

“It's because people like the princess get so competitive,” Joshua says, with his laser beam grin boring into your eye sockets. “I believe I found you rummaging through the trash for eggs, like some kind of animal.” 

“Oh my goodness,” the duchess laughs. “How...charming.”  

You feel your eyebrow twitch. Only you’re allowed to ruin your own reputation, but you suppose that’s just another thing your horrible fake fiance gets to take from you. 

“Not as embarrassing as seeing Joshua leer at me from behind the corner,” you retort. “He was so enamored that when I invited him to join me, he got right down on his knees to look through the trash together.” 

“Well, did you find anything?” 

“Yes—”

“No—”

“Well—”

Fuck. Luckily, the duchess is either stupid or wildly entertained by the clown show playing out before her. Maybe both. 

“Cute,” she coos. “You must have been too smitten to notice.” 

“Absolutely,” Joshua says, as if there is a gun held to his pretty head. “Among all the garbage and the girl next to me, I suppose nothing else really mattered.” 

“If that isn’t love, what is?” she asks blithely. 

If only she knew. 

[3:45 pm, race 3]

The sun descends on the stadium, swollen and yellow with the afternoon. 

Last year, you and your friends had a betting ring set up during the racing circuit. Obviously, you had won—not too hard when your competition included Soonyoung, who only bet on horses named after food (sadly, it was not Tater Tot’s year). Somi was no better, and your brother thought every horse deserved a participation award.

This time around, things aren’t so simple. But you’d hate to say that you spent a whole day at the track and didn’t bet on a single race. Life could afford you at least one win for today. 

Again, the horses take their positions at the starting line, wound up like a line of rubber bands. The air heaves with bated breath. 

“Joshua,” you say, folding your hands in your lap as you find your target. “I'd like to propose a bet.” 

“You must be a glutton for punishment.” 

You bite back a laugh as you watch your favorite horse, the palomino, ripple in place. Fans would call her a charity case, but you know better. 

“Pick a horse. Mine is number Three, in the blue.” 

“And if mine wins? What’s in it for me?” he asks. Still, he leans forward, corded forearms on his thighs. You watch him squint as he surveys the field with renewed interest. 

“You pick,” you reply. “Choose wisely. I personally cannot wait to call in a favor from you.” 

“The chestnut one. Number Nine.” So he is competitive. “And likewise. Perhaps I'll hold it over your head until the wedding.” 

Before you can reply, you hear the starting pistol rip clean into the air. The racehorses surge forward, as if a silken ribbon through air. 

“Nine makes sense for you,” you say, eyes fixed before you. “He's flashy, the crowd favorite. Spotless pedigree.” 

“I'm picking your punishment already.” 

“I didn't say he would win.” You feel the lilt of your voice rocking upward, the tremulous beat of your heart against your ribs. “You see, Three’s had a rough season. There she is, passing Four right now.” 

“Nine is still first, though.” 

“It’s not about that,” you reply. “She does this, she starts all the way out back and then flies up. No one suspects anything—it’s like she likes proving people wrong. The first couple races of the season, she was just stretching her legs; they were small, small fry. It’s this one that matters.” 

The saddles are just blurs on the track now. To the march of the hoofbeats, Three lunges past Five, Six. The crowd roars. 

“This will be her first win. I'm counting on it. She’s come really close before.” 

Joshua doesn’t reply. Out of the corner of your eye, you see his gaze has shifted. You feel it land somewhere near you, but you’re too engrossed in the race to investigate further. Perhaps he’s admitted defeat preemptively, wisely so. 

“You know your stuff,” he murmurs, the clamor of the audience almost burying him. 

“How can I not?” Three coasts past One and Ten like she’s flying, until it’s just her and unlucky number Nine. “Oh my god. Go, go, go!” 

You and Joshua rise to your feet, as if drawn by a string, now wholly invested in the race. 

“Still beating you, you know.” 

“Not for long! Come on!” 

You watch your darling number Three, against all odds, pull past Joshua’s number Nine, burning a trail past the inevitable finish line. 

From somewhere inside you emerges a joy that you hadn’t felt since this whole ordeal started. You turn to Joshua and clasp his hands between yours, somehow less wooden now, and so, so human. The crowd cheers; they come alive. 

[4:50 pm, races 4 and 5. mainly, the reporter from the sun.] 

The smaller races take place shortly after the headliner, for better or for worse. This forces you to finally face the music—the music being a dull-eyed, greasy journalist ready to sink his teeth into the public’s new favorite topic. 

Joshua is a good sport about it, or at least, he’s good at pretending to be one. 

“It was great,” is his answer to a question you didn’t hear. You’re busy going over the parts of the script that you remember. Your media team spent the better part of the morning repeating it back to you, which was helpful until it wasn’t. You weren’t sure how to tell them you’ve actually never been good at speaking to the press, since you had spent the better half of your life doing the exact opposite. 

“And what did the princess think? It’s not often we catch you for an interview, you know.” 

The eye of the camera seems to pierce through you. You can see your shellacked figure, long and distorted, in the reflection. 

“I—um,” you swallow hard. God. Pull it together. You can already hear the lecture you’re going to get on the way home today. “Yeah, big day today.”

“She’s had to really rein in her excitement, you know,” Joshua adds, chuckling. 

Briefly, you feel his hand brush against yours. Ordinarily, you’d pass it off as a fluke, but you feel the steady, insistent warmth of his palm again, first, to the inside of your wrist, then lower still. Before you’re able to really process what’s happening, he then takes your hand in his all at once, as if to say, I’ve got this. I’ve got you. 

You figure he’s cashing in his favor early–he’d much rather leave you out to dry, let you flounder a bit so you learn to read the PR memorandums the night before. I told you so, he’d say. That’s what everyone else would say, anyway. 

“The races are sure exciting, but I'm sure you’re even more excited about your upcoming wedding.” The reporter grins at you, as if he smells your fear. His hair looks like it’s glued to the top of his shiny head. “If I'm going to be honest, you were one of the last people we’d expect to tie the knot this year. We are all dying to hear more.” 

What? You force yourself to breathe, feel the air fill your lungs, to avoid making an expression you’ll regret. 

“Well, yeah, I'm sure it looks like it all happened quickly,” you answer, feeling your tongue trip over the words. Mostly because it did, in fact, happen quickly, but you can’t let them know that. “But Josh and I feel strongly about, uh, this whole thing, and—”

“Please, don’t spare us the details.” 

Telepathically, Joshua squeezes your hand. This, you understand. He’s telling you to lean on him, and you trust that. 

“Hold your horses,” he cuts in, almost too quickly, which makes the corners of your mouth twitch upward. He was definitely looking for an opening, but you, bizarrely, don’t mind at all. He turns to you and smiles. “What's the fun without a little mystery? It's been a wild ride, but I'm loving every second of it.” 

It’s this one, the lamest and most embarrassing dad joke of them all, that gets you. 

You laugh: a real one, big, loud, and unafraid. It's here, caught in the glare of the camera flash, where you find yourself hoping, even just a little, that this wasn’t just a favor, that this was a sign you could actually survive this arrangement. 

You’re not asking for love—just a little bit of like. and, right now, you think you like Joshua Hong. 

—

In the evening, you find yourself in the oaken parlor nestled away in the back halls of the Acrosian palace. 

There's a piano there, gathering dust. It's a Steinway, spindly and chestnut, almost identical to the one you have at the palace in Cotria. 

You and Jihoon had been unpacking your hodgepodge of things (unsorted, since the act of sorting would have forced you to stomach the fact that you were actually moving), when he had found your old lesson books. 

You should break in that piano, he had said. Either that, or wait for your fiance to find you. He seemed ok at the derby today. 

I guess. 

What Jihoon hadn’t seen was all the photographs you had to take after your interview with The Sun, where Joshua decided to remind you that you were supposed to hate him. By that, you mean that he managed to make every single one unbearable. (A tap of the foot: Stand up straight. A careful brush of the elbow: Let’s link arms. A discerning, tactful glance at your chest: Pull up your dress. That, or he was no better than the average man.) 

You and he hadn’t talked much after that. Hopefully, he’s fled to your cold, dark dungeon of a room to read, so he can finally leave you alone.

“Remember when your parents invited all their friends over and asked you to play?” Jihoon says, perched on the loveseat while he sorts through an old jewelry box. 

“Yeah, and I literally forgot everything?” you laugh. “Freaking Jeonghan had to check on me because I locked myself in my room for 24 hours straight. And then he had the nerve to laugh at me.” 

You thumb through the fattest book of the pile. The binding is soft; the pages now yellow and fuzzed over by time. 

On page 5, Chopin's Waltz in A-flat major. three four time or whatever, you had scrawled in defiant red ink. Page 37, a thick black line through Debussy's name on Arabesque No. 1. This is because you would always laugh at it during lessons, and you wanted to save yourself the trouble. 

“Do you want to keep this?” Jihoon holds up a choker that resembles a jock strap. “When did you even wear this? It looks like a cat toy.” 

You ignore him and start to play. You were never excellent—competent would be a better word. Still, it was enough for you. Soonyoung would ask you to play during drunk karaoke, and you could still keep up with Jeonghan when he played one of his overcomplicated duets. 

Your hands remember the velvet thud of the keys, the glide of the pedal. When you turn the page, there’s a scrawled in BITCH! next to a heavily circled allegro. Piano was one of the only things that your parents forced you to do that you actually liked. The kicker was that it didn’t even do you any good. You weren’t as talented as your parents would like you to be, meaning that, to them, you weren’t talented at all. 

It’s then that your fingers slip, and you miss a chord. In your defense, you have a fresh manicure. Always blame the nails. Your mom hated when you kept them long, even more than your hardass tutor.  

“The prince is helping with the theater production this year, right?” Jihoon holds a single earring up to the light. You think you lost the other one in Ibiza last year. “You gonna help out again?” 

“Maybe.” Another wrong note. You’re losing steam trying to read all the ledger lines and your smeared, illegible writing next to them. “I don't know. He probably won’t even want me to. I'm choosing a different piece, by the way. Bored of this one.” 

The truth about your 21st birthday was that you did actually intend to spend it at the youth theater. It was your idea before it was Jeonghan’s idea, but, at the time, you both still were a package deal.

You were on piano; Jeonghan was on whatever else he pleased. He'd always been indecisive like that. At the bench, you’d hoist the little ones on your knee and regale them with the classical version of the opening song from Paw Patrol. Jeonghan stole prop masks from the back, mostly to hide behind the curtains and scare people, you included. You’d both stay up late, paint spackled on your palms, trying to Michelangelo a backdrop with the combined artistic talent of a TI-84. 

The production became your thing, just you and him, no cameras, no press releases, no parents. But like everything else, neither you, Jeonghan, nor anyone else was able to keep those inevitable truths apart. The set pieces were repainted in Italy, the finger-painted fields turned luminescent with varnish; the pins and needles in the costumes swapped with mother-of-pearl; and, finally, you, replaced by a classically trained pianist from Juilliard. At least he was hot. 

Everyone knows the rest of the story—the red carpet, the empty seats, and the puffy pink balloons outside the mansion in Saint Tropez. 

“Oh please,” Jihoon wheedles. “You and I both know he wanted you there.” 

“Then maybe he should have fought harder.” You flip to a random page, this one marked up in pink gel pen. You remember it bled through all the pages behind it, making it a pain to read but awfully funny during lessons. “It doesn't matter. There’s probably wedding stuff I gotta deal with.” 

Jihoon lets you play this next piece uninterrupted. It’s not that it’s a sensitive subject for you—there were plenty of other things that filled the wedge between you and your brother—but it certainly didn’t help. 

You let your fingers wander over the stubborn keys. It feels good to play, even if you’re almost unforgivably rusty. You reach for the page, when you hear Jihoon again: “You know, you’re allowed to come in, your highness.” 

Immediately, your hands freeze. Like a scolded child, you become aware of how your fingers teeter over the keys, the stumbling, awkward clacking of your nails, the one or two missed quarter notes from the last measure. 

You turn to face the door, where Joshua stands, leaning against the frame like a sleazy model from an Abercrombie catalog. He probably came from the gym. Seeing him dressed down is still very weird, mostly because you can’t decide if it’s because he looks good or if it’s because it reminds of seeing your teacher at the grocery store. 

“Anyone teach you manners?” you ask, unsure if your hackles should be raised. 

“No, I was raised in a barn, just like those horses you like so much,” he laughs. “I didn’t want to interrupt. You’re not bad, you know.” 

“Thanks.” You eye him skeptically. “Thought you were gonna comment on the nails.” 

“Do you want me to?” 

“Preferably not, but it’s not like you‘d listen to me anyway.” You look for Jihoon’s reaction, but he seems to have conveniently disappeared. “Let’s play a duet. I’m cashing in my favor.” 

“Sure,” Joshua replies. “I'm no good, though. Might be more of a punishment for you.” 

You slide over on the bench, and he sidles up next to you. He smells like Le Labo and sweat, the sting citrusy and bright, close enough to linger. 

“No good?” You pick up another fat book from the stack atop the lid: The Joy of Duets. “Me neither.” 

“You have no idea,” he chuckles. “And trust me, I tried.”  

“I’ll do top?” you announce. 

Joshua snickers, and you kick him under the bench (really, just a tap of your foot). 

You spend the next two minutes tripping over a Schubert piece. Terribly, this is endearing to you. You make somewhat of a couple—you, with your horrible form, and Joshua, now squinting at the key signature like it’ll make it easier to read.

“Buddy,” you exclaim. “Left hand goes here.” Laughing, you reposition his hand mid-chord to an octave below. You feel it tense beneath you before yielding to proper technique. 

“Aw, what?” he whines. “See, I told you I was no good. Give me a second.” 

You watch him puzzle over the next few lines, pretty brow furrowed. You conclude that Pajama Joshua is decidedly better than Prince Joshua. He’s funnier, kinder, warmer. Even his hands feel softer. 

“Also, about earlier today,” you start. The words are starting to dry up on your tongue, but you figure Pajama Joshua is an easier target than usual. “I didn't know they trained you in stand-up comedy.” 

“We laugh in this country too, you know.” When Joshua says this, he grins, bumping into your shoulder like you’d been friends for a long time. For once, it feels easy, natural. 

“Well, thanks anyway.” 

“I couldn't leave my fiancée out to dry.” The word must sound ridiculous even to him, because he laughs just the same as he did when he unloaded his ridiculous puns onto the unassuming world. “No really. We’re in this together, unfortunately. It’s my duty.” 

Duty, both the knife and the wound. You can’t say you’re surprised he’s only nice to you out of obligation. So is everyone else, and you don’t know why you thought it’d be any different, especially coming from him. It’s not like you’re wearing your ring now either; you suppose you’re just as guilty. 

“You cross over here,” you tell him, changing the topic. You slide your hand over his, and it bends to you. “Thumb under. Sorry, I couldn't help but notice.” 

“It's ok,” Joshua replies. “I only learned piano because I had to. When I stopped going to lessons, I forgot everything. Now I feel like I put this piano to shame.” 

“Really? Not to stroke your ego, but you strike me as the type to be good at everything.” 

“No,” he chuckles. “Only when I have to be. I actually wanted to learn how to play guitar.” 

“No way.” 

“Yes way. I wanted to have one of those woven guitar straps, get a little pick collection going, be able to play any song from the Beatles discography. All the cliche stuff.” 

“Well, why can’t you?” you ask. “Minus the Beatles thing. Pick better music.” 

“Back then, it never occurred to me. We all learn piano.” 

“That's silly,” you blurt out. “Who cares?” 

“That's a little rich coming from you.” 

You frown, feeling all the usual unpleasantries bubble up through your skin. 

“That's not really fair.” You absentmindedly play a few keys, all disjointed. “Taking guitar lessons doesn’t make you a problem child.” 

“It's not about that, though,” Joshua says. He's avoiding your eyes. “It's everything, together. I couldn't just pick up a guitar and be someone else.” 

“Someone else? You mean you? The real you?” 

“Yes,” Joshua presses. “That's the point. I can't just do whatever I want. Sometimes the real you is more trouble than it’s worth.” 

“Someone’s dramatic. If you do everything the same, nothing will change. Maybe getting into a little trouble isn’t such a bad thing.” 

“Forgive me,” he says, mid-chuckle. “You wouldn’t call this trouble?” 

He’s got you there. Childishly, all your pride hardens to a lump in your throat, one you’ve never learned to swallow. 

“Your family needed our help too, remember?” 

“Yeah, and you think I don’t think about that every day? How, maybe, if I had done something different, then we wouldn’t be here?” 

You feel stung. You don’t know how to tell him that you’ve been trying to figure out the same thing your whole life. If you were a better daughter, you’d have spared everyone the trouble. Unfortunately, you’d gotten it wrong so many times, you stopped trying.

What's worse is that he doesn’t even sound mad—you watch his fingertips ghost over the keys of a C-scale, rhythmically, methodically. Piano scales, this marriage, everything: just things to do on his never-ending list. 

A hesitant knock at the door interrupts any possibility of you coming up with anywhere close to the right thing to say. 

“Prince Joshua, the king and queen need to speak to you.” It’s an aide, probably sweating bullets deciding when and how they should intrude on this wonderful conversation of yours.

“Right,” says Joshua, and when he gets up from the bench, he doesn’t look back. 

—

“You ready to get stuffed?” 

Good fucking morning to you—Somi’s voice, fluorescent through your phone speakers, seems to be enough of an alarm clock for you. Joshua, in the doorway dual wielding a coffee cup and the morning paper, raises a tired eyebrow.

After the events of last night, you’d wondered if he would somehow disappear at nighttime in an effort to avoid his eventual fate (you). Instead, you found him on his usual side of the bed, drinking his usual mug of chamomile tea, in his usual silence. 

You've heard that couples shouldn’t go to bed angry, but no one said anything about indifferent. Then again, you and Joshua are hardly a couple. 

“Ew,” you laugh. “No. Maybe? Should I be scared?” 

“Absolutely. You’re eating your weight in food today because I need your opinion on catering.” 

Smushing your phone between your cheek and your shoulder, you watch the mirror as your wavering reflection puts on a layer of mascara. 

“For your party?” 

“Yeah, although on second thought, maybe it’s a bad idea to bring the girl who’s gonna puke everything up anyway.” 

“My IBS is none of your business. Besides, the real food critic is Jihoon,” you reply. “Sometimes I feel like that’s the only reason he still works here.” 

“You’re coming in an hour, right?” 

You check the clock. No, you are not. You’re only halfway through a full beat and if you don’t get any caffeine inside you within the hour, you will commit a crime. 

“Nope.” You pop open your compact. “I have to change, and I desperately need to locate a coffee. I will suck a fucking bean off if i need to.” 

“I'm hanging up on you,” Somi whines. “It's too early for you to be gross and late.”  

“As if you weren’t talking about getting stuffed.” 

“Whatever.” Click.

At this point, you feel like Somi’s party is both the proverbial and literal light at the end of the tunnel. No expectations, no rules, and no semi-arguments between you and your doomed fiance. 

Then you notice that Joshua’s disappeared from the room—he probably couldn’t stand listening to your end of the conversation. Briefly, you wonder where he is. Off running an errand for his dear parents, perhaps, or maybe at the gym you still haven’t discovered yet. Even from the hefty distance he keeps you at, you can still appreciate a man who looks like he’s touched a dumbbell. 

It's only when you’re halfway out the door, almost an hour later, juggling your purse and your phone and the distinct absence of a caffeinated beverage, that you find him. 

“Come to ruin my day?” you ask, maybe three-fourths joking. 

“Don’t give me any ideas,” he replies. Under the bluebird sky of late morning, lips upturned and eyes bright, Joshua may be a sight you could get used to. Someday. “Brought you a coffee. I can’t have you sucking off a bean—the reporters would go crazy.” 

Jihoon, hovering by the car, chokes on his water. 

“Oh!” The surprise knocks the sound out of you. “Thank you. Really.” 

“Gladly,” he says, and he sounds like he means it.

He holds all your stuff as you clamber into the car, before handing it back to close the door for you. You’ll admit it’s nice, but as Jihoon starts to drive, you feel a familiar twist in your chest.

“Interesting,” he remarks. “Didn’t know you were on a coffee order basis.” 

“We’re not,” you answer. You pop the lid open. It's a cappuccino, made the classic way, milk foam bubbling out the top. Not your favorite, but it’ll do. 

More than that, it’s an olive branch. Yesterday did get weird, but you’re getting the impression that it’ll always get weird. Undoubtedly, there is someone out there who’ll get Joshua. His schedules, his straight-backed obligation, the polished photo ops and the cappuccinos made to a perfect one to one to one ratio. You know this because this is the world you came from, one that should be home to you. 

Instead, you circle each other in an unsure, clumsy dance. You can’t quite get it right. It's all the same now. The bite of a horse saddle not made for your body, the glow of your heirloom ring, now cheapened by your graceless hand, Joshua’s lonely, reaching palm as he disappears in the rearview mirror. 

—

On your arrival home in the evening, you return with two things: a few extra kilos and an absolutely horrendous copy of the Daily Mail, courtesy of Somi, who saw it at the grocery. 

"Great showing from the couple of the year," you say, shucking your copy at Joshua. "It looks like we're in Shark Tale." 

Even from a distance, the cheap ink-spackled cover shows more than enough. LIP LOCK FLOP!, it reads, although you wouldn’t really call it a lip lock. 

It was at the derby—Quick, they’re looking at us, you had said. Then what you would call a nun’s version of a kiss: you, already halfway out the door, and him, lips hesitant and pursed, as if he was asked to smooch his withering, dusty great-grandmother. 

"I'm not even going to ask what you mean by that," Joshua answers, voice level. "It's not that bad." 

He puts his book down to pick the magazine up, holding it at a distance like the image will jump out of the page and bite him. You see his expression flicker, and that's all you need to confirm your suspicions. 

"Ok, it's a little bad." He places it on the nightstand next to him face-down. "It'll be alright. It's not like the wedding will be called off over one bad picture." 

"You know that's not the issue." You sit on your side of the bed, about a full meter away from him. You kind of want to look again just to see how bad it is, but you're sure it'll be inescapable by the morning. 

"Since when did you care what the press thought of you?" 

"Since it mattered." You stare at your lap, eyes fixed on the too-new, wiggly hem of your pajamas instead of him. You can tell he's still looking at you, though–you think those big, watery eyes have some sort of flashlights in them, and you don't like it. "It seems wrong if our mistakes take up space." 

You hear him make a small noise of agreement. Joshua still won't admit that you're right, but you suppose you like that a little. At least he'll be stubborn about something, even if it's about clearly not liking you. 

"What do you suggest?" he asks, putting his book down. “We didn't choose each other, so I'm not surprised there's no attraction." 

"Ouch." He's right, but you'd rather be the one saying it. "I'm a good kisser. You aren't." 

"I'm just not good at kissing you," he retorts. 

"Evidently." You shimmy towards his side of the bed, where the sheets are cooler under your thighs, the pillows still neatly arranged on the headboard. "What I'm saying is that we should at least try to look more realistic. Like–" 

"Are you saying we should practice?" Joshua looks at you over the frames of his glasses, incredulous. 

"Yeah," you say, now too far in it to back out. "Like exposure therapy. For unwilling couples." 

The room gets quiet, as if it wasn't unbearably so before. You watch Joshua pick up his book again. He puts the bookmark in, two-thirds from the spine of the book so as to not ruin the binding, and places it over the doomed tabloid. 

"Okay." To your surprise, he turns to face you. The lamplight catches the lens of his glasses and makes his eyes look warmer than they truly are. "How should we do this?" 

The way Joshua's gaze settles on you makes you feel like you're being evaluated. An exam in Kissing 101, except the test would rather not have anything to do with you at all. For the first time in your life, you let your eyes wander to his lips, rosy and full, and you feel the pit of anxiety in your belly grow wider. Somehow he's managed to take all the fun out of one of your favorite activities, but you'll be damned if he walks away from this thinking it's you who's the problem. 

"Just...let me lead," you say quietly, now leaning closer to him. You have to ease yourself into it. You let your body respond, feel the skip of your heart, a heady flush wash over your cheeks. He smells like spearmint and clover. 

You've kissed a lot of people. None of this should feel new to you. His eyelashes skim against your cheek, and you can hear the breath he takes, quivering, gentle.

Despite all this, the first kiss is no better than any of the other ones. his lips meet yours, hesitant before they start moving. He's shy, and it would almost endear him to you if he wasn't so annoying. But then the charade is over. His nose clocks yours and it startles you both enough to draw away, ever so slightly. 

"Not my fault," you murmur. You're so close, you can see your reflection in his pupils, glassy and dark. 

"Thought this was practice," responds Joshua, unfazed. 

So you lean in again, giving it another go. Two is better—sweet and succinct. a first date type of kiss. You can taste the berry of your lip balm on him. 

Then again, except this time it's him who goes in, chases your lips. 

The scary thing is that you thought this would be much harder. You had stood in the bathroom, looked yourself in the mirror, and psyched yourself up to do the impossible. 

But the moment you meet him, now so close there's no room to breathe, you feel an impenetrable, unshakable desire crawling up your bones. Your palm finds the flat of his chest. Even under the silk of his ridiculous pajama top, you feel the heat of his skin, the restless quick of his heartbeat, and your stomach flips. 

Four, five. You're losing count. Joshua's hand trails up your arm to cup your cheek, and you'd be lying if you said you didn't feel your breath catch in your chest. 

He's warm, so warm. When your other hand finds the back of his neck, he makes a small sound in his throat and you like it.

It's at this point you realize there is no point in pretending. Maybe you don't want to kiss Joshua at any other moment during any other day, but you do now. You really do. 

When your tongue meets the seam of his lips, it feels all too natural. At first, predictably, he buffers a bit. For a split second, you envision him pulling away and saying you've gotten more than a lifetime's worth of practice in. 

But he doesn't. Instead, an arm winds around your waist and that's all it takes for your body to stop listening to you altogether. Lips still connected, you lift yourself to straddle his lap, right over the folded up covers, and his hands, devastatingly strong, find your hips to keep you rooted there. 

You're starting to think he isn't such a bad kisser after all—maybe he really was holding out on you, but there's something weirdly rewarding about him waiting until he liked you just a little more. Whatever that means. 

You learn that his hair is soft, really soft, at the base of his neck. You learn that he likes when you bite his lips and you learn that his spearmint mouthwash does, in fact, taste as good as it smells. 

You also learn that you, paradoxically, might not know how to love Joshua Hong, but you sure do know how to kiss him. 

--end of part 1--

[part 2 -> ]

[violetrainbow412-blog]

No one else [B. R.]

Bob Reynolds x fem!reader

wc: 6.8k

summary: Bob agrees to join you at a bar with your friends, but a stranger’s gesture unsettles him more than he expected. Later that night, in the quiet of your apartment, he finally lets himself be vulnerable—and loved.

masterlist part 1 (can be read as a standalone, it's only useful if you want some context!)

warnings: explicit sexual content (MDNI), oral sex (m receiving), unprotected sex, praise kink, mild jealousy, emotional vulnerability, references to past abuse, trauma triggers, mention of addiction/recovery, aftercare, soft!dom reader (if you squint)

There was no special reason for the invitation. You had turned to Bob on one of those afternoons you spent together.

“Some friends are going to a bar tomorrow. They told me to join them. Do you want to come with me?”

Bob took a couple of seconds to answer. Not because he didn't want to—he was already sure he'd go anywhere if it was with you—but because the question unnerved him a little. With me? he thought. As if that word, said so casually, carried a weight you didn't notice, but he did.

“Sure,” he had said, trying to sound casual too, though slightly excited to be hanging out with you.

It was just a bar. People laughing, glasses in hand, dim lights. But to Bob, it meant more. It meant you weren't hiding him, that it wasn't just a get-together between you two when everything stopped. It was you bringing him into your world, even if it was just for a few hours.

You had agreed to meet the guy there. That night, you arrived a little early, ordered something cold to start the evening, and sat down to wait for him at one of the tables your friends had set aside near the window. There was music playing, but not so loud that you couldn't talk, and the warm light from the hanging lamps gave the whole place a more intimate feel than you expected.

You were checking your phone when you saw him come in.

Bob walked through the door with his hands in his pockets and a slightly uncertain gaze, searching the crowd until his eyes found you. He was wearing a white T-shirt that subtly outlined his shoulders, with an open blue flannel over it. His hair was a little messy, as if he'd hastily arranged it with his fingers.

He approached you slowly, but without hesitation.

“How do I look?” he asked, half-jokingly, as he stopped in front of you.

You stood up from the chair, placing a hand on his chest without thinking twice.

“Stunning”

Bob blinked, surprised by the directness of the response, and lowered his gaze slightly. If he'd been told that a sentence like that would disarm him so much, he wouldn't have believed it.

“You look... wow,” he murmured, not very subtly, as his eyes scanned your loose black blouse and light-colored jeans, which revealed just enough to make him briefly forget you were in public.

You laughed, amused by his reaction.

“Come, I’ll introduce you to them.”

You took his arm, gripping those muscles well hidden in everyday life, and led him toward a group of people. There were eight or nine of them, maybe, men and women. Each of your friends greeted him and said their names. Later, you spoke. You introduced him simply as Bob, without titles, but with a loving smile that was hard to ignore.

“You were right when you said this guy of yours is quite the cutie, huh?” mocked one of your sassy friends.

Bob blushed violently, and when he looked at you, something in your expression told him he'd have to get used to that kind of interaction. He didn't know how much you'd told them about your relationship, so he tried to stay as discreet as possible.

To be honest, all his attention was reserved for you. You looked dazzling, not in an exaggerated way, but like someone who looks beautiful on her own no matter what she wears. When the flow of conversation returned to the table, you leaned toward him to whisper something. He didn't hear you the first time, so you decided to lean in close to his ear.

“If you get bored, just tell me and we’ll go, okay?”

He just nodded, swallowing that tenderness with a lump in his throat. Because he wasn't bored. He was trembling inside, yes, but he wanted to make an effort to make you happy.

You ordered a beer for you and one for him, making sure he was comfortable with it. You knew, very vaguely, about his history with drug abuse, but you didn't know if abstinence included alcohol as well.

He remained attentive to whoever was speaking, and occasionally answered questions someone asked him. His tone was ambiguous, of course, as he tried to keep his powers and the evil entity he harbored within him hidden.

At some point, you slipped your hand under the table and placed it on his thigh. Bob tensed at first, more out of surprise than discomfort, as the contact unsettled him; not because he didn't want it, but because he wasn't used to someone touching him like that. So openly.

While you continued talking with your friends, laughing, passing a napkin, or sipping from your glass, your hand remained there. It moved up, and down, and played with the fabric as if it were an automatic gesture. As if you'd done it a thousand times before.

He wondered if you were pretending not to notice his gaze or if you just thought you wouldn't affect him the way you did. So he forced himself to keep his composure, to laugh when someone said something funny, to pretend his skin didn't burn beneath where you brushed against him.

“Want another beer? It’s on me.”

You leaned slightly in his direction, taking advantage of the fact that the others were distracted by other conversations. The scent of your perfume, combined with that of the beer, permeated his nostrils.

“I still have one”

“But that doesn’t answer my question.”

“I’m fine for now.”

You nodded, understanding.

"And something to eat? Fries?"

“Whatever you fancy is fine. We can share.”

One thing is certain: Bob, in and of himself, made you want to kiss him. But that night you felt even more attracted, probably because of the atmosphere, the drinks, or simply because he was twice as handsome as usual.

“And what do you think of them so far?”

“Your friends?” he murmured, and you hummed a nod. “They’re nice. Very playful.”

“They are. But you get used to it over time.”

“Are they usually like that with the people you bring?”

“What people?” You pretended not to understand, taking a sip from your glass while making sure to look him in the eye.

“You know… like me”

“You mean mysterious boys who don’t talk much?”

“And you have no idea how social gatherings work,” he snorted, not reproachfully, but with a hint of acid. You squeezed his thigh affectionately.

“You’re the first one I’ve brought, so I wouldn't know.”

“I feel weird,” he suddenly confessed. “I mean, not like it’s a bad thing, but… you know, I want them to like me and stuff.”

“Why wouldn’t they?” you retorted back “You’re quiet, yes, but that’s not a crime. Your style is more like… interesting silences.”

“Interesting silences?”

“Yeah. Like when you're thinking about saying something, but decide not to. It's sexy.”

That curious sound that pleased your ears so much, a laugh that seemed to hurt him escaped from the back of his throat.

“It’s not on purpose”

“That doesn’t make it any less sexy,” you insisted.

A tiny blush spread across the boy's face as his arm slid down your back, wrapping itself around your waist and thus shortening the distance between you.

“Well, if that’s what we’re talking about,” he murmured in a deep voice, almost hoarse from the closeness, “I don’t think I’m the one who should hold that title.”

His eyes scanned your face with a mixture of admiration and barely contained desire, as if he were trying to memorize your features.

“Robert Reynolds,” you raised an eyebrow, half amused and half incredulous, “are you flirting with me?”

“Maybe.” he gave you one of those smiles of his—unusual, soft, a little crooked as if he still didn’t quite know how to do it. “Is it working?”

As he spoke, his fingers traced a slow circle in the fabric of your shirt, right at the base of your back, causing an involuntary shudder.

“Pretty good, I’d say.” You brought a hand to his neck, caressing the warm skin with your knuckles, moving just a little closer. “Now give me a kiss, will you?”

Despite the chuckle he let out at your request, he didn't hesitate for a second to please you. He gave you a short but deep kiss that sent a pleasant shiver down your spine.

After your intervention, he relaxed considerably. Although you couldn't say he was participating enthusiastically, he at least seemed calmer. At one point, he took your hand, which was on his thigh, perhaps looking for a form of regulation or simply because he wanted to feel closer to you.

The evening continued peacefully. You chatted, laughed, and even they told a few stories that you were sure were meant to embarrass you—in the best possible way—but Bob listened with joy. He couldn't quite interpret the feeling bubbling inside him. It was happiness, yes, but also a strange satisfaction at feeling like he was uncovering a few of the secrets you harbored.

It was amid this harmony, just as the general laughter began to die down, that a waiter walked confidently up to the table. He carried a tray laden with small glasses of clear liquid, they trembling slightly with each movement. His appearance was so sudden that for a second everyone remained silent, confused.

“We didn’t ask for that,” you exclaimed at that moment, stopping him with one hand as you frowned, “Maybe you made a mistake.”

“Someone sent them to you. From the table over there.”

Every head in the group turned in the indicated direction, and then a rather cocky guy winked at you through a half-smile. Your stomach lurched at the gesture, and a disgusted expression quickly appeared.

“I don’t want them”

“That’s not true, leave them here.”

Apparently, your friend's answer carried more credibility, and the waiter simply ignored you. Like birds around crumbs, everyone swarmed to get a shot of vodka. They seemed amused by the situation.

“Seducing strangers again, huh?” someone quipped, raising an eyebrow as they brazenly took one of the shots.

“Again?” Bob hurried, glancing at you with a mixture of surprise and a barely contained expression of annoyance. Although he had intended only for you to hear, his voice came out louder than expected.

“Oh, let me tell you,” another voice chimed in, amused, nudging the blue-eyed man with a knowing elbow. “It’s not the first time someone’s sent her a drink.”

“I’m starting to wonder if that ass of yours is really worth all the madness,” someone else joked, raising their glass before taking a gulp “But hey, if it gets us free stuff, I’m not complaining.”

Most of the group took the matter with amusement, and you simply decided to ignore it. They were right when they said it wasn't the first time something like this had happened, but each time, rather than feeling attracted, you were surprised that there were men dumb enough to spend their money on a stranger and her entire table.

Considering the matter to be stupid, no further discussion was made. By this point, you'd already had enough beers for the edges of the evening to begin to blur, so it was no surprise that when the conversation turned to something more trivial, it seemed irrelevant, almost like a detail not even worth remembering.

You didn't notice the change in Bob right away.

He didn't say anything. He didn't make any obvious gestures. But when you turned to meet his eyes, they weren’t as open as they had been a moment ago. He wasn’t looking away, but he no longer held your stare the way he had before. His hand, once resting confidently on the curve of your waist, was no longer there; he had withdrawn it. Not abruptly, but with a movement as silent as it was meaningful.

You, however, didn’t see it as a bad thing. In fact, you didn’t read into it at all. You simply assumed he was just tired.

You'd been there for a while, your voices mingling, and the warmth of the place was beginning to curl like a thick blanket over your skin. You took another sip, barely savoring it, and then approached him without thinking much. One of your hands slid over his thigh, as you had before; naturally, affectionately. He didn't move away, but his body didn't react the same way.

He was there. But something in him wasn't there.

“Is everything okay?” you whispered softly into her ear.

Bob nodded once, without looking at you, while he hummed his response. That was enough to set off a small alarm in the back of your mind. Not because you feared anything bad, but because you knew that specific type of pause. It was like a way of collecting himself when something touched him too much.

Maybe he felt exposed, you thought. Maybe the meeting was too much, or he was suddenly overwhelmed.

It was easy to forget: he wasn't like your friends. He didn't like being the center of conversation, nor being surrounded by comments he couldn't tell if they were meant to be funny or not. And, as always, his instinct wasn't to complain, but to shut down a little. To retreat inward.

Without forgetting the matter, you rested your forehead on his temple, brushing his skin with your lips.

“Do you want us to go now?”

The question wasn't meant to offer a clear conclusion. Rather, it was a way of holding him back, of offering him a way out before the silence became awkward.

“No, I'm fine,” he murmured.

But he didn't mean it. And you, even if you didn't fully know it, were starting to feel it.

You stroked his leg again, more slowly this time. As if you could reconnect with him with that gesture. As if your body knew it needed him close even when your head still couldn't understand the reason for his distance.

You looked at him out of the corner of your eye.

His face was a little more serious, his jaw clenched like someone holding back. You didn't know yet that it wasn't the meeting, it wasn't the music, your company, or the noise. It was something more invisible to your eyes.

For a while, you sat there, trying to act naturally so he wouldn't feel guilty or uncomfortable. But as soon as you saw an opportunity to escape, you took it.

“Let's go home, okay? My head hurts a bit, and I've already had too much to drink,” you said quietly, as one of your friends began to tell a rather boring story for the third time.

Bob barely looked up from his glass. He didn't object, didn't even ask if you were serious. He just moved as if grateful that you were the one who said it first.

You said goodbye with hugs, some more effusive than others. There were jokes, laughter, someone asking you to invite him back, and another shouting something about taking care of your boyfriend. Bob didn't respond. He merely smiled with his lips closed.

Outside, the air was fresher, and the silence, was like a truce.

You called a taxi as you walked toward the corner. He kept his hands in his pockets, his steps a little slow. He seemed calmer than he had been at the bar, but still withdrawn. You brushed his arm with yours as you walked, and he moved closer, as if by reflex.

“Are you going home, or…?” you asked carefully.

Bob didn't respond right away.

“I think so,” he said, without much conviction.

You looked at him. In profile, his eyes looked sad. You didn't say they were, but there was something there, something that didn't fit with the night or the times he'd kissed you with his heart in his throat.

You moved a little closer, with that kind of affection that doesn't ask permission.

“Why don’t you come with me?”

He turned his face toward you, just a little, and narrowed his eyes as if he wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

“You could stay at my place,” you added, with a calm smile.

Bob swallowed. It wasn't an invitation with ulterior motives. Or maybe it was. But not the kind he usually feared. It was an invitation to breathe in a place where he didn't have to pretend.

“If you’re tired, we can sleep. If not… that’s okay too,” you said, glancing at him. “I just want to enjoy you a little longer. You look so pretty today that I can’t just let you go.”

He smiled. One of those smiles that barely cuts, but is worth twice as much for being so rare.

“Okay,” he accepted, quietly, as if it were a surrender.

And you, silently, intertwined your fingers with his. The taxi arrived shortly after, and when he opened the door to let you in first, your eyes met his, and you knew—without needing words—that he was ready to open up to you.

The ride was more pleasant than you expected. You leaned into him for warmth, and Bob didn't deny you his embrace, where the gentle beating of his heart felt almost like a lullaby.

As you stood at the entrance to your apartment, the jingling of your keys replaced the silence between you. As you entered, the comfort welcomed you, and you felt you could finally breathe more freely.

You asked Bob to go ahead to the bedroom while you quickly went to the bathroom. You wanted to remove your makeup and also brush your teeth to get rid of the taste of alcohol in your throat. You thought about taking a shower, but discarded it because of the thought that Bob might fall asleep before you could talk to him.

When you finally came out, he was sitting on the edge of the mattress. He'd already taken off his shoes, leaving him in only his thick gray socks, and he raised his head slightly when he noticed your presence.

“Okay, honey, what's wrong?”

“What’s up with what?”

“With you,” you whispered.

He looked away as you approached him.

"Nothing”

“Bob,” you insisted, more firmly this time. However, he didn’t seem to want to budge.

The preceding silence made you frown, and you thought it was time to intervene, although now with more determination.

“Bob, what’s going on? You’re acting weird. Did something bother you? Were my friends rude?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “It’s not like that.”

Testing the waters, you closed the distance and settled onto his lap, straddling him. It was a low move, but you knew your lover always became more compliant when your body was that close. His body reacted—of course it did—but his arms stayed limp at his sides. So you reached up, cupping his cheeks, gently guiding his face toward yours to make him look at you.

“So? What is it, huh?” you asked gently. “You can tell me. You know I won’t get mad.”

“It’s not that I think you’ll get angry. It’s just… it feels really dumb to say out loud.”

“Your feelings aren’t dumb, Bob,” you corrected him. A gentle kiss on his lips was enough to make his shoulders relax and his hands finally settled on your thighs. “What is it?”

“It’s just that…” he murmured, his gaze fixed on some indefinite point, “I think I felt bad about… you know, the man thing.”

“What man?” you asked, tilting your head in genuine curiosity. It was a simple gesture, but it puzzled him. He couldn't tell if it was confusion, indifference, or tenderness.

“Who sent the round of shots to our table. The one who was flirting with you.”

You didn't say anything right away, but the way your eyes searched his seemed to say too much: you didn't understand why this affected him so much, or maybe you did, but you wanted him to say it.

“I'm not your boyfriend, I know... but...”

The phrase hung in the air, like a loose thread that threatened to unravel what you had woven that night. You watched him for a few seconds that seemed like an eternity, without responding immediately.

“Is that the problem?” you asked softly. “Do you think because you’re not my boyfriend I’ll go with someone else?”

Bob didn't say anything. He opened his mouth, as if about to explain, but then seemed to change his mind. He looked down again, his brow furrowed, as if in pain. Then you lifted his head and plastered on a smile meant to inspire confidence.

“You could have anyone you wanted,” he complained, a mixture of frustration and surrender in his voice “Anyone. Just need to smile at them like that and you’d have them in the palm of your hand.”

At first, you looked puzzled, but after a second, your expression changed. With determined tenderness, you reached up and caressed his cheek.

“And you think I don’t know?” you exclaimed. “But I invited you. Why do you think I did that?”

“Well, I don’t know.”

“Because I like you, Bob. Very much.”

The words hung suspended for a moment. You didn't need to repeat them; you'd already said it all with that tone, with that body leaning toward his, with that warmth that emanated from the closeness.

You smiled sweetly at him. Then you kissed the tip of his nose, his cheek, the line of his jaw. You hugged him, still feeling him stiff beneath your hands. He didn't reject the gesture, but he didn't fully surrender himself either.

“I’m not usually good at reading signs,” he said hoarsely.

“And what do you think mine says now?”

Bob looked at you for a moment, his pupils dilated by the mixture of emotions, desire, something he could barely name. Then he replied in a low voice:

“For me to stay”

You nodded, barely smiling.

"Exactly"

You kissed him again, this time slower, deeper. A kiss that didn't seek urgency but clarity, as if each caress of your lips could erase the doubts he'd been carrying since the bar.

“I love that you get so nervous when I touch you,” you whispered against his skin. “As if you don’t understand yet that you can have me all the way. Whenever you want, however you want.”

Bob swallowed. His hands moved to your waist, not with impulse, but with an unspoken longing. He hugged you as if he feared that by holding you tight, you'd disappear.

“You know what I like best?” you added, brushing your nose against his. “That you don’t realize what you do to me. But I do. I see it. Every time.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling as if he could finally let something out. And then you kissed him again. Short, soft kisses, repeated over and over again, intended to fill an old emptiness. Kisses that mingled with words, murmurs, and soft laughter.

“I like the way you look at me. I like the way you listen to me. I like that when you're with me, the world falls into place. And I want you to make sure that sticks in your head, got it?”

Bob wrapped his arms around you. His fingers trembled a little, but now they didn't flinch. He didn't seem afraid to touch you anymore.

“You’re so hot, Bob. It’s painful to see how you don’t realize that more than one girl would kill me to kiss you like I’m doing now.”

You leaned gently toward him, until your bodies were chest to chest. With a gentle push of your hips, you made him lie back on the mattress. Bob let himself go, his eyes fixed on you, as if he were suddenly struggling to breathe.

"But I'm the one who does it, aren't I? Lucky me”

You leaned a little further into his chest. Your hair fell to the side, caressing his neck as your lips continued to explore it. Kisses on the corner of his mouth, on his jaw, on his neck. Kisses that didn't ask for permission.

Bob was physically unable to utter a word. He knew that if he opened his mouth it would only be to let out a moan, so he didn't.

Suddenly, your bodies began to seek each other out more intentionally, unhurriedly, but with a growing passion that could no longer be hidden. Desire throbbed beneath your skin, between faint sighs and caresses.

Clothes weren't a barrier, but a gentle reminder of what was still to be discovered. You didn't need to rush. You were already choosing each other. Every touch, every lingering kiss, every shared breath was the clearest proof that you were right where you wanted to be.

The man beneath you exhaled faintly as you rubbed your hips against his crotch, as if you wanted to tease and prepare him at the same time. He felt you smile against his lips.

“Let me take care of you, honey.”

Carefully, almost ceremoniously, you slid your lips down his neck and began trailing wet kisses down his chest. You slipped off the flannel and then the white t-shirt, placing your hands on his forearms, firmly on his biceps.

The first time you saw him naked, you were pleasantly surprised, as you didn't expect to see that gorgeous six-pack hidden under his baggy clothes. They always say the best are the quietest, don't they?

You reverently continued kissing his chest, making sure that each time your lips parted, it was with the grace and delicacy of a butterfly landing on his skin. You licked along his abs, tracing your route to the hem of his jeans, where some prominent veins stood out. The closeness made you salivate.

“May I?” you asked softly, placing your hand on his belt buckle. He only managed a nod from his spot.

It didn't take you long to pull his pants down to his ankles, taking his boxers with them. It was obvious he was beyond hard after all that make-out session you'd had, and all you needed was a fistful of your hand at the base of his shaft to make him twitch.

You began with slow, rhythmic, circular movements up and down his swollen length. With each stroke, his breathing quickened and his cheeks turned a deeper shade of pink. From your spot, you could see him biting his lip, definitely trying to mask how hot it was to see you giving him this attention.

You whispered to him that there was no need to be silent, and to motivate him to let himself feel it, you slipped the tip of his member into your mouth. He couldn't resist, and a breathy moan filled the air. Sure, Bob had had this kind of experience before, but this was his first time sober. Without the meth dulling his senses, and with how much he wanted you, you going down on him felt like heaven—better than any high he’d ever chased.

Your lips were warm, and he couldn't tell if it was your saliva or your precum that made your insides so deliciously wet. After a few seconds, he didn't even have the strength to mask his moans, so he just let them out without any shame.

Every now and then, even as you took him all in, you whispered how good he tasted or how much you loved fucking him with your mouth, feeling him down to your throat. More than the movements, your words were what was driving him to the edge.

He wasn't used to receiving that kind of praise during sex. It was something new, yes, but something he could get used to.

Suddenly, the world shrank to the sensation of your tongue sliding over his cock, at first at a cautious pace, then so fast it made his legs tremble. His hands moved on their own to your head, brushing your hair with his fingers until he managed to secure it in a ponytail, which he held with one hand.

The sight of you looking down at him, your eyes watering and your cheeks pressed against his, made him utter a growl of curse.

Then he began to set the pace, guided by that growing urgency burning in his loins, that pre-orgasm desperation that made him tremble inside. He knew you could have made him come easily, effortlessly, but the instant he felt himself approaching the edge, something deeper and more primal took over: he wanted to come inside you.

He wanted to feel your walls squeezing him as he came, how you enveloped him completely. He wanted to kiss you at the same time, devour your moans and mix them with his, as if that moment could fuse them in a more intimate way than any other.

“Wait, wait, baby…”

You stopped, and his member slipped out of your mouth with a soft pop. He felt dizzy from the worried look you gave him, as if you'd done something wrong when, in reality, you were doing everything perfectly.

Before you could ask him anything, he sat up and, with an almost savage rhythm, yanked his pants out of the way. You let out a squeal as his hands—strong and manly—held you by the waist as if you weighed nothing and laid you down on the mattress.

Bob was a meticulous man, in every sense, always behaving prudently to avoid making a mistake. But that night he turned into the messiest lover you could imagine.

The first thing he pushed aside was your black shirt, his movements determined, as if he couldn't wait any longer. He didn't even bother to remove your lace bra; he simply pushed it down enough so he could lean down and nibble at the skin of your tits, hungry for you. At the same time, one of his hands deftly descended to your stomach, searching for the fly of your pants.

His desperation overwhelmed you completely. He was soon making his way through your pants, his hand descending firmly to your crotch, where he cupped your still-covered pussy. Even through your panties, the wetness was unmistakable. He swallowed hard, overcome by the thought that pleasuring him had been able to awaken that desire in you.

He murmured—begged—to be let inside you. His voice was desperate, almost delirious, whispering again and again that he couldn’t wait, that he needed you like he needed air. You responded with the same eagerness, cupping his face and pulling him down into a kiss, exhaling one sentence: that he could do whatever he wanted to you.

You both let out a moan in unison as he positioned himself at your entrance, sliding inside you a moment later. You were consumed by passion, sick with desire for each other, to the point of feeling like you could shatter into a thousand pieces. As if at that moment nothing else existed, and the explosion of that insatiable longing was the only thing left of you in the world.

His thrusts became steady and deep, as if he had to reach the bottom of you to be satisfied. He breathed so erratically against your neck that it only made everything hotter.

His every movement seemed driven by something more than desire: a raw, ancient need, as if your body were the only refuge capable of containing him. There were no thoughts, only the shared urgency, the heated touch of skin against skin, the trembling that grew with each thrust. And amid that intensity, he wasn't just seeking pleasure… he was seeking belonging. Holding onto you as if afraid he'd lose himself if he slowed down, if he stopped feeling you this way.

“Do you think I’d let anyone else fuck me like this?” you whispered, right against his ear. Your velvety voice sent a shiver through him. “Only you can do that, handsome. I’m completely yours. Only yours.”

Your words twisted something deep in his stomach. It caught him off guard, realizing how far you’d gone to offer yourself to him—fully, selflessly, in a way no one else ever had. Bob already knew he was yours, body and soul. But he never expected to hear, from your own lips, that you belonged to him too.

Wanting to motivate him again, you sweetly complimented how well he was doing and confessed how much you wanted him to make you cum.

It got to the point where all there was in the room was a mix of the lewd sounds of your bodies colliding, incomplete sentences, moans, grunts, and the feeling of heat emanating from your naked skin.

He knew he wouldn't last long. And maybe he was a hopeless romantic, but he wanted you to come at the same time, as if that would make the moment more intimate.

His thumb traveled to your clit, pressing hard, rubbing insistently to stimulate you enough for your climax. Your hips responded, moving frantically against him almost instinctively, while your nails dug into his back, clutching at something tangible to endure the ecstasy that was already beginning to course through you from the tips of your toes.

A high-pitched moan escaped your lips without warning, and in that instant, he knew you'd come. The way your body shuddered, clenching tightly around him, was a turn-on impossible to resist. Feeling your orgasm engulf him pushed him over the edge, and then he surrendered without reservation, spilling himself inside you with a deep, broken groan, so intimate and delicious that you wished you could keep it forever, like a precious secret between the two of you.

When Bob collapsed against your chest, rising and falling with a shaky breath, he needed a moment to pull himself together.

The warmth between the sheets was still felt, the echo of sighs and bodies intertwined. His cheek sank between your collarbone and the edge of your neck, breathing slowly, as if he could only just allow his lungs to do their work.

Your fingers moved in slow circles over his back, just above the line where his tense shoulder blades were beginning to relax. The sweat on his skin was already drying, but he didn't pull away. Not yet.

“You okay?” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

He nodded, but said nothing. It was enough for you to feel him. His weight, his breathing, his meaningful silence. You knew him well enough to know that when he was silent, something was settling inside him.

A few more seconds passed. Then he slid a hand down your side, absentmindedly caressing the curve of your waist, as if he needed to remind himself you were there.

"Thank you"

“Why?” you asked, now stroking his damp hair, ruffling it gently.

“For... this. For you. For not letting go when I shut down like this.”

You didn't say anything right away. You just kissed his forehead, slowly, with a reverent gesture.

“You need more to get rid of me.”

A sigh escaped his chest, sounding almost like a laugh. He sat up slightly, lying on his side so he could see you better, one of his legs crossing yours as if he needed to stay in touch with you.

The dim nightlight partially illuminated his face. His eyes were dark and soft, vulnerable. Your fingers ran down his cheek, then down to his chest, where you could still feel his heartbeat racing calmly.

“Need anything, sweetheart?” you murmured, voice thick with heat. “Water? A tighter grip? Or maybe you just want to hear how fucking gorgeous you look wrecked like that?”

He let out a soft, shaky laugh.

“You know, I didn’t realize how much I liked hearing you talk to me like that… not until now.”

“Talk to you how?”

“Well… you know. All those compliments. The sweet things you say.”

His words stumbled out awkwardly, like he still wasn’t sure how to respond to your praise without putting up his usual defenses.

You smiled.

“Funny how we’re always learning new things about ourselves, huh?”

He looked down, and you took advantage of that second to take his face in your hands.

“I’m just not used to this,” he said, barely whispering.

"To what?"

“That someone loves me so calmly”

Your chest tightened. And you leaned in to hug him, closing your eyes for a moment to contain the emotion that was beginning to rise within you as well.

You stayed with him like that for a long time. Caressing him, whispering small things in his ear: how handsome he looked with his hair messed up, how much you loved the sound of his voice when he moaned, how adorable his blush was, how irresistible he seemed to you even when he was insecure. And Bob took it all with bravery and modesty, trying to convince himself that you were sincere with your words.

“I think we should clean up a bit,” you suddenly mumbled, amused “We’re kind of... sticky.”

Bob, who might have fallen asleep due to the calm, let out a soft laugh, with a slight sigh at the end.

“Probably yes”

“Do you want to take an ice bath to wake us up?”

As soon as the phrase left your lips, you felt a shift. His hands, resting on your waist, froze, and his body tensed as if you'd said something you shouldn't have. His gaze drifted toward the ceiling, unfocused, his mind probably traveling somewhere farther away.

“Hey,” you mumbled, frowning slightly “What’s up?”

Bob opened his mouth, but it took him several seconds to form a response. Finally, he let out a sigh.

"It's no big deal"

You already knew that wasn't true, but you insisted immediately. You ran your fingers along his chin, gently guiding him to look at you. You waited. You gave him space.

He swallowed. Then he looked away again. His voice, when he finally spoke again, was low, almost timid.

“It's just... cold water makes me a little tense. It always has. I don't know why... well, I do. I just don't like to say it out loud.”

You remained silent. Present, without pressure.

“When I was a kid,” he began again, more firmly this time, “if I misbehaved or… if my dad thought I had, he’d sometimes make me take a bath with ice-cold water. Not for hygiene or anything. It was a kind of punishment. He’d run it hard, saying I needed to wash it off. Sometimes he’d leave me in there for minutes, which at my age seemed to feel like hours.”

His voice held no anger. It held tiredness. A kind of ancient shame that he no longer knew whether it belonged to him or not.

“Since then… I can't. It's hard for me. Cold water makes me think about it. Even though now I'm the one who turns on the tap.”

A pang of tenderness tightened in your chest. You didn't say anything at first. You just leaned toward him, caressing his cheek with your lips. A kiss. Then another, on his temple, as gentle as you could.

“Thanks for telling me,” you whispered. “I won’t suggest it again, okay?

He nodded slowly.

“But we can still take a bath,” you continued, still hoping. “A warm one. We fill the tub, sit for a while, I put in some bath salts, some candles. It doesn’t have to be for any reason other than to wash off all that’s left behind… the sweat, the residue, the intensity. Just to relax. Together.”

He looked at you. And for the first time in minutes, his expression truly softened. He looked relieved, almost small. He nodded once more, this time with his eyes shining with something hard to describe.

"Sounds good"

“Let me pamper you for a while, okay? You don’t have to worry about anything today.”

You sat up slowly, still holding him, and helped him up with you. The air between you was no longer heavy, but warm. True intimacy, love in its quietest form.

As you walked to the bathroom, Bob felt something inside him click, something that had been awry for a long time. Not because you'd said something miraculous, but because you hadn't judged him when he revealed a piece of information that made him so vulnerable. You looked at him the same way after he told you, as if nothing about him scared you, and you even looked for an alternative to make him feel better.

A while later, when you were already submerged in the water and he could feel your back against his chest, he understood. The feeling was clear and floated peacefully between you; he was loved, there was no doubt about it. Sincerely and deeply.

He was safe.

taglist: @highinhardtown @yesshewrites1 @haydenlizz @tenmaabnesti @qardasngan @serenitybloodmoon @littlemsbumblebee

[7-deadly-cats]

killing me softly | 18

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ G E N R E ✿ she fell first, he fell harder | slice of life | drama

✿ P A I R I N G ✿ s1!rafe cameron x overthinking!reader (f)

✿ C O N T E N T W A R N I N G ✿ swearing, suggestive language & themes, hints at jjpope, cursed chat pics, mention of abusive household (aka rafe's), hints at reader getting turned on lmao, gentleman!rafe, reader one sec away from hyperventilating, slightly jealous!reader, awkward!rafe (um.. you'll see why), also FLUFF

✿ S U M M A R Y O F L A S T P A R T ✿ after rafe dropped you off at the beach, cara dragged you to meet sarah, kiara and cleo. everyone was nice, though kiara questioned what was going on with you and rafe. in the restroom of bob's iceshack, cara admitted she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hook up with jj. your conclusion: she was torn between him and topper. later, rafe texted saying he saw sarah’s story and wanted to pick you up an hour later. after some back and forth, you agreed on 7:30pm. still, you couldn’t help but wonder why he was suddenly so eager. after hanging out with the pogues for a while, you dipped. john b offered a ride for tomorrow’s open air movie night. back in rafe’s car, he called them losers but backed off when you questioned it. after some pushing, he finally admitted he felt like everyone was choosing sarah over him. you tried to reassure him and concluded (internally) that ward cameron was the root for his issues. during your late night drive you got mcdonald’s, and finally, he dropped you off with a surprise: a my little pony bracelet from a gas station to prove he wasn’t playing you. in bed, you showed the bracelet to the girls in the new group chat. last surprise of the day: the mirror selfie from rafe aka the same one you’d stared at earlier.

✿ W O R D C O U N T ✿ 13.5k+ (longest chapter yet help + max use of chat screenshots so prepare for a LONG reading session)

✿ A / N ✿ GUYS I TRIED WITH THIS ONE BUT i kinda feel like the second half sucks, and also it feels extremely rushed if we take the pace of the other days of the week into consideration but well guess it wouldn't have made sense to drag out sunday for no reason. i also feel like i fucked up the ending by the direction i've chosen but i kinda gave up lmao. i probably could've explored the full potential of this setting and, IDK AHHHH. dw there's gonna be a part 2 of the event. anyway, have fun reading and PLEASE lmk what you think, this chapter gave me sm anxiety <3

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a little warning: avoid the comment section bc of spoilers 🤣

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W E E K O N E // S U N D A Y 1 1 : 1 7 A M

"Okay, where did we leave off again?" you asked Cara as you made yourself comfortable in your little windowsill nook. "My brain is so full, I can’t keep track of anything anymore."

Cara chuckled. "Oh, I know exactly what it’s full of. Mr. ‘Let me give the girl I like a friendship bracelet so it’s not too obvious that I’m completely down bad for her.’"

A giggle slipped out and your cheeks instantly flushed. "You're gonna lose it when I tell you this next part."

“She’s already losing it,” came a voice, and your heart dropped to your stomach.

OH MY GOD, now that you saw the wall behind Cara… NO WAY. GIRL ACTUALLY SPENT THE NIGHT IN JJS WONDERLAND OMGGGG.

Cara scoffed, amused, and turned her phone to show JJ pulling a shirt over his very bare chest. You were so glad he at least had boxers on.

“Say hi and get out,” she said.

JJ looked up with a “Hey, my room,” and winked into the camera with a big-ass grin when he spotted you. “She’s even louder in bed.”

Too. Much. Information.

You just stared, stunned, and gave him an awkward little smile.

Cara rolled her eyes and turned the phone back to her face. “Chop chop, Dig’s waiting for his morning walk.”

“Not sure the leash’s even usable anymore.”

GUYSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS.

Cara stared flatly into the camera. “He's joking.”

OKAY THEN.

“Okay, okay. The leash only almost came into play,” JJ called out, followed by a loud “Hey!” as Cara threw a pillow at him.

“Out. Now. This is a girl-to-girl talk,” she said. “Village idiots not allowed.”

JJ chuckled. “More of a jester anyway.”

Then came a soft thud, which you took as him finally leaving the room.

“Okay, where were we?” Cara looked into the camera with a blinking smile.

You blinked back. “So, I guess, you don’t wanna—”

“Nope.”

“Aight.”

Cara cleared her throat. “Sooo, the last update I got from you and Loverboy is basically just what you'd said in your voice memo last night. He brought your bag back, then you guys spent the afternoon together. He dropped you off, picked you back up later, and by the end of the night practically proposed, right?”

Um… something like that.

You’d obviously left out a lot in that memo. As sweet and welcoming as the Pogue girls were, you’d literally only known them for a day, and you didn’t exactly feel comfy going full overshare just yet. And considering one of them was Rafe’s sister, you weren’t gonna bring up his little hate-rant about her or start gossiping about him behind his back.

But Cara was different. She was your best friend. You could tell her everything.

And you did. You told her about lunch with your parents, your trip to Bulk & Bloom and Barry’s pawn shop, your full-on spiral that you and Rafe had talked through in the car, and of course your evening trip to McDonald's and how he'd walked you to the front door like a freaking gentleman.

You did leave out his angsty little moment in the car, though. He’d opened up to you so honestly, you didn’t want to betray that trust. Plus, it felt… special. Like something just for the two of you.

But the important stuff? Oh, you shared that.

Your parents basically already adopting him, Barry’s well-meant warning, OH and obviously the insanely awkward moment when Rafe had caught you scrolling through his chat with Kelce.

AND OF COURSE, the most insane, messed-up, crazy thing he’d said: that you were a cute chick and he’d (quote) bend you over in the backseat of his car if you said the word.

“WHAT!?”

Your phone speaker peaked just a little.

You chuckled, cheeks flushed. “Well, yeah, he—”

“WHAT?”

Another laugh escaped your mouth. Cara stared at you, eyes wide and jaw dropped like you’d just told her Harry Styles invited you to his private villa.

“GIRL, I—” She exhaled like she’d just sprinted a marathon. “I don’t even… holy fucking shit, like, oh my Jesus Christ, good Lord and all the heavens above.”

When Cara started praying, you knew shit was actually insane.

You giggled. “Now imagine what was going on in my head. The fact I managed to function after that is honestly one of the seven wonders of the world.”

"The fact that you didn’t immediately jump him and rip his clothes off—that is the miracle," she shot back, still staring at you like she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. "I MEAN WHAT? Like, my kitty would’ve gone straight to—"

“OKAY!”

Cara shook her head like a madwoman. “Y/N! That boy is so down bad for you, how do you not see it?” She sighed, shaking her phone. “Like HELLO? Rafe Cameron said out loud that he’s into you.”

"Sexual attraction and having a crush are two completely different things," you argued.

Cara frowned dramatically. “How oblivious do you wanna be? Yes.” You heard frantic tapping sounds as she smashed at her screen. “He gifted you a fucking bracelet. Rafe Cameron. The guy who’s known for doing absolutely nothing for any girl, like, ever. What more do you need? He said you’re cute. He said he likes you. He said he ENJOYS spending time with you. And what else? OH RIGHT, that he wants to hang out even after your little project dates are over AND THAT HE WANTS TO CLAP YOUR CHEEKS.” She shook her head like she was malfunctioning. “THIS SCREAMS GET READY TO BE MY GIRLFRIEND.”

Did it?

UM, YEAH, KINDA DID.

Fucking hell, Cara could really make even the most chaotic shit sound like it followed cold, hard logic.

But here's the thing: Rafe was a direct guy. If he had no problem saying he’d sleep with you, surely he wouldn’t have a problem saying he was into you like that (hypothetically speaking, of course).

Which kind of threw her whole argument out the window again.

You shook your head. “This sounds more like, ‘I’ve never had a female friend before, and now that I do, guess I’m gonna keep her around.’”

“So you do realize he wants you,” Cara replied.

You let out a tired sigh. “Yeah, I guess, but not like that. I don’t know how to explain it… I just think he likes the idea of having a girl around.” You tilted your head. “Like with Topper and Kelce, he’s this kinda toxic-bro-masculine-alpha type. And I guess he misses the fun flirty energy." Then you remembered his emotional outburst last night. “And I feel like with me, he also doesn’t put on a front. I don’t know.”

Cara stared you down, deadpan. “That is literally the ideal foundation for a relationship.”

“Or for a really good friendship,” you countered.

How were you supposed to explain to her that this poor boy probably just wanted someone to see him for who he really was? Like, the frustration he let out last night—the way he basically admitted, without saying it directly, that he was scared of being abandoned.

And that could always happen in a relationship. In a short-term hookup? Inevitable. But a good friend? Ideally, that was someone you could have for life. And the fact you were a girl—just a side note in the whole equation.

“Yeah yeah yeah yeah yeah.” Cara rolled her eyes. “So what you’re telling me is, he puts in all this effort just so he can call you his friend and still flirt for fun? Make it make sense.”

"Yeah, but, C," you said with a chuckle. "That's literally how our friendship works too. We both put effort into each other, that’s what friends do, and don’t even get me started on the flirting. Like according to your logic, I should question your intentions as well."

Cara curled her lips. "... okay, you kinda have a point there."

You nodded with a See? look on your face.

"But," she continued, "we’re girl best friends. You and him? That’s a whole different thing."

You raised an amused brow. "Are you seriously trying to tell me that a guy and a girl can’t have a platonic relationship?"

Cara scowled. "No, of course not, but—"

"But I’m okay with the way it is," you said with a soft smile. "I have no problem with just being friends with Rafe. Honestly, it might even be better this way. I don’t have to worry about screwing it up, or God," you chuckled nervously, "all my other insecurities."

Cara let out a sigh. “You really are the biggest mystery to me, girl. You’ve been crushing on this guy since fifth grade. And now, when you finally have the chance to actually make something happen, like, he’s literally offering you the perfect foundation, you just settle for the easiest option.”

Less risk of being disappointed. Less chance of embarrassing yourself. Less chance to lose whatever it was you two had built in just a few days. Accepting Rafe as a friend was the easy choice, yeah, but it was also the safest.

But you knew exactly what Cara would say to that: she’d start pushing you to take a chance, make a move, break out of your shell for once.

"Okay, look at it this way," you said with a playful eye roll. "A relationship can always grow from a friendship. Does that help?"

You doubted that would actually happen, but at least it would shut Cara up for now.

She chuckled and wiggled her shoulders. "Friends to lovers? Uhh, now you got me." She raised her eyebrows with a lopsided grin. "So… does that also apply to us, orrrr…?"

You quickly steered the conversation back to her. More specifically her evening with the Pogues, dinner at the Chateau later on, and eventually the magical night she had with JJ. Kiara, Pope, and Cleo had left at some point, leaving just Cara, John B, Sarah, and JJ behind.

The exact details and noises from that night, however, Cara could gladly keep to herself.

Anyway, her dad called a little later to tell her to come home—her grandparents were visiting to celebrate her mom’s birthday belatedly. With a quick "Oh shit, we’ll text later", your little call came to an end.

You’d barely touched the ground with your feet, just getting off your windowsill corner and ready to change out of your sleepwear into something actually wearable, when your phone buzzed again.

And what greeted you? Yeah…

Geez, it wasn’t even noon and your pulse was already at 180.

First Cara fueling your delusions, then Rafe and his newfound hobby (or more like obsession) with your reaction pics (UM THE FACT THAT HE'D DOWNLOADED PINTEREST FOR IT???) and how he instantly went into full-attack mode just at the mention of you being in the girlies’ group chat, like bro, we get it, you’re terrified of abandonment but PLEASE CALM DOWN I AIN'T GOING NOWHERE. And then back to Cara, aka the fact that you’d now have to endure the drive to the open air event without her.

Honestly, that last part was the least of your worries because if you'd managed to survive half of Kelce’s party solo (okay, with Topper, Molly, and Rob), then you could totally handle a short car ride.

No, what really had you spiraling was how comfortable Rafe had gotten with you in just one day. Like, hello? First the mirror selfie last night, and then those reaction pics this morning (okay, more like noon, oops), AND THEN THE FACT THAT HE STRAIGHT UP ADMITTED (or hopefully joked) that he'd had a little private session this morning, DUDE COME ON.

HELP AND THE FACT THAT THAT SENT YOU INTO INSTANT BRAIN CINEMA MODE OF A HALF NAKED, HEAVY BREATHING RAFE, BOXERS AROUND HIS ANKLES, EYES CLOSED, HEAD PRESSED BACK INTO THE PILLOW OR DESK CHAIR (WHO KNEW), HAND AROUND HIS—NOPENOPENOPENOPEHELPPP

Jesus Christ, suddenly there was a tingling sensation in your lower body and the urgent need to open the windows to cool your body down because your cheeks? On fucking fire. Not even mentioning the heart rate and that warm, funny feeling between your—OKAY ENOUGH HOLY SHIT.

You gotta be ovulating or something because that? What the actual fuck.

HAHAHAHHAA ANYWAY.

Lunch.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

"How's Rafe?" That was one of the first questions your dad asked once you all sat down in the dining room.

Great. Not even here you could escape the topic.

To make things worse, both your mom and dad were giving you this smirky look that screamed You were out late last night: Should we be getting excited about our future son-in-law?

UGHHH. It was so awkward, and if you even dared to give a shy smile or deflect it, it would only make everything ten times worse.

So you just shrugged and poured yourself a glass of water. “He’s doing okay, I think.”

Your dad let out an amused breath. “And his cheek? That looked pretty nasty yesterday. He should’ve iced it right away, then it wouldn’t have swollen like that.”

Trust me, I told him.

“Yeah, it looks worse than it is,” you said, adding, “he popped an ibuprofen yesterday.”

He had, actually. Swallowed it right in the McDonald’s parking lot with a Coke Zero. Like seriously, how was this guy even still alive?

You half expected them to hit you with a “You two were gone a long time—what exactly were you doing?” or some other nosy questions. But instead, the energy at the table shifted.

Your mom raised her brows slightly, concern (???) flickering in her expression. “And… at home? Is everything okay there too?”

um… what.

Your dad seemed to catch the confusion on your face. “It’s just, we've been wondering...” he let out a dry chuckle, “I’ve seen bruises, cracked ribs, busted faces—pretty much everything—my whole career. And that bruise? If he’d actually been hit with a golf club, I probably would've been patching him up in the ER Friday night.”

Oh. So your dad had seen right through Rafe's lie.

Well, of course, he had. Taking care of people was his job. He had to know the difference between different kinds of wounds and bruises.

But from the way your parents were hinting at it… did they actually think Rafe was getting hit at home? That was… wow.

But telling them what really happened aka Rafe almost starting a fight—you really didn’t want to paint him in that light. Didn’t matter that he’d stood up for you.

“No idea,” you said, furrowing your brows as you poked around your plate. “I think things are fine at home too.”

Your mom tilted her head with a soft smile. “But you don’t know for sure?”

Your overthinking, spiraling, constantly-needing-answers issue? Mhm, yeah, you definitely got that from her.

“No, I mean, I barely know him,” you replied. “Are you seriously thinking he’s getting abused at home or something?”

Then again… okay, you didn’t know Ward personally, but something in your gut told you there was something off about him. Especially after the realization you'd had last night: Him probably being the root of Rafe’s issues.

Your dad leaned back. “Well, speaking as a dad, I’ve got a feeling there’s tension at home. I’m not accusing Ward of hitting his kids, I’m just guessing Rafe’s relationship with him is… strained.” He shifted in his seat. “And my gut? It’s never been wrong.”

O-kay. So apparently your parents had picked up on the same thing after interacting with Rafe once. Wow.

“Ward’s always been a difficult person,” your mom added. “Back in college, he was super ambitious, driven, competitive. Always pushing. Expecting the best results from himself and everyone around him. And anyone who held him back or got in his way? Didn’t stay in his way for long.”

Obviously he hadn’t killed anyone, so you just assumed he either threatened, manipulated, or schemed his way around people.

Your mom sighed. “And truth is, I know Rafe’s not exactly an easy kid. Rose told me he often takes off for hours and doesn’t come home until midnight. And school? Apparently not going so great either.”

Something about talking about Rafe behind his back like this… it just didn’t feel right.

“Rose isn’t his mother, though.” Shit. What a dumb thing to say.

Your mom furrowed her brows. “She tries to be. It’s not easy for someone like her to reach someone like Rafe.”

"Someone like him? "You raised your brows.

What the hell was that supposed to mean? And why were you suddenly feeling so defensive, HELP.

“Y/n,” your dad’s voice was gentle but firm. “Rafe seems like a good boy, I’m not doubting that. But it just feels like… something’s off. And the most likely explanation is that things at home aren’t exactly stable.”

He pressed his lips together, a flicker of hesitation in his eyes. “I’m not trying to accuse Ward of anything or scare you, but… when I wanted to check the skin on Rafe’s cheek, he flinched when I raised my hand to do so. Not a dramatic reaction, just this quick startled blink, but in my head, every alarm bell went off.”

And that made your heart clench in the worst, most painful way.

Sure, maybe your dad had misread a harmless blink or twitch but deep down, you knew that wasn’t it. And the thought that Rafe might actually be getting hit by his own dad… GOSH, THIS BOY.

Drug problems, anger issues, and a toxic household? This guy didn’t need a girlfriend, he needed a loving family.

No. He needed a real dad.

“That doesn’t mean the bruise had to have come from home,” your dad continued, and his tone softened a little. “Honestly, I just assume he got into some testosterone-fueled fight at whatever party you were at.” He chuckled. “Thinking back to the way I used to look after I boxed with the guys from the 44th… that bruise is practically a scratch.”

Not your dad just casually dropping new lore.

Your mom rolled her eyes, mock-annoyed, the corners of her lips twitching with a smile. “I was the one who had to play nurse back then.”

OKAY NOPE YOU DID NOT LIKE THAT SMILEY LOOK ON HER FACE. DID NOT NEED TO KNOW THAT.

Luckily, your dad circled back to the actual point: “We’re just concerned. We’re both parents—we notice when something’s off with a kid. As a doctor who’s seen lots of children with seemingly perfect parents, I can tell you: eyes never lie. And Ward may be a great family man, but that doesn’t automatically make him a great father.”

He let out a heavy breath. “Abuse can show up in so many ways, not just physically. So if you ever notice anything, please don’t hesitate to come to us, okay?”

Well, this sunny Sunday just got very not sunny, very fast. Like… how did we go from “How’s your hopefully-soon-to-be boyfriend?” to child abuse—HELLO??

You didn’t even know what to say.

You were touched by their concern, the way they weren’t judging Rafe in the slightest. But also overwhelmed by how heavy the topic had just gotten. Sure, your parents did always notice this kind of thing right away but now that your suspicions had basically been confirmed by them...

Yeah, that didn’t sit well with you at all.

Of course, none of you really knew what was going on in the Cameron household. But if all of you had arrived at roughly the same conclusion, then either you were all operating on the same overthinking, assume-the-worst type of brain…

Or something was actually going on.

Both, you thought bitterly.

So all you did was nod with a somewhat forced smile and said, “Okay.”

Your parents nodded, seemingly relieved. And of course, since you were already on the topic of Rafe, they circled back to yesterday. Asking questions like, “So where did you guys go afterward?”, “How’s your school project coming along?”, “Did Cara give you that cute bracelet?” and dropping comments like, “He seemed very smiley around you,” and “Feel free to invite him over for dinner again.”

And just when the conversation was dangerously close to veering into the Safe Sex territory, you excused yourself from the table, mentioned that you’d be going to the Open Air tonight, brought your plate to the kitchen, and thanked Mary for the food.

Back in your room, you exhaled.

Wow. Apparently, there was no such thing as a break this week. But the fact that your parents thought you and Rafe would look cute together? AKCKKANFALJKD.

Also, the whole thing about how you both apparently glowed around each other? If Cara had said that? Yeah well, no, delusional queen just back again with her delusions. But your parents? Who were basically professionals when it came to reading people—your dad being a literal doctor, and your mom a CEO in sales, aka someone who had to be good with people—If they said Rafe liked you?

Fuck, then it had to be true.

Okay okay, he had kinda already said it twice himself—once just yesterday in the car—but STILL OMGMGM.

Okay okay, calm the fuck down.

You just became friends, no need to start building your wedding Pinterest board.

You played with the bracelet around your wrist as you sat down at your desk, smiling to yourself like a damn idiot at the soft rustling sound.

The way it fit just right around your wrist and how FUCKING CUTE IT LOOKED. Gosh, the fact that Rafe had thought of you when he'd spotted it, and then actually bought it for you and gave it to you AHHHHHH. AND JESUS, THEN HE'D BEEN ALL CUTE AND AWKWARD AND NERVOUS WHEN HE'D HANDED IT TO YOU.

HELLO??? Rafe fucking Cameron being awkward AND nervous around you??? As much as that made the butterflies in your stomach go into full freak-out mode, more than anything, it made you feel like a total winner lol.

I’m fine. I’m cool. Completely chill.

SMNJXWNDVHSJDKMXOIASJCDAVLSAÖ.

You would never get over this.

Well, you had to at least try for the next few hours. Because more important than giggling to yourself in your room like some hopelessly lovesick little girl was actually getting ready for tonight.

Okay, it was barely past 1 PM, buuuut you’d gladly take all the time you could get.

Sooo, Cara was probably busy with family stuff right now—spending the day with her grandparents and parents and all—so yeah, no chance of calling her.

Molly maybe? You knew she was also coming tonight because you’d heard her talking about it at Kelce’s party. AND HOLY SHIT YOU DESPERATELY NEEDED TO KNOW WHAT WENT DOWN BETWEEN HER AND KELCE OGMGMGM.

Never mind. Her little Bitmoji was currently chilling at Kelce’s place on the map, so there was your answer.

So Molly was out too. Sure, she’d probably be happy to chat with you—hell, Kelce too probably—but you didn’t want to interrupt these lovebirds (hookup partners??? soon-to-be-married??? WHO KNEW).

Hm. Okay.

Six hours until the boys were picking you up.

Well, you could always sit out on your balcony and sketch a little. You hadn’t really had the chance lately. The past few days had kept you on your toes so much that you'd barely had the energy to sketch a stick figure. And on top of that, the art project with Rafe had kinda sucked most of your creative brain juice dry too.

Senior Year was already a lot and it had barely even started yet. And now The Gloaming was right around the corner—next Friday, to be exact—and well, you were really not looking forward to that.

Midsummers was at least really nice, casual and fun. Dressing up in cute summery dresses, getting tipsy on overpriced prosecco and wine, giggling over boys in suits, and it just had this soft, fairycore kind of vibe to it.

The Gloaming, on the other hand? A school event.

Unlike Midsummers, it wasn’t held at the Cameron Estate, but at a big event venue on the North Side near the beach. One the mayor himself dubbed “Garden Eden.”

It was purely a Kook event, which… yeah, made sense, since it was organized by the Kildare Academy, which was technically a Kook school. But like, couldn’t they have at least teamed up with the South Side High School?

Sure, some Pogues would show up but only as workers. Bartenders, cooks, waiters, janitors who had to clean up everyone’s mess the next morning.

Anyway, this whole class division thing was deeply rooted in the Outer Banks. No point in getting all worked up about it.

And the worst part about The Gloaming? The absolutely RIDICULOUS amount of GOSSIP surrounding it. Gossip at KA was always present, but for some reason, this event turned everyone into real-life Gossip Girl contestants or whatever.

Who went with whom, who cheated on who, who wore the cheapest dress, whose parents were getting divorced, which guy bagged the most girls, and a bunch of other completely braindead nonsense you honestly wanted to stay far, far, far away from.

Unfortunately, your parents loved going. Catching up with old classmates, schmoozing, socializing, and Cara did too. So yeah, they always dragged you along. Plus, it was basically an unofficially mandatory high school event. No way you were risking a dip in your GPA just because you skipped it.

SPEAKING OF GPA.

SHIT.

Shitshitshitshitshit. THE MATH TEST TOMORROW.

Fuck.

You’d completely forgotten. Mrs. Richman had even given your class a friendly reminder last Monday.

Shit.

Well yeah, of course you’d blocked it out. Right before that class, Mr. Smith had put you in a project group with Rafe, and that had basically hijacked your entire brain.

Okay, okay, okay. No panic.

You’d sit down now, study a bit for the next five hours and thirty minutes, and then you’d still have half an hour to get ready for the Open Air.

HAHAHAHAHA TOTALLY DOABLE.

That was, if Rafe wasn’t constantly sending you random reaction pics slash memes slash kinda very suggestive fairycore-slash-emo-wolf pics.

Apparently, Pinterest was his new hobby.

Good for him (and honestly, kinda cute), but not for you. You had a math test to prep for.

And as much as you wanted to send stuff back because RAFE USING THOSE PICS IN THE FIRST PLACE AHHHHHH, you really couldn’t afford to fail math.

So you decided it was time to shut down his spamming.

With a laugh, you switched your phone to airplane mode and set it on the edge of your desk. No reply, because this would go on forever if you didn’t put a stop to it yourself.

This seriously required your maximum amount of self-control not to keep texting him, because GOSH, this felt like some kind of cute little silly version of Rafe.

You basically had the privilege of witnessing firsthand how he discovered Pinterest for himself—or, well, the cursed side of it—and all that just because of you. It was kinda wholesome. Like a dumb little boy realizing for the first time that dinosaurs were cool.

GIRL, STOP DRIFTING OFF.

You seriously needed to focus now. (Well, not your fault Rafe kept spamming your phone hihihihi.)

So you kinda half-focused, somehow managed to study your math book, worked through a few exercises, and even half a practice test until you finally gave up around 5:30—because, in the back of your mind, Rafe and the Open Air event kept spinning in loops.

You’d totally have some more time to study later tonight or tomorrow morning.

Hahahaha. Yes. Definitely.

You turned the airplane mode off again and—Jesus Christ. 200+ messages from the girls' chat and 33 from Rafe.

You quickly skimmed through both.

The girls were just discussing plans, departure times, pre-drinks yes or no, who should be picked up first, some opinions on the movie choice for tonight (Barbie), and other stuff you kinda just skimmed past (sorry girlies, I'm in a rush).

And Rafe? A bunch of cursed and weird-ass pics that just got progressively worse, him complaining about not being able to get rid of them, plus some teasing about you being a nerd because you were studying on a Sunday, bla bla. You left those on read too. (Not sorry about it.)

You jumped in the shower, dried off fast, and dumped a whole load of clothes onto your bed. Because—

WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU SUPPOSED TO WEAR TONIGHT AHHH.

Okay okay, the basic facts:

Occasion: Open Air Movie Festival When: Evening/night Movie: Barbie (main movie) and then Transformers Weather: Actually nice, sunny, warm, but a little breezy People: Both Kooks and Pogues, maybe even some Tourons

Conclusion: I DON’T FUCKING KNOW.

Something casual and chill would be the smart move, considering you’d probably be sitting or lying most of the time. Best to throw on a jacket too, just in case. There’d probably be blankets, but still.

And of course, no sweatpants look.

You kinda wanted to dress up a bit, but still keep the vibe right. OKAY NO YOU JUST WANTED TO LOOK PRETTY. With Rafe being there and... yeah. Just Rafe.

Shit.

Now it’s official. You were picking your outfit based on a guy.

A guy you didn’t even need to impress, because, well, technically you were friends now. And you didn’t dress up for friends… right?

Okay, maybe you did it for special occasions. But you didn’t hope that said friend liked your outfit and maybe... MAYBE gave you a compliment.

NOOOOOO I’M FALLING BACK INTO MY DELUSION HOLE AHHHH.

HOW COULD YOU NOT? HIM SAYING HE’D BE DOWN TO BEND YOU OVER KIND OF IMPLIED HE’S ATTRACTED TO YOU AT LEAST A LITTLE SO…

…SO WHAT NOW?

Were you the one sending mixed signals now by dressing up a little even though you’d made it clear you weren’t into short-term hookups?

...maybe.

Anyway. HAHAHAHAHAHAHHA (i’m going crazy.)

You tried on some different outfits, scattering your clothes all over the room, and in the end, narrowed it down to two options—both of which included a dress. Because YEAH WHY NOT.

One was more chill and the other a little cuter, but both showed some leg hihihi.

You took pics of both and were just about to send them to Cara for input when Sarah beat you to it:

These girls, dude. Feeding into your delusions without a single shred of shame.

Also, holy shit, they all looked so fucking gorgeous in the outfits they’d picked out. Now you had an even harder time choosing which one you should go with.

Okay, no time left. It was already almost 6:30.

So, a coin toss it would be.

You assigned each outfit to one side of the coin, then flicked that thing up into the air, nearly smacked yourself in the forehead trying to catch it, but managed to trap it between your hands and…

That should do.

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

"Shiiii, look at you." Kelce was the first to speak as you opened the door of the white Range Rover parked outside your house.

Rafe had called you 10 minutes earlier to say they were on their way. You’d thrown your things together in a rush, said goodbye to your parents (who wished you a fun night), and waited in the driveway because no way were you risking one of them ringing the bell and getting wrapped into some awkward parent chat.

You smiled shyly and gave them a soft “Hey” as you slid into the seat behind Topper’s, next to Molly. Kelce was next to her, and Rafe sat in the passenger seat up front (of course, sitting in the back would’ve probably bruised his ego).

"That dress suits you so well," Molly said with a warm smile, and you chuckled.

She looked so unbelievably sweet herself. Her red curls hung wildly on her shoulders, and her red lipstick made the whole color pop even more. She was wearing the cutest pastel green skirt and a white corset blouse you'd ever seen and KELCE’S HAND WAS RESTING ON HER THIGH AJDNJKWNJDKW

And Kelce? Wearing a pink shirt, probably to match the Barbie movie but honestly, they looked like COSMO AND WANDA and it was just SO SWEET.

"Thank you," you said, unable to hide your grin. "I love your outfit too."

Kelce squeezed her thigh (AND SHE CHUCKLED) and added, "I deserve half the credit, I helped her pick it."

You could practically feel how much Rafe wanted to gag. Also… you felt a little (a lot) disappointed that he'd only turned his head once to glance at you without saying a word, BUT NOT GONNA LET THAT RUIN YOUR MOOD RIGHT :))))))

"So, Cara’s already gotten a ride, I heard," Topper said, the bitterness in his voice slicing straight through the mood.

You fiddled with your bag strap and nodded. "Well, yeah, she’s..." Shit. You didn’t actually know what excuse she’d given Topper, considering she was riding with John B.

"She prefers hanging out with little Pogue rats now," Rafe finished for you, dry amusement in his tone.

You couldn’t help but frown. If it was already starting like this…

"Ayo, bro," Kelce said with a chuckle, kicking Rafe’s seat. "You better behave tonight. Keep going like that and you’ll end up with a Dalmatian face full of bruises."

Wow, how was Kelce the voice of reason here? Internally, you were thankful because it meant you didn’t have to address it yourself.

Rafe scoffed and shook his head. "Not holding back if one of those fuckers starts provoking me."

Are we sure you’re not the one starting things, boy?

“Dude, don’t make me play peacemaker tonight,” Kelce shot back. “Gotta concentrate on my date.”

Molly chuckled, and you did too. THEY WERE SO CUTE.

Then your heart sank as Kelce leaned forward, pointing toward Rafe with his thumb while looking at you. "Your job tonight."

…What?

You blinked and smiled awkwardly.

“It’s not hard,” Kelce went on with a grin full of white teeth. “Keep him hydrated, stop him from talking to people, and bring up golf every now and then. That usually distracts him.”

Topper and Molly both laughed, and oh god, it was so hard not to laugh too as Rafe turned around with a scowl—first looking at you, then at Kelce.

"You’re gonna be the first fucker I beat up tonight," Rafe said, crooked grin on his lips.

Kinda cute how he always acted like Kelce pissed him off when in reality they had this weirdly wholesome friendship behind the scenes.

Kelce held up his hands as Rafe turned back around. "Ayy, thought you might appreciate the company of a pretty lady."

PLEASE.

Your cheeks heated up because that sounded dangerously like Kelce trying to play wingman or matchmaker, and somehow that made the whole situation SO FREAKING AWKWARD.

"I'd appreciate if you shut the fuck up," Rafe said, still frowning as he looked straight ahead.

This boy was so dramatic, holy shit.

THEN AGAIN, HE HADN’T DENIED WHAT KELCE HAD SAID, SO CLINGING TO THAT FACT HAHAHAAH #goingmoreinsanebytheday.

Topper cleared his throat. "So, uh, back to Cara..."

That earned a round of groans from everyone.

After some teasing of Kelce and Rafe, and some attempts at cheering Topper up by Molly and you, you all got tired of that topic (thank god because you just felt so bad for Topper), and a few minutes later you arrived at your destination anyway.

The huge gravel parking lot was already filled with cars. Some girl was directing Topper in and assigning him a spot for his big-ass Range Rover, which, as you’d found out, happened to be his mother’s.

As the engine shut off, everyone got out. Kelce helped Molly out of the car, and Topper held the door open for you while you struggled a little with your dress.

"Thanks," you said with a polite smile and slung your bag over your shoulder.

Topper looked like he was about to say something (judging by his expression, probably trying to get a moment alone with you to talk about Cara), but Rafe suddenly appeared at his side, grabbing his shoulder with a crooked grin.

"Aight, enough whining about Hall," he said, nodding toward the entrance. "Cheer the fuck up and go find another chick inside. Or go annoy Kelce and Molly, I don't give a shit, but stop dragging us into it."

Such tact. Truly award-worthy. Though, to be fair, that actually sounded like Rafe’s version of wanting his friend to feel better.

Topper pressed his lips together, clearly debating whether to argue, but in the end, he just sighed and nodded. "I'll go join the others."

With that, he walked off.

As much as you felt sorry for him, it wasn’t your place to speak for Cara’s feelings, so you were actually kinda thankful for Rafe’s little lifeline.

SPEAKING OF RAFE.

Dude was eyeing you with the smuggest grin ever, blue eyes locked on yours before letting his gaze drop down your outfit (and soul, the way his stares always felt so intense) for a second.

And the way he just nodded, his eyes landing back on yours, DUDE WHAT.

"What?" Heat rose to your cheeks and you smiled sheepishly.

Rafe shook his head, lips tugging into a downward smile. "Nothing. Just curious who you dressed up for."

HUH. NOT HIM CALLING YOU OUT LIKE THIS. THIS WAS SO FUCKING EMBARRASSING BYE.

You let out a nervous chuckle and shook your head too. "Myself?"

Somehow, you both seemed to know that was bullshit, and now you just kinda wanted to curl up into fetal position and stay there for the next one billion years.

"Bold choice for a self-date," Rafe said with a shit-eating grin.

You couldn’t tell if that was a compliment or a smooth way of saying, “Next time, pick something else.”

Hey, I kinda wanna die right now.

"Shit, don’t look at me like that." Rafe chuckled boyishly. "You look good, alright? That dress suits you."

...

:)

EDNCSKJDXCHNFEWJSKLFCHNVDLAKGSNJVSÖKLFDHXUVWDIUEOPSAXM;POSWLSCKUCJGFKD

Cheeks hotter than the sun, but you didn’t care because OH MY GOD. You couldn’t even hide your smile, and you also didn’t care that you probably looked like some stupid fucking idiot while doing it, but WHO CARED.

"Thank you," you said, gripping the strap of your bag.

AND THEN you mustered up the courage to look him over as well. Not as obviously as he had, because that guy just seemed to have zero shame, but well, you did appreciate the view.

Even if he was wearing one of his probably thousand polo shirt variations again, it suited him just as well as the other 999. Paired with some more or less basic white shorts that really showed off the tan on his legs and some matching white Dior B57 sneakers.

Kinda low effort but that guy pulled it off like crazy. And him deciding to wear his hair as curtain bangs again BECAUSE OF YOU (yes, you'd never forget how he’d admitted that yesterday) kinda made your heart rate shoot up even higher.

Rafe raised his brows when you met his eyes again, and you felt caught and awkward, but still, you managed to say, "Looking fresh yourself."

That made the cutest laugh escape his lips, and you could literally feel the butterflies in your stomach dancing to that soft sound.

"I'm just gonna assume that’s a weirdly executed compliment and you're not just making fun of me," Rafe said with a lopsided smile.

You shrugged. "Maybe it’s both."

"Aight." Rafe then eyed your jacket. "Might wanna take that off though. They’ve got blankets and stuff in there, you know."

You let out a soft laugh, raising your brows. "And I’m just gonna assume this is your weird way of caring about me being comfortable and not just a way to get me undressed."

DID YOU ACTUALLY JUST SAY THAT OMMGMFMMF.

Rafe himself was the biggest confidence boost you could get, and his boldness kinda rubbed off on you.

He chuckled. "It’s both."

ALRIGHT, DUDE.

Okay, honestly, you were kinda starting to sweat under the jacket. First, it was still super warm despite the time, and second, Rafe’s flirty comments (yes, let’s just call them that) were turning your entire body into a heatwave.

With flushed cheeks, you let out a soft giggle and awkwardly tried to take off your jacket while still holding onto your purse without dropping both.

"Jesus, give that shit to me," Rafe said, grabbing your purse with one hand while helping you out of your jacket with the other.

"Ayo, you lovebirds coming?" Kelce’s voice boomed from a few steps ahead. "Seats are filling up, you’ll have to share one soon!"

UGHHH PLEASEEEE DON'T MAKE THIS EVEN MORE AWKWARD.

"Gonna kill that fucker someday," Rafe muttered as he handed you your purse back, eyeing the bracelet on your wrist with a silent smile.

You chuckled sheepishly and slung your bag back over your shoulder, blinking in confusion when he kept holding onto your jacket.

Rafe's gaze drifted over your now-exposed upper half for a second before he looked back at you with a smug grin, tilting his head toward the others. "Come on, before I lose interest in the movie altogether."

DUDE. You REALLY had to get used to this kind of apparently harmless flirting without immediately spiraling into that one very specific overthinking rabbit hole. Like—he couldn’t just make comments like that and then--

The sudden touch of his hand on your back yanked you out of your thoughts, a buzzing warmth settling over your whole body. He gave you a gentle nudge forward and you fell into step beside him, already missing the heat of his hand the second he let it fall away.

As soon as you reached the ticket booth, it found its place again as Rafe softly guided you past the grumpy-looking line toward Kelce, Topper, and Molly.

"Finally," Kelce said with a wide grin as he took two tickets. "Thought you—"

"Shut your ass and keep moving," Rafe cut in, softer than usual.

Topper was up next and followed the other two through the archway. Muffled voices and soft music already drifted from inside.

You reached for your wallet automatically, but Rafe had already stepped in front of you, placing your jacket on the counter. "Two tickets, and this to coat check."

You blinked. "You don't have to—"

"Yeah, yeah," Rafe said, eyes focused on his wallet as he handed the cashier forty dollars. "Keep the change."

No way. He was paying for you again AND tipping the kid behind the counter twenty-five dollars?? First the McDonald’s food and now this? What, why, how.

Plus, um ... you kinda needed that jacket later…

Rafe took two pink tickets and a tag with the number 69, grinning like a five-year-old (grow up please), and handed you one. "Just shut up and take it."

And you did (with a "Thank you" nonetheless) while your heart practically exploded in all directions. Then you followed him through the archway onto the event space.

Dozens of people were already scattered across the area—locals and even some tourons—chit-chatting, laughing, lounging in groups or pairs. Some had already claimed a spot in front of the massive screen on floor cushions or deck chairs. A few had even brought their own blankets and pillows.

To the side were the restrooms and food stalls selling popcorn, nachos, and other snacks, plus all kinds of drinks from water to vodka-energy, and a variety of rental blankets and pillows.

And strung up between trees and posts were dozens of fairy lights and pink paper lanterns (clearly Barbie was the more anticipated movie tonight). It looked gorgeous, and cozy, especially now with the sun halfway down the horizon.

Which, as a matter of fact, made the whole setting feel... a little too intimate.

The others were nowhere to be seen, and it was just you and Rafe now, standing near the entrance. And the fact that he'd been all gentlemanly earlier didn’t help—THIS ALMOST FELT LIKE A FUCKING DATE, JESUS CHRIST.

OKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK CALM DOWN. JUST LOOK AROUND, MAYBE I CAN SPOT--

"I guess you'll want some snacks and shit like that."

Your head snapped back to him, suddenly very aware of how exposed you felt without your jacket, without Topper, Kelce, or Molly AROUND AND AHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAH.

The only thing grounding you was the bag on your shoulder, which you were now holding onto like your life depended on it.

"Um, yeah, sure," you said, internally begging your brain to chill the fuck out.

WHY DIDN’T HE CARE WHERE THE OTHERS WERE THOUGH??? HELLOOO YOUR FRIENDS ARE GONE, PLEASE LOOK FOR THEM.

With a simple "Aight, come on" from Rafe, you followed him toward one of the snack stands, trying to maintain a respectful distance.

This time, there was no one for Rafe to cut in front of, so the two of you just stood there AND YOUR BRAIN COMPLETELY BLANKED ON EVERY TOPIC KNOWN TO MAN.

How was he so chill while you almost debated asking him what brand of microwave he’d recommend because you LITERALLY had nothing else to think of HELP.

Nervously, you hugged yourself, trying to ground yourself by gently pinching the skin on your upper arm.

"You cold?"

You met his raised eyebrows and instinctively dropped your hands, giving him a small, smiley shake of your head. "Wh—no. No."

Rafe eyed you for a long second before saying, "You're being weird."

NOT HIM CALLING YOU OUT OH MY GOD.

"You're always weird, but this is weird-weird," he added, dry amusement in his tone.

You let out a strained chuckle. "Okay, maybe I am kind of cold."

ughhhhhhhhhhhh. Please believe me, please believe me, please—

"Well, then we’ll buy a fucking blanket. Jesus Christ, you gotta chill."

oKAY.

WAIT—WE?!?!?!?!?!

You had zero time to spiral over that because suddenly, you two were up. WAIT—YOU TWO??? NO. RAFE. RAFE WAS NEXT. HELP. WHAT’S GOING ON.

He ordered some nachos with salsa dip and a large diet coke and then turned to you with an expectant expression.

WHAT. NO FUCKING WAY.

No no no no no no. Him paying AGAIN felt so insanely weird for no reason. You stepped forward and grabbed your wallet, and he looked at you like you just insulted his entire bloodline.

"That's some disrespect," he said, raising an eyebrow, though the amusement in his tone was undeniable.

You couldn’t help but chuckle. "I just... you really don’t have to—"

"Shit, only thing I wanna hear right now is your order," he cut you off, and the cashier's barely hidden smile just made the whole thing ten times more awkward.

And because you really didn’t want to drag this painfully awkward situation out any longer, you just told her your snack and drink choice.

Rafe placed two twenty-dollar bills on the counter and added, "And a blanket. Large."

The pretty cashier girl glanced between the two of you, lifting a brow with clear amusement. "We only have small ones left."

YOU’VE GOT TO BE FUCKING KIDDING ME.

PLEASE ASK FOR TWO. PLEASE FUCKING ASK FOR TWO.

"Yeah, well, one of those then."

[Insert brain explosion sound here.]

You could literally feel the adrenaline flooding your body, nerves tingling and buzzing, butterflies flying around all confused and bumping into each other like WHAT DO YOU MEAN ONE.

You kinda felt like hyperventilating but all you did was smile with the most strained expression because what :) else :) were :) you :) supposed :) to :) do :)?????!?!??!!

Rafe took the change and shouldered the blanket bag over one strap, then reached for his snack order.

You grabbed yours too and followed him, your nerves shot to hell. You honestly felt like some helpless prey knowing it was about to get devoured but having no idea when.

Your cheeks burned hot and you were pretty sure your blood pressure was sky-high, except you had no idea why you were freaking out so much. All you could hear was your own heart pounding in your chest and ears.

You almost didn’t even notice that Rafe had stopped, or rather, that he’d been stopped.

Wait, no. Rafe had stopped because you’d been stopped.

Cara had grabbed your arm, halting you in your tracks, a huge grin on her face as she greeted you both.

Shit. And JJ was next to her, waving with a smile.

Your half-panic attack vanished instantly, now replaced with a new, different anxiety: Rafe freaking out, saying some dumb shit, or worse, starting actual shit with JJ. Or JJ not keeping his mouth shut. Or even worse, the other Pogues showing up.

But they didn’t. And all Rafe did was...stay quiet, other than giving Cara a casual "'Sup."

WHICH MADE YOU ALL THE MORE CONFUSED BECAUSE WHAT THE FUCK WAS UP WITH HIM TODAY.

"Already said hi to Kelce and Molly," Cara said, eyeing you with a grin that basically screamed I-see-one-blanket-and-your-jacket’s-missing-soooo-wink-wink. "Also spotted Topper, but didn’t wanna interrupt his chit-chat with Ruthie."

RUTHIE’S HERE? OF COURSE SHE’S HERE.

Rafe scoffed. "He’s salty 'cause you turned him down."

Cara blinked, genuinely looking a little guilty. "I didn’t turn him down. I just already promised someone else I’d join their group. And last I checked, his car only has five seats anyway."

"Could’ve thrown Kelce in the trunk," Rafe shrugged.

Dude.

"Or someone could’ve gotten cozy on a lap," JJ added with a smirk. Directed at you.

DUDE.

Rafe finally tensed and you found yourself relaxing (girl, are you okay???) because that was a sign he wasn’t some polite and gentleman-programmed clone of himself.

But before he could snap at JJ, Cara stepped in. "Or Topper could stop acting like a drama queen just because I turned down his invite," she said with a frown, though you knew better. She felt bad.

Rafe tilted his head, and the air shifted in a way you did not like. Great. Now you had to de-escalate this?

"I’m sure he’d still appreciate it if you say hi later," you said with a smile that was clearly meant to signal pls-this-is-getting-weird-fast.

Cara, thank god, got the message and sighed dramatically. "Guess you’re right." Then she looked at her wrist like there was a watch. "Oh no, movie’s starting soon. Gotta grab our snacks before we miss out."

Oscar goes to her for sure.

You just nodded, smile still strained. "Right."

"Okay, see you two later!" she grinned at both of you, then grabbed JJ by the arm and dragged him off toward the food stalls.

Bomb successfully defused.

You turned back to Rafe and he looked at you with a boyish grin. "Didn’t know she had piercings."

Wh—OH. WHAT.

You stared at him blankly.

Had he seriously checked out her tits? Okay, no judgment, like Cara had gone braless today and her boobs looked legitimately perfect—like GODDESS-LEVEL—in that pink dress of hers, and even you couldn’t help but notice the second she'd walked up but...

You didn’t like that Rafe had.

Of course, of course he could look. He was a guy after all, and what else did they ever see beyond tits and ass, and yeah, Cara was an absolute bombshell, but…

Hm.

HM.

A weird feeling spread through your stomach and the butterflies just kinda sat there now, not sure what to do or how to feel.

"Well, yeah, I guess," you said, and it was so painfully obvious how the slight bitterness in your voice still came through. So you tried to compensate with a smile, but you probably looked like someone being held at gunpoint. "She got them a few weeks ago."

Rafe seemed way too entertained by that and just nodded with a wide grin. "Bet that hurt."

"It’s a sensitive area, so... yeah," you replied, trying to sound casual and failing miserably.

An awkward silence started creeping in, adding to the sudden clenching in your chest, and you felt huge secondhand embarrassment for yourself. For being JEALOUS of your own best friend, especially when you and Rafe weren’t even a couple in ANY WAY and just UGHHHH.

Can I be normal for ONE FUCKING SECOND, please.

"Ayo, Rafe!" Kelce’s voice suddenly echoed from somewhere deeper inside the event space.

You and Rafe both looked up and spotted him somewhere between the seating area in front of the screen, waving with both arms.

Relief washed over you, and without waiting for any comment from Rafe, you started walking toward Kelce through the rows of bean bags, lounge chairs, and picnic blankets.

You found Kelce sitting on one of the lounge beds in the back rows… and Molly on a different one (?). A second later, you felt Rafe’s presence beside you.

Kelce patted the spot next to him, a huge grin on his face. "We saved you one of the best spots. Didn't want you sitting on some uncomfortable floor pillows. Bad for the spine, you know."

...no. Just. NO.

NONONONONONONONO.

There was no way you were gonna lie down on a damn shared lounge bed with RAFE, barely wide enough for two people. NOPE. NO. NO THANK YOU.

OKAY YES HOLY SHIT YES, BUT ALSO NO NO NO.

And Rafe—this NONCHALANT FUCKING GUY—didn’t give a single fuck. After Kelce had gotten up and moved over to sit with Molly, Rafe just dropped the blanket bag onto the bed and placed his nachos and Coke on the holder on the left side like this was the most normal thing ever.

You just stood there frozen, your heart SCREAMING AT YOU TO JUST SIT DOWN while your brain was spiraling, throwing thoughts and questions around, with the two big monsters called fear and anxiety looming over everything like a cold storm—

“Come on, Y/n.”

Molly. Her voice was soft and quiet next to you. “Enjoy yourself a little.”

She looked up at you with her sweet smile and kind eyes. There was a gentle understanding in her expression, and beneath it, this warm encouragement—like she got it. Like she really understood what was happening inside your head. The panic, the confusion, and mostly the sheer anxiety about this whole... situation.

And somehow, just that little sentence and her sweet smile were enough to bring a tiny bit of quiet to your brain.

YOU COMPLETELY UNDERSTOOD WHY KELCE HAD IMMEDIATELY FALLEN FOR HER BECAUSE DUDE.

“You waiting for an invitation or what?” And then there was Rafe with his passive-aggressive bullshit, already lying back with his legs up, shoes off, sipping his stupid Coke Zero.

Remember: he’s just a dumbass. Sure, he might be the biggest crush you've ever had, but deep down he's just a dumb little stupid boy. You had absolutely no reason to feel intimidated or nervous around him.

WELL YOU HADN’T—UNTIL HE'D DECIDED TO BE A GODDAMN GENTLEMAN TODAY WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK.

Okokokok whatever, I’m gonna move now and just sit down. Yeah, yeah, a little smile, mm-hmm, that’s it. And now I’ll set my stuff down on my side. Okay, done. Oh shit, my drink nearly slipped hahah. Whatever, it’s fine. Now I’ll hang my bag on the hook at the side and then I'MGONNATAKEAPLACEJUSTINCHESAWAYFROMRAFEOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK.

DONE.

KJDEWFBGVJKWRBGFVWSJKBHFCSKWHBFESQHRL.

You smoothed out the fabric of your dress, let your hands fall into your lap, and leaned not at all tensely against the pillow backrest, staring straight ahead like a normal person because everything about this was completely normal.

:) yes, normal :)

Oh, wait. Your shoes.

You kicked them off and tossed them into the grass, and because you could feel Rafe’s burning gaze on you the whole time, you finally met his eyes—and he looked so fucking done with you it was almost hilarious.

He didn’t even look pissed. Just straight-up The-Office-style deadpan, like he was staring directly into some invisible camera, and that camera was your eyes.

"You know, at this point, you might as well just sit in the grass," he said, walking that fine line between annoyance and amusement.

And okay, he kind of had a point. You were sitting so far to the right your right leg was basically hanging off the edge of the bed.

I’m so fucking embarrassing holy shit.

You gave him a sheepish smile, and your heart sank when his brows furrowed.

"Are you seriously scared I might try some shit?" He actually sounded hurt beneath all that faux offense, and now you felt like the biggest idiot alive.

You shook your head instantly, heart racing. "No, no, of course not." An embarrassed smile crept onto your face. "I just—"

"Some minion fucker said shit to you," he stated, voice and expression softening just a little now.

Nodding at that painfully accurate guess felt humiliating. Sure, by now he knew your brain was a little fucked up, but not being able to just sit next to him? So fucking ridiculous.

You forced yourself to scoot a little closer, away from the edge, feeling like the most embarrassing human being on earth.

“Okay, stop,” he said, clearly trying to keep his frustration in check. He motioned to his chest. “I’m not gonna sit here with you acting like I’m holding you at gunpoint, alright? So if you’d rather go join Hall and her lapdog,” he made a shooing motion with his hand, “go for it.”

Your heart clenched at how disappointed and lowkey sad he sounded rather than mad or annoyed. And he’d been so nice today anyway, all smiley and chill, and now he looked like someone had popped his favorite balloon. Or, more accurately: like you had.

Of course you WEREN’T scared he’d try anything. Not in the slightest, oh my god, no, it was just…

NOTHING. There wasn’t a single damn problem except you and your own damn head.

Fuck that. Seriously, fuck your brain and every thought it ever created. Just—fuck it.

Shaking your head, you said, “What? No. No! I’m fine here. It’s… I’m just being stupid, okay?”

Rafe gave you a look like he was considering getting up and sitting somewhere else, but his gaze softened into a smile. He tapped his head. “Nah, it’s your fucking asshole brain feeding you stupid shit.” He sighed, then shook his head again. “Can’t believe I even have to say this shit, but if it helps you chill the fuck out: I’m gonna keep my hands to myself, alright?” He picked up the blanket bag and moved it toward you. “And this was meant for you anyway. I don’t need it.”

Okay no.

You did NOT want him feeling like he needed to explain himself just to not be seen as a creep because YOU KNEW DAMN WELL HE WASN’T.

JESUS CHRIST. You were the one putting people into shitty situations like this. And Rafe, of all people—this guy probably had to put up with your bullshit more than anyone else these past few days.

Furrowing your brows, you scooted closer and grabbed the blanket bag, opening it up and tossing that stupid thing to the side. You tried spreading the fluffy pink blanket across both your legs, but it was so awkwardly rolled together you kinda failed and a giant ball of fluff just landed squarely on both your laps.

“The fuck are you trying to achieve here?” Rafe said, half annoyed, half amused, watching you struggle with the small-ass blanket.

You leaned forward, trying to figure out which side was up. “Proving to you that I’m not uncomfortable around you.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, letting out a strained breath as he gently slapped your hand away from awkwardly fumbling with the blanket. In one smooth motion, he spread it lengthwise across both your laps.

Then you realized—it was still too warm for a blanket, especially a fluffy one like this, and you could already feel sweat creeping onto your skin. Thank god, Rafe felt it too.

“Okay, point proven,” he said with a soft scoff. “Now can we ditch this thing before I get a fucking heatstroke?”

You let out a chuckle and nodded, pulling the blanket off and tossing it to the foot of your seat.

As you shifted positions, the background music faded and the sound of the movie started. Wait, no, just some commercials. The voices around you gradually died down anyway, and the last people were finding their seats.

The air between you and Rafe finally settled. Back to as normal as it could get. And so fast too, like, you never really had to be afraid of anything with him, because even if you got into a dumb little argument, you two always somehow figured it out right away.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him tilt his head toward you, hands resting on his stomach. “Have you seen the movie before?”

You tilted your head toward him too, adrenaline spiking the second you realized how close you were. Elbows just a few inches apart, his face still at a respectful formal distance but close enough for you to see the blue pattern in his stupidly pretty eyes.

And god, his cologne in the air between you.

You smiled and shook your head softly. “You?”

“Nah,” he said, and Jesus, his gaze was always so intense. “Didn’t even wanna see this crap, but Wheezie insisted I come.”

A soft chuckle escaped your lips. “She seems more and more likeable every time you talk about her.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he scratched his jaw. “She says the same about you.”

OH MY HOLY FUCKING GOD. HE TALKED TO HIS LITTLE SISTER ABOUT YOU???? AHUJCHDNSKCHNKEHVBSFD WHAT.

His gaze drifted back to the screen as the actual intro to the movie started playing. A woman’s voice narrated something over the scene of girls playing with dolls, but you weren’t really listening.

You were too aware of Rafe sitting right there, the scent of his cologne, how relaxed he seemed—and still thinking about that almost hurt expression he had earlier.

You stared blankly at the screen, biting the inside of your cheek. He’s actually trying to make me feel comfortable, and I made him feel like I was grossed out or scared of him.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you tilted your head toward him, eyeing his calm profile for a second. The softness of his skin, his cute little lashes, the focused look in his eyes—and the violet-tinted bruise on his cheek that almost looked like a blossom.

“Rafe,” you said quietly.

You almost melted at how soft he looked when he turned his head toward you. Big blue eyes staring at you, almost scared of what you were about to say.

"I’m sorry about earlier," you said with a soft look. "I acted like an idiot. Probably made you feel like one, too."

Rafe shook his head and waved it off. “Nah, it’s alright. I’m used to your shit by now.”

Nope. That didn’t sit right with you.

You pressed your lips together, turning your body to face him in a sideways position, legs pulled up toward you. His eyes flicked briefly to the curve of your hip before meeting your gaze again, clearly trying not to smile.

A rush of adrenaline surged through you, but you kept your gaze steady, your expression serious. “Still. I didn’t want to make you feel like you had to explain yourself.”

Rafe let out an amused breath. "Chill, okay? Seriously, I didn’t mind."

How was he sometimes so chill, and other times made a whole issue out of something that wasn’t even one?

"Or do you need me to shut up the asshole minion in your head?" he said, lips tugging into a downward smile.

You let out a quiet chuckle and fidgeted with the bracelet on your wrist. "I think I managed that myself, but thanks."

He pulled a mock-pained face. "Sucks. Would’ve loved to smash that guy’s face in."

Another soft giggle slipped from your lips, and with that conversation wrapped up, you turned back to your original position. The fabric of your dress had ridden up slightly, giving a peak at your thighs and you quickly tugged it back down with an awkward motion.

Barbieland was now being introduced on the screen, showcasing all the different Barbie variants.

And then it was Rafe who shifted, leaning forward to grab the blanket.

You eyed him with a confused smile as he pulled it back over both your legs. “So you are in fact cold” you said, amused, heart racing at the sweet gesture.

Rafe looked up, almost startled, as he pulled the blanket over his lap as well. “What? Yeah, no, just... feels more comfy.”

…

Oh.

You just stared at him in slight disbelief, then amusement, then full-on embarrassment, knowing exactly what the two of you were now sharing under that blanket.

"What," he said quietly, brows furrowed with an almost accusatory tone. “It’s not like I control that shit.”

You should probably be weirded out. No, actually—FREAK OUT, PANIC, stand up and leave. But instead, you just pressed your lips together, trying not to chuckle at how genuinely awkward he looked. And probably felt.

Shit, you actually felt sorry for him.

So, in a weak attempt to make him feel better, you mirrored his movement, pulling your side of the blanket over your lap too and quietly shifting your gaze back to the screen, where the stereotypical Barbie was just being introduced.

Your heart was racing nonetheless, because like... not Rafe getting hard at the most random-ass moment during a Barbie movie. And not you lying just a few inches away from him and OKAY MAYBE KINDA PANICKING A LITTLE.

nONONONONO. Stuff like that happens all the time. He probably felt just as embarrassed as you did. Honestly, maybe even more.

Okay. Just ignore it. It'll probably go away soon, right?

Keeping your focus on the movie was kinda hard though, with how uncomfortable you felt in your current position, neck all tense because you were lying too low, and being on your back felt awkward in general.

So now you had two options: either turn on your side, facing Rafe, or turn your back to him. And given his current…situation, you weren’t really sure which one was worse.

Shit, but you really couldn’t lie like that anymore, and you didn’t wanna risk a cramp or something just because you were too scared to move. So you decided to turn onto your side—facing him—because, well… you didn’t wanna make him feel bad by turning away.

Grabbing the pillow behind you, you slid one hand underneath it and rested the other next to your face. There. Much better.

"You doing that shit on purpose now?" Rafe asked, and your head snapped toward him, catching him glancing at the curve of your hip again, now hidden under the blanket.

You let out a baffled little laugh, shaking your head. "What? No. This is just more comfortable."

“Yeah, shit. Not for me,” he muttered, and poor boy actually looked like he was suffering.

Nerves buzzing, you just stared at him cluelessly, your heart racing at the possibility that you were the reason for his current situation. "I... what do you want me to do?"

"I don’t know, stop moving." He looked so genuinely embarrassed, wearing that little scowl, that somehow it didn’t feel that weird. Okay, it did, but not as much as you'd expected. And honestly, right now, you just wanted to make him feel a little less awkward.

"Well... maybe turning on your side might help," you said quietly, with a barely hidden smile. "Might ease the pressure, considering—"

"Please just shut the fuck up," Rafe muttered, his face contorted in the most dramatic frown possible. On screen, stereotypical Barbie was now getting ready for her day. Then, after a beat, he did in fact shift downward a bit and turned to face you, mirroring your position.

For a moment, you just stared at each other. A respectful distance between you, but still close enough to feel his breath on your hand. He looked at you like he might actually murder you if you dared open your mouth, and you tried your absolute best not to laugh.

“Did you know,” you whispered, trying to keep a straight face, “Mr. Martin’s buttcrack always peeks out when he tries to write on the upper half of the board.”

Rafe stared at you, deadpan, very obviously trying to suppress a smile. You decided to go one further: “Looks like a dark hairy caterpillar from afar.”

His features softened almost immediately as a baffled chuckle escaped him, the blanket on your side lifting a little as his body shifted onto his back. He dragged a hand over his face in annoyed amusement, letting out a quiet, "What the fuck."

You held back a smile, glancing up at him with raised brows, feeling a little proud for getting those soft chuckles out of him from time to time. “Did that help?”

Rafe looked at you with a crooked smile, amusement glimmering in his eyes. "Shit, yeah, it did. I’ll probably never get hard again with that cursed image now burned into my brain."

“Imagine him in a tankini, that should do the trick,” you offered, and Rafe’s face twisted in disgust.

He tapped a finger against his temple. “That weird-ass minion in your head is worse than the shit-talking one.”

You let out a soft giggle, and your heart did a little jump when you saw him smiling along too.

Rafe then fully shifted onto his back again and tried adjusting the blanket higher up, but since it was stretched lengthwise over both of you, your feet ended up exposed. A soft breeze hit them, now that the sun had finally dipped below the horizon.

"Okay, you gotta scoot closer if we both wanna fit under here," he said, scoffing at your expression. "Shit, relax. Thanks to your overly detailed description of Martin’s wrinkly, hairy caterpillar buttcrack, I'm probably gonna be impotent for the next few weeks."

NOT RELAXING IN THE SLIGHTEST RIGHT NOW.

“But I can get up and grab my own blanket if you want,” he added more seriously, catching your baffled look.

WHY WAS HE SO SWEET TONIGHT OH MY GOD.

Okay. This is your chance for SOME CLOSENESS WITH HIM. He might’ve had a boner just now HAHAHAHAHA and you were still kind of shocked at yourself for how weirdly chill you'd reacted, BUT LET’S JUST IGNORE THAT AND USE THIS FUCKING CHANCE GIRLLLLL LET’S GOOOO.

Quietly, you shook your head with a nervous smile, grabbed your pillow, and scooted closer to him. While you kind of struggled to figure out how exactly you were supposed to lie next to him that close, Rafe grabbed the blanket and turned it so that the long side actually covered the length of your bodies.

Okay, lying on your side wasn’t really possible here, so you turned onto your back. But now your upper arms were awkwardly pressed together, both of you with your hands resting on your stomach, and your hips were touching, too, AND JESUS CHRIST HIS BODY FELT SO WARM.

But hey, at least you were both covered now, even if you were pretty sure he could hear your heartbeat, with how loud it was pounding in your chest.

Barbie was now at the beach with her friends, the Kens were doing some beach stuff or whatever BUT YOU COULDN’T REALLY FOCUS.

Also, his elbow was digging uncomfortably into yours, so you tried adjusting yours, which made him move again AND JESUS CHRIST THIS WAS AWKWARD.

“Shit, wait,” Rafe said with a quiet scoff and leaned forward. “This isn’t working.”

You just blinked at him, afraid he’d actually get up now to grab his own blanket.

Instead, he gently grabbed your shoulder, signaling you to lean forward for a second. Which you did—letting him take the lead because your brain had gone completely blank at THIS ABSURDLY CLOSE PROXIMITY.

Rafe grabbed your pillow, scooted into a more upright position, then leaned back again, his right arm now resting on the low backrest, his head supported by his hand. With the other, he placed the pillow in the now empty space, half on his shoulder and under his armpit, and gestured to it.

GUYS.

“There,” he said. “You okay with that?”

JUST SAY YES AND LIE DOWN, NO SECOND GUESSING.

So you did. Heart hammering so loud you didn’t even hear yourself speak. You smiled—half anxious, half excited—and leaned back again.

Since he was lying slightly elevated on his back, you had to scoot down a little, your head pressing against the pillow, your left shoulder half resting on his chest, and you folded your hands comfortably on your stomach. Your elbow ended up resting against the side of his hip because of that, and you expected him to shift away...but he didn’t. And NEITHER DID YOU because acknowledging it would just make it worse and—

GIRL. RELAX.

Your body was relaxed. Rafe’s warmth helped you ease into it, and the fact that he was so chill made it even easier. BUT YOUR MIND? YOUR MIND WAS SCREAMING, RUNNING IN CIRCLES, SETTING EVERYTHING ON FIRE BECAUSE YOU WERE BASICALLY HALF-CUDDLING WITH RAFE RIGHT NOW.

It’s fine. It’s cool.

Everything’s completely chill.

Actually, yeah, literally chill. Your skin had goosebumps, both from the situation and the drop in temperature over the past half hour.

And then a whole firework erupted on your upper right arm as you felt Rafe’s arm behind you shift, to pull up the blanket on your side and cover the rest of your upper body, AND HIS FINGERS BRUSHED YOUR SKIN AS HE DID SO AND—

You held your breath.

Because.

THIS FUCKER just left his arm there. Not back on the armrest, not casually elsewhere—no, right there, lightly resting on your right shoulder, his fingers playing with the sleeve of your dress.

OKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOKOK.

You bit the inside of your cheek so hard you tasted blood because WAS THIS EVEN REAL?! WAS THIS ON PURPOSE OR WAS HE JUST SO FOCUSED ON THE MOVIE HE DIDN’T NOTICE? AHHHHHHHHH

But you let him.

You let him because you wanted this. Being close to him, feeling the warmth of his body, all cozied up. Your heart was racing, fluttering like it didn’t know whether to panic or melt. Every brush of his arm sent little sparks down your spine, too much and not enough all at once.

Because, as a matter of fact, it wasn't enough. Now that you’d had a taste of this feeling—of how it felt being so close to him—it was like something inside you had been lit up. There was this deep urge and longing to completely turn toward him, fully cuddle up, put your hand on his chest, drape a leg over his, bury your head in his chest and just inhale his scent and UGHHHH.

But you were a coward. A scaredy cat, too afraid he’d push you away. Especially because this right here? It was toeing a fine line between “we’re just cold and sharing a blanket so obviously we scoot closer” and “considering we’re just project partners who happened to agree on being friends, this was way more intimate than necessary.”

Hey, funny thought here: what if you just did it? :)

Because HE clearly never gave much thought to how his little flirtations affected you. He made it damn clear it was all just for fun. So maybe you could just… cuddle with him. For fun.

Worst case? He’d say something like “You wanna get into it now or what?” and then you’d just awkwardly laugh and go “Sorry, just felt more comfy like this” and scoot back into your old position.

Remember? With Rafe, you never had to be afraid of doing some dumb shit or embarrassing yourself.

FUCK IT.

You pressed your lips together and pushed yourself up on your elbow, ignoring the pang of disappointment as his arm slipped back onto the backrest, his expression confused. DOESN’T MATTER, PUSH THROUGH GIRL. Adrenaline shot up as you grabbed the pillow that had been under his arm and silently placed it across his ribs, READY TO LAY DOWN—

—only for him to stop you with a crooked smile, your heart dropping straight through the floor.

You froze. Completely. Like your body had hit an invisible wall. Eyes wide, breath hitched, you just… stared at him. You didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare move, afraid that even the smallest word might expose you in the worst way possible.

“Shit, you're gonna suffocate me with that thing,” Rafe said with amusement and moved the pillow to the side. Then he gestured toward the now free space on the side of his chest. “There.”

Your whole body buzzed as his right arm returned to your upper arm, now gently nudging you toward him.

Ignoring every voice of reason and panic in your head, letting yourself be guided into him, turning your body toward his, resting your head against the side of his chest, your shoulder naturally tilting in, your arm daring to settle on his upper stomach.

Every nerve lit up, hyperaware of the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your cheek, the heat of his skin seeping into yours through his shirt. It was terrifying and euphoric, like stepping off a ledge and realizing, just for a second, that maybe you liked the adrenaline you felt while looking downward.

And then you almost exploded, because this guy took it a step further. His left hand remained casually on his thigh, but his other arm wrapped around your back, HIS HAND NOW RESTING ON YOUR BLANKET-COVERED WAIST.

Okay. You were officially done for :)))))))

Your heart was racing, pounding so loud it felt like drums in your ears, pulse probably skyrocketing, and let’s not even talk about the adrenaline—you’d probably need the ER in the next few seconds.

And the craziest thing was how he'd just accepted it. He'd let you do this. Hadn’t said anything dumb, hadn’t made a joke. Instead, he just laid there, snacking on his nachos and sipping his Coke Zero occasionally, the only things he said being how stupid Ken looked and acted and how weird his rivalry with the other Ken was.

But you didn’t have the heart to tell him that, actually, that was exactly how you saw him and Kelce. So you just stayed quiet, chuckled softly whenever he made another snarky remark, and soaked in this surreal moment that would be over again in about 60 minutes.

And when his left hand absentmindedly started playing with the bracelet dangling from your wrist, you didn’t say anything either—too afraid to ruin whatever this was.

Because somehow, it felt like the little agreement of friendship you made just yesterday was already, very slowly, starting to slip away into something you were too afraid to name.

Or maybe. Maybe, this was just what it looked like when two people, thrown together by coincidence, trusted each other enough to get this comfortable without needing to put it into words.

Little did you two know—it was both.

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✿ A / N ✿ imma be real, i feel like i fucked up their whole dynamic with the last scene aka them lying on the bed and cuddling and ughhh, and i also feel like you can feel through the writing how impatient i grew with the ending of this ch. idk maybe i should've postponed this and actually think it through but i kinda lost my mind with this one and now it seems like i skipped over some steps. idk maybe i'm just tired or biased bc of how long this chapter is so what do you guys think? bc i'm srsly considering reworking the last part HAHAHAHAH #heart'sactuallyracingrn

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

K M S M A S T E R L I S T | <- P R E V I O U S | N E X T ->

✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿ ✿

T A G L I S T F O R M (taglist for this series is CLOSED but you can sign up for my other stuff through this link)

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[kisakis-boyfriend]

Look What You Made Me Do – Genshin edition part 1

Pairings: Kinich, Ororon, Ajaw, Thrain/Capitano, & Ifa (separately)

Warnings: Male!reader, sub/bottom!Characters, human!Ajaw, phone sex, sexting, masturbation, sex toys, modern day AU

This artist's human Ajaw has lived in my head rent free for months now. Please show them some love 💚

Kinich

Your partner is not usually one to touch himself much. He barely sends you nudes either, so it comes as a big surprise when your phone dings and the message you receive is a 10 minute video from him with the addition of “Watch this alone.”

Finding a secluded space where no one can see nor hear you, you press play

Breathy moans greet you first, followed by Kinich adjusting the camera so that you get a full view of his hand pumping his cock

“Texting with you did this… I tried to ignore it, but I couldn't focus on anything else.”

His pretty voice carries on, intermixed with the occasional hiss and shudder

You feel yourself grow more excited as the video goes on. Eventually, Kinich sets his phone down, gripping the bathroom counter with his newly freed hand, and relentlessly jerking himself off with the other

It's also uncharacteristic for Kinich to be so vocal, but the desire must be hitting him hard right now, since his grunts are louder than ever

“D-don't… don't keep me waiting. I want you to be here when I cum.”

“YEAH! IF YOU'RE TOO SLOW, KINICH WILL MAKE A MESS ALL OVER THE BATHROOM! HAHAHAHA– OW!”

The thunk of Ajaw hitting the wall cuts the sexual atmosphere, making you laugh briefly while shaking your head at their antics

And you laugh even harder once Ajaw realizes that the hand Kinich smacked him with was wet with precum…

“EEEWWWW!! HOW DARE YOU TOUCH THE ALMIGHTY DRAGONLORD, K'UHUL AJAW WITH YOUR FILTHY HUMAN FL–”

The video abruptly ends as your partner grabs his phone and gives the camera one last apologetic look

Well, maybe that extra frustration will make Kinich's orgasm that much stronger!

Ororon

You can't leave this sweet boy alone for even a second

What was supposed to be a sleepover at a friend's house turned into a sexually frustrating night (for you AND Ororon)

Not too long after you hop into bed, you receive a video call from your lovely boyfriend

Not wanting to disturb your friend, you decide to take the call in the bathroom

“Are you asleep yet?” your boyfriend asks, panting and holding the camera over his face while he's laying back on your shared bed

After a little bit of back and forth, you finally get Ororon to show you the reason for this midnight call…

He fixes his phone on the dresser across from the bed, showing off the wet mess he's made of his hole

You end up spending hours locked in your friend's bathroom, fucking your fist that you imagine is Ororon's warm walls squeezing your length

And on the other end of the call, Ororon hooks one arm under his knees, propping his legs up. His other hand vigorously fingers his ass — pushing in deep, per your instructions

“It's…not the same…” your sweetheart whines. “It doesn't feel as good…not like when you do it…”

The pitiful expression on his face sends a pang of guilt straight to your heart

As soon as you return home tomorrow, you'll give your dear boyfriend the love he deserves 💜

K'uhul Ajaw

7 missed calls and a barrage of texts make up the wall of notifications covering your phone's lock screen

All of which are from your dear, darling boyfriend, Ajaw

He knew you were in a business meeting, so your first assumption is that this is an emergency

“Where's the fire?” you half joke when he picks up your video call

But before Ajaw's voice comes through the line, the prominent squelching noises burst through your phone speakers

And when he adjusts his camera so that it's pointing at him, you get a full view of Ajaw's dick abusing a fleshlight

“Are you done already? How much longer are those imbeciles going to keep you there?!”

Once you deliver the good news, a wide grin spreads across his face, and Ajaw's hips snap into the toy a few times, all followed by a low rumbly growl

“Good. Then get your ass back here so I can use it to replace this thing with~” he commands

Unfazed, you retort “Oohhh someone's in a bratty mood, isn't he?”

“We'll see who's the brat when I'm pounding your little ass later! I bet you can't wait to get underneath the glorious K'uhul Ajaw!”

After a bit of back and forth between you two — that results in a very riled up, and pent up, boyfriend — Ajaw resorts to calling you his "bottom bitch", all while that fleshlight becomes wetter and louder with every thrust

And it's not until your voice begins to echo, from Ajaw's phone and the entrance to your apartment, that your boyfriend realizes how fucked he is

No time to scramble away, Ajaw smirks at you once you enter the bedroom, not at all hiding the nervousness behind his eyes

Even as you hold his hips and use him just as he had used the fleshlight, your bottom bitch of a boyfriend will cling on to that false sense of superiority

Thrain (Capitano)

Your sweetheart of a husband… your loving husband who can never have enough of you… of course he'd miss you while you were on a business trip

Not too long after the sun sets, you request a video call with him. Time flies so quickly as you chat about your days, how bougie the hotel is, how much you miss each other, and plenty more

Gradually, the conversation transitions into how much you miss each other's touch. Thrain has this somber look on his face as he laments about not having your arms around him, and not being able to cuddle with you later when he falls asleep

“I know this won't be the same, but… you can use that special toy while I guide you?”

That special toy you mentioned is none other than a custom made dildo, essentially a silicone cast of your cock. It was a gift for your 5th anniversary

It's not as good as the real thing, but you figured it would be the next best thing. Seeing as you're both employees of the esteemed Fatui Agency, and you end up on more business trips than the average business man. It would be nice for your husband to have something to keep his lust satiated while you're apart

“That's it, darling, just a little more. You can take a little more. Gooood~”

Thrain sucks in a breath, hoping to conceal the moan just on the tip of his tongue. The flesh of his ass meets the chair he's positioned in his room, with that special toy suctioned right in the center

Your sensual instructions play through the phone speakers; “Bounce on it, baby. Show me how you'd ride me if I was there with you~”

Precum covers your hand as you touch yourself to the sounds and sight of your husband riding 'you'

His own cock bobs wildly, untouched, even though you never said he couldn't pleasure himself that way too

God, you wish you could reach through the screen and tug on his pretty hair. The whimpers that would follow make your cock twitch

Out of habit, Thrain places a hand over his stomach, eager to feel the bulge that 'you' create every time he sinks down fully

“My love… m-may I…?” he asks so sweetly. His voice almost a whisper

If you feel generous enough to give him permission, you'll be treated to the sight of your husband's cum dripping down his chest

If you're feeling more sadistic, perhaps you'll make your darling wait until you can be together again. Earning the most adorable whines throughout the remainder of your call 💙

Ifa

One simple, innocent phone call was all it took to tip your boyfriend over the edge

He already missed you so much. Waiting for you to return from your 3 day vacation was torture, even if you did text him every day

You called him as you were sitting in bed, wanting to hear your boyfriend's voice lull you to sleep

Ifa quickly becomes fidgety the longer he listens to you ramble about your day and how you wished you could have spent it with him

Before he even realizes it, his hand is groping at his own cock. A shudder crawls through his body, and you clock the shakiness in his breath

“Ifa? Is everything alright?” the concern lacing your tone almost makes him feel guilty for making you worry, but he quickly dispels your worry…

“Keep talking, babe…please?”

Oh, ok. Oh! It finally clicks. You shake your head in disbelief — your loving boyfriend is getting off to the sound of your voice~

You indulge him, guiding him through how lonely the hotel bed feels, and how much you crave his body next to you

The familiar sound of Ifa pumping his slick cock has you growing excited as well, and it's not long before you join in on the fun

Both of you put your phones on speaker and continue moaning while you jerk yourselves off

Ifa whines, calling your name until he hears you growl. That's what finally tips him over the edge, and once you hear your lover in such ecstasy, you find yourself joining him soon after

“Whew…that was…intense, huh?” Ifa laughs, breathing deeply

Tired, but not quite tired enough to fall asleep yet, you spend another hour or so conversing with Ifa

Not all of which is innocent… 😳

[spookysanta]

The Stack Effect. (2/3) (MBJ)

Pairing: Michael B. Jordan x reader

Warnings: smut

Part 1

here's part 2 my loves! enjoy. part 3 will be out tomorrow! :)

She could barely get herself together.

Still flushed, still pulsing, still dizzy from what just happened in that trailer — and he had the audacity to be sweet now.

Michael tugged her close as she adjusted her clothes, fixing a strap that wouldn’t lay flat. He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, then another to her jaw, grounding her with touch even as her legs barely held her up.

“You good?” he asked quietly, brushing a stray hair behind her ear.

She nodded, even though she wasn’t entirely sure. “I—yeah.” Clearing her throat, “I’m fine.”

He smirked. Not cocky. Just knowing.

“You gon’ be fine later?”

She raised a brow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“‘Cause I ain’t done with you, baby girl.”

He walked her to her car like a gentleman, hand on the small of her back, thumb rubbing soft circles into her spine. No one from set was around anymore. The sun had started to shift. It felt quieter now. Calmer.

But her body was still buzzing.

When they reached the driver side, he opened the door for her.

“Call me when you get home,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss her.

She nodded again, lips parted. Still dazed.

He grinned. Showed teeth.

That damn gold again.

“Don’t go fallin’ asleep without me now.”

The drive home was a blur. Her thighs still sticky. Her phone buzzing with texts every few minutes.

Lover: You good?

Lover: Miss me yet?

Lover: Bet you still feel me.

Lover: Make sure to wear your pink robe. The one with the rose on the back. I want it on when I get there.

She was half-laughing at the absurdity of the situation, and half-horrified at how much she was still throbbing by the time she made it inside.

She showered. Sort of.

Laid across the bed in her pink robe just like he asked. Tried to answer emails. Failed.

Her phone buzzed again.

Lover: On my way.

She didn’t hear him come in.

Didn’t need to.

The door creaked. Footsteps padded down the hall. Then he was in the doorway, leaning on the frame like something out of a fever dream.

Still in costume.

Still Stack.

Full tailored suit. Chain. Gold teeth glistening in his cocky smile.

His eyes darkened the second they landed on her.

“Good girl,” he said, practiced accent molasses-thick. “You listen real good when you’ve been fucked right.”

She sat up, breath catching.

He shut the door behind him. Locked it.

“Missed me already?”

“You were gone for like three hours,” she shot back, flushed.

“Too long.”

He crossed the room, slow and deliberate, and dropped to his knees at the edge of the bed.

“You been thinkin’ about it all afternoon?” he asked, mouth ghosting over her thigh.

She nodded.

He smiled.

“Good. Now lie back. Let me remind you what you left set with.”

He pulled her forward gently. Spread her knees. Kissed the inside of her thigh, her hipbone, her navel. When he finally tasted her, he groaned like it was his first meal in days.

And worshipped her until she forgot her name again.

Later, tangled in the sheets, she whispered, “Why are you still in costume?”

Michael shrugged.

“Thought you liked Stack.”

“I do.”

“Then shut up and let me give you round three.”

[cottonlemonade]

Marriage Of Convenience [Part 1]

word count: 1705 || avg. reading time: 7 mins.

pairing: post-time skip!Kuroo x chubby!Reader

genre: fluff, friends to lovers, slow burn, slice of life

warnings: spoilers

synopsis: Marriage is not a big deal, right? Anyone can do it and it comes with a whole lot of benefits! That’s why your friend proposes to you one morning with all the elegance and romance of an empty pudding cup.

The honey drizzled in deep golden ribbons onto the still warm buttered toast. The first signs of spring were in the air and the thickly plumed sparrows chattering on your balcony outside the kitchen window, hopping from railing to empty plant pots, almost drowned out the noise from the busy road down below. In typical Monday morning fashion, you only half-paid attention to your breakfast while you scrolled through your emails, picking out the important from the irrelevant and barely took note of the front door opening. Shuffling footsteps hurried along the short hallway. A few moments later, Tetsuro plopped down across from you, snatching a grape from your plate.

You looked up from your phone with a cocked brow when he took a second one, and he held your eyes questioningly, the grapes still bulging out his cheeks like a hamster, “What? You want them back?”

With pursed lips, you pushed your plate to the middle of the table and bit off a corner of toast, still scrolling.

“Did you see the email from Mr Maeda?”

Testuro nodded, “That guy really has nothing better to do on a Sunday than count coffee filters and complain about the office’s excessive caffeine consumption.”

You got up to quickly reheat the kettle for a second cup of tea, “I’ll have to go to the downtown office this morning, but I should be done by lunch. Wanna meet up at that new sushi place?”

“Sure thing. - Oh! Also, I went down quite the rabbit hole last night and I wanted to run something by you.”

“Is this a “I can’t believe pandas ever made it this far” or more a “we should totally start our own quilting business” kind of rabbit hole?”

Steam rose from the spout of the kettle, and you began pouring it over the loose green tea you knew was his favorite.

“How would you feel about getting married?”

You almost broke your neck, snapping your head around to look at him, “What?”

“It’s not weird, I promise. I saw this video of a couple yesterday who talked about how they were tired of dating and annoyed that they were getting overlooked on apartment hunts, perks at work, always being hounded by their families about when they’d finally find someone etc. and so just decided to marry their best friend. And I looked into it, they’re completely right! The amount of benefits married couples get is insane! And don’t even get me started on taxes.”

The cup was by now overflowing, and hot water trickled steadily from your kitchen counter onto your house slipper. You didn’t notice it because you were still staring at him.

“You’re dripping.”, he informed you, helpfully.

With a little shake of your head, you returned to reality in which Kuroo Tetsuro, local office dork, just casually suggested marrying him over a half-eaten slice of toast and remnants of grape stalks.

He went and grabbed the dish towel from the hook by your sink and crouched down to wipe up the small puddle. As he did, he looked up at you, continuing, “Anyway, I figured since I’m not seeing anyone, and you’re also nowhere near close to marriage-”

“Hey!”

“I thought I’d ask.”

“Are you gonna randomly propose to other people if I don’t say yes?”

“I dunno, actually. - Don’t think so. Why?”

You took a deep breath and accepted the wet towel he held out to mop up the rest from the counter.

“Alright. I’m not saying yes, yet!”, you clarified quickly as he was about to raise his hand for a high five, “I’m saying: bring me some actual facts about this, not just social media hearsay, and then I’ll decide.”

“You got it. I’ll present my findings to you by tomorrow night.” He ended with his most professional nod, then smiled and began clearing your table so you could head to work together.

After the morning meeting, you heavily neglected your tasks to sort your thoughts. A spreadsheet was made and pros and cons began slowly filling in either side of the neat list.

Pros:

> Tax deductions (!)

> he knows how to do laundry and picks up after himself

> Respectful, most of the time

> fun and comfortable to be around

> I’d not be offended if people assumed we’re married

You paused and looked at a small plant pot on your desk, deep in further consideration. Then you took to your keyboard again.

Cons:

> might have to pretend like all of his jokes are suddenly funny

> having to explain the situation to everyone

Your fingers stopped typing and after a heartbeat or two you deleted the last line, writing instead:

> having to pretend to be married in front of everyone

Much to your surprise, he didn‘t address the elephant in the room over lunch right away. Instead, you talked as per usual about this, that and everything, pulling small plates with bites of sushi from the conveyor belt in front of you. He had his tie flipped over his shoulder and the JVA lanyard was safely tucked in the breast pocket of his shirt to not accidentally dunk it in the little dish of wasabi and soy sauce in front of you. In your mind, you quietly added “good table manners” to the pro list.

“What’s up?”, he asked as he stacked an empty plate onto the ever-growing dish tower.

“Nothing.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Nope.”

“Come on, I might be your husband soon, we should be able to tell each other everything.”, he grinned.

“You’re very on board with this whole idea.”, you noted after a short pause.

Tetsuro made that smile he always did when he was about to deliver an awful pun, “One could say I’m pretty married to it, yes.”

You continued, unperturbed, “What about your dad? What would you tell him?”

“He likes you.”

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“He’s gonna be fine as long as I am.” Tetsuro dipped the salmon of a nigiri in soy sauce and held it out to feed you - a poor attempt to distract.

“Don’t worry so much about it.”, he said to his very worried friend with a reassuring shrug when you took the bite, “He knows you make me happy. And that’s all there is to it.”

“I make you happy, do I?”

“Yeah, of course. What - don’t I make you happy?”, he grinned.

“Well.” With a raised brow, you pulled out your phone and, after a bit of tapping, turned the screen to show him your list.

Squinting a little, he produced his glasses from his pocket and put your phone on the table to scroll through the bullet points.

“Okay, first of all, I can’t see anything on here about my looks. That should be a major pro. Just look at these glasses.”, he gestured to the dark frames, “Don’t they scream office siren? That should definitely go into the pro column. You should write that not only am I gonna be an amazing husband but also some real eye candy”, under his breath he added, “which one might argue is the healthiest kind of candy.” He smirked at his own joke.

“That’s not relevant, though.”, you countered.

He disagreed, “It’s very relevant for bragging rights. I know, I’ll brag about you non-stop. Just look at how you did this Excel spreadsheet. Dream girl right there.”

“I know you’re joking, but I’m actually very proud of my skills, thank you very much.” You snatched the phone away again and answered his smile with your own. Maybe it really wouldn’t be so bad after all.

The following night, you settled in on his couch waiting for him to make his case, although, if you were honest, in your mind you were already picturing what life with him as a glorified roommate would be like. Tetsuro tipped on his laptop for about a minute, then rolled up his sleeves and turned on the TV. It showed the title card to a PowerPoint presentation by the name of Why You Should Marry Me. The next slide, reached by the click of a button from the little black remote in his hand, let you know that it was sub-sectioned into Perks, More Perks, Possible Issues and Even More Perks.

“Do you have any questions?”, he asked once the final slide read Thank you for your attention.

You took a deep, quiet breath, looking down at the empty notepad in your lap and back up at him.

“Nope. Let’s do it.”

He beamed and clicked the remote again. It jumped to a new title card: Guidelines For Our Happy Marriage.

Thanks to Tetsuro’s extensive research you had a list of needed paperwork ready to go and after a quick trip to your country’s embassy you soon stood in line at City Hall on Friday afternoon, both still in your office clothes, to get married. It felt much more like an errand than anything else, like popping into a convenience store on your way home from work because you forgot the milk on your last trip to the supermarket. Stacks of documents were signed and stamped, and once you were done, you received a coupon for a nearby restaurant as a gift. When you stepped out of the tall unassuming building, the last slivers of sunbeams peeked through the alleys and the streets were bathed in a subtle golden-gray glow. You came to a halt at the bottom of the steps.

“How do you feel?”, you asked.

He stretched his neck and rolled his shoulders as if looking for a crank somewhere. “No different. You?”

You shook out your body as well, more so to make fun of him than anything else, and shrugged, “Nope. All good.”

On your walk to the restaurant for your discount wedding dinner, you simply carried on your usual conversations about a book you were currently reading and thought out loud about what you would pick off the menu.

The only indication that anything had changed was that when you reached your table, he pulled up the chair with a slight bow saying, “Mrs Tax Deduction.” and you played coy and did a small curtsy before sitting down with the reply of, “Too kind, Mr Tax Deduction.”

art: @freaka_loonyz on Instagram, X, Pinterest and TikTok

a/n: sooo, here we are. I really hope you’ll enjoy this one ✨

Huge thank you to @haikyu-mp4 for listening to me ramble about this incessantly and for brainstorming and for helping me edit.

[Part 2]

[cobrakaisb]

come one, come all

summary: percy jackson has finally arrived at camp half-blood, so why is he so shocked to see that people have genuine relationships here? aka, the four times percy thought you were dating luke, and the one time he actually asked. 

word count: 3.2k

featuring: percy pov!!, 4+1, vaping (again), sassy man apocalypse in the form of luke castellan, reader straight up not giving a fuck, percabeth crumbs (but you gotta squint)

author's note: i am so sorry for the delay with this one!! i was studying for finals, but now that i'm home from college for the summer, hopefully the updates will be more frequent 🤞

series masterlist ||| previous ||| next

hermes cabin, day one, early afternoon

“this is the hermes cabin, home to both his children and the unclaimed,” chiron explains, walking up to the very loud and very rambunctious building. 

percy peers inside, and he’s immediately filled with dread. there’s barely enough room in the cabin for the people that actually live there, let alone him. why couldn’t his father claim him already? if anything, percy thought losing his mother would have been enough; clearly it wasn’t. his dread only intensifies, however, when chiron starts clapping his hands, calling the attention of all the campers. 

“woah wait a minute,” percy mumbles, but it’s too late. 

“this is percy jackson, i trust you will see to whatever he needs,” chiron announces. 

it takes the campers approximately two seconds to go back to whatever they were doing beforehand. some campers’ eyes linger a little bit longer on him, but for the most part, they’re all indifferent to his presence. finding a spot proves to be difficult, as every nook and cranny is inhabited.

“you can sleep over there,” a girl says, annoyed.

“thanks,” percy mumbles, but it falls on deaf ears. 

the spot isn’t half bad, but it isn’t great either. he’s stuck in between two sets of bunk beds, on a sleeping bag. a sleeping bag. one would think the gods could splurge a little for an air mattress, but percy guesses they must be selfish, at least based on the signs of this cabin: overrun, overfilled, and underdeveloped. he’s unpacking his backpack, the last remnants of his life before his mom explained his paternal lineage, when the whispers start. 

“that’s the kid. i think he’s the one that killed the minotaur,” someone whispers, or at least they try to, but percy hears the whole thing. 

he turns around, and comes face to face with a group of older campers, all boys. they’ve clearly been here a while (in the hermes cabin, or at camp, percy isn’t sure) based solely on the fact that they’re so comfortable in this environment. a tall, curly black-haired boy steps forward, so percy stands up. he tries to size up the older boy, but if it comes to a fight, he doesn’t think he’ll win. 

“look, if you guys want to start something, can you just…do it tomorrow?” he asks. 

the older boy doesn’t say anything. instead, he just takes a moment to look at percy, up and down. percy’s breath catches in his throat when he catches sight of the long scar running from the corner of his right eye to his jaw. he’s intimidating, to say the least. 

“i’m..” the boy starts to say, but he’s cut off by the sound of loud laughter. 

percy turns to face the door, following the older boy’s lead, and sees two girls walk into the cabin. they’re both in workout gear, clearly just coming from a training session, but only one of them moves to drop her stuff on a bed — a bottom bunk in the left hand corner — and the other walks right up to the guy in front of him.

percy wants to warn her, tell her that she shouldn’t mess with this kid. but the grumpy guy smiles at her, completely forgetting about percy.

“busy day?” she asks, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“something like that,” the boy mumbles, throwing a sideways glance in percy’s direction. 

“oh i see,” she answers slowly, and now both of their eyes are on him. 

“luke treating you okay?” she asks. 

percy gulps, unsure how to answer her. girls don’t really talk to him, but there’s a first time for everything, he understands that especially well now.  

“he literally just got here,” luke says, shoving your shoulder. 

you smile at the older boy, and there’s something more behind that stare, but percy can’t really figure out what. 

“if he steps out of line, you let me know,” she instructs, jabbing her thumb in luke’s direction. 

percy nods, “yeah sure.” 

she smiles at him, before walking towards the exit of the cabin. as she’s at the threshold between the inside and the outdoors, she turns around with a mischievous look in her eyes. 

“meet me later?” she asks. 

“i’ll be there,” luke answers. 

she nods, satisfied, and leaves. percy watches luke, who continues to watch her. his eyebrows furrow. maybe he just doesn’t understand teenagers?

hermes cabin, day two, morning

percy’s startled awake. the deep, guttural voice from his dream still haunting him. the darkness from the nightmare is looming over him like a dark cloud. his gasps and heavy breathing draw the attention of luke and his friends, the former leaving his bottom bunk to walk over to percy’s sleeping bag.  

“you okay?” luke asks. 

percy wonders if he’s genuinely concerned. “super,” he replies. 

“we all get them, y’know. deep, intense nightmares. comes with being a demigod,” luke explains, watching percy struggle to get up from his bed.

“so does adhd and dyslexia. they’re your battle instincts talking. everything that’s made you different, an outcast, is normal here,” luke continues to explain, now standing toe to toe with percy. 

there’s silence between the two. percy wants to ask him about his godly parent. it’s been weighing on him since he spoke with luke briefly yesterday. for some reason, however, he feels like the question is out of line, too personal for someone he just met. 

yet, he can’t help himself: “so are you also…do you not know…are you…”

“am i unclaimed? no, hermes is my father, but that doesn’t matter. we’re all family here,” luke replies, giving percy’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

“and the girl from last night…is she…?” percy asks. 

luke chuckles at his uncertainty, clearly finding humor in his embarrassing situation. “no. she knows who her mother is. you should ask her about it.” 

percy nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. he feels angry all of a sudden looking around the hermes cabin. it’s filled to the brim with campers, some who know who their parents are, and others who don’t. he doesn’t think anyone should have to live like this; it’s not fair. 

“how can the gods just bring us here and ignore us? how is that fair?” percy asks. 

luke shakes his head, “spend all your time trying to figure out why the gods do what they do and you’ll go crazy. besides, you haven’t even experienced the best thing that camp has to offer.” 

“what’s that?” percy asks. 

“glory.”

percy’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. he vaguely remembers hearing mr. bruner, or chiron, talk about glory in class, but he can’t pinpoint the exact memory. the way luke talks about it, however, makes percy think that it must be important. there has to be some reason why everyone is fighting for glory, why they deal with all the dangers of being a demigod. 

“demigods used to fight for glory. they called it kleos. it attaches meaning to your name, making you bigger, scarier, and more important,” luke explains, leading percy outside of the hermes cabin, along with a handful of his friends. 

“it puts respect on your name,” luke’s friend, chris barges in. 

percy’s smiles at that. he likes the sound of glory, especially when some girl shoulders past him, pushing his body right into luke’s. percy stumbles, turning to face the back of the girl. he wasn’t going to deal with this bullying crap at summer camp of all places. 

“hey,” he shouts, getting her attention. 

she turns around, immediately shoving him into the ground. percy gasps, staring up at her in shock, but before she can get a word in, the girl from last night is standing in front of him. 

“knock it off clarisse. it’s like his first day,” luke mumbles. 

the girl from last night helps him up, and he smiles at her in thanks. she nods, giving him a once over, ensuring that he’s okay before she turns back to clarisse. it’s like a switch flipped inside her. those same eyes, the ones showing kindness towards him just a mere second ago, are now filled with cold, hard, anger. 

clarisse says something to taunt him, but the girl just shakes her head, crossing her arms against her chest. 

“jealous that it wasn’t you?” she taunts, stepping into clarisse’s personal space. 

“no,” clarisse snaps, facing the other girl head on. 

“really? cause it sounds like you wish you were standing in his shoes right now. maybe then daddy would give you a little bit of attention, huh?” she replies. 

luke whispers her name in a seething tone, hand pulling on her shoulder to move her away from clarisse. however, she jerks out of his grip, continuing to stare head on at the curly haired girl with a satisfied smirk playing at her lips. 

“you better watch your back,” clarisse snaps, looking at percy once again before storming off. 

“and you better watch yours,” the girl, who’s still standing in front of percy protectively answers. 

clarisse doesn’t respond, and so luke takes the time to reprimand you. his voice is soft, and percy can barely hear, let alone register, the words coming out of his mouth. you roll your eyes at whatever he’s saying, barely paying attention. instead, percy notices that your eyes aren’t leaving luke’s lips, and he’s again left wondering what’s going on between the two of you. 

“but if i wasn’t here, who was gonna play hero?” you ask, a soft pout on your lips.

percy can tell you’re teasing luke, trying to get a rise out of him, but the older boy just shakes his head in response. percy watches as your finger reaches under his bright orange shirt, looping through one of the belt loops of his cargoes. luke leans down slightly, and percy thinks he might kiss you, but you step away from him in a fit of giggles. 

“i’ll see you later, counselor luke,” you tease, walking backwards so everyone can see the teasing smile on your face. 

percy makes a mental note not to get on your bad side. 

dining pavilion, day two, evening

“is there a greek god of disappointment, maybe someone should ask if he’s missing a kid,” percy grumbles, taking a seat at the table across from luke and chris. 

after a long day of training, with little to no rewards, percy felt utterly defeated. there was some good that came out of the day’s events, however, as he realized his lack of coordination did not make him a strong candidate for the apollo cabin. similarly, setting fire to the already burning forges had luke and chris ruling out hephaestus. regardless, he just wanted his dad to recognize him. after a life of torment and the loss of his mom, the one person who loved him, he could use the validation.

luke opens his mouth, ready to answer his previous question, but chris beats him to it.

“oizys…but she’s a goddess and her whole thing isn’t really disappointment, it’s failure,” chris mumbles, pushing around the salad on his plate. 

“oh my gods chris, don’t scare the kid,” you shout, shoving his shoulder as you take a seat next to percy. 

another girl follows behind you, taking the seat on the other side of percy. he feels himself going rigid, why are these two older girls sitting by his side? he feels nervous all of a sudden, and wonders if this is normal. he looks nervously to luke, who seems to be the only one capable of providing actual guidance in these types of situations. 

luke doesn’t say anything, instead he’s too busy looking at you. 

“having daddy issues?” the girl on his right, who’s not you, asks. 

“um i guess,” percy answers, but he’s not confident in his words at all. 

the girl chuckles at him, a hand coming up to ruffle his blonde hair, and percy watches as her eyes twinkle with something akin to childish mischief. 

“maybe you’re her step-brother,” she says, gesturing towards you with a tip of her chin. 

“are you a child of aphrodite?” percy asks, because maybe this nice girl is referring to ares as his father. 

you stop chewing your dinner, shock crossing your features. the other three teens all burst into laughter, and percy doesn’t understand what’s wrong with his question. you’re pretty enough, and you seem to possess a tiny bit of mean girl energy (cause only regina george would have demolished clarisse like that). therefore, the logical conclusion is that you’re related to aphrodite. besides, aren’t ares and aphrodite secretly dating? so he’d be your step-brother? 

“what?” he asks, looking around. 

“aphrodite is not my mother,” you answer, white-knuckling the fork. 

“oh,” he says, “so who is?” 

percy watches as your jaw clenches, and you flash a dangerous look in luke’s direction. luke lifts his hands up in a state of defense, as if to say that he didn’t put percy up to this. you, however, don’t seem to believe him as you take one of the green grapes on your plate and chuck it at him. luke catches the grape in his mouth, chewing slowly with a smirk on his face. 

“almost sweetheart,” he taunts. 

you scoff before getting up from the table, with your plate, and walking towards the firepit in the middle of the pavilion. on your way over, you stick your fingers through luke’s curls, and shove his face down towards his mashed potatoes. 

“did i do something wrong?” he asks, looking at the remaining girl to his right. 

“nah, she’s always like that,” she answers.

“yeah,” chris mumbles, “if anyone knows it’s katrina.” 

they jump into their own conversation and percy watches as you drop your entire dinner into the fire pit. the flames turn a deep purple and you nod in satisfaction before walking off towards the cabins. 

he can’t figure out who likes the color purple, but wonders if it had anything to do with luke. however, he knows not to ask.

hermes cabin, day two, night

percy was supposed to be asleep twenty minutes ago, at least that’s when luke called for lights out and everyone crawled into bed. but, he really needs to use the bathroom. poor planning on his part, not going before bed time, but he knows he’ll never make it until morning. so, he gets up as quietly as possible, slips on his blue hoodie, and tip-toes towards the door of the hermes cabin. 

he hesitates for a moment, hearing two people talking quietly outside the door. he waits patiently, hoping that they’ll leave, but their conversation only keeps going. 

“and annabeth’s sure about this?” someone asks, and percy realizes that it’s you.

the other person scoffs, “you doubting my sister?”, and percy pinpoints the voice as luke’s.

“never. i’m doubting him,” you answer.

“c’mon, you know clarisse picks on everybody,” luke mumbles.

there’s a pause in the conversation, and percy thinks maybe you’ve left or moved on, but then your voice rings out into the quiet of the night: 

“i have this feeling that he’s important, but i can’t figure out why.” 

another pause. 

“we’ll see when he gets claimed,” luke answers. 

“if he gets claimed,” you reply. 

“he will, even if it’s hera style,” luke says, and percy can’t help himself from opening the door. 

“your mom’s hera? i thought she didn’t have kids!” percy shouts, shocking both you and luke. 

you jump, and percy watches as you move to hide the bright orange vape in your hand. you wave away some of the smoke, and luke steps slightly in front of you, blocking your body from percy’s view. he notices the protective edge in luke’s posture, and how there was already very little space between you two. 

“what are you doing out past curfew?” luke asks, staring percy down. 

“i could ask you the same thing, but for the record, i’m going to the bathroom,” percy explains, standing his guard. 

“just be quick, and watch out for the harpies,” you advise, tugging on the back of luke’s camp counselor shirt. 

percy nods before walking by the two of you to head down the stairs. once he’s a little ways away, he risks a glance back at the hermes cabin porch. you’re still standing there with luke, his palms resting on your waist as he rubs circles with his thumb on your exposed skin. you two are whispering about something, but he can’t figure out what. he sees you slip luke your vape, but looks away when the older boy takes a hit. 

that seemed oddly intimate. 

lakeshore, day three, post-capture the flag

he’s in for it now, at least that’s what he assumes when he sees half of clarisse’s spear in his fist. she screams loudly, and percy hopes that you’ll hear and come to his rescue. thankfully, his saving grace comes in the form of the head counselor of the hermes cabin. 

luke comes rushing down the side lines, holding the red flag high above his head. several people are following him, the entire blue team in fact, but percy can easily pinpoint you in the crowd. you don’t have a helmet on, which isn’t surprising to him; it fits your character. he notices how the baby hairs stick to your sweaty forehead, yet your eyes are bright and happy. this has to be the happiest he’s seen you. 

your eyes never leave luke, even as he accepts hugs, handshakes, and overall congratulations from the other members of the team. finally, after the novelty of winning wears off, and his siblings finally give luke some space, you walk over to him. you shoulder check him, causing him to stumble a little on his feet, but the happiness doesn’t leave either of your eyes. 

percy’s eyebrows furrow in confusion. you’re mean to luke, but you’re also not mean to luke. 

“where’s my hug at?” luke asks, opening his arms wide for you. 

you snort at him, shoving him backwards with a firm hand on his chestplate. luke doesn’t seem to mind, however, as his smile widens and he pulls off his helmet. he shakes his head back and forth, letting his curls loose after being confined for so long. percy watches you watch him, bottom lip between your teeth. luke opens his mouth, ready to say something, but you prevent him from even doing so. instead, you grab onto the brown leather straps of his armor, and pull his lips down to yours.

all the campers ring out in cheers. some of them even clap at the display of affection from the two of you. 

“so they’re dating?” he asks no one in particular. 

“yes,” annabeth answers from beside him. 

he turns to look at her, understanding washing over him. you and luke are perfect for each other, balancing each other out. percy hopes he’ll find something like that with someone. he looks around camp, and his eyes land on annabeth, who magically appeared next to him. 

“hey wait…were you here the whole time?” percy asks her, feeling a little angry that she basically watched him get his ass kicked by clarisse. 

“percy,” she starts, “i’m really sorry about this,” and she pushes him into the water.

taglist: @percabethlvr @iwantahockeyhimbo @hottiewifeyyyy @loveryoushouldcomeoverr @maraschinocherry3 @used2beeeeee @harrysnovia @cami-is-reading @mxtokko @cxcilla @obxstiles

[steddieas-shegoes]

fourth line, best line

for @steddiesportsau prompt 'first line' (i know the title is misleading, just trust me)

rated t | 2,577 words | cw: injury | tags: modern au, hockey au, getting together, happens during a time skip just go with it, love confessions

🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒🏒

The buzzer echoes in his skull. He didn’t notch a point tonight. Not a single one.

He didn’t even drop the gloves.

He’s gonna end up sent back down to the farm team, he can feel it.

“Munson!” A voice yells from behind him as he walks down the tunnel to the dressing room. “Hey.”

Steve is a good captain, a great hockey player, and a beautiful man. His number will almost definitely be in the rafters someday, and he’s got a long career in the NHL waiting for him when he retires from playing. He shouldn’t waste more than what’s required on pep-talking Eddie through a shitty game.

“Yeah?” He asks, trying not to sound like he’s a second away from crying.

“That pass in the second was a beauty,” he says with a smile.

It’s like nothing phases him, like they didn’t just lose 5-1 against their biggest rival.

“Oh. Thanks.”

Steve pats his shoulder. “Gonna lose sometimes. You gave 100%, that’s all anyone can ask.”

Eddie doesn’t think Steve watched the same game he did. He knew he didn’t give his best. Steve did, because Steve always does, but Eddie doesn’t even think his best came to this game at all.

“I got lucky with a pass, that’s it.”

Steve shakes his head. “Half of hockey is luck. You knew what to do with it, which is more than I can say for some players.”

A lot of guys would give their left nut to get a compliment like that from Steve Harrington. Eddie is one of them.

He knows he’s blushing, but he hopes it’s hidden under the flush of the exertion from his last shift. He’s dripping sweat despite barely breaching five minutes of ice time for the entire game.

“Thanks,” Eddie squeaks out. Steve’s probably just being nice, giving him a compliment to take with him on his flight back to the AHL. “I’ll work harder next time.”

Steve looks like he wants to say more, but he’s taken to the side for a post-game interview. They lost, but Steve’s charm is enough for the interviewer to focus on more positive parts of the game instead of what they probably planned on asking.

Eddie makes his way to the dressing room, probably for the last time this season.

He may get another call up if someone gets injured, but he won’t hold his breath.

****

one year later

“Harrington against the boards…usually wins these battles, but it looks like he’s waving at the bench. Don’t know what that’s about.”

Eddie’s watching the game at his apartment, stuffing his face with chicken parm from his favorite restaurant down the street. He’s carb loading before their early afternoon game tomorrow.

Steve’s been off this entire game. He’s slower, hesitant where he’s normally aggressive, hasn’t put his body into blocking shots the way he normally does. Anyone who plays hockey or knows hockey knows what this is.

He’s playing through an injury. When you’re this close to clinching the number one spot in the playoffs, your top center can’t be injured. Eddie winces when someone checks Steve into the boards on his way to the bench.

He goes down hard, way harder than he normally would. He’s slow to get up.

Eddie’s holding his breath. Sauce drips onto his shirt.

It’s his ankle. Dammit.

There are a lot of impressive things about Steve Harrington. He’s a good captain, a great player, a beautiful man. He also defeated every odd against him his rookie year when he came back from a shattered ankle that led to two surgeries and a four month recovery process that most doctors didn’t think he’d ever finish. He did and he came back even better than before.

He’s played for years with minimal issues. One concussion a few years ago that left him day to day for about a week, one upper body injury that benched him for three weeks at the beginning of a season. Eddie can see this is different.

This is his career.

Eddie can’t stop watching as Steve limps off the ice, down the tunnel, and out of view.

“Seems like we won’t be seeing Harrington back tonight. Hopefully his goal earlier boosted his team enough that they’ll pull off the win without him,” the announcer says.

Eddie’s walking his takeout container to the kitchen and trying to find his shoes before he even realizes what he’s doing.

What is he doing?

He’s not gonna be the guy they call up. He’s not even the guy they called up earlier this season when Byers broke his toe and missed three weeks. He’s definitely not gonna get the call to help fill a gap for Steve.

His phone buzzes, but it’s just Wayne asking if he’s watching the game. He replies quickly, tries not to give the old man any hope. Wayne always believes in him more than anyone else, always has, even when he got cut from his 12U travel team.

They do manage a win without Steve, but the commentators spend most of the third period discussing the likelihood of their chances at the Cup diminishing without Steve on the ice. They act like he’s dead, like he’s already been written off.

His phone buzzes again.

Stevie: Don’t freak out. Going to get some scans

Eddie rushes to the door, freaking out. He hits call before his feet have even hit the stairs outside his apartment.

“I said don’t freak out, love,” Steve sighs into the phone. He sounds like he’s in pain. “It might just be a stress fracture. Couple weeks and I’ll be back.”

“Could be more though?” He asks, feeling like he might be sick. This was supposed to be Steve’s year. He was gonna go all the way, lead this team to a big win.

“Maybe. But I’m okay.”

“Didn’t look okay,” Eddie is in his car, waiting for the bluetooth to connect before he pulls out of the parking garage. “Looked pretty bad. Wayne even texted me.”

“He’s a worrywart. I told them to move Hagan to my spot and call you up,” Steve says casually. “I dunno if they’ll listen, but be ready in case.”

“Steve. I’m not playing without you there. I’m on my way to you, not the damn team.”

He should know better than to expect Eddie to put hockey above him.

“Ed,” Steve sighs. “Your career is first. We talked about this. I’ll be fine. It’s not like you can perform surgery.”

“Surgery?! You need surgery?”

“No! I don’t know!” Someone is heard in the background and then a siren. “Are the sirens necessary? Jesus, that’s dramatic.”

“Are you in an ambulance?” Eddie’s voice pitches higher in panic.

“It’s ridiculous. Someone could’ve just driven me when the game was over,” Steve explains. “I can walk, so it can’t be that bad.”

“You can’t put pressure on it, dumbass!”

“Is that Robin?” Eddie feels relief wash over him. If Robin’s there, he won’t be allowed to brush it off at the hospital. “Let me talk to her.”

“No. You two are gonna inspire against me.”

Eddie rolls his eyes, a fond smile creeping across his face despite his anxiety.

“We aren’t gonna conspire against you, sweetheart. I just wanna know the facts. You’re blinded by your Must Give Comfort No Matter What Disease.”

“Dumbass two, it’s definitely broken,” Robin says into the phone while Steve argues in the background. “He’s being so brave. But it’s gonna be eight weeks minimum even without looking at x-rays.”

“Knew it,” Eddie smacks his hand against the steering wheel. He’s driving on autopilot, heading straight for the hospital he knows Steve’s being taken to. He’s three hours away if there’s no traffic, maybe less if he takes the shortcut he knows when he’s closer. “So he’s done for the season.”

“Absolutely. Not worth the risk unless they get to the final round, and even then I’m pretty sure it won’t be worth it. He’s defeated the odds once, but he’s still got plenty of time to defeat them next season.”

Another call comes through for Eddie and he’s tempted to ignore it.

It’s his agent.

“Call you back in 10.”

He kinda knows what’s coming before he even answers.

He’s still shocked when he hears himself say he’s already on his way.

****

The team misses Steve like a limb.

It’s not that they aren’t good without him; They keep winning for the most part. His absence is felt, though.

It’s just tough to be a team without a proper captain.

Wheeler tries, but he just doesn’t have the room like Steve does.

Eddie feels like a visitor, and it’s no one’s fault. They all know him from his last stint and attending a few games to watch Steve, but adapting a new player into the lineup is hard.

He fits okay on the fourth line, even manages an assist in his first game.

His strength is faceoffs. He wins nearly all of them, might even have the highest average in the AHL. Steve’s always been jealous of it, especially because he didn’t even start playing center until he was 16 and it’s all Steve’s ever played.

Eddie stays with Steve while he’s called up. It’s what makes the most sense.

It’s also the longest they’ve ever been able to spend together at once.

Ever since their first date, they’ve pretty much been on a hockey schedule. Other than Christmas and one week over the summer when they were still so new that anything more would’ve been too much, they’ve only had random days that line up to spend time together.

To fuck, basically.

It’s easy. Wayne warned him that living with someone changes your perspective, but he just falls more in love with Steve by the minute. He’s fun, even when he’s hobbling around in a cast, barely leaning on the crutches he’s supposed to be relying on for at least two weeks. He’s smart, beats all the hockey guy stereotypes with his clever wit, even if he does misuse words sometimes.

He’s kind. He spends a few hours every other day at the children’s hospital, no media, no other teammates, just him.

“Not like I’ve got anything else to do. And I love seeing the kids. They’re funny,” Steve shrugs. “Plus, some of them play hockey and tell me all about their games.”

Eddie knows he’s probably way more in love than Steve is with him, but he’s gonna ride this out as long as he can. Steve could have anyone, an actress or supermodel or another NHL player, but he’s choosing a fourth line call-up who forgets to put his dirty laundry in the basket.

Steve watches every home game in a suite, and every away game on tv. He calls Wayne sometimes during the away games, but neither of them tell him exactly what they talk about.

Eddie scores his first NHL goal the same night he’s told he’ll be sent back down.

It’s bittersweet.

He knows it won’t change anything.

It’s still exciting when it happens, and he points up to the box he knows Steve’s watching from, then at one of the cameras for Wayne. The goal horn has never sounded so victorious.

He doesn’t notch another point the rest of the game, but he didn’t expect to.

He gets the puck after the game, poses for a picture for socials, and fist bumps everyone on his way out. He’s thankful for his time, proud of himself for being the guy they called up and kept up for so long. Maybe Steve had a lot to do with it, but they wouldn’t have risked their season on a guy they didn’t think could help.

Steve’s already outside waiting for him, beaming with pride.

“That’s my boy!” He yells.

Eddie’s heart flutters.

“Figured I’d put on a show before I go back,” he says, hating that his tone is so sad.

Steve’s face falls. “Go back? After the way you played tonight?”

Eddie shrugs. He kisses his cheek before he unlocks the car.

“It’s a business. I’m only two games away from having to sign league minimum and I’m not producing enough for them to do that,” Eddie explains even though Steve definitely already knows that. “Maybe next year.”

“Fuck next year!” Steve is mad. “You’re our best fourth liner now. You just need the chance!”

Eddie’s tired. He’s a little sore from taking a puck to the wrist and a stick to the neck. There’s nothing to argue about, and Steve’s not even trying to argue with him, but it still presses on Eddie’s nerves.

“I’m okay with it. Really,” Eddie is. He’s used to this back and forth. He knows he’s lucky to get a chance to shine once in a while. “They’ll do great without me.”

“But I won’t.”

Eddie closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

“You will. You’ll be back on the ice soon and you won’t even have time to miss me. Plus we’ll have most of the summer,” Eddie explains.

“I’m not going back on the ice.”

Eddie’s heart stops.

“What are you talking about?” He manages to ask.

“I’m done. I wasn’t gonna announce it until the season was over. I have a fracture that needs more surgery and it’ll take another 8-10 months of physical therapy just to be able to do normal things, let alone hockey. And there’s only a 20% chance I’d be able to play competitively at all after, let alone the level expected of me. It’s not fair to the team to drag this on,” Steve says it like he’s practiced it. Maybe he has. There’s barely any emotion in it, like he’s pushed it far enough away that he doesn’t feel the pain Eddie knows he must feel. “I’ve got a statement ready. The team knows.”

“They didn’t tell me?” Eddie feels tears pooling in his eyes. “You didn’t tell me.”

Steve cups Eddie’s neck, kisses his forehead. “I didn’t want to distract you from playing. And I don’t want this to ruin the high of the night.”

“Steve, this is so much more important than me scoring a goal.”

“I just want you to be happy,” Steve admits quietly.

“I want the same for you,” Eddie says back. “Hockey is everything to you.”

“Not anymore.” Steve takes a shaky breath. “I think it’ll always be important to me. It was my childhood and my career and my passion. And it’ll always be that, I guess. I’m sure I’ll stick around as a coach or recruiter or something. But since I got to have you, you’re all I want.”

Eddie’s heart starts beating much faster, probably dangerously so.

“I love you, Eddie. I love you more than anything. More than hockey. More than Robin, but you better not tell her that.“ They both laugh. Steve grabs his hands and kisses his knuckles. “I can live without hockey. It hurts, but I can do it. I can’t live without you.”

Steve’s career is over. It hurts Eddie to know he overcame so much just to have everything shortened way before his time was actually up anyway.

But his life is still happening, and he wants Eddie to be a part of it.

“So you’ll come with me?” Eddie asks.

“I was hoping you’d ask,” Steve replies.

“Even though this is the best I’ll probably ever be?”

Steve smirks. “Fourth line, best line, right?”

[apomaro-mellow]

Corroded Coffin ransoms Steve Part 1/?

From this post

Steve couldn't really see who was attacking him. But that didn't matter.

"Grab him! GRAB HIM!"

"Shit! AH! Fuck!"

He wasn't gonna let a bunch of random guys get the best of him. Who cared that it was four on one? They had the element of surprise, sure. Steve hadn't expected to get jumped in the space between the Hawkins gym and his car. Serves him right for trying to get extra basketball practice, he supposed.

Steve felt pretty good about holding his own. Two of them were holding themselves where he'd landed a good blow. He could finish this. There was only one guy left (the other must've bolted) and his car was in sight. Steve threw one more punch and booked it, reaching for his keys in his jacket pocket when pain bloomed on his entire left side. Then his right decided to match it when he hit the ground.

'Did I just get hit by a fucking car?'

There was screaming coming from above him but it was cut off as Steve's world went black.

------------------------

Eddie took a deep drag, holding it in before releasing his breath.

"You don't like it", Gareth said, half finished beer in hand.

"Didn't say I didn't like it", Eddie said.

"Dude, we can tell when you approve and when you don't", Jeff pushed up from the crate of whatever Doug's dad kept in the garage.

Doug was nursing a beer too. His second one. "What don't you like about a battle of the bands? We've got the sound."

"And the personality!", Gareth added.

Eddie nodded. "All solid points. But we're missing the money."

"Entry fee's only fifty bucks, man", Jeff said. "I know you got that much."

"$50 to get it", Eddie began to list off his fingers. "Gas money to get us all the way to Chicago-"

"It's like three hours away, Eds", Doug griped.

"Not done! Plus food, plus hotels, plus fixing up our equipment. Jeff and I both need new strings if we're gonna have any chance of winning."

"Well fuck me, I guess", Doug rolled his eyes.

"Dude, the bass guy always gets the most puss at these things. You don't need new strings", Gareth said. "If anything, my drums-"

"If I don't need new strings, why should you get new drums?", Doug argued.

"Ladies, ladies, you're both beautiful", Jeff came between them. "And need I remind you, we're trying to get Eddie on board? Not double our expenses?"

"We're already over budget", Eddie said. "'Sides, we'd be taking my van to get there and old Bessie needs some work done too. 'Specially if she's gonna be hauling our stuff."

It wasn't that Eddie didn't want to go. He just wasn't particularly keen on following pipe dreams. Chicago wasn't far-far. But what were the odds of them going all the way there and hitting it big? It wasn't strictly a metal competition. There'd be rock and probably pop, maybe even country too, who knew. The point was, metal wasn't much of a crowd-pleaser unless the crowd was already primed for it.

He snuffed the joint in his hand and then lit up another one that they all passed around while coming up with get rich quick schemes. It started innocent enough with the suggestions. Blood donations (Doug hated needles, Eddie hated hospitals), garage sale ("Nobody wants our shit."), and even if they all somehow got like three part time jobs by tomorrow, they wouldn't earn enough to get Eddie on board with this whole idea.

The more they talked about it, the more Eddie got riled up. Why should they be left out of something just because they didn't have the money for it? That was bullshit! There were people out there drowning in money and between the four of them they couldn't scrounge up enough just to get them over the state line?

"Blame whoever you want, but the fact is, money's been in the wrong hands for too damn long!", Eddie said, jumping to his feet. "They tell us all the goddamn time that kids are starvin' in Africa but are they doing anything about it?"

"Not a damn thing", Gareth shook his head.

"Meanwhile, there's kids over here that are starving! And they're still not liftin' a finger to help", Eddie gestured with the joint in his hand, half finished between him and Jeff. "No, the rich fucks of the world don't give, they only take. So we've gotta take it back somehow."

"What? Rob a bank?", Jeff snickered.

The others snickered in return at the absurdity of the idea but Eddie was thinking. Of course not a bank heist. But there were people in Hawkins with money...yeah...for sure there was.

"Not a bank", Eddie said, starting to pace around. But there's a couple of rich bastards in town who could stand to part with their cash."

"You wanna rob the mayor's house or something?", Doug offered. He was on his third beer.

"Eddie's got the stealth of a newborn deer", Gareth said.

"Bad analogy, Gare-bear. Prey animals are notoriously stealthy, even from birth", Eddie grinned.

"Still though. If it's really valuable, we wouldn't be able to pawn it without painting a target on our backs", Gareth sighed.

"Wait, what if we did a ransom?", Doug said.

"Yeah, yeah", Jeff nodded. "We get somethin' valuable and basically sell it back to 'em."

Eddie grinned. "A ransom, huh? Now, stay with me boys, but what if-what IF we took someone. Someone important enough that his folks would go through hell or high water to get him back?"

The other three were silent as the realization dawned on them. Eddie could only be talking about one person.

"You're crazy man...", Jeff said, taking the joint from his hand to use it for himself.

"Like a fox", Eddie smirked.

----------------------------

When they talked about it after sobering up, it still sounded like a good idea. The target: Steve Harrington. Rich enough to have a big house, a nice car, and always have the newest things. Dumb enough that he should be easy to get. Sure, he probably had some muscle, being a jock and all, but Harrington notoriously didn't get into fights. Which probably meant he couldn't. But Eddie and his friends had been in scraps before. The perks of being an outcast, he supposed.

Getting him alone was probably going to be the hardest part of all of this. But Eddie happened to know that sometimes Harrington would come to the school's gym early to practice. It was the perfect opportunity.

It meant they had to wake up early on break and take Bessie and sit in the lot without the heat on, freezing their tits while they waited on Harrington to come out of the gym.

"Why are we w-waiting?", Gareth asked, shivering.

"Need him fatigued and all that", Eddie said. Despite the layers, his teeth were clacking. But if the motor was on, Harrington would hear and they'd lose the element of surprise. He reminded himself that this had to be the hardest part - waiting in the cold, especially when they left the van to be closer to the door of the gym. The masks they were provided only minimal warmth.

But after grabbing and bagging Harrington, they'd leave the note, his parents would get it and they'd have their money and return their hostage by Christmas. Easy peasy.

They didn't count on Steve actually being able to hold his own against all four of them. Maybe it was the fact that they'd been out in the cold, maybe it was the lack of muscle mass between them or general lack of coordination. Whatever it was, somehow, Harrington was wrecking their shit single handedly.

Eddie wasn't the best thinker when he panicked. But right now Gareth was holding his nose and Jeff and Doug wouldn't be far behind. So he ran. To his van.

He saw Harrington making a break for it and stomped down on the gas.

Eddie didn't really register what he'd done until he heard Gareth screaming.

"Shut up! Shut up man!", Jeff shouted back.

"Get him in the van!", Doug screamed.

"The note! Shit, the note! Put it in his windshield!", Eddie reminded him.

It was chaos until they were a good distance away from the school. Nothing could be heard but their panting. Steve Harrington was limp and unconscious in the back of his van. Eddie didn't stop until they were at Gareth's.

"How long are your parents gone for?", he asked as they tied Steve down to a chair in the basement.

"They won't be back until New Year's. My aunt just had a new baby." He was holding his nose again now that Steve was secure.

"How long until he wakes up, do you think?", Doug asked.

Steve's gasp as he suddenly sat up straight and struggled against his ropes answered that question. Thankfully, they all still had their masks on.

"Munson?"

"Well, fuck, these things don't work for shit", Gareth said as he pulled his mask off.

"Who the hell are you?", Steve raised a brow.

Eddie just barely held back the bark of laughter. This was stupid, this was so stupid! But they were in it now. And apparently Steve Harrington knew him by...by some defining characteristic.

"How'd you know it was me?", he asked as he took the mask off.

"Your hair's pretty distinct", Steve said. "What the hell is this? What's going on?"

Eddie grinned and bent over, getting into Steve's face. "Well, Stevie dearest, all you need to know is that you're going to make us very rich."

Part 2

[gdinthehouseee]

Neon Secrets - Part 1: KWON JI-YONG x READER

summary: ji-yong catches you getting in your own head so he decides to shake things up and bring you along for a much needed late-night drive

word count: 5180

tags: fluff, denial, idiots in love - everyone can see it but them type stuff

ao3 link -- part 2

All was silent in the rooftop practice room, save for the soft scratching of a charcoal pencil against paper. You sat curled up on the couch near the window, your notebook balanced on your knee, fingers gripping the pencil tightly. But the page in front of you remained mostly blank—just a few scratched-out lines and half-finished rhymes that didn’t feel right.

Sleep couldn’t seem to get a hold of you tonight—your mind raced with the same thoughts, replaying them over and over until they became a blur of frustration. You stared at the clock, wishing for a few hours of peace, but the ticking echoed in your ears, only adding to your agitation. 

The quiet hum of the building surrounded you, but inside your mind, chaos churned. The notebook’s blank pages mocking your every attempt to find the right words. Your thoughts were too scattered—too many ideas, too many emotions—but none of them seemed to come together. The pressure to create something meaningful weighed heavily on you, and the longer you sat there, the more frustrated you became. Naturally. You hated this feeling of being stuck, of not being able to tap into the creative flow that usually came so naturally. You had written countless lyrics before, but tonight, nothing felt right. Every word you jotted down felt forced, out of place, as if the inspiration you once had was slipping away. The longer you tried, the more you doubted yourself. What if you were losing your touch? What if your career was over before it truly had time to blossom?

"You look miserable."

You jumped slightly at the voice, snapping your head toward the doorway. Ji-yong leaned against the frame, his arms crossed and his dark eyes almost staring into your soul.

Your heart pounded, and not just because he’d startled you. "Keep your voice down," you hissed and motioned for him to come in, glancing toward the hallway. "People are sleeping."

He scoffed but lowered his voice as he stepped inside. "Relax, it’s just us up here. Unless you think someone’s hiding in the storage closet, waiting to snitch on you."

As much as you rolled your eyes, there was nothing you could do to hide the subtle smile forming on your lips. Hoping he didn’t see, you elected to return your gaze to the notebook. "What do you want?"

Ji-yong flopped onto the couch behind you. "To rescue you from whatever creative hell you’re stuck in." He glanced at the page over your shoulder, tilting his head. "Writer’s block?"

A long sigh escaped your throat. "More like ‘everything I write sounds terrible.’ I should just go to bed and try again tomorrow, but I can’t even do that for whatever reason, so I’m just kinda… stuck here, I guess.”

He was quiet for a second before drumming his fingers against the couch. "Or…"

"Or?"

"We sneak out."

You stiffened for a second, before turning around to face him. Only to realise he had leaned closer towards you. 

"You’re insane. You know everyone is asleep in the next room, right? And most of the staff? One wrong move and—"

Ji-yong held up his hands in mock surrender. "I get it, I get it. But that’s what makes it fun." A playful smile tugged on his lips. "Come on. You’re stuck, I’m bored, and the walls in this place are suffocating right now. Let’s get some air."

You hesitated, chewing the inside of your cheek. This was stupid. Reckless. If anyone saw you, rumours would spread like wildfire. But at the same time… the idea of slipping away, of leaving all the pressure behind, if only for a little while—

"Fine. But if we get caught, I’m blaming you." You quickly stood up, moving towards the door. You didn’t even bother closing the notebook or tucking the chair back under the desk. A dangerous move.

Ji-yong grinned even wider than before, already on his feet. "Deal."

He reached the door before you could, grabbed the handle and opened it for you to walk through, his typical mischievous grin never leaving his face. “Ladies first.” 

“Such a gentleman.” You quipped and walked through, not after checking the hallway first of course.

And just like that, the two of you were sneaking through the hallways, hearts racing with every quiet step.

The tension in the air was palpable as the two of you stood in the hallway, the soft sounds of your footsteps echoing against the polished floor. Ji-yong’s eyes were gleaming with excitement. 

"You sure you're up for this?" He whispered, glancing around as if expecting someone to appear out of nowhere.

You hesitated, your gaze flicking nervously to the security cameras overhead. The building was still buzzing with activity, but most of the staff would be asleep by now. Still, the thought of getting caught was enough to make your heart race. "This is risky," you muttered, trying to stay calm. "If we get caught, we're in trouble."

He chuckled softly, his fingers brushing against hers as he took a step closer. "That's what makes it fun," he said with a wink. You’d be lying if you didn’t find it attractive. Unfortunately for you, he was incredibly charming.

"Come on, I know the way."

The two of you moved quickly but quietly, sticking close to the walls to avoid being seen. The dim lighting in the hallways made it harder to spot you both, and every sound seemed amplified as you tiptoed past the security desk. The guard was hunched over, lost in the glow of his phone screen, completely unaware of the two figures sneaking past. Your pulse quickened as you tried to cover up your breathing as much as you could, but Ji-yong kept a steady pace, signalling you to stay low as you made your way toward the exit.

As you neared the door, Ji-yong reached for the handle, his hand steady despite the adrenaline coursing through them. He glanced at you one last time, a playful smile tugging at his lips once more. "Ready?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

You nodded, biting back a grin. "Just don’t get us caught."

“You know I won’t.”

With one final look around, he pushed the door open, and you slipped into the cool night air, your hearts still racing but filled with the thrill of your daring escape. The moment you had stepped through the exit and carefully closed the door behind you, he grabbed your wrist, pulling you into a sprint toward the car parked just down the street. The night air was crisp against the mostly bare skin of your arms and legs, the sound of your hurried footsteps filled the silence. Neither of you spoke—just the occasional glance over your shoulders to truly make sure no one had followed, accidentally making eye contact here and there.

Ji-yong reached the car first, fumbling with his keys as he yanked the door open. “Hurry,” he hissed, motioning for you to get in. You certainly didn’t need to be told twice. You practically dove into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind you just as he did the same on his side. For a moment, you both sat there, frozen, chests rising and falling with quick, uneven breaths. The street outside was quiet, undisturbed. You made it.

And then, as if on cue, you turned to each other, eyes wide with the weight of what you had just pulled off.

Silence.

Then—laughter.

It started as a breathless chuckle from Ji-yong, but the absurdity of the situation caught up with both of you, and soon enough, you were doubled over, shoulders shaking with uncontrollable laughter. You pressed an ice-cold hand to your burning face, gasping for air between giggles. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

He leaned back against the headrest, grinning as he ran a hand through his hair. “I know, right? That was way too close.” He turned to look at you again, amusement dancing in his eyes. “You looked so scared back there.”

“Excuse me?” You began, “I was being cautious. Someone has to be the responsible one here.”

“And yet, here you are, sneaking out in the middle of the night with me.”

You rolled your eyes but, once again, couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at your lips and the blood rushing to your cheeks. The adrenaline still buzzed in your veins, mixing with the warmth of the moment. Ji-yong shifted in his seat, tilting his head slightly as he studied you for a moment. His laughter had faded, but his expression softened, something unreadable flickering across his face before briefly looking away.

The laughter had faded, but the buzz of excitement still lingered in the air. He tapped his fingers absent-mindedly against the steering wheel. “So,” he said, glancing over at you. “Where to? Or was the plan just to run away with nowhere to go?”

You hummed, thinking for a moment, leaning back in your seat as you gazed out the window. “Honestly? I didn’t think we’d make it this far.”

That made him chuckle. “Wow. Such faith in us.”

“I’m just saying, the odds weren’t exactly in our favour. But I guess you do have a way of getting people to do reckless things.”

“People?”

“Me. Specifically me.” You laughed.

His grin never left his face as he started the car, the soft rumble filling the quiet space. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

You sat in comfortable silence for a while, the city lights flickering outside the windows, casting moving shadows across your faces. The world beyond the car felt distant, like a dream you were slipping through unnoticed. It was rare—to have a moment like this, away from expectations, away from the prying eyes of fans, staff, and friends alike.

Ji-yong snuck a glance at you when you weren’t looking. You were tracing patterns on your arm, brows slightly furrowed in thought. He wondered what was on your mind. He wondered if you had any idea how often he caught himself watching you like this—memorizing the way your eyes softened when you were deep in thought, the way you pressed your lips together when you were frustrated.

And if you knew, what would you think about the way Seunghyun, Taeyang, and Daesung teased him for it?

Ji-yong could still hear them now—Taeyang shaking his head with an amused smirk, Daesung’s knowing glances, and Seunghyun’s relentless, dramatic sighs. Just confess already, you’re embarrassing yourself. They never let him live it down, always pointing out the way his attention lingered a little too long, the way his voice softened when he spoke to you, the way he always found an excuse to be around you. And as much as he brushed them off, he knew they weren’t wrong. The thought made his ears burn.

It had started one evening in the studio. Ji-yong had been half-listening to a new beat, scrolling through his phone when Seunghyun leaned over his shoulder with a loud, exaggerated sigh.

“Hyung,” Ji-yong muttered without looking up, already knowing what was coming.

“What is this?” Seunghyun said dramatically, tapping the screen of Ji-yong’s phone. “You’re literally smiling at your messages right now. Are you in high school?”

Ji-yong scoffed and pulled his phone away, locking it. “Mind your business.”

Daesung, sprawled out on the couch, grinned. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

Taeyang let out a knowing chuckle from his spot near the desk, looking up from his own phone. “It’s always her.”

Seunghyun wasn’t letting this go. He leaned in closer, studying Ji-yong’s face. “Look at him. He’s already getting defensive. Next, he’s gonna say she’s just a friend—”

“But she is just a friend,” Ji-yong cut in quickly. Too quickly.

The room went silent for about half a second before all three of them burst out laughing.

“Ohhh, this is bad,” Taeyang teased, shaking his head. “I’ve never seen Ji-yong lie so poorly in my life.”

Daesung grinned, leaning his elbows on his knees. “Bro, you don’t even talk about your crushes, but you think we haven’t noticed how different you act around her?”

“Different how?” Ji-yong challenged, crossing his arms.

“You get all… soft.”

Ji-yong rolled his eyes. “I do not get soft.”

“You do,” Taeyang confirmed. “Like earlier today, when she came by to drop off something for the manager? You barely spoke, but the second she left, you smiled to yourself like some lovesick teenager.”

“I—” Ji-yong stopped, trying to come up with a defence, but all three of them were already grinning at him. Busted.

Seunghyun clapped him on the back with a knowing look. “You’re screwed, bro.”

Ji-yong swallowed, gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. No. That was the last thing he needed. If you ever heard them talk like that, would you laugh? Would you tease him too? Or worse—would you start noticing the way he looked at you? The way he felt? And, as a result, would you distance yourself from him?

He had never planned for this—to care this much.

At first, it had been simple: late-night studio sessions, teasing exchanges, fleeting moments that he told himself meant nothing. But then he started noticing the way you made the air feel lighter, the way being around you felt like a break from the noise of everything else. And now, sitting here with you, watching the city pass by in the glow of streetlights, he realized he had been in trouble for a while.

Eventually, he spoke, his voice quieter than before. “So… what were you writing earlier?”

“A whole lot of nothing. Or… trying to write something, but nothing came out right.”

He glanced at her. “Typical writer’s block.”

“Feels more like an identity crisis,” you muttered, half-joking. “I don’t know. I just kept overthinking everything. Like… what if I don’t have anything meaningful to say anymore?”

He frowned at that, his grip tightening slightly on the wheel. “That’s not true. You always have something to say.”

You let out a small laugh, though there wasn’t much humour in it. “You sound so sure.”

“Because I am,” he said, glancing at you again before turning back to the road. “You’re one of the most passionate people I know. Even when you don’t say anything, you’re thinking—feeling. That’s what makes you good.” His voice was steady, sure. “You just don’t see yourself the way I do.”

Your breath hitched slightly at his words.

He must have realized what he said, because his fingers drummed nervously against the wheel, and he cleared his throat. “I mean—uh, the way people who know you do.”

For a moment, you just stared at him, watching as he kept his eyes firmly on the road, as if avoiding your gaze would erase what had just slipped out. A warmth bloomed in your chest.

“Ji-yong.”

He shook his head quickly, a sheepish smile playing on his lips. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you just figured something out.”

You tilted her head slightly, as if considering. “Maybe I did.”

He groaned, quickly running a hand through his hair. “This is why I don’t say things.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that, but there was no denying the way your heart was now racing for an entirely different reason. Trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach, you decided to change the subject when you realised he hadn’t explained why he was awake when he found you.

“Y’know, you never said why you were up so late.”

Ji-yong blinked, as if caught off guard. “Ah… I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Why? Is your reason dumber than mine?”

“No, just…” He hesitated before sighing. “Not that interesting.”

“You’re avoiding the question.”

“I just couldn’t sleep.”

“Why?”

He hesitated again, longer this time, before answering. “Because my brain is a pain in the ass.”

That made you pause. “What do you mean?”

He let out a short, quiet laugh, but there was no humour in it. “I think too much. About everything. I’ll be exhausted, lying in bed, and suddenly my brain decides it’s time to overanalyse every stupid thing I’ve ever said, every choice I’ve ever made, every possible way I could screw something up.” He exhaled sharply. “It’s like I can never just… be.”

“You mean like anxiety?”

He shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. It’s not like I panic, I just—” He sighed, tapping his fingers against the wheel. “I second-guess myself a lot. Get stuck in my own head. It’s frustrating because I know it’s dumb, but I can’t turn it off.”

Something about the way he said it—the exhaustion behind his words—made your chest tighten.

“Why didn’t you just say this earlier?” you asked softly. The car came to a stop as you reached a red light.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Because I didn’t want to make it about me. You already seemed frustrated.”

“That’s stupid,” you said without thinking.

Ji-yong finally turned to you, caught between amusement and exasperation. “Excuse me?”

“You do it all the time,” you said, shaking your head. “You act like you have to be the one keeping everyone else together, but who’s doing that for you?”

His lips parted slightly, as if he hadn’t expected the question. His fingers drummed idly on the wheel, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t answer. But then, in a voice quieter than before, he said:

“You.”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Ji-yong let out a small, almost self-deprecating laugh. “You don’t even realize it, do you?”

You swallowed, suddenly hyper aware of the way the air in the car felt different—thicker, heavier. “Realize what?”

He glanced at you again, something unreadable in his gaze. He looked like he wanted to say something else, something more, but instead, he just shook his head with a small smile. The traffic light finally turned green and he continued driving.

“Nothing,” he muttered. “Forget I said anything.”

But you wouldn’t forget. Not now. Not when the weight of his words settled deep into your chest, shifting something inside you that you weren’t sure you were ready to face yet. And judging by the way Ji-yong gripped the wheel like his life depended on it, staring straight ahead, neither was he.

At some point, the heavy weight of the conversation had lifted, giving way to laughter and much lighter topics. The city stretched out around you, a blur of neon signs and empty streets as Ji-yong drove aimlessly, neither of you wanting to break the spell of the night just yet.

The two of you talked about ridiculous things—the worst stage outfits you’d ever worn, the most embarrassing moments caught on camera, the weirdest fan gifts he had ever received. He nearly swerved when he burst out laughing at your dramatic re-enactment of a failed dance move during rehearsal, and you doubled over when he confessed to once getting trapped in a bathroom before a concert and having to be rescued by the rest of the guys and a few staff members.

The car was filled with easy conversation, the kind that only came when time didn’t seem to matter. But time did matter. And neither of you realized just how much until Ji-yong absently checked the dashboard clock.

“Shit.”

“What?” You turned to him, still grinning from your last joke.

He gestured toward the clock. 4:32 AM.

Your stomach dropped. “No way.”

He groaned, rubbing a hand down his face. “We are so screwed.”

It took a second for the panic to fully settle in, but when it did, it was instant. You sat up straight, suddenly wide awake. “We have to get back now.”

He was already turning the car around, the easy-going vibe of the night replaced with frantic energy. “We better pray no one’s up yet.”

Your heart pounded as you mentally mapped out the best way to sneak back in, every possibility of getting caught flashing through your head. Staff members were early risers, and some of your groupmates tended to wake up for morning workouts. If even one person saw you—

“We can’t go through the front,” you said quickly. “There’s a security camera right at the entrance.”

Ji-yong nodded. “Back door. Less cameras, but we have to be fast.”

You could already imagine the absolute chaos if either of your groups or, worse, the company found out about this. You and Ji-yong locked eyes, truly realizing at the same time just how risky this had been.

Then, for some reason—maybe from sheer exhaustion, maybe from the ridiculousness of the situation—you both started laughing. Quiet at first, then full-on, uncontrollable laughter just like at the very beginning of this little side quest.

“This is so bad,” he shook his head.

You wiped the happy tears that were forming in your eyes. “If we survive this, we’re never doing this again.”

That was a lie. You both knew it.

And as the car sped through the empty streets, the first hints of morning light creeping onto the horizon, you knew this night—this feeling—was one neither of you would forget. By the time you had pulled into the parking lot, the sky had started to shift from deep navy to the softest hints of morning blue. Every second that passed made the risk of getting caught even worse.

You both moved quickly, slipping out of the car and sticking to the shadows as you made your way to the back entrance of the building. He pulled open the door as quietly as possible, wincing at the soft creak of the hinges.

“Go, go, go,” you whispered, pushing him inside.

The hallway was eerily quiet, the kind of silence that made every tiny sound feel deafening. You pressed your back against the wall, Ji-yong right next to you as you both listened for any sign of movement.

Nothing.

You exchanged a glance, and without a word, started moving.

The first challenge was the stairwell—safer than the elevators, but the risk of running into someone was still high. He went first, taking the steps two at a time, while you followed as quickly and quietly as possible. Every creak of the stairs made your pulse spike.

Halfway up, you heard a noise—a distant door closing somewhere above you. You both froze.

Ji-yong grabbed your wrist and pulled you down into a crouch against the railing, barely breathing. You squeezed your eyes shut, silently praying whoever it was wasn’t coming down the stairs. The footsteps paused, then faded away in the opposite direction.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Ji-yong turned to you, eyes wide. “That was too close,” he mouthed.

You nodded frantically, your heart still hammering.

The two of you moved again, finally reaching your floor. Ji-yong peeked down the hallway before gesturing for you to follow. Your dorms were now just a few doors away, and you could practically feel freedom within reach.

You made it to the door first, pressing a hand against it for stability as you exhaled. Ji-yong stopped next to you, running a hand through his hair, a tired but exhilarated grin tugging at his lips.

“We actually made it,” you whispered.

He smirked. “You doubted me?”

You rolled your eyes, but before you could respond, Ji-yong opened the door. As you stepped inside, you immediately realized you weren’t alone. The familiar voices of Taeyang and Daesung were already drifting through the room, and the instant you both walked in, the entire space fell silent.

The kitchen lights flickered overhead as you and Ji-yong froze. There, sitting casually in the lounge area, were the familiar faces of your group and his—Seunghyun leaning against the counter, a couple girls from your own group scattered around the couches, and Daesung and Taeyang, clearly wide awake.

You couldn’t even hide. You hadn’t even stepped inside before they all turned toward you.

“Well, well, well…” Taeyang’s voice rang through the silence, a grin tugging at his lips. “Look who decided to join us at five in the morning.”

Ji-yong cleared his throat, taking a step back, trying to play it cool, but his eyes flicked toward you, silently pleading for a way out. “We… just went for a walk.”

Seunghyun raised an eyebrow from where he stood, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “A walk?”

You opened your mouth to respond, but you couldn’t find any words. The guilt, the tension, the fact that everyone was wide awake and clearly waiting for you two to walk in made it impossible to lie.

“You two are really bad at hiding,” Daesung chuckled from his seat on the couch. “Did you think no one would notice?”

Ji-yong rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, giving you a small, apologetic smile. “We didn’t exactly plan on getting caught.”

“Oh, but you were planning on sneaking in here, right?” One of the girls from your group smirked from the kitchen counter. “Because it’s not like we’re all waiting in here for you to walk in.”

Taeyang folded his arms, shaking his head with a chuckle. “You really thought you could just walk in and slip by us, huh?”

You let out a long sigh, resigning yourself to the fact that there was no escape now. “I guess we’re busted.”

Ji-yong leaned against the doorframe, shrugging with a small smile. “Guess so.”

Seunghyun leaned forward, narrowing his eyes as he studied you both. “So, what exactly were you two talking about?”

You froze, unsure of how to answer. Ji-yong shifted next to you, glancing down at his shoes nervously.

“Oh, you know,” he said with an awkward chuckle, “just random stuff.”

Seunghyun snorted, clearly not buying it. “Random stuff, huh?” He shot you a look that you could read too easily. “I’m sure it was really random.”

“I bet it was super interesting,” Taeyang added with a raised eyebrow. “Just you two, talking the whole night away. So what was the real topic of conversation?”

You felt your cheeks heat up as you avoided their gazes. “Nothing important,” you muttered, hoping to avoid the topic.

Seunghyun grinned from his spot, clearly enjoying every second. “Oh, we know it wasn’t nothing important.” He exchanged a knowing glance with Daesung, and the teasing only grew stronger. “In fact, I’d say it was pretty obvious.”

Taeyang tilted his head, glancing at Ji-yong with a knowing smirk. “Yeah, because you two are definitely good at hiding it.”

“Hiding what?” You shot back, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice faltered slightly.

Ji-yong quickly cleared his throat, standing up straighter. “We’re just really good friends,” he insisted, his voice a little sharper than before, as if to convince not just them but himself too. He gave a small, forced smile. “Nothing more than that.”

Seunghyun raised an eyebrow, his grin widening. “Mm-hmm. Just friends? Sure.”

“Not this again,” Daesung laughed mostly to himself. Again? What did he mean by again?

“You guys are ridiculous,” you muttered under your breath, trying to downplay the awkward tension growing between you and Ji-yong.

“Well, we’re not the only ones who think it’s pretty clear,” one of the girls from your group said with a knowing grin. “But if you insist…”

Ji-yong rubbed the back of his neck again, his smile faltering. “I mean it. We’re just friends. It’s not that deep.”

Seunghyun looked at you both for a long moment, still not convinced. “Sure, Ji-yong. You’re just friends,” he said with a heavy dose of sarcasm. “But I’m telling you, it’s pretty obvious to all of us.”

“You’re really good at pretending,” Taeyang said, eyes twinkling with amusement.

You quickly changed the subject, desperate to get away from this conversation. “Well, we didn’t exactly plan on getting caught by everyone in the kitchen.”

“I mean, it’s not like you tried very hard to hide it,” Daesung said, unable to keep his chuckle to himself. “You two always look like you’re in your own little world.”

Ji-yong sighed, a bit of frustration leaking into his voice. “Can we not make this a thing?” He shot a glance at you, but you weren’t sure what he was thinking—was he upset with the teasing, or was he frustrated about something else?

Seunghyun raised his hands in mock surrender, still grinning. “Alright, alright, we’ll drop it for now. But you know we’re not buying the ‘just friends’ act.”

You quickly turned toward your room, eager to escape the conversation. “Guess we’ll work on pretending better next time.”

Ji-yong followed suit, offering a quiet laugh, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure we’ll do better,” he said, his voice lacking his usual confidence.

As you slipped into your room, heart still racing from the teasing, you exhaled slowly, trying to shake the feeling lingering in your chest. It was ridiculous, really. Ji-yong was Ji-yong. One of the most sought-after idols in the industry, effortlessly charismatic, always surrounded by people who adored him. There was no way he’d look at you like that. You were just his friend—one of the few people he could relax around without the weight of expectations. And maybe that was why it stung a little. Because no matter how much your heart stuttered when he looked at you, you were certain he didn’t see you the same way.

Ji-yong barely mumbled, just out of earshot from you, before slipping into his own room, shutting the door behind him a little too quickly. He let out a quiet breath, leaning against it for a moment, rubbing his face with both hands. Why did it bother him so much? The way the others teased, the way they all acted like something between you two was so obvious. Maybe to them, it was. But to Ji-yong, it wasn’t even a possibility. You had never once looked at him like that, not in the way he caught himself looking at you. And why would you?

He sighed, pushing off the door and running a hand through his hair before collapsing onto his bed. You deserve someone better—someone who wasn’t always stuck in his own head, someone who wouldn’t second-guess everything the way he did. Someone who wasn’t him.

And so, just like every other night where his thoughts threatened to betray him, he shut them down before they could get any further. Because if there was one thing he was sure of, it was that whatever he felt for you… it wasn’t something you’d ever return. If only he knew this is exactly what you were thinking about him, just on the other side of the wall. So close yet so far.

But that would be the least of both of your problems when you finally found out that a video of you and Ji-yong, with your hands intertwined, running to the car had gone viral. 

taglist (lmk if you'd like to be added!!):

@thanosscross

[morganski-19]

part 1

The next day, there’s someone new to visit Steve. Making Wayne stop in his tracks on his third coffee run. The rumors were true, the Chief isn’t as dead as he was a year ago. Just lost what looks to be half his body weight and all of his hair. Looking gaunt and malnourished. 

But he’s alive. That has to count for something.

Wayne wishes the Chief was there to see him. Give him the key to unlock the chain around Eddie’s wrist. So he’d be able to wake up to a clean slate. That his record will be clear and he won’t get carted off to jail as soon as he’s stable. So Wayne will be able to bring him home. 

Once he has a home to go to. Not just a shitty hotel room that costs more than it should for a night. But it’s right next to the hospital, so Wayne can be here in five minutes if something happens. When his boy wakes up. He has to wake up. 

It’s been five days since Eddie was brought in. Twelve since Wayne saw him last. All he wants is to hear his obnoxiously loud music blaring down the hall while he’s trying to sleep. Or the laughter that could make him smile even when he didn’t want to. Wayne wants his Eddie back, the boy he watched grow all of these years. He’s not ready for the day Eddie wakes up and the light is gone from his eyes. 

Because it will be. Wayne’s seen enough people come back from combat a completely different person. With the scars that are sewn into Eddie’s torso, up his neck, one on his cheek. There’s no doubt that he’s been through something unimaginable. Life changing. 

As much as Wayne wants Eddie to wake up. He’s not ready for him to wake up changed. 

There’s a knock on the hospital door before it opens. Wayne’s expecting a nurse to check Eddie’s vitals, tell him the same shit they have for days. That all is good and he’s progressing. It should be any day now that he wakes up. If the damage to his body wasn’t too much for him. Those words of hope lack their meaning now. 

But instead of a nurse walking through the door, it’s the Chief. 

“Can I sit?” He motions to the chair next to Wayne.

“I suppose.”

The Chief sits next to Wayne, not looking at him. “I hear he’s been in a coma for a few days now.”

Wayne nods, not much in the mood for talking. Civilly at least. Push the right button and the volcano is about to burst. 

“I’ve known a few people who’ve been in medically induced ones like this. They all wake up in the end.”

“I’d like for the cuffs to be off his wrist when he does,” Wayne snaps. Knowing that the Chief has the key to unlock them. “That way he can recover as an innocent man. Like he should.”

The Chief takes a deep breath. “I’m not fully reinstated yet. I don’t have the authority to do anything about that. Even if-”

“Even if what?” Wayne looks at the Chief. Anger filled his voice. “Even if he’s innocent. I know he’s innocent. My boy, my boy could barely hurt a fly, let alone a living, breathing person. He was kinder than people gave him credit for. This town gave him so much shit that he didn’t deserve. Still is. When I’m afraid he might never wake up the same again. So I’d like the cuffs off, so he knows that some part of this town sees him as something other than a villain.”

Finally looking Wayne in the eyes, the Chief takes a second to think. Nodding his head in thought. “You smoke?”

Wayne scoffs. “That really what you're thinking of right now?”

“Answer the question.” Something about the Chief makes Wayne believe there’s more to his words. 

“I do.”

“Great,” he stands, waiting for Wayne at the door. “Come on, let’s go.”

Wayne gets up, mainly because he doesn’t really have a choice but also because he wants to see where this is going. They pass Harrington in the hall, talking to someone on the phone. 

“Yeah, I’m free tomorrow. Can’t wait to sleep in my own bed. No don’t do that. Cause I don’t think it’s time to throw a party yet, not while.” He makes brief eye contact with Wayne as they walk by. Before turning away. “Just won’t feel right without all of us.”

Wayne has no clue who he’s talking about, but it’s probably not Eddie. Hopes it isn’t. He still doesn’t know how he feels about this kid, even if he knows Eddie’s innocent. Doesn’t forgive him from his past, if rumors are true. And knowing who his dad is, Wayne wouldn’t be surprised if they all were true. 

The Chief leads him to the side of the hospital, where there’s no foot traffic. No one around to hear. Wayne suddenly understands what this might all be about. Something not for wandering ears. 

“What I say does not leave this conversation,” he starts, handing Wayne a cigarette. Lighting his own before passing the lighter to Wayne. “Got it?”

Wayne nods. 

“I know Eddie’s innocent. But there’s some weird shit that was happening around then that I cannot tell you about it. All you need to know is that the Feds are involved, and they’re looking for a fall guy. And I’m trying my hardest to make sure that the fall guy isn’t your nephew. So while it might not seem like it, some progress is being made. Your nephew will be a free man when he wakes up. I give you my word on that.”

“I don’t even know how to start processing what you just said.” Wayne takes a long drag from the cigarette, letting the smoke blow out into the alleyway. 

The Chief laughs. “That was all of us the first time this happened. I’d say it gets easier but it really doesn’t.”

“The first time?”

“There’s a lot more to this town than meets the eye.”

“How do I know your word is any good?”

The Chief considers this for a moment. “You don’t really. But who else do you know who can fix this?”

With that, the Chief nods goodbye and heads to the parking lot. Leaving Wayne with more questions than answers, and a little flame of hope he’s wishing won’t get put out.

part 3

I don't know how many parts this will be but I do know they will be posted sporadically whenever I have time to write them. So, no promises of consistency.

also, tag list. I tagged anyone who asked/seemed interested in a part two. please let me know if you would like to be added or removed: @the-they-who-nerded, @insteviewetrust, @croatoan-like-its-hot, @jettestar, @tinyplanet95, @steddie-as-they-go, @slv-333, @littlecelestialmoth, @thatonebadideapanda, @fandomsanddeath, @marismorar

[a-pute11as]

serendipity (part 2) - kika nazareth

word count - 5.9k | summary - a ray of sunshine stumbles into your quiet cafe one morning, with heart shaped latte art and the added bonus of gaining a new english teacher, she decides to make it her everyday stop, even when your ex decides to pull a stunt.

this is part 2 of serendipity, part 1 can be found here.

-

a few days went by, kika never failing to show her face at the cafe, even if it was for 5 minutes or an hour and a half of an ‘english lesson’ that had no real objectives. 

the two of you had a routine, to the point where she knew your days off and the two of you would exchange a few texts instead. her excuse for asking questions was always being ‘my english needs to get better’, and you couldn’t help but entertain it, especially when there was a smile etched across your face. 

you were sitting in your flat, legs up on the sofa, your phone on your lap as it lit up. her name flashed across the screen, and as if it was routine.

kika - are you driving to the match tomorrow? or i can pick you up?

you - i can get the metro, thank you though

kika - no i’m going to pick you up, be ready for 4, the match doesn’t kick off for a while so i’m gonna find someone for you to sit with

you didn’t really know how professional matches worked. growing up you went to a handful of your brother’s 7-a-side tournaments but you were mostly focused on whatever toy your parents had packed to keep you occupied. but you knew this didn’t compare to that, at all. 

you honestly thought kika would turn up in her kit, wait a few minutes and then start playing, but clearly there was far more to it. so much so that she was finding you someone to sit with. 

you - oh, yeah sure okay

kika - ellie is injured, she's from england like you, so you can sit with her 

your heart picked up, suddenly something you thought would be a light hearted outing with a girl you had grown to really… really like had became meeting her team, her second family, her world outside of the cafe that felt so familiar. sure you kinda met two of her friends already, but that ended up in your ex showing up and tearing you apart piece from piece. 

but you couldn’t show her how anxious you were. 

you - okay, are you sure she’d be okay with that? 

kika - sí, claro, ellie loves to talk so it’s perfect

your fingers hovered over your screen for a second, thumb tapping just below the message. you chewed the inside of your cheek. part of you wanted to make an excuse, say something came up, that you were feeling off, but then another message popped through before you could type a word.

kika - don’t worry, she already said she’ll look after you

and she made me promise to tell you she’s funnier than me

also, do you own a barcelona top?

you laughed softly under your breath, relaxing ever so slightly into your cushions. your heart fluttered at the way she went out of her way to look after you, something that you hadn’t really felt before. 

you - i’ll pretend to laugh at her jokes, but i’m sure they won’t be as good as yours

but no, i don’t own one, or anything football related

the three dots appeared, disappeared, then came back again.

kika -  i’ll make sure to tell her that ;)

you’re important to me, so i want you to feel like you belong there too

you stared at the message for a moment, warmth rising in your chest in that now-familiar way. she never said too much, just enough, always the right words to soothe the previous pounding in your chest.

you - you’re making it hard to play it cool, stop being sweet

kika - can’t help it, see you at 4 cariño

your heart practically exploded at her casual use of the nickname, something so simple, a small ‘spanish’ touch on the end of her message yet you couldn’t hide the slow stunned smile tugging at your lips.

-

you checked the time again - 3:56.

you had checked the time at least 7 times in the last 20 minutes, sitting on the very edge of your sofa as you twiddled your thumbs with anticipation. you’d already put your shoes on 15 minutes ago, then taken them off again and put on another pair. your coat hung by the door, waiting, you clutched your phone tight, even reapplying lip balm for no real reason other than keeping your hands moving. 

then, right on time, the buzz of your phone cut through the silence that was eating away at your mind.

kika - i’m outside :)

you swallowed the sudden nerves and gave yourself a quick once-over in the hallway mirror, before grabbing your coat and heading down to meet her.

the cool air hit your face as you stepped outside, the late afternoon barcelona sky was still bright. kika’s car was parked right by the curb, engine idling, window down. one hand lazily resting on the wheel, the other pushing her hair behind her ear as she spotted you.

she smiled, wide and easy, the kind of smile that tugged at your nerves but made them settle.

kika leaned over to push the door open for you, “i have a present for you.”

you slid into the passenger seat, the warmth of the car wrapping around you instantly. the soft sound of music played in the background, low, slightly jazzy, unexpected but somehow very her.

your eyes flickered over to her, a small gift bag in her lap, a delicate bow tying together the handles. your gaze widening as your face flashed with a sense of fear as your eyes met hers with an apologetic look,  “but i didn’t get you anything.”

a light smile spread across her face as she laughed slightly, “it’s not a proper gift, only something small, to commemorate the first time you get to watch me play.”

“kika you really shouldn’t have.” you shook your head adamantly. 

“just open it.” she insisted, pushing the bag into your lap. 

you looked at her hesitantly, her sending you an affirmative nod before you carefully pulled at the strings of the bow, the paper rustling softly as you opened the bag, your heart thudding louder with every second. 

nestled inside was a folded football shirt, deep blue and garnet, the unmistakable colours of her team. you lifted it carefully, the fabric still holding a faint warmth, worn but clean. you held it up in front of you, your eyes raking it as your mouth dropped open slightly. 

then you saw the back.

kika #18. 

your breath caught for a moment, thumb grazing over the printing of her name. the shirt was clearly match-worn. there was a faint grass stain near the hem, and the neckline was slightly stretched. but it wasn’t just a gift, it was a piece of her.

“you didn’t…” you started softly, words catching in your throat.

“i did,” she interrupted, smiling, nodding again. “it’s from a champions league game against st polten, i scored and got an assist in that game.”

you looked at her, wide-eyed. “kika, this is- this is not small, this is special.”

“so are you,” she said simply, putting the car in gear, “i told you i wanted you to feel like you belong.”

you looked back down at the shirt in your lap, the weight of it suddenly much heavier than just a mix of fabric and thread, “i don’t know what to say.”

“you don’t have to say anything,” she replied, voice quieter now, “just wear it.”

you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “okay, but only if you sign it after you win.”

she smirked, giving you a playful nudge, “maybe i’ll even dedicate a goal to you.”

you relaxed into the seat, smiling at her words as she pulled off in the direction of the stadium. 

the drive was filled with kika’s light humming along to the songs, tapping the steering wheel in rhythm with the music before she spoke again, “ellie’s already excited to meet you.”

you tilted your head slightly, “should i be worried?”

she glanced at you, then shook her head. “no, but maybe i should be.”

you looked out the window briefly, laughing to yourself and by the time the stadium came into view in the distance, your nerves had softened into something warm and steady. 

kika said her hello’s to the security guard as they opened the barrier to allow you into the players’ car park, the gravel crunching softly beneath the tyres. you glanced around nervously, eyes catching on the sleek cars, mostly cupra’s, all of it a little more real now.

“don’t look so nervous,” kika said, reaching across to briefly squeeze your hand before easing into a parking space, “ellie’s annoying, but she’s really nice.”

you gave her a weak smile, gripping the t-shirt in your hand a little tighter.

as the engine cut off, you spotted a figure leaning casually against the low wall near the entrance, blonde ponytail, hoodie pulled up despite the mild weather, arms crossed and clearly scanning for someone.

kika sent you a look, one asking if you were ready. “let me just put this on.” you smiled lightly, referencing the shirt. you awkwardly pulled your coat off, slipping the blaugrana over your own t-shirt, looping your coat over your arm. 

you sent kika a nod, before slipping out of the car after her. kika rounded the front of the car, hand grazing your back for the briefest second before she waved toward the figure waiting.

“ellie!” she called.

the blonde perked up, grinning when she spotted the two of you. as you got closer, her eyes flicked to you, her smile widening with a kind of mischief that made your stomach tighten.

“this is the famous barista?” ellie asked, already teasing.

kika rolled her eyes affectionately, “ellie, this is the very patient barista i’ve been annoying for weeks. and this,” she added, turning to you, “is ellie. professional asshole, injured, so she’s free to keep you company tonight.”

ellie held out a hand, clearly amused, “nice to meet you. i’ve heard a lot, mostly about your coffee but she likes to talk about how pretty you are.”

“ellie, shut up.” kika groaned, her hands covered her face as she averted her gaze to the floor. 

you shook her hand, chuckling nervously as your cheeks automatically turned red, “hopefully I live up to the hype.”

ellie winked, “well you’re wearing her shirt, so you’ve already won over half the team.”

kika sighed as ellie slung an arm casually around your shoulders and began leading you toward the stadium doors, “don’t let her embarrass me too much.”

“no promises!” ellie called over her shoulder, and kika could only shake her head, watching the two of you go with a grin she couldn’t hide if she tried.

ellie guided you through the stadium’s inner corridors with the ease of someone who knew exactly where to go, talking the whole way. something about how weird it was to be sidelined again, how annoying physios could be even when they were right, how kika had definitely never acted this nervous about someone before. you laughed along, slightly dazed and definitely nervous, clutching the hem of her shirt like it was anchoring you.

eventually, you reached a private section of the stands a few rows tucked behind the dugout with perfect views of the pitch. ellie flopped into her seat with a dramatic sigh and patted the spot beside her. you sat down carefully, eyes scanning the growing crowd, heart still hammering.

“she’ll be out to warm up soon, you can usually spot her by her scrunchie.” ellie adjusting her hoodie once again. 

you smiled at the image, you often saw the same scrunchie wrapped around her wrist, occasionally looped round her ponytail. maybe it was a good luck charm, or a reminder of home, whatever it is, it was her. 

after a moment of comfortable silence, ellie glanced sideways at you, “so, how long have you lived here?”

“not long, nearly 4 months.” you shrugged lightly. 

“do you plan on staying long?” she asked, it seemed like an intimidating question but it didn’t feel like an interrogation. 

you thought for a moment before answering, “hm at least till the end of my visa, maybe longer depending on how life goes.” 

she nodded before speaking again, “so where’s home home then?”

“uh sheffield, close to manchester basically.” 

“no way, which town?” she blinked. 

you told her and her eyes widened. 

“shut up,” she said, turning toward you fully now. “that’s literally where I grew up, like, i’m not kidding, down the street from the corner shop that sold those really cheap slushies”

your jaw dropped, “no way, i went there all the time after school.”

“those were elite, i’d ask my mum for some money everyday before school just to get one,” ellie agreed, grinning, “you didn’t go to st. mary’s, did you?”

“i did! oh my god.” you shook your head in disbelief. 

“no. shut up. i was in year eleven when the entire art block flooded.”

“that was your year? we got stuck in the temporary classroom for months because of that!”

ellie burst out laughing, leaning into you as the two of you reeled from the weirdest coincidence either of you had experienced in ages.

“world’s too bloody small,” she grinned, “and kika thought she was doing you a favour introducing you to someone ‘from england’, little did she know.”

“that she introduced me to someone who probably saw me dressed as a christmas pudding in my primary school play,” you muttered.

“oh, you are never living that down now, wait were you the one who fell off the stage?”

the two of you dissolved into a fit of laughter just as the players started to file out onto the pitch to warm up. and when your eyes found kika, focused with her scrunchie in. you swore she glanced your way, just for a second. just long enough for you to notice the smile that appeared on her face.

-

the match began with a sudden burst of energy, the pitch flickering alive under the stadium lights as the roar of the crowd settled into a steady hum around you. the barcelona players moved like clockwork, fluid and fast, each pass threaded with precision and trust. 

kika’s presence was clear, demanding, running defenders in circles as if it was the easiest thing in the world. whilst the game itself was entertaining, your eyes were focused on kika, the way she’d fall into open pockets of space, eyes constantly scanning the pitch as if she could see 5 plays ahead, it was mesmerising. 

“she’s always like this,” ellie said, nudging you with her elbow, “quietly terrifying.”

you grinned, eyes still fixed on the field, on her, “she looks like she’s thinking about fifteen things at once.”

“she is,” ellie nodded, “and one of them is definitely you.”

you flushed, the words catching you off guard, but the smile that tugged at your mouth came naturally.

as the match continued, so did the conversation between you and ellie. whatever nervous energy had knotted your stomach earlier had started to melt away, you felt comfortable around her, in a sense she felt like home. you found yourself leaning in, asking questions about positions and plays, laughing at ellie’s dramatic commentary and overly passionate rants about referees.

“number eight on the other team has been diving like she’s auditioning for eastenders,” ellie muttered.

all you could do was laugh in response, her northern attitude really shining through. 

the crowd gasped as barcelona made a break forward. your eyes snapped across the pitch just in time to see kika collect a long pass, take a neat touch, and split two defenders. the ball stayed glued to her feet. one step, then another. and then.

a shot. clean. sharp. perfectly timed. the net rippled with the impact.

the stadium erupted.

your mouth fell open as you surged to your feet without thinking, your heart leaping to meet the moment.

“oh my god, she scored, she scored!” you breathed, the awe obvious in your tone.

ellie jumped up beside you, “of course she did!”

your eyes were fixated on her, watching as she didn’t just turn to her teammates or jog back to the centre circle like most of the others. she looked up, right at you.

even from a distance, the intent was unmistakable. she pointed to the crowd. to you. her smile was wide and warm, as she held her hand to her heart and tapped twice, slow and deliberate.

your breath hitched.

“she’s…” you blinked rapidly. “was that-”

“oh yeah,” ellie confirmed, smirking, a slow teasing nod in your direction, “that was defo for you.”

you sat down slowly, a little stunned, your cheeks warm and hands frozen mid-air.

“she’s going to ruin me.” you muttered.

ellie laughed, “i think she already has, mate.”

you sank back into your seat, heart thudding wildly, the cheers of the crowd muffled beneath the sound of your pulse. your eyes never left the pitch, but your thoughts were miles away. 

back to the girl who used to second-guess everything, who used to shrink herself to fit into someone else’s idea of love. and now here you were, sitting in a borrowed shirt that still carried the faint scent of kika’s perfume, watching her dedicate a goal to you in front of a crowd of people.

the rest of the match passed in bursts, moments where you were completely absorbed by the rhythm of the play, and others where ellie and you swapped stories about growing up back home, from dodgy chip shops to awful school uniforms.

by the time the final whistle blew and the crowd erupted again, barcelona securing a solid win, your voice was slightly rough from cheering and your cheeks ached from smiling. 

players began trickling off the pitch, waving toward the stands, and your eyes scanned for kika.

you spotted her easily. sweat-slicked yet still radiant, her hair pulled back, smile as wide as the pitch itself as she exchanged high fives and hugs. but then her gaze found you again, and that smile softened. there was something quieter in it this time, it felt like it was just for you. her hand raised in a beckoning motion towards you.

“you’re coming down with me,” ellie said, already pulling her lanyard from her bag.

your brows lifted, “am i even allowed?”

“she’ll kill me if i don’t,” ellie smirked. “come on, you’re not getting out of this part.”

as you followed her toward the players’ entrance, nerves fluttered low in your belly. gone was the quiet hum and safety of the cafe you had learnt inside and out, the regulars you memorised the orders of and the bell that gave you familiarity. now here you were, walking through the hallways of one of the most decorated clubs in the world, surrounded by people of a certain status, one you weren’t as familiar with. 

kika was there, just outside the locker room, still in full kit, a towel around her neck, her hair damp but now pulled out of the ponytail. her gaze flicked up at the sound of footsteps, and the moment she saw you, her whole face changed. her grin widened, eyes lighting up like she’d been waiting for this moment the entire match.

“there’s my lucky charm,” she grinned, stepping forward, ignoring the chaos around her.

your cheeks flushed immediately, a red blush quickly spreading as you rolled your eyes, “that was all you.”

she shrugged. “not denying, but it was definitely for you.”

ellie groaned playfully, “you two are disgustingly cute already, you need to tell her about our discovery.” she smirked, nudging your arm. 

kika’s eyes widened, “oh god what’s happened?”

“we basically live round the corner from each other, we even went to the same school.” you explained, a sweet smile on your face, watching as kika’s jaw dropped slightly. 

“we’ve also exchanged numbers so we are going to get a whole lot more annoying.” ellie sent kika an annoying grin, her arm slung around your shoulder as she pulled you into her side slightly.

kika looked between the two of you with a slow blink before letting out a delighted laugh. “of course you are, this makes total sense. you’ve both got so sarcastic and speak far too quickly.”

you and ellie shared a grin before she disappeared momentarily as kika stepped closer to you, lowering her voice.

“did you like it?” she nodded toward the pitch.

you tilted your head, “you mean the goal you scored and then how you pointed at me after scoring?”

“hmm maybe,” she shrugged, a teasing glint in her eyes.

you smiled, softer this time, the noise of the corridor fading for a second. “yeah,” you said honestly, “i really did.”

she bumped her shoulder into yours, “i’ve got to go shower and pretend to listen to the coach talk about things we already know. but will you wait for me?”

you nodded, almost instantly, “of course, i’ll wait.”

as kika turned, she glanced back with one last smile. it was soft and lingering, yet it made your stomach flutter all the same. 

you leaned against the cool concrete wall as kika disappeared down the corridor, still smiling to yourself like some kind of idiot. ellie reappeared from around the corner a few moments later.

“she likes you,” ellie mentioned casually, as if she was telling you something simple like the weather.

you raised an eyebrow, before shaking your head slowly. 

ellie snorted, “no, like, she really likes you. she talks about constantly, as if you hung the stars yourself.”

you glanced down at the match-worn shirt you were still wearing, fingertips brushing the edge of the badge, “i don’t really know what I am to her yet.” you muttered. 

“well,” ellie tilted her head slightly, “you’re wearing her name on your back, she scored and pointed directly at you in front of half of barcelona, and she asked you to wait after the game. i’d say you’re at least halfway to girlfriend.”

you laughed quietly, “we haven’t even been on a date yet.” you sighed, your nerves slowly unwinding into something softer. “it’s just kind of scary. not her, not her at all, it’s just letting someone be this good to me.”

ellie’s teasing softened as she looked at you, “let her be, trust me. kika doesn’t give a lot of people this version of herself, and if she’s offering it to you, it’s because she wants you to have it.”

you nodded, eyes drifting toward the hallway again, sitting with what she had said like a weight on your chest.

fifteen minutes later, kika emerged, hair damp, her duffel slung over her shoulder. she was wearing a team hoodie and joggers now, her kit packed away, but the glow of the match hadn’t left her. she looked instantly toward where you stood, a warm smile tugging at her mouth as she made her way over. 

ellie took that as her signal to leave, giving you a small wave as she walked in the direction kika had come from.

“you waited.” she said, like she was genuinely surprised that you had been out there the whole time.

“of course i did.” you said quietly, with a small nod.

“there’s a team dinner tonight, alexia has asked if you want to come with us? it’s just a small local place round the corner that we go to sometimes,” she was quiet for a moment before speaking again, “i’d really like it if you could come.”

your eyebrow raised slightly, anxiety laced into your words, your voice quiet, “with the whole team?” 

she nodded, a small smile across her face, “a few extras with peoples partners, but the whole team knows a lot about you so they’d love to meet you.”

“okay, i’d really like that.” you smiled slowly.

“let’s go, pretty girl.” she reached out for your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world, her fingers laced with yours as she pulled you through the halls back in the direction of her car. she was so casual yet your heart thumped in your chest.

- 

the restaurant was tucked away on a quiet side street, all warm lights and terracotta walls, the kind of place locals loved because it didn’t try too hard. as you walked in beside kika, the low hum of conversation drifted out from the open windows, along with the scent of garlic and something slow-cooked and rich.

“mira quién ha llegado!” someone shouted, yet you weren’t entirely sure who it was. (look who has arrived.)

the tables had been pushed together into one long stretch down the middle of the restaurant. glasses clinked. cutlery scraped. there were half-empty bottles of red wine and plates meant for sharing already scattered across the table.

kika reached for your hand again, giving your fingers a gentle squeeze before leaning toward you.

“you okay?” she asked, her voice low, just for you.

you nodded, smiling, heart still racing but not in a way that made you want to run and hide, in a way you wanted to push through and be a part of her world, “yeah, nervous, but okay.”

she led you over to the group, and suddenly all the attention shifted your way. there were smiles and a chorus of hellos that came in half-english, half-spanish, all of them curious but kind.

ellie caught your eye from down the table and gave you a little wave, lifting her glass. “hey! look who survived her first barca match!”

“barely,” you called back with a grin, causing a few people to laugh.

you took a seat beside kika, her thigh brushing against yours under the table, and slowly, one bite of pan con tomate and a question about your favorite football chant, the nerves started to ease.

the conversation flowed. jana teased kika about her goal celebration, patri argued passionately about who made the best paella, and ellie declared you had to come to the next home match, no excuses.

between the shared tapas and the soft curl of kika’s smile every time she looked at you, your nerves settled. 

you felt a sense of safety, familiarity, being with kika felt like home. something you hadn’t felt since moving to barcelona. 

as the night rolled on, the energy shifted into something warmer. the previous bustling of the dinner table had changed into a group of people who were full of food, smiles plastered onto their faces, whilst soft laughter carried its way across the room.

kika stood up for a second to chat with someone at the far end of the table, and patri leaned across to you, eyebrows raised with a grin.

“so chica, you like her back right?” patri smirked.

“h-huh?” you stuttered, your eyes widening at the sudden question, your cheeks a little warm.

ellie laughed, “it’s so obvious mate, i’ve only been with you a few hours and i’ve caught you eyeing her multiple times.”

your eyes briefly travelled to kika laughing with vicky, the two of them stood either side of alexia, nudging either side of her as she simply rolled her eyes. 

you shook your head, the heat in your cheeks continuing to rise, a short burst of confidence hit you, “well yeah, it’s hard not to.”

ellie and patri smiled at each other, sharing a nod. you looked at the two confused, you were about to question their motive until your head glanced, a smiling kika walking back in your direction. 

when kika sat back down, her hand naturally brushed yours again under the table. she didn’t say anything, it was quiet, casual, and yet more intimate than anything spoken. she dropped her arm along the back of your chair, her fingers brushing lightly against your shoulder as she leaned in.

“are you tired?” she asked, her voice close.

you shook your head, “not yet.”

“good,” she said, tilting her head with a soft smile, “you’re definitely coming to the next match.”

you smiled, bumping her shoulder lightly, “guess i’ll need another shirt.”

kika leaned in just a bit closer, her voice almost a whisper, “you can have all of them.”

you turned to look at her, and something about the way she was watching you, open, steady, unguarded, made your chest flutter.

before either of you could say more, ellie clapped loudly from across the table, “alright, lovebirds, group photo time.”

groans and laughter rose from the table as everyone shuffled into position. you started to stand, unsure where to go, until kika caught your hand. “aqui, come stand next to me,” like it was the obvious answer.

and so you did, fitting yourself beside her, her arm wrapping around your waist like it belonged there. when the camera flashed, you smiled like it was the most natural thing in the world, because it felt exactly like that. 

-

the night air was cooler now, a gentle breeze replaced the previous sun that shone over barcelona. the team filtered out onto the pavement in clusters, saying their goodbyes, before you and kika took a short walk back to her car. 

kika’s hand found yours without much thought as the two of you walked to her car. it wasn’t dramatic, just a quiet, simple thread between your fingers, her thumb brushing over your knuckles. but it still made your heart stutter.

the drive was filled with a kind of content silence, the streets of barcelona slipping past. the radio played faintly again, kika’s music filling the silence as your eyes flickered between the road and the way her face shone every time you passed a streetlight. 

you didn’t need to talk. not really. the comfortable quiet between you was everything you needed in that moment.

kika pulled up outside your building, parking just slightly crooked like she had more important things to focus on, like turning to look at you. her hand stayed on the gearshift, thumb tapping once before she finally spoke.

“thanks for coming tonight.” 

you smiled at her, unbuckling your seatbelt but making no move to open the door just yet. you were quiet for a moment before speaking, “do you want to come up?”

kika’s eyes met yours, she exhaled a small breath, her eyes scanning your face as if she was double checking your question was real, “only if you want me to.”

you smiled again, quiet but sure, and nodded once, “i do.”

-

the apartment door closed with a soft click behind you. kika was now firmly in a space that was yours, your home, your safety, now wrapped up with the girl you were falling head over heels with. 

kika’s eyes scanned across your apartment, as if she was trying to piece together every part of your world she was yet to have seen. 

the family photos that hung proud of your wall, the photos of family pets that your parents would send daily updates about, or the little parts of your personality that were scattered across your apartment. 

“i like your apartment, it’s very you.” she smiled, as if she liked what she found, eyes focusing on the family portrait one of your nieces had drawn for you before you made your move. 

you gave her a soft smile, “thank you.” you instinctively moved around your living room, turning on the warm lighting that was scattered around, you were never a fan of big white lightening. 

kika’s eyes followed you, you could feel her eyes tracking your movements across the room, and somehow it didn’t make you nervous. the air in the apartment was still, like it was waiting for something to happen. when you finally turned around, kika was still watching you, leaning against the back of the sofa.

you gave a half smile, a breath of laughter behind it, “you’re staring.”

she tilted her head slightly, “i know.”

that was all she said yet it had butterflies bursting in your stomach. 

“come on,” you said softly, nodding toward the couch, “we can put something on.”

you settled in side by side, and at first there was space between you, friendly and polite. but as the minutes ticked on and the show played without either of you really watching it, that distance closed. 

her thigh grazing yours. your shoulder pressing lightly against hers. her arm casually falling across the back of the sofa, ever so slightly grazing across your shoulder as she moved. 

your heart thudded loud beneath your skin, you could feel every vibration across your body, and part of you was convinced she could hear it too. you turned towards her, knees just about touching, then she mimicked your movements. she looked at you with that soft, unreadable gaze she seemed to save just for you.

“i don’t know what this is yet,” you said, barely above a whisper, “but i really like… this.”

her hand reached up to gently tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, “me too,” she said, her voice steadier than yours despite the weight behind her words.

she searched your eyes for a moment, like she was checking if it was okay, not just to kiss you, but to want this at all. 

and then she leaned. so you followed. 

the kiss came slowly, hesitant at first, like neither of you wanted to scare it off. but it deepened quickly, instinctively, her hand finding the side of your face, yours curling in the fabric of her t-shirt. 

you kissed like you had time. like you weren’t rushing toward anything but finally meeting in the middle. 

when you pulled away, breath mingling, your forehead resting against hers, she let out the smallest laugh.

“that was much better than the offside rule explanation.” you laughed softly.

“i’m just glad i didn’t have to explain how i felt about you with sugar packets and spoons.” she grinned, her thumb moving across your cheek slowly. 

“oh there is still time for that.” you teased, pulling away slightly as if you were about to get up before she grabbed your hand pulling you back into her embrace. 

“no no, there’s no need, not when i can just kiss you instead.” 

her words were warm against your skin, her voice low and playful. you couldn’t help the way your smile spread, tugging at the corners of your lips as you let yourself sink back into her arms.

you relaxed into her, the soft weight of her hand moving to settle on your waist, her thumb brushing slow, soothing patterns against your side.

“you really do think you’re smooth, don’t you?” you whispered, nose brushing against hers.

kika tilted her head, eyes gleaming, “only when it works, serendipity, remember?”

you laughed quietly again, your forehead pressing to hers. something about her made it feel simple, effortless. as if being this close, letting yourself fall, piece by piece, was the most natural thing in the world.

maybe barcelona had the potential of becoming home. or at least being with kika was going to feel like it. 

a/n - thank you for reading, any feedback/requests can be left in my inbox. sorry that part 2 took it's sweet time, i hope it lives up to the wait <3