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[geminiwritten]

domestic fantasy ; jake 'hangman' seresin

fandom: top gun

pairing: jake x reader

summary: your ex is coming back to collect some things he left behind and you accidentally tell him that you have a new boyfriend, so hangman accepts the role of your new (fake) boyfriend

notes: did i spent the last three days writing for 8-10 hours a day? yes... am i going slightly insane? also yes... but guys!!! fake dating!!! i don't know how i vomited this fic up so quick, jake is just so easy for me to write (i think it's because i love him but not in a soul-crushing way like the way i love rooster?) anyway, PLEASE enjoy and please, please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, reader is shorter than hangman (just want to mention it), allusions to sex, and it's pretty horny so 18+ ONLY please! let me know if i’ve missed anything!

word count: 10937

“This weekend?” Your voice is unsteady, but you hope the crackling from the poor phone reception is enough to mask it. “I’m not sure if I can do this weekend.” 

Spencer sighs, clearly frustrated by your repeated attempts to keep him away from San Diego. “Look, I know you don’t want to do this—and honestly, neither do I—but it has to be done. I’ll only be in town for a couple of days. I’ll grab some boxes, hire a van, and get them shipped straight to my condo. Don’t you want your spare room back?” 

You gnaw nervously on your bottom lip as you glance out at the open-plan office space, hoping none of your coworkers are listening too closely to your phone conversation. 

You broke up with Spencer six months ago, after dating for nearly four years, and he left in such a rush that almost an entire room of his stuff stayed behind. It isn't anything important—mostly old sports gear and college memorabilia—and it’s not like he’s needed any of it. The breakup hit him hard, and he spent the following four months backpacking around Europe to clear his head. He’s only been back at his condo in Upstate New York for two months, and during that time, he’s been relentlessly bugging you to let him come pick up his things. 

It’s not like you want to hold on to anything that reminds you of him, but you desperately do not want to see him again. You offered a few times to pack up his things and ship them to him, but he flat-out refused. He even called it a violation of privacy now that you’re no longer together. So, about a month ago, you told him you’d find a free weekend for him to come by and collect the rest of his stuff—and you’ve done everything you can to avoid it since. 

“Okay,” you mutter, turning away from the office to face the window overlooking North Island Naval Air Station. “But you can’t stay at the apartment.” 

“What?” Spencer snaps. “Why? It’ll be so much easier. I’ll be in an out in three days, tops.” 

“Three days?” you echo. “Spence, that’s my whole weekend gone.” 

“There’s a lot of stuff,” he argues. “I could bring Harry with me, if-” 

“You are not bringing your brother, Spencer.” You stomp your foot, despite the conversation being over the phone. “Look, if that’s how long it’ll take, then fine. But you are not staying at the apartment. You can’t. My boyfriend just moved in last week.” The last few words slip out before you can stop them. 

Fuck. 

There’s a beat of silence before Spencer speaks again, his voice wavering. “Boyfriend?” 

You tip your head back and take a deep breath. “Yes, boyfriend.” 

Another awkward stretch of silence. 

“Okay... I’ll stay at the motel around the corner,” he says. 

You nod, even though he can’t see you. “Good.” 

“See you Friday, then.” 

“See you Friday.” 

You pull the phone away from your ear and tap the red button, watching Spencer’s caller ID photo flicker out before the screen goes black. With a sigh, your arms drop to your sides, and you lean forward until your forehead rests against the windowpane with a soft, dull thud. 

What the fuck did you just do? 

- 

Gravel crunches beneath your tires as you swerve into the parking lot of The Hard Deck bar. You pull up beside a familiar Ford Bronco, yanking the parking brake just a little too hard before practically stumbling out of the car. Your feet carry you across the lot and through the front door before coming to a stop as you survey the room, searching for the familiar face you came here to find. Across the bar, tucked into the booth closest to the pool table, are your friends. They’re sipping beers and chatting happily, blissfully unaware that an electrical storm of stress and anxiety is headed right for them. 

You weave through the tables and other patrons with determination, your breath coming and going in quick, anxious bursts. Your feet only stop when you reach your friends’ table, and their conversation quickly dies as they each turn to look at you. 

Jake’s brows pinch. “Hey, are you okay?” 

You suck your bottom lip between your teeth and bite down nervously, unsure how to reply. 

Javy, who was sitting next to Jake, stands up and nods toward the bar. “I’m going to grab another drink. Want anything?” 

You nod. “Whatever you’re having.” 

He gives you a cheeky wink before striding off toward the bar. You watch him for a few seconds before turning back to the booth and sliding in beside Jake, leaning into him and letting your head fall on his shoulder. 

Natasha sits across from you, her head tilted and a curious glint in her narrowed eyes. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“Not yet, I haven’t,” you say, before letting out an exasperated sigh. “My ex is coming back this weekend.” 

She rears back and sits up straight, her brows raised. “Coming back to stay?” 

You lift your head from Jake’s shoulder and shake it softly. “Nah. He just wants to pick up everything he left behind.” 

Jake shifts beside you, his arm sliding around your lower back almost possessively—but you know he only means to comfort you. “Including you?” he asks, his tone playful but laced with a hint of uncertainty. 

You snort and turn to face him, a little startled by how close those piercing green eyes are. “Of course not. Or at least, I hope not. I mean, I think I made it pretty damn clear he wasn’t getting me back, even if he was planning to try.” You trail off, turning away, unsure how to bring up the real reason you came here tonight—the question that’s been gnawing at you since your phone conversation with Spencer. 

“Okay,” Nat says, “so, what’s the big deal?” 

You suck in a deep breath, filling your lungs as you gather every shred of dignity you still have left. “I told him he couldn’t stay at the apartment because… my boyfriend just moved in.” 

Natasha’s brows shoot up toward her hairline and her mouth pops open. Amusement dances behind her eyes, but she has the decency to hold it back as you drop your head into your hands and let out a groan. “I fucked up.” 

Beside Natasha, Mickey leans forward. “But you don’t have a boyfriend?” 

You look up at him and scowl. “No shit.” 

“Oh.” He nods slowly, fighting the grin that tugs at his lips. 

“So, what are you going to do?” Reuben pipes up from the other end of the table, looking just as amused as the rest of your friends. 

“Well...” You lean back, pressing your shoulder blades into the vinyl of the booth as you twist your neck to glance at the man beside you. “I was going to ask Jake if he could help me... pretend.” 

Jake’s smirk fades, and a flush creeps into his cheeks. His green eyes widen, the usual cocky confidence replaced by startled confusion. “What? Why me?” 

You shrug, trying to act nonchalant about asking the man you regularly fantasise about to be your fake boyfriend. “It just makes the most sense. I’ve known you the longest.” Your eyes flick toward the other boys at the table. “No offense, but Jake and I just have better chemistry—and Spencer knew it. He was always a little threatened by our friendship.” 

You shift your gaze back to Jake, who’s still looking stunned, his lips parted slightly. 

“Plus, I only broke up with Spencer six months ago. I couldn’t have met someone new and asked them to move in that fast. It has to be someone I already knew.” You widen your eyes and bat your lashes dramatically. “Please, Jake. I’ll do anything.” 

He blinks at you, cheeks still tinged pink. “Define anything,” he says, that cocky smirk slowly starting to return. 

“Whatever you want,” you reply, planting both hands on his thigh closest to you—oblivious to the fact that it makes his dick twitch in his jeans. “You know I’m good for it.” 

Jake coughs into his hand, shifting slightly, trying to hold onto his bravado while making sure your touch doesn’t creep any higher. “Alright,” he says, voice a little rougher than before. “I’ll do it.” 

You raise a brow. “That easy?” 

He lifts a finger. “On one condition.” 

You narrow your eyes, suspicious. “Which is?” 

He leans in, that cocky smirk curling at the edge of his lips. “I want a home-cooked dinner. Every night I’m there. Candles. Music. Maybe a little wine. You know... boyfriend perks.” 

Natasha snorts across the table. “You mean domestic fantasy perks.” 

Jake just shrugs, eyes still locked on yours. “Hey, if I’m going to play house, I want the full experience.” 

You swallow hard, but your mouth moves before your brain catches up. “Deal.” 

He grins wider, and this time you’re pretty sure it’s not just cockiness—it’s anticipation. 

- 

You pace in circles around your kitchen island, one arm tucked under your breasts, holding your opposite elbow as you anxiously gnaw on your thumbnail. Jake is supposed to be here any minute, and the cork in the bottle of nerves rattling around in your stomach just won’t stay put. 

You’ve known Jake for years. You met in college and, despite the distance with his deployments, have been metaphorically inseparable ever since. But physically? That was a little harder, obviously. 

You’ve always had a soft spot for Jake—a bit of a crush, but you were never foolish enough to think anything could come of it. You’ve been perfectly content being his friend, never pushing for more. But every single one of your boyfriends? They hated him. You can’t blame them, really—Jake has that effect on people. That cocky, irresistible charm that makes it impossible for anyone else to ignore him. 

Still, you can’t shake the guilt creeping in. Fooling Spencer into thinking you and Jake are together? After all those times you promised him there was nothing more than friendship between you and Jake? It feels wrong. Even if Spencer never really took your word for it. 

A knock at the door pulls you out of your spiralling thoughts, and you hurry to answer it. Jake is standing on the other side, looking even more irresistible than usual. There’s no uniform today, no flight suit or polished boots. Instead, he's wearing a simple white t-shirt and jeans, and somehow that makes him look even better. His hair is messy, not gelled like it usually is, and the scruff on his jaw—a day’s worth of stubble—only adds to the allure. He looks... delicious in a way that’s totally different from the polished, put-together fighter pilot you’re used to. 

“Hey, girlfriend,” he says with a smirk, “sorry I’m late.” 

Your brain and mouth have completely short-circuited, leaving you with no choice but to smile, nod, and step aside to let him in. He’s got a duffel bag slung over his shoulder and a box of random belongings in his arms—little odds and ends that someone might have lying around their apartment. 

Jake drops the box onto the kitchen counter and turns back to you. “What time is Spencer the Snob getting here?” 

You roll your eyes, crossing your arms. “In about an hour. Do you think you can manage to be civilized?” 

“Yes,” he replies, his voice sharp as he props his hands on his hips. “Can he be civilised?” 

“Spencer is always civilized.” 

You walk over to the box and start pulling out items, mentally sorting them. But Jake isn’t done. 

He scoffs, shaking his head. “Spencer is not always civilized. He’s just really good at hiding what a complete dick he is.” 

You turn and lean your hip against the countertop, raising one eyebrow. “You only don’t like him because he didn’t like you first. And let’s be honest, that’s because you bought me lingerie for the first birthday that I was with him. He didn’t get the joke and thought it was way too suggestive.” 

Jake snorts, his jade eyes lighting up with mischief. “Yeah, that was a good one. I’ll never forget the look on his face.” 

You resist the urge to laugh and roll your eyes again, turning back to the box. “I’ll admit, Spence is a little snobby. But that’s just how he was raised. It’s not his fault he’s got money.” 

Jake’s expression darkens, and he narrows his eyes at the affectionate nickname. “Spence?” 

“Sorry,” you say, your cheeks flushing pink. “Force of habit.” 

The two of you move quietly around the apartment, slipping into an easy rhythm as you make space for Jake’s things. You tuck two framed photos of his family onto the bookshelf, nestled between your novels, and slide one of his official Navy portraits beside them—one you definitely wouldn’t mind keeping. 

He hangs a jacket and a couple of worn caps on the hooks by the door and drops two pairs of his boots beside your own lineup of shoes. You clear off a bedside table for him to clutter with his things, and listen to the soft clink of bottles as he unpacks his toiletries in the bathroom. 

Finally, you add a towel for him to the rack beside the shower. And for a moment, you let yourself imagine it: the two of you in there together. His hot, slick skin pressed to yours, the steam curling around your tangled limbs. His hands sliding soap across your body, rinsing you slow and thorough. He’d wash your hair too, fingers working into your scalp until your eyes fluttered closed—and then you’d return the favour, watching his mouth part in bliss beneath your touch. 

“Hello?” Jake waves a hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?” 

You blink rapidly and turn to face him, only to find him standing way too close with that maddening smirk tugging at his lips. Your eyes flick up to his, and the look he gives you is downright dangerous—curious, cocky, and just a little bit amused. 

“You good, sweetheart?” he asks, tilting his head. “You’re lookin’ a little hot under the collar.” 

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Instead, you let out a weird half-laugh, half-scoff and sidestep him like he’s radioactive. “I’m fine. It’s just warm in here. Is it warm in here?” 

Jake leans back against the bathroom doorframe, arms crossed and eyes glittering. “Could be. Or maybe you were just thinkin’ about something real steamy.” 

You choke on air. “Excuse me?” 

He shrugs, all faux innocence. “Just sayin’... you’ve got that look. Like your brain wandered somewhere it probably shouldn’t have.” 

You grab a towel—any towel—and smack him in the chest. “Shut up.” 

Jake laughs, catching the towel with one hand like he knew it was coming. “Whatever it was, must’ve been good.” 

When he finally steps aside, you scurry past like lingering too long might scorch your skin. Only once you’ve turned down the hall and reached the kitchen—putting a safe stretch of space between you and him—do you exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. 

“Okay,” you say, planting both palms against the cool, marble countertop. “Spencer is going to be here in half an hour, so we have exactly thirty minutes to practice being a couple.” 

Jake smirks like this is nothing—like he’s been in this exact situation a hundred times before. “You tell me what you’re comfortable with, darlin’.” He steps up to the other side of the kitchen island and leans forward, mirroring your posture. 

You tilt your head slightly, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you narrow your eyes at him. “We need to look convincing. No weirdness, no pulling faces. Just... act natural.” 

Jake cocks an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Natural, huh? So, no kissing? Not even a little peck?” 

You try to focus, but the way he’s leaning across the island—just far enough to make the space between you feel electrified—throws you off. “Uh, no. Nothing like that. We’ll start slow. Hold hands, sit close... you know, the easy stuff.” 

Jake’s grin widens, his gaze flickering down to your lips before locking onto your eyes. “Hold hands, sit close. Got it. But what if I make you want to kiss me? I’m really good at that.” 

You feel the heat spreading through your chest, but you refuse to let him see it. “You think you can make me want to kiss you?” You raise an eyebrow, trying to match his cockiness. 

He leans even further toward you and drops his voice low, the teasing edge still there but with a smouldering intensity you’re having a hard time ignoring. “Oh, sweetheart. I know I can. All I need is the right moment.” 

You can’t help but laugh nervously, your pulse quickening as he stays there, so close you can feel the heat of his presence even if the island bench is still separating you. “Well, we’ve got thirty minutes to see if you can keep your hands to yourself, Seresin,” you tease, but there’s an edge to it now—a hint of challenge. 

Jake leans in a little more, his gaze fixed on you, like he’s seconds away from crossing the line. “Trust me, darlin’. I can keep my hands to myself... but only if you can keep your hands off me.” 

Your chest rises and falls faster than usual, your head spinning slightly from all the extra oxygen surging through your blood. You part your lips, ready to fire back something just as cocky—something to keep the volley going—but the sharp chime of your phone slices through the tension, and both your gazes snap to where it buzzes on the countertop. 

You settle back onto your heels, and reach for your phone, huffing out a small, frustrated sigh before sliding the answer button and pressing it to your ear. “Hey, Spencer.” 

“Hey, how are you?” 

Your eyes slide toward Jake, who is looking almost as frustrated as you feel. “Fine. How far out are you?” 

Spencer chuckles, and something inside of you instinctively recoils, even though the sound itself isn’t particularly offensive. “I’m great, thanks for asking. The flight was fine, a little bumpy, but we made it. I’m just waiting at baggage claim, so I’ll be about twenty minutes.” 

“No worries,” you say, “see you soon.” 

You hang up before he even finishes saying goodbye, drop your phone face-down on the bench, and glance back at Jake. “Alright, let’s go over the details. We started dating three months after Spencer left. You asked me out, and I was a little surprised.” 

Jake frowns, already halfway to an objection, but you cut him off with a raised hand. “Just go with it, okay? It keeps my integrity intact. You have no idea how many times I had to convince him I wasn’t into you.” 

His frown fades fast, replaced by that maddeningly smug smirk. “Go on, then.” 

You roll your eyes, but continue. “I was surprised, but everything just... clicked. Being best friends made the relationship feel natural. That’s why things have moved fast. You were already here most nights, your rent went up, so you moved in two weeks ago.” 

Jake nods like he’s logging it all away. “Okay, but more importantly—how’s the sex?” 

You stare, deadpan. “Seriously?” 

He shrugs, hands raised like a saint. “What? It’s a legitimate question. Spencer might ask.” 

“I highly fucking doubt it.” 

Jake chuckles. “Yeah, fair. Still worth a shot.” 

With a long, theatrical exhale, you walk around the kitchen island and stop in front of him. “Alright, let’s talk touching.” 

His eyes light up, devilish. “Now you’re speaking my language.” 

You ignore him. “I’m ticklish, so don’t touch my ribs or ghost over my arms—I will flinch.” 

“I know.” 

You pause. “Okay…” You shake your head, ignoring the question trying to form. “I’m not huge on PDA, but I like lingering touches. Just small things, to remind each other we’re there.” 

“I know,” he says again, that smirk glued in place. 

The question in your head itches a little louder, but you push it aside. “And if we go out—which I really hope we don’t—make sure you’re always sitting next to me. I hate it when couples sit across from each other. I don’t want to gaze into your eyes, I want to feel your warmth.” 

Jake’s smirk splits into a wide, boyish grin. “I know.” 

The floodgates crack. “How the fuck do you know everything?” 

He leans in just slightly, voice soft but sure. “Because I know you. I’ve watched you with every guy you’ve dated. Just because I wasn’t the guy doesn’t mean I haven’t been paying attention.” 

You blink, reeling from the quiet truth in his tone. It hits you like a gust of wind—real, unshakable. You actually have to take a step back to steady yourself. There’s no teasing in his voice, no smug edge. Just Jake, earnest and open in a way that’s rare. 

And it almost wrecks you. 

Jake might be cocky and insufferable ninety percent of the time—but when he loves, he does it fiercely. Deeply. Fully. And you’ve always known you were lucky to be one of the people he loves. 

But for the first time, you let your mind wander somewhere dangerous. What would it be like to be loved by Jake Seresin—not just as a friend, but as his person? His everything? 

“So,” Jake says, cutting through the tension like a hot knife through butter, “where should I touch you first?” 

You close your eyes for a beat, reminding yourself that this is still Jake—insufferable, irritating Jake. “You don’t have to be weird and over the top about it. When he gets here, you can just sit on the couch, then I’ll join you and sit close. You can put a hand on my thigh.” 

Jake’s brows furrow, his face contorting with mild disgust. “I know you’re trying not to make him uncomfortable, but that’s not going to work. Think about it—your ex is coming over, and your current boyfriend is just sitting casually on the couch? Not buying it.” 

You roll your eyes again, hoping to avoid yet another pointless argument. “Jake, this doesn’t need to be-” 

“You told him you’re dating me,” he interrupts, poking his chest with a finger. “And if this was real, I’d be making damn sure I had a hand on you at all times.” 

You raise an eyebrow, trying to ignore how your body reacts to his proximity and his words. Heat floods your chest and settles behind your hipbones, desire tightening in places you don’t want to think about right now. “You don’t need to stake your claim, Jake. Spencer isn’t here to win me back.” 

Jake steps closer, cutting the distance between you until there’s barely two feet separating you. “You don’t know that.” His voice lowers slightly, making the air between you feel thick and electric. “And yes, I do. If you want him to believe we’re dating, then you need to let me do exactly what I would do if this was real.” 

You’re not sure whether he’s just being cocky or trying to show off, but damn it, he’s making a good point. “Okay, fine. But don’t make him uncomfortable.” 

Jake’s smirk widens, taking on that familiar, smug edge. “No promises, darlin’.” 

You spend the next ten minutes pretending to clean—wiping already spotless counters, rearranging throw pillows, and dusting things that definitely don’t need dusting. All while Jake lounges on the couch like this is the easiest job he’s ever had. 

“It’s three days, sweetheart,” he says. “By Sunday, Spencer will be back in his overpriced New York apartment sipping single malt and Googling himself.” 

You snort but say nothing. Three days. Just two dinners and one brunch. You’ll keep the visits restricted to daylight hours, keep Jake close, keep your story straight—and by Sunday afternoon, Spencer will be out of your apartment and out of your life. 

That’s the plan, anyway. 

But as you glance over at Jake—sprawled out, so completely at ease in your space, looking infuriatingly good even in his most relaxed state—you start to question the rest of it. 

Because it’s not Spencer you’re worried about fooling anymore. It’s yourself. And when Jake turns his head and catches you staring, smirking like he knows exactly what you're thinking? 

Yeah. This might be harder than you thought. 

The intercom buzzes, loud and sudden, startling you from your task of rearranging the flowers on the dining table. Your heart launches into your throat, pounding like you’ve just jumped from a plane without a parachute. 

Jake chuckles and rises from the couch, strolling over to the intercom with infuriating confidence. He presses the button and leans in. “Come on up.” 

You force your feet to move, carrying you toward him and not stopping until you’re right beside him. You press yourself against him and the moment your body meets his, heat blooms under your skin. It’s not new—you've touched him before—but it feels different. More charged. More deliberate. Jake’s arm slides around your waist without hesitation, and his fingers curl into your hip, firm and possessive. There’s a subtle squeeze and the pad of his thumb grazes a sliver of skin just beneath the hem of your shirt. 

You feel it everywhere. 

He leans in, his lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmurs, “It’s showtime, sweetheart.” 

Your breath stutters. This is just pretend. 

Your heart pounds against your sternum, each beat like the tick of a countdown clock. The elevator dings. Footsteps echo down the hallway. Closer, closer. You draw in a deep breath and hold it, ignoring the sharp ache it sends through your chest. 

“Relax,” Jake murmurs, pulling you tighter against his side as he reaches for the doorknob. 

The second the footsteps stop, he yanks the door open—no chance for a knock. 

“Spence!” Jake beams, like they’re old frat brothers reunited. “Come in, buddy. How are you?” 

You nearly snort. The absurdity of his enthusiasm bubbles up in your throat, but you bite your lip hard enough to keep it down. 

Spencer looks good—but all it does is remind you how little you miss him. His perfectly coiffed blonde hair hasn’t changed one bit, but he’s tanner than you remember—courtesy of the European sun, no doubt. He’s not as tall as Jake, but he’s got that same overinflated ego. The difference? Jake’s cockiness comes from… well, let’s just say it’s probably anatomical. Spencer’s is inherited—passed down with a trust fund and a country club membership. 

He’s dressed exactly as you expected: a sky-blue Ralph Lauren polo, crisp white pants with a crease so sharp it could slice bread, and tan boat shoes—an ironic choice, considering he’s terrified of boats. 

But it’s his face that really seals the moment. Jaw unhinged, eyes wide, staring at Jake like he just opened the door to a ghost. Or maybe something worse: the ghost of his ex-girlfriend’s new sex life. 

“Jake?” Spencer finally says. “Your new boyfriend is Jake Seresin?” 

Jake’s grin is unbothered—like this is the moment he’s been waiting for his whole life. “The one and only.” 

You feel his hand press a little firmer into your waist, anchoring you there like you might suddenly run—and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t tempted. 

Spencer steps further into the apartment, his eyes glued to Jake’s smug face. “I thought you said there was nothing going on between you two.” 

Your stomach twists, but you keep your voice even. “There wasn’t. Not back then.” 

Spencer glances at you. “You told me I was being paranoid. That he was just your friend.” 

Jake chuckles. “I remember you telling me about that.” 

You shoot him a look that’s supposed to say “not helping,” but he just smiles innocently and shrugs. 

Spencer looks seconds away from spontaneously combusting. “I trusted you,” he says, starting to sound like the whiny, private-school rich kid you always tried to ignore. “You promised me nothing would ever happen with him.” 

“Yeah, that was then, and this is now. Things change, Spence—and this has nothing to do with you,” you say, tone sharpening. If he’s going to act like a child, then you're going to treat him like one. 

Jake’s hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, his thumb sweeping in a slow, easy circle like he’s soothing a spark before it ignites. “People change, bud. Timing is everything.” 

Spencer folds his arms, visibly rattled. “So, what—he swooped in the second I left?” 

Jake tilts his head, eyes full of mock offense. “Swooped? Come on. Give me a little credit. She came to me.” 

You snap your head toward him, about to object, but his grin is wicked and the mischief in his eyes dares you to play along. 

“Well...” You drag the word out, buying a few precious seconds to stitch your story together. “Technically, yes. I was upset after the breakup, so of course I turned to my best friend for comfort.” 

Spencer’s blue-grey eyes narrow. “You broke up with me.” 

“That she did, pal.” Jake tries for a sympathetic look, but you know better—he’s enjoying this a little too much. 

“Just because I ended things doesn’t mean it didn’t rattle me,” you shoot back, trying to shift the focus away from Jake. “We were together for four years, Spencer. That’s a long time. I just had the guts to do what you didn’t. So, forgive me if I’m not in the mood to explain myself to you. I don’t owe you anything—and my new relationship? It’s none of your business.” 

You see his expression twist into an offended scowl, and anger flickers in your chest. The nerve of him, acting like you still owe him something just because you pulled the plug first. 

“For the record,” you continue, voice cool and firm, “yeah, I leaned on Jake. And somewhere along the line, I found something a lot deeper.” 

Then, without missing a beat, you glance at Jake—who’s already wearing that cocky smirk—and let one of your own curve across your lips as you look back at Spencer. 

“Actually,” you say, eyes narrowing with satisfaction, “I think it was Jake who found something a little deeper… if you know what I mean.” 

Jake snorts, slapping his hand over his mouth, but he can’t suppress the gleeful chuckle bubbling from his lips. Spencer, on the other hand, looks utterly humbled—his cheeks are bright red and his jaw is hanging open like he’s just been slapped across the face. 

You step away from Jake, waiting for his hand to drop so you can grab it. The second your fingers slide into his, a rush of warmth zips up your arm, and you try to ignore how good it feels, but damn, it’s hard. 

“Get your boxes,” you say to Spencer, keeping your tone cool. “Jake will help you pack some stuff this afternoon, but it’s date night, so you’ve got exactly two hours. You can come back in the morning.” 

Spencer's lip twitches, like he's about to argue, but then he stops himself. He nods curtly and unties the fancy cashmere sweater draped around his shoulders, hanging it carefully on a hook by the door. He hesitates when he notices Jake’s clothes tossed haphazardly alongside yours. After a moment, he huffs, shakes his head, and stomps out of the apartment. 

You fight to suppress a grin as you turn to Jake, but he’s already beaming at you. “You’re amazing, you know that?” 

You pretend to flick your hair off your shoulder with theatrical flair. “Oh, I know.” 

He chuckles. “I can’t believe you just told your ex I’ve got a huge dick.” 

You shrug, one shoulder rising nonchalantly. “You’ve got the ego to match, so I figured I could make an educated guess. Besides, it’s not like Spencer will ever know for sure.” 

His brows shoot up. “Oh, so you were just guessing?” 

Heat floods your cheeks, and suddenly his eyes are too intense to meet. “Well, obviously.” 

He leans in, his hand tightening around yours, voice low and teasing—laced with a challenge that feels dangerously not like a joke. “Want to find out for real?” 

Your breath hitches. Words abandon you. All you can do is stare at his face—too handsome and too tempting. 

“Because I’d go a hell of a lot deeper than that weasel. So deep, you’d be screaming-” 

The intercom buzzer cuts him off, and you’re hit with a wave of relief and frustration all at once. Your pulse is racing, your chest tight, and the thrum of your heartbeat fills your ears. 

Jake chuckles, clearly amused by the timing, and leans back, releasing your hand to press the button on the intercom. He glances over at you, winks, and casually strides toward the lounge, sprawling out like he owns the place. Like he’s some modern-day Adonis—there to wind you up and then claim your couch like it’s his throne. 

You force your limbs to move, opening the door for Spencer and helping him carry in the flattened cardboard boxes tucked under his arms. You lead him to the spare room—where all his abandoned belongings have been gathering dust for the past six months—and leave him to it. 

You don’t have to ask Jake to help. The second you return to the living room, he stands, crosses the space without hesitation, and steps right up to you. His palm finds the back of your head as he pulls you in, pressing a warm, gentle kiss to the top of your hair. 

You know he’s just doing what you asked—pretending to be your boyfriend. But the tenderness of the gesture feels heartbreakingly sincere. It sinks into your skin, fills your chest like warm water, and when he pulls away, he takes the comfort with him. 

Your eyes trail after him as he walks toward the spare room, and you shamelessly ogle his ass on the way out. Then you collapse onto the lounge where he’d just been sitting, curling up in the lingering scent of his cologne. You tug a blanket from the wicker basket beside the couch and wrap it around yourself, clicking on a show you barely register—because all you can think about is the way Jake Seresin touches you. 

This might not have been such a brilliant idea after all. 

- 

Spencer uses up his two hours like he paid for them, waiting until exactly 5:59 PM to dust off his palms on those stupid white pants—as if he hadn’t made Jake do all the heavy lifting—and announce that he “better get going.” 

You give him a tight smile as you hold the door open, already half-relieved just watching him walk out. It's not that pretending to love Jake is hard—you do love him. It’s the reminder that all the lingering touches, the soft smiles, the stolen glances—they’re just an act. That’s what’s draining you. 

The second the door clicks shut, you let out a long, theatrical sigh, like you’ve been holding your breath for the full two hours. “Oh, thank God. I don’t know how I’m going to survive a whole day tomorrow.” 

Jake chuckles, but there’s something tight about it—like he’s forcing it out through gritted teeth. “Am I that hard to love?” he asks, and though his tone is teasing, something flickers behind his eyes that doesn’t feel like a joke. 

Your brows knit. “No, it’s not that. It’s just...” 

He steps closer, invading your space like he’s done all day—and you hate how much you don’t mind it anymore. In fact, you kind of want him to stay right there. 

“What is it?” he murmurs, voice low and rough enough to make your skin prickle. 

You swallow hard, suddenly aware of how close he is, how good he smells, and how charged the air between you feels. “It’s just Spencer, you know? Having him around is... exhausting.” 

Jake’s lip quirks, but his eyes are sharp, studying you. “Oh? So you’re not struggling with this fake relationship thing at all? Not even a little confused? Frustrated? Having trouble remembering it’s not real?” 

You blink, stunned silent. You’re not sure how, but you’re starting to believe Jake Seresin might actually be a mind reader. 

“I-” The words catch in your throat, strangled by the weight of his stare. His piercing green eyes pin you in place, make you forget how to speak, how to breathe. 

Then, just when it feels like you might combust, his smirk cracks into a grin and he takes a step back, letting the tension snap like a rubber band. “Alright then,” he says, clapping his hands together, “what’s for dinner, gorgeous?” 

You inhale like you’ve just broken the surface of the water. Your lungs burn. Your head spins. This man is giving you whiplash. 

It takes almost a full minute to regain control of your body, and when you finally do, you walk straight into the kitchen without giving Jake an answer. You can’t even look at him right now—but he has no trouble looking at you. 

He watches you like he’s starving and you’re the feast. It makes focusing on dinner nearly impossible. 

You busy yourself preparing the meal you planned yesterday—Italian sausage spaghetti with a pull-apart garlic loaf. You don’t usually go all out for dinner, but you’re using Jake’s presence as an excuse to cook something hearty and delicious. Maybe after eating, you’ll both be too full to maintain this unbearable sexual tension. He can crash on the couch, and you’ll curl up in bed. Or maybe you’ll take a long, steamy shower and do what you need to do to unknot the tension pulsing behind your hipbones. 

Dinner comes together quickly, and after a few casual questions from Jake about the food, he drifts back to the couch, half-watching whatever show has been playing in the background for past few hours. You set the dining table just the way he asked—candles, wine, and soft music humming from the speaker on your bookshelf. 

Finally, you place two full bowls of pasta on the table—opposite each other. Because you’re not really dating, so why would you sit beside him? To feel his warmth? Let him rest a hand on your thigh? 

The thought alone sends a shiver down your spine. 

You try to shake it off and glance at Jake—only to find him already watching you. 

You clear your throat. “Lieutenant Jake Seresin, your dinner is served.” 

He grins like a kid in a candy store, pushing off the couch and sniffing the air like a Loony Tunes character. “Damn, I think Phoenix might’ve been right. This is a full-on domestic fantasy.” 

You roll your eyes and duck your head, hoping he doesn’t see the heat rising in your cheeks. “Just sit down and eat, Hangman. I’m tired and hungry.” 

You flick off the kitchen lights, leaving the room bathed in the soft glow of the candles. The atmosphere feels far more romantic than you intended. Is this what Jake wanted? 

You don’t give yourself time to overthink it—because the food smells amazing, and there’s a very attractive naval aviator sitting across from you, looking like he was plucked straight from a dream. 

You spend the first few minutes eating in silence, both too busy shovelling pasta into your mouths and tearing into buttery garlic bread to speak. Somehow, Jake even manages to make slurping spaghetti look hot—and you hate when people make noise while they eat. 

“So,” you say, slowing your pace and setting your fork down, “did you want to stay here tonight or head back to your place?” 

He keeps his eyes on his plate, as if avoiding yours will mask whatever he’s really thinking. “Up to you, darlin’. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” 

“Well, Spencer did seem pretty suspicious about the whole thing… so I think it’s safer if you stay.” 

His head snaps up, and that signature smirk spreads across his lips. “Is that so?” 

“Yeah,” you say, fighting the heat rising to your cheeks, “he might sniff around tomorrow. Like, literally. He might be a creep and notice your towel’s untouched, or that your side of the bed hasn’t been slept in, and-” 

“You want to share the bed?” he asks, looking far too pleased with the idea. 

You shrug, feigning nonchalance. “We’ve shared a bed before.” 

“Yeah,” he says, a low chuckle slipping out, “blind drunk.” 

His eyes are too pretty, too intense, and your chest feels tight under their weight. You look away, eyes darting around the table until they land on the wine bottle. 

“Well then,” you say, picking it up and refilling his glass, “drink up, Seresin.” 

Two bottles of wine later, you’re both loose-limbed and laughing—less awkward about the day’s chaos, and a lot less anxious about sharing a bed tonight. 

You giggle at one of Jake’s ridiculous jokes while clearing the table, and when he insists on helping clean up, you swat him away, telling him it’s all part of his domestic fantasy. He rolls his eyes but still hovers, drying dishes and pretending not to notice the way you keep throwing him side-eye glances every time he guesses wrong about where something goes. 

“Do you want to shower?” you ask as you finish wiping down the stovetop. 

His green eyes go wide, that crooked grin slipping across his face like sin itself. “Is this you offering?” 

Your stomach flips, heat crawling up your chest. “I meant—do you want to shower first?” 

“Oh,” he chuckles, almost disappointed. “Yeah, sure. If you don’t mind?” 

“Wouldn’t have asked if I did,” you mutter, turning back toward the lounge. 

You listen to his footsteps fade toward the bathroom, then collapse onto the couch, burying your face in a pillow that smells maddeningly like him. 

What the fuck are you doing? 

Yes, you’ve always had a little crush on Jake, but you’re not delusional. He’s out of your league. You’ve made peace with that. You’ve always been happy just being his friend. So why does all of this feel so good? Why is it getting harder to remember that he doesn’t see you the same way? 

He’s thrown himself into this charade like it’s more than just pretending, and it’s messing with your head. Does he want something more? Something casual? A few nights, maybe? Or... does he want you—the whole messy package? 

The shower starts, and you groan into the pillow. You’re confused. You’re also so fucking horny. Red wine was a terrible idea. 

Ten minutes later, the bathroom door creaks open. “All yours,” Jake calls, his voice smooth and casual as he walks toward the bedroom where he left his duffel bag. 

You drag yourself upright, every step toward the bathroom a battle against the mental slideshow of naked, wet Jake. You shut the door, strip down, and step into the shower, letting the hot water calm your skin and chase away the ache blooming low in your belly. 

You don’t have the guts to do what you really need to make that ache go away—not with Jake just a paper-thin wall away. The thought creeps in, bold and reckless, whispering what if you just called him in here? But then you laugh softly under your breath and shake it off. As if. The idea of Jake rejecting you would be a level of humiliation you’re not prepared to face tonight. Or ever. 

You shut off the water, swipe a towel from the rack, and give yourself a quick dry before wrapping it snugly around your body. The bathroom is thick with steam, your skin flushed and dewy, your pulse still thudding from thoughts you shouldn't be entertaining. 

You open the door to let in some air—only to nearly collide with Jake. 

He’s right there. Shirtless. Grey sweatpants slung low, a towel around his neck, and an annoyingly cocky smirk on his lips. 

“Damn,” he says, leaning one arm against the doorframe, eyes roaming blatantly. “I was coming to see if you drowned, but now I’m thinking maybe I should’ve brought more wine.” 

You try to step back, but he follows, slipping inside like he belongs here. You grip your towel tighter. 

“Jake,” you warn, eyes narrowing. “What are you doing?” 

“Just enjoying the view,” he says casually, his eyes far too warm for comfort. “This your idea of torture? Walk out here looking like a damn dream and expect me to just keep pretending?” 

You’re not sure what’s pretending and what isn’t anymore, and you have no idea what his words mean. Is he just messing with you? He has to be. 

“I didn’t ask you to come in.” 

“And yet,” he says, grinning, “here I am.” 

The heat in the room is stifling—and it's not just the steam. Jake moves in closer, crowding your space, eyes flicking from your lips to your towel and back. His fingers reach up, slow and deliberate, and tug lightly at the edge of the fabric resting on your collarbone. 

“Think this is regulation towel length?” he teases. 

“Do you want me to report you to HR?” you ask, trying not to smile. Your voice wobbles on the last word when his fingers brush across the swell of your breast. 

“Only if HR gives out spankings,” he says with a wink. 

You laugh, then immediately regret it, because the movement loosens the towel just slightly—and his gaze drops. The air between you crackles. 

“Jake,” you murmur, breath hitching. 

He leans in, his lips brushing your temple like he’s not even aware he’s doing it. “Say the word,” he whispers, voice lower than a dare. 

You turn your face toward him, your lips just inches from his—and then: 

BZZZZZZZZZZZT. 

The intercom buzzes loudly from the living room, startling you both. You jump, and Jake curses under his breath. 

“Saved by the buzzer,” you mutter, half annoyed, half relieved. 

He takes a step back, eyes still dark with want, running a hand through his hair. “Or maybe cursed by it.” 

You give him a pointed look. “Shut the door on your way out, Hangman.” 

He backs out slowly, smirking the whole way. “You know I’m not going to forget this, right?” 

You roll your eyes and wait for him to close the door before locking it for good measure. After drying off, you go through your usual skincare and haircare routines, trying not to think about whatever the hell just happened between the two of you. But one glance down the hall as you exit the bathroom makes your heart plummet. 

Spencer is standing by the front door. And Jake—still very much shirtless—is looking smug as hell. 

“Hey, darlin’,” Jake drawls, turning to Spencer with a wink. “We just finished up in the shower, if you know what I mean.” 

You freeze like a deer in headlights, towel clutched to your chest. You feel like a naked model caught mid-pose in front of a life drawing class—except your ex is the one holding the sketchpad, and Jake is… well, Jake. 

“Spencer,” you bite out, “what the fuck are you doing here?” 

“I-I forgot my sweater.” He holds up the creamy cashmere one he’d left by the door, eyes darting anywhere but your body. 

You raise a brow. “And that couldn’t wait until tomorrow?” 

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again—clearly trying not to ogle you while very aware of the broad, half-naked man beside him who is allegedly your boyfriend. Jake’s green eyes darken the longer Spencer’s gaze lingers. 

“I’m sorry,” Spencer mutters. “I guess I didn’t think-” 

“Yeah, thinking’s never really been your thing, huh, pal?” Jake cuts in, clapping a firm hand on Spencer’s shoulder. “Now if you don’t mind fucking off, I’d like to get back to round two with my very satisfied girlfriend. And just so we’re clear—if you show up before 9AM tomorrow, all you’re gonna hear is her screaming my name in ecstasy.” 

Your body lights up like a struck match. You don’t even look at Spencer as Jake all but escorts him out the door. Your focus is entirely on the shirtless man—the ridiculously hot, dangerously cocky, fake boyfriend who just made you feel completely and utterly claimed. 

You’re not sure if it’s the wine or the caveman behaviour, but suddenly, the idea of crossing that line doesn’t seem so dangerous anymore. In fact, it sounds like the best idea you’ve had in years. 

Jake shuts the door and flicks the deadbolt before turning those dark green eyes on you. “Keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’, and you’re gonna make my dreams—and Spencer’s nightmares—come true.” 

His dreams? 

Your breath catches in your throat. Then, like a startled chicken, you turn and bolt to your bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you. Your head spins as you scramble to grab the pyjamas stashed under your pillow. Every inch of your skin feels hypersensitive, like Jake’s gaze alone has lit up your nerve endings one by one. 

Once you’re dressed and your face isn’t quite so scarlet red, you head for the bathroom. You hang up your towel—deliberately ignoring the sight of Jake’s hanging next to it—and start brushing your teeth. But the flutter in your stomach is relentless. 

Jake appears a moment later and joins you silently, his eyes finding yours in the mirror. You try to avoid them, but your gaze keeps drifting back, always checking, always wondering. And every time, he’s still watching. 

You rinse and spit, then flee the bathroom before your knees give out. You don’t bother with the rest of your night routine—you need sleep, or space, or maybe a total reset of your entire hormonal system. 

You crawl into bed and flick on the TV perched atop your dresser, the hum of background noise a small comfort. But it does nothing to quiet the static under your skin when Jake steps into the room. 

He flicks off the main light, shuts the door with a soft click, and then sits on the bed beside you. The mattress dips under his weight, and it feels like the whole room tilts with him. 

He doesn’t say anything at first. He just sits beside you in the dim glow of the TV, his body so close you can feel the heat radiating off his bare skin. 

You pretend to be engrossed in whatever’s on the screen, but your heart is thundering, and you can feel his gaze on you like a brand. 

Then his voice, low and rough, slices through the quiet. “You always wear shirts like that to bed, or is this part of the fantasy?” 

You try to scoff, but it comes out a little breathless. “You think everything’s about you.” 

Jake chuckles. “You’re sitting here braless in a tissue-thin shirt, biting your lip like you want me to devour you—and I’m the one with the ego?” 

You turn your head, ready to throw back some snark, but he’s already watching you with that look. That look that makes your insides clench and your breath catch. Like he’s starving. Like you’re the first real meal he’s had in days. 

“Jake…” 

His gaze drops to your lips, and his voice is rough around the edges when he says, “I’m not gonna make it through this night if you keep lookin’ at me like that.” 

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” you whisper, but even you don’t believe that. 

Jake leans closer. “No? Then why’s your chest rising like that? Why are your pupils blown wide? Why is every part of you screaming touch me?” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. 

He shifts toward you slowly, like a predator moving in, until his thigh brushes yours and his hand finds your jaw. His thumb drags lightly along your cheek, then down to your bottom lip, tugging at it just enough to make your breath stutter. 

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. “Just say the word.” 

You stay frozen, heart galloping in your chest. 

“Because if you don’t…” he leans in, voice barely audible now, “…I’m gonna lose every ounce of self-control I have left.” 

Still, you say nothing. Can’t say anything. 

Jake’s eyes search yours for a second longer. Then— 

“Fuck it.” 

He crashes into you like a storm. His mouth slants over yours, hot and possessive and desperate, like he’s finally giving in to something he’s been denying for far too long. His hands cup your face, then slide down, over your neck, your shoulders, gripping your waist like he needs to ground himself. 

You gasp into his mouth, and he takes the opportunity to deepen the kiss, tongue sweeping in to taste you. It’s not gentle. It’s fire and tension and not just one day, but years of pretending finally snapping all at once. 

Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips and pushes you back into the mattress just slightly, moving over you, his body caging yours in without touching more than he has to. 

You arch up into him, chasing his heat, his weight. And when his hand slips under the hem of your shirt, resting just above your waistband, your breath catches in your throat. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you—his pupils dark, his lips kiss-bruised. “Still pretending?” he breathes. 

You shake your head, dazed. “Not even a little bit.” 

- 

You wake up warm. Too warm. 

Jake Seresin is sprawled across half your bed, one leg tangled over yours and an arm wrapped around your waist like you’re his personal body pillow. His bare chest is pressed to your back and his breath ghosts hot across your neck with every slow, sleepy exhale. 

You’re painfully aware of two things: one, you’re very, very naked. And two, so is he. 

And then... you remember everything. 

The kissing. The touching. The downright Olympic-level sex. The way he looked at you like you were something he’d been starving for. 

Your body aches in the best way, but your brain is in full meltdown mode. You try to untangle yourself without waking him. Emphasis on try. Because the second you shift, Jake groans and tightens his arm around you. 

“Nuh-uh,” he mumbles, voice still rough with sleep. “You’re not goin’ anywhere.” 

You huff, trying to wriggle free. “I have to pee.” 

“Fine,” he says, releasing you with an exaggerated sigh. “But don’t even think about climbing out the window. You’re mine now.” 

You roll your eyes as you slip out of bed, grabbing the closest shirt—his shirt—and tossing it over your head. It hangs low on your thighs, smelling like him and sex and very bad decisions. 

By the time you return from the bathroom, Jake’s propped up on one elbow, watching you with the same hunger in his eyes as last night “Damn, you look better in my shirt than I do.” 

You scoff and head for your dresser. “Don’t you get tired of hearing yourself talk?” 

“Not when I’m this right.” 

You grab a pair of shorts, but before you can pull them on, Jake is already moving. He slides off the bed, all muscles and tan skin, and corners you against the dresser. 

“You know,” he murmurs, eyes dark and wicked as his fingers slip under the hem of his own shirt you're wearing, “you didn’t officially wake me up yet.” 

Your heart kicks up a notch. “Is that a thing now?” 

“Absolutely.” He leans in, brushing his nose along your jaw. “You gotta wake me up right, darlin’. Or I’m gonna be all cranky.” 

You arch a brow. “Define right.” 

He grins, lips brushing yours. “Tongue. Teeth optional.” 

You laugh into the kiss he gives you—hot, deep, and toe-curling. His hands roam down your back, tugging you flush against him. You can feel he’s already half hard again, the cocky bastard. 

But before things can spiral into round two, your phone buzzes loudly from the nightstand. 

Jake pulls back with a dramatic sigh. “If that’s Spencer again, I swear to God-” 

You smirk. “Jealous?” 

He kisses the corner of your mouth. “Jealous? Sweetheart, I just spent the night making you scream my name.” 

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile, and he grins like he just won the damn lottery. 

To Jake’s great disappointment, it is Spencer. He’s on his way over, and the motel he’s staying at is only five minutes away. You both overslept—but can you really be blamed? No way. You were up most of the night tangled together, doing something that definitely didn’t feel pretend. 

“Come on, Romeo,” you say, tossing Jake his shirt. “Get dressed before Tybalt gets here.” 

Jake pauses, one brow arched as he tries not to stare at your naked chest. “Did you just imply that you used to date your cousin?” 

A light laugh bubbles out of you. “Not intentionally, but I’m surprised you know Shakespeare.” 

He grins, smug. “A little knowledge never hurt anyone. Helps win the ladies over, too.” 

He’s joking, you know he is—but the way he says ladies—plural—hits you like punch to the gut. That’s what Jake is: a ladies’ man. It was stupid to think this could be anything more than a bit of fun. Some stress relief between two friends who spent all day teasing each other until they snapped. 

If anyone can do casual sex, it’s Jake Seresin. It doesn’t matter how many pretty words he said last night—you can’t let yourself believe he actually meant them. 

“Hey,” he says gently, catching the shift in your energy. “You okay?” 

You nod a little too quickly, offering a smile that doesn't quite reach your eyes. Your nose starts to sting, and you blink fast, trying to will the emotion away. Who the hell cries after the best sex of their life? 

You gather your clothes and retreat to the bathroom, needing a buffer between you and Jake’s curious, overly perceptive eyes. You dress quickly, trying not to think about how good his shirt felt against your skin. 

It isn’t long before Spencer buzzes the intercom again, and you’re almost grateful. Jake doesn’t get the chance to press you, to ask about the look on your face that feels like it could crumble into a sob at any second. 

You’ve really fucked up now—because you let yourself believe it might’ve meant something. 

The two men spend the morning in the spare room, exchanging nothing more than grunts and sidelong glances while packing Spencer’s things into boxes. You don’t bother checking on them—you're not sure you can look at Jake right now anyway. So, you remain firmly planted on the couch, stuck in a spiral of your own damning thoughts. 

Around midday, you consider offering them lunch, but then you remember the mischievous glint in Jake’s eyes when he said that “it helps win the ladies over,” and you quickly decide against it. Instead, you grab your keys, tuck your phone into your back pocket, and head toward the door. 

“I’m heading out for a bit. Won’t be long,” you call out, not waiting for a reply before stepping out. 

“Wait,” Jake’s voice calls after you as the door swings shut. But you pretend not to hear. 

You stride toward the elevator, pressing the button more forcefully than necessary, but it doesn’t arrive fast enough. By the time the doors finally slide open, Jake is already in the hallway, his brows furrowed in concern. 

“Hang on a second,” he says, stopping right beside you, raising a hand to hold your jaw gently. 

When you step back, his face falls, confusion and dread flickering across his features. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks. 

“Nothing,” you answer, stepping into the elevator. 

But he follows you in, jaw ticking with tension. “Darlin’, if you keep looking at me like that, I’m gonna start thinking I broke you.” 

You shake your head. “I’m not broken.” 

“Then what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours, hm?” His voice softens, but the underlying concern is still very present. 

You take a deep breath, averting your eyes to the floor of the elevator as you try to carefully assemble your thoughts. You don’t want to hurt him, but you also can’t ignore how wrong everything feels in your gut. 

“I just... I can’t do this, Jake,” you say, your voice almost cracking. 

He looks absolutely gutted, like you’ve just sucker-punched him. 

“I know it shouldn’t be a big deal. Plenty of people do it without any consequences,” you ramble on. “But I think there could be some huge consequences if we keep doing this. There’s just too much on the line. And while the sex was—God, it was mind-blowing—I just don’t think I can handle you doing it with other people while I’m over here trying to... figure out what this is.” 

The hurt on his face quickly morphs into utter confusion. “What the hell are you talking about, sweetheart?” 

“This,” you gesture between the two of you. “Last night. Us having sex and the whole ‘friends with benefits’ thing.” 

Now, he looks genuinely offended. His eyes widen, green irises flashing with disbelief. “You think that’s what this is?” 

Your heart races, the pulse in your throat thrumming. “Isn’t that what you want?” 

Jake lets out a short, humourless laugh, running a hand through his hair. He glances briefly at the elevator doors before locking his gaze on you, intense and unyielding. 

“Is that what you think?” he asks, his tone a low warning. 

Suddenly, you feel very small—not in a sad way, but in a vulnerable, exposed way. He steps closer, stalking toward you with predatory intent, and you instinctively back up against the elevator wall. His presence fills the small space, and the hunger in his eyes is unmistakable. 

You swallow thickly and nod. Just a small movement, but it’s enough to make him pounce. He presses his body to yours, trapping you between him and the wall, the metal rail digging into your lower back as he cages you in. 

“I thought I made it pretty fucking clear last night, darlin’,” he whispers, his voice low and almost dangerous. “But if I didn’t, then let me say it now.” 

He pauses, eyes burning into yours as you breathe in each other’s air, hearts racing in sync. 

“I want you. Only you. All of you,” he growls. “I’ve been waiting years to do what I did last night. And now that I’ve had a taste?” He lets out a deep, throaty chuckle. “I’m never letting you go. You’re mine.” 

Your mind goes blank. Your mouth is dry, and your heart’s thundering in your chest as his words hit you like a freight train. 

“Say it,” he whispers, his lips brushing against yours as he pulls you closer. “Tell me you understand.” 

“I’m yours.” The words fall from your mouth before you can stop them, but they feel right. Like they were meant to be said. 

Jake smirks, a wicked, cocky grin that makes his eyes sparkle with unspoken mischief. “Good.” 

And just like that, his lips crash into yours—urgent, fiery, and full of need. The kiss is wild and untamed, teeth clashing, tongues battling for dominance. His hands drop to the curve of your ass, lifting you effortlessly, forcing your legs around his waist as he presses you harder against the elevator wall. 

Every inch of your skin hums, the heat between you two scorching. You can’t get enough of him, his touch, the rawness of this moment. You claw at his shirt, desperate to feel his skin against yours, and before you can even think, you're already lost in him, all logic and restraint flying out the window. 

But then, right on cue, your personal cockblock arrives. The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Spencer stands there, completely flustered, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Neither of you had pressed a button when you entered, but the look on Jake’s face suggests that it might have been intentional. 

“Sorry, pal,” Jake grins, his lips bruised and swollen. “I just can’t get enough, you know what it’s like.” 

Spencer’s mouth moves, but no words come out. 

Jake casually takes the box from Spencer’s arms. “Let me help you with that. Go grab another one. Let’s get you out of here before you see more than you’re willing to, hm?” 

Spencer nods woodenly, still staring in complete shock. 

You can’t help the giggles that escape you as you slip past Spencer and out of the elevator, back toward your apartment. 

There’s nothing fake about you and Jake anymore—not that there ever really was. And now, you can confidently say that Jake’s ego is as well-proportioned as the monster between his legs. 

END.

[spurbleu]

scapegoat / tucked tail - john price

nsfw. ao3. ~4k

s. the old bruise in his eyes is gone. in its place, blue charcoal ignites, licking at his pupil in a dilated, focused anger. “doesn’t feel good, f'your space to be invaded,” his cigar breathes embers over the bridge of your nose, “does it?”

or, you and your boss get stuck in an elevator.

cw. fem reader. pnv. fingering. power imbalance/inappropriate work dynamics.

for @tobeholyistobeempty <3 thanks for letting me rant about him, love being abhorrent with you.

The world feels odd today.

Tectonic shift. An onslaught of rubble plateaus at your feet as you stand in the elevator. You taste the disquiet in your coffee and try to find its source in the tile grout. This anxiety is an old knife, sweating against a whetstone and the back of your neck.

Your mind searches for a scapegoat- forgotten papers, an unlocked door, perhaps the stove top was left on. But you come up empty-handed and are left to swim in these troubling waters alone and wondering.

The elevator bell brings you back to the morning. Opening doors reveal grey carpet and China blue walls. Clouds with silver linings that shade over the windows. Ceiling lamps. The familiarity should bring you comfort, but the knife is still at your throat as you walk to the main office.

Rounding the corner, it cuts.

The blue in Mr. Price’s eyes is bruised and the pupils have shrunk into capsizing ships. Purple grows beneath his lashes like swollen grapes, where his crows’ feet pick at sunspots. Exhaustion has seized the bridge you spent a year building between the two of you- made from iron, coffee runs and polite banter.

It’s seemingly been burned sometime between the elevator and his office.

“Good morning, Mr. Price.” You say. He stares.

Time takes a drag of its cigar and puts it out on your back while you wait for his reply.

“Morning.”

The answer to your unknown anxiety stamps itself to the slam of his door.

8 AM

He’s not in the office for your first delivery.

His absence is disturbing- abnormal. Even when he isn’t there he lingers- a man who frequently shadows the space and people around him. A wall of force.

You find that his room is similar. Swallows you, despite its minimalism. Mahogany flays the skin under your nose as you survey the small space.

Barren walls aside from a few framed accolades. Tobacco torn carpet. And a desk in the center of the room, framed by a small bookshelf and a single leather chair. Whiskey, neat.

“Excuse me.”

You flinch and spin around. Mr. Price has his hand on the door handle, paused as he glowers at you from the threshold. You smile, but it only seems to wrinkle what little patience he had left.

“Paperwork,” you clear your throat, nerves sparking down your spine “I…have some paperwork. ‘Was leaving it on your desk. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

He takes a long stride to the corner of his desk, hands folded behind his back. Sits in his leather chair with a huff and then holds his hand out expectantly. It takes you a second to understand, before you slowly lower the papers into his palm.

Usually, this is where he thanks you. Says he likes your hair “done like that”. Compliments the color of your shirt. It’s an arguably meaningless moment.

But not to you.

The way his voice purrs over your name, a small sentiment that brightens the dirtier, drawling parts of your day. John Price hand feeds you your own importance, and you hardly understand what you did to earn it.

But you don’t have to- the moment beckons content sleep anyway. Because someone- he- believes you did something good.

He says nothing to you today.

10:30 AM

Your knock on his door is timid at best.

“Come in.”

You poke your head through the crack. “I made some coffee…” He waits for you to make this worth his time, and both of you are skeptical that you’ll be able to, “I have an extra cup- black, how you like it. You seem tired today so I-“

“Just…leave it by the door.”

Your eyebrows draw. “…On the floor?”

He looks up at you from over his glasses. “Is there anything else to set it on?”

You look around to give your throat the opportunity to unclose. “No, sir.”

He looks back down. “Then yes. On the floor.”

You stand under the top of the door and watch tantrums manifest themselves around his torso. Small cracks in a meticulously built machine, where enflamed sores spit steam. Alloy lighthouse that searches for labor even when there is none.

Rusts when stagnant.

He does not look at you when he speaks again. “Today would be preferable.”

You’re already walking before your mind can stop you. Foot in front of the other to reach the corner of his desk, and the journey feels twice as long when you register the way he watches you. A fridged gloss over his iris- numbs an anger that squints when you place the cup next to his pen holder.

 He lets out a long, dry, sigh.

“I told you that you could-“

“One less trip for you…” You remember yourself when his eyebrows raise, “sir.”

Your words echo. The walls corner your shoulders. The air he exhales chokes you, and everything slows until it’s just the Atlantic of his eyes and the unshakeable sense that you are drowning in them.

He opens his mouth, but you leave before the words come.

1:00 PM

The seat in the breakout room next to yours is empty. He ate lunch in his office.

When you return to your desk, his mug is on its corner.

It’s empty.

5:25 PM

He calls you into his office this time.

You close the door with your back, hands folded in front of you.

He rubs the bridge of his nose when you walk in, evidently already annoyed. Takes his glasses off with a sigh, interlacing his fingers and rests his elbows on the desk. Greek statue still, with all the imitation of their Gods to match.

“I went through the reports.”

“About the covert?”

“What else,” he grits, “would I be talking about?”

You nod dumbly and stay with your back to the door.

“Do you w-“

“It’s missing pages.”

You swallow a rock. “What?”

“I said,” he stands, straightening his spine, “if you could listen the first time,” a frequent tactic you’ve seen him use on his subordinates- “It has,” but never you, “missing. Pages.”

He’s in front of you and he brings with him a particular quiet that triggers your fight or flight. The pause before an explosion, after a gun fire, or the sound of a casket closing. All of these buries you six feet under- still alive and restlessly terrified of living at the same time as his temper.

He pushes the paper into your chest, and when he removes his hands, he takes your breath with it.

“Fix it.”

5:28 PM

You fight tears at the printer.

When you’ve triple checked that all the pages are there, you return to his office.

You slide the report under the door.

It’s dark when you let your aching bones stand to leave.

Collecting papers, fixing your desk, shouldering your bag…a routine that feels uncharged without Mr. Price to talk with you. Funny, how much you miss his presence.

It’s hardly appropriate, but you pretend that it is.

The lights are off in his office, shades drawn. You didn’t see him leaving, but after your last interaction you hadn’t really been watching. You stare at the room, desperate for it to burst into flames, rot to the floor, melt into wax and metal and dread. Do something that isn’t absurdly empty.

None of those things happen.

So, you wave your white flag. Tomorrow, it’ll be better. You’ll be better.

Your day ends where it began- at the steel doors of the elevator. It looks frosted in the evening; the fluorescent lights above you casting a sick yellow hue over the China blue walls and grey carpet. It looks as stale as you feel.

It opens, and you let out a long sigh as you step in. And for a blissful moment, the day is over.

And then a hand slams between the closing doors.

They jut open, and reveal John Price standing at full height. He does not soften like he usually does when he sees you- in fact he goes ridged. It haunts you, how guiltless he looks.

“Good evening, sir.”

Your nicety falls on deaf ears. He hums and fishes out a lighter from his pocket, sticking a cigar between canines as he steps through the doors. Lights it as they close, and the room fogs.

Within seconds, you’re swelling in the familiarity of cigar corpse. Buried under the nickel smoke that clips to the heels of his boots and stagnates above the slope of his shoulders. Vaguely expensive, like it’s a luxury to be near him and his vices.

Your nose burns, a cruel itch that nudges your sinuses and overwhelms the place behind your eyes. Suffocating as Mr. Price and his cigar smolder beside you, watching the floor numbers decline with your tolerance.

Your peripheral renders embers- fizzles at his facial hair that rests over its barrel, and the fixed position of his jaw when he takes a drag. Calm blankets his silhouette, and you can see his attitude begin to repair itself.

It halts when you cough.

You don’t dare look at him when you feel a shift beside you. “Somethin’ the matter?”

You hold your breath, and when you exhale it’s shaky. “N-no si-“

“Speak up.”

“No sir.”

You cough again.

“Not used to these yet? For how long you’ve been workin’ f’me that’s pretty damn insulting.”

You’re blinking back tears, shifting in your heels. “I- it’s just because we’re in a-“

His hand is on your jaw, yanking it to look up at him.

The old bruise in his eyes is gone. In its place, blue charcoal ignites, licking at his pupil in a dilated, focused anger. Stikes quickly enough to paralyze you in his grip, stone as he squeezes the soft out of the base of your cheeks.

“Small space? Doesn’t feel good, f’your space to be invaded,” the cigar still sits between his teeth and breathes embers over the bridge of your nose, “does it?”

“No sir.” You can’t tell where he ends, or the cigar begins- all you know is that you’re burning in the subsequent ash that follows them both. Tears well up in the corners of your eyes as you become horrifically aware of how much he overwhelms you. How it’s always been this way- the kindle to his fire. A match to paper.

Just took him force feeding you secondhand smoke to see it. Or, rather, taste it.

“Been doin’ this t’me all fuckin’ day. Hoverin’ like a damn heli.”

“I’m sorry-“

He squeezes until your teeth mark the inside of your cheeks. “Can’tcha tell when a man needs his g’damn peace? When he’s fed up? What about today made’ya think I needed-“

The car convulses with the intensity of thunder. Mechanical earthquake sends you forward and into his chest, and you tense at the abrupt loss of gravity. You feel his back hit the wall, and the way he grunts as you follow close behind. Instinct moves his hand to cover the curve of your head, and you inhale into his shirt.

It’s quiet for ten long seconds. In that time, you realize the elevator isn’t moving.

Mr. Price speaks first. “You alright?”

“Yes.” You breathe.

You slowly part, and the light flickers over your head. Mr. Price curses.

“Not claustrophobic, are you?” You shake your head, and he runs a hand through his hair.

“Good.” He makes his way to the operating panel and clicks the emergency open. Theres a whine from somewhere in the front of the car, but nothing budges. He shakes his head and tries to pull the doors apart.

He grunts, but the effort is futile. He doesn’t quit, though.

“Mr. Price.” No response.

“Sir-“ He tries again.

“John Price.”

He turns to you, and for the first time today you see all of it. How his hand-built dam broke, and the surrounding bridges collapsed, and somehow and for some reason, the blame is on him. The blood in the water and the festered rage clogs up his senses until all clarity dies.

How when he softens, it’s the first time he’s seeing you.

You dig your water bottle out of your bag and hold it out to him. He takes it silently, and you press the fire department button.

You slip off your heels and set them next to your bag.

The closed door turns you into a gauche- softly painted in the flickering, orange lights. Theres a halo of static around your figure- as if the curves of you had been smudged. Your face is made up of vague features- shapes that follow its structure but feel slanted. A disorienting, surreal reflection of yourself.

You want to laugh at how fitting it is.

Next to it, is an equally detached painting of Mr. Price. The color of your shirt and the cream of his collect in the middle. It’s fuzzy, and you must squint to see it, but the tether is still there. If only, in the dull steal of an elevator door.  

Price is already looking at you when you glace in his direction. You lean against the side of the elevator wall. “What happened today?”

He lets out a sigh- like he knew you were going to ask. Props himself against the other wall and crosses his arms. In your peripheral, you see how the reflections are no longer on the door.

“A mission did not go as plan.”

You look at him as if to say that cannot possibly be all, and he drops his cigar and puts it out on the tile. “We lost two of our men.”

Your heart twists. “I’m so sorry.”

He nods solemnly, and you pinch your skirt.

“…was it the one I gave you today?”

He shakes his head, and you’re relieved. “No. I found out last night.”

You pause and begin to walk towards him. “Did you sleep?”

The question crosses a boundary, like your body is now. The invisible wall all employees and their bosses have. The absence of real empathy, loyalty without attachment, and the hard rule of never involving yourself in their outside.

The places beyond the office- his home, his habits, his thoughts. The places you so desperately want to be inside.

He watches you approach him, and his shoulders slouch. You’re in front of him now, the smoke still burning at your nose, but it fizzles from below your calf and travels up and between your legs. An awareness follows it- of just how large he is too you without the aid of your heels.

When you look at him, you’re cognitive of why you asked, why you stepped forward, and why you haven’t back away.

And how dangerous that is.

“What do you think?” The question is rhetorical, but your thumb comes to trace the dark space beneath his eyes anyway.

“Not a wink.” You whisper. His breath draws and comes out ragged. His eyes watch you carefully, and despite how hunted they make you feel, your other hand holds his shoulder. When you speak again, your question is genuine.

“Can I do anything to help you, sir?”

His kiss comes to you like an epiphany.

Evens out the grass in your yard that grows awkwardly. Dissolves the spots in your vision after you look at bright lights. The puzzle piece that fell under your desk. All the trifling anomalies that coexist with your ignorance. Orphaned calamities that, until now, it felt futile to repair.

But his mouth pulls it out of you. Biting your lower lip tipping your chin so your lips mold together and you can feel his breath- the thing that keeps him alive- burrowing itself into yours.

Put simply- he was the thing you didn’t know you needed until you had it.

His hands push your hips to the wall, and you inhale, lifting onto your toes and steading yourself by gripping his shoulders. He mutters something incoherent before running his tongue along your gums and you freeze.

He dips to your neck, and you stifle a moan, feeling his hands grab the back part of your thighs and pulling them forward to lift you up-

“Sir- wait-”

He looks at you- almost as angry as he had been about the missing report pages.

“For once,” his right hand comes back up to hold your chin, “let me do what I need to do.”

He doesn’t let an argument form before he slams his lips on yours again- this time it’s violent. Holding your face still so he can shove his tongue down your throat. Your mouth is his ashtray, swallowing his depravity, his rot, the injuries that kept him festering in a locked office. You widen your mouth to fit all of it, so when he groans your name, you swallow that, too.

His left hand relinquishes his grip on your thigh and slips it under your skirt. When you try to pull away, his other hand is there, holding your face still until he runs his index and middle over the wet patch on your underwear.

He smiles against your mouth. “Been wantin’ this, huh darl’?”

You gasp when his thumb presses against your clit through the cloth- “P-Pri-“

His hand falls away and you whine. Tuts, looking you in the eye. “Sir, sweet’eart. Say it.”

“Sir.” You breathe, rolling your hips forward to find fleeting relief against his limp fingers.

“Tha’s a girl.” Kisses behind your ears, before slipping his fingers past the lace to wander between your folds. You sigh, gipping his shoulders for balance, rocking your hips. His thumb returns to its small ministrations against your clit, and a curious finger slips into the sleeve of your cunt.

You groan. “S…sir the f-fire depart-“

He hushes you with a second finger. You yelp, and he takes your surprise as an opportunity to knock your planted foot out to let him stand between them. Shoves his fingers deeper, and you bend forward, moaning as you try your best to see straight.

“Tight lil thing, isn’t she,” his pumps become purposely cruel, and you’re resting your head against his shoulder, mouth agape with drool pooling on the white of his shirt, “have’ta warm her up, hm?”

You don’t know why you find yourself nodding. You’re long past an appropriate work relationship. Employee contracts don’t include riding your superior’s fingers in a stranded elevator.

But it’s been in the fine print, hasn’t it? In the lingering hands, careful eyes, the way you watched his mouth when he talked, and he let you. Even today, you weren’t upset with what he’d said and done on principle, but because it was done to you. It tore down the selfish, callow notion that you were removed from his cruelty- that you had and always would be an exception.

You think in some twisted way; this is him proving you right. The apology you’ll never hear said aloud.

He’s always been a man of action, anyway.

He adds a third, and you’re choking back a sob, shivering like you aren’t burning. Searing where he touches you, while the rest of him crowds everywhere else. Entirely aware that he’s stretching the sensitive tendons of your body and the bones that hold you together so he can watch himself put you back together. Molding you, for him.

Like you haven’t done so already.

“C’mon now, ‘can feel you getting close, sweet’eart,” he purrs in your ear, “give it to me.”

And he’s right. It’s building, the slow and pulsing anticipation your body cannot save itself from- pinpricks of lightning before the thunder. Shuddering breaths as you become desperate- echoed in the curls of your fingers and toes and the mantra you repeat against his neck,

“Please, please, please, ple,”

Your orgasm (you think for the moments that everything whites out) makes you a witch. Burns you at the stake, flays you alive, the mob of your own consciousness jeering from somewhere and nowhere. The limbo where the thunder finally rolls in, but too quickly disappears when he removes his soiled fingers.

“Stay with me,” the tap on your cheek pulls you back to the crammed elevator and the arms that hold you still, “open.”

You do, unlatching chattering teeth and flattening your tongue until his fingers are bed there. He doesn’t move his eyes from you.

“Ain’t that a sight…”

You close your lips and taste the beginning of the end. The torn tapestry yarn of your professionalism, your impulses, your desires. Congregated on the digits that have signed your reports, touched the small of your back, and have now been deep inside your cunt.

He grunts and pulls his hand away with a quiet pop, and steps back to put his hands on his belt.

Your mind is only now beginning to catch up with reality. “Pr-Sir I don’t…“

He draws his cock from the waistband of his pants, and you’re quiet. It holds all the same weight he does, and the hair. Thick swirls that brush over heavy flesh, where it blossoms in an angry red at the tip. You swallow thickly, back pressed to the wall and cunt aching for something your mind isn’t ready for.

“I’m not-“

“You’re prepped enough, darl’,” he steps forwards, running his tip between your folds you wince, “Be a good girl for me, hm? ‘S gonna feel,” he groans when he pushes in further, knocking your lungs up to your throat, “Christ…good.”

He wraps his palms on the underbelly of your thighs and lifts, pressing you against the wall of the elevator. You breathe in the infant relief, before he bottoms out.

You sob, gripping onto his dress shirt as your walls stretch. It’s all lost to the current of his own curses and ragged breaths into your neck. “Fuck, still tight huh?”

You try to reply but it’s lost to the waves that cascade under your ribs with every thrust you’re forced to take. Only able to focus on how full you are, the rest of your body hollowed out in comparison. Light, feverish shivers unfurl up the base of your spine, and you wrap your legs around his hips. He doesn’t mind your silence.

He starts with slow thrusts, letting you bounce on his cock in a rhythm that makes you squirm. When you put up a fight, he grabs your hips and pulls them against his, and you lean your head against the wall at the new depth that should be impossible.

His hand finds your clit and you’re quick to fold back into his shoulder, letting out another ugly moan.

“Tha’s it, knew you needed this,” his hips snap against your ass and your grip beneath his shoulder blades, “I see how you look at me,” grabs your face and tips his head to look down at you, “like you are right now.”

You sigh when he plunges deeper. “Y-you wha…wanted it too..?”

He adjusts your hips and answers with a hard jerk of his own. “’Course I did. Knew you’d be…hah..” leans his head into your neck, where he bites and you gasp, “made f’me.”

You’re flooded with a strange sense of ease.

Nothing about this is normal, but it’s warranted. Signing yourself to him with leather sticking to the underside of your thighs, shaking his hand and feeling a life richer than your own hold you with gentleness. How he’d look at you in the first week mornings and smile, so you adjusted comfortably. How he still did months into the job.

You recall an evening when he walked you to your car. You asked him when he’d be going home. He responded, “late,” and you had said “not too much later, yeah?” He had looked at you like you’d be the one waiting at home for him.

Then said, “For you, I won’t.”

You’ve been wanting it since then.

The collision shatters glass and other fragile things you’re made of. Lifted by his arms so you cannot collect yourself as he spears into you, until you are unsure where you begin, and he ends.

Didn’t hear yourself begin to speak, but you catch the butt-end of your incoherency when he steps forward and puts your back flat against the wall. “-ir so good…uh..hah good please, gonna- gonna cum’ah.”

He doesn’t relent, chasing your orgasm like he’s starving. “I know, I know sweet’eart, doin’ so well…” cages you between his elbows, “Show me how good I make you feel.”

You cling to his back like a lifeline. Drowning in him again, but now it’s beyond his eyes. Its his chest, his arms, his cock and every other part of him that makes you desperate enough to fuck him in an elevator.

Equally terrified and thrilled by his reciprocation. A follower returning to their alter, where their food has been eaten and wine swallowed and you simultaneously realize your god is real, and he knows you.

That he’ll eat you too, given the chance.

Your second orgasm is a cigar. Burns fast once lit and lingers until the smoke finds your lungs and the clenches your walls. Where the tobacco is you, your boss, this elevator, and the sprout that grew until its nicotine leaves bridged them together.  

Where Price can fit his mouth back over yours and groan, spilling himself into you and bucking until his spend kisses your cervix, and you see stars.

The come down is slow. He doesn’t move for awhile and you are grateful- entirely sure that the moment he steps away you’ll collapse to the floor. Feeling his chest inhale against your own, and kisses you like he didn’t just fuck you raw against granite that you will never look at the same again.

He peels himself from you at a snail’s pace, and when he pulls out, takes a finger and pushes his spend back into your swollen cunt. When you shift, his places a burly hand above your pelvis and holds you against the wall. Rises, and swipes the hair out of you face.

“Still with me?”

You can only nod against the hills of his palm. He smiles for the first time that day.

“Let’s get cleaned up before the firemen get us out.”

Tomorrow, Price will smile the whole day. He will get you a coffee from the break room, and you will ask how he knows the amount of cream and sugar you like. He will remind you he’s an observer. He’ll notice you did your hair differently. He will say he likes it.

At 5, he will call you into his office again. But this time, it’s not about missing pages of a report, but the missing undergarment from under your skirt.

He’ll then ask you to lift it, so he can properly see how soaking wet your cunt is.

[quietdeparturesarchive]

Tips On How To Get Your Life Together

make a list of your top priorities: Figure out what actually matters to you right now. This isn’t about what you should care about, but what truly takes up your energy—school, your health, building confidence, relationships, etc. Keep the list short (3–5 things max) so you can focus. ‎

create a morning and night routine: Routines give your brain structure. You don’t need a 10-step ritual—just something consistent. Morning = stretch, drink water, check your planner. Night = wash your face, no phone 30 mins before bed, quick journal. That alone is enough. ‎

check in with yourself and journal frequently: Journaling doesn’t mean writing novels. Just note how you feel, what’s bothering you, what went well, or what’s on your mind. Use prompts if you’re stuck. The point is to stay connected to yourself instead of spiraling in your head. ‎

start saving money: Even a small amount every week matters. Start tracking what you spend. Make a savings goal (emergency fund, a trip, new laptop). Try a rule like “save 10% of what I get” or “no impulse purchases until Sunday.” ‎

learn something new every day: It doesn’t have to be academic. Listen to a podcast, read one article, Google something random. Write down one interesting thing you learned to help you remember it—and to remind yourself that you’re growing. ‎

spend time with the people you love: Text them. Call them. Make plans, even if you’re busy. Shared time matters. It’s easy to get caught up in fixing yourself and forget that love and connection are part of being okay. ‎

keep track of your sleep, hydration, nutrition: Start observing how your body feels. Are you getting 7–8 hours of sleep? Drinking enough water (2L/day)? Eating regularly? You don’t have to go full fitness-tracker, but noticing patterns can help you feel way more in control. ‎

list down your stress triggers: What causes you anxiety, procrastination, or overwhelm? Write them down. Knowing your triggers helps you build systems around them. If social events drain you, plan alone time after. If deadlines stress you, start earlier. ‎

clean your room: Your environment reflects your mental state. Tidy up the space where you spend the most time. It doesn’t need to be perfect—just put things back in place, wipe down surfaces, and open a window. It shifts your mindset. ‎

practice gratitude and/or meditate: You don’t have to be spiritual. Just note what’s good. Try writing 3 small things you’re grateful for, or sitting quietly for 5 minutes. It helps your mind slow down and notice what’s okay, even on rough days. ‎

set boundaries: Say no when you need to. Don’t reply right away if you’re drained. Make rules for yourself about how much you give to others. Boundaries protect your energy—they’re not selfish, they’re necessary. ‎

declutter your phone, laptop, etc: Digital mess counts. Delete apps you don’t use, clear out your camera roll and downloads, organize folders. It helps reduce mental clutter and makes everything feel more intentional. ‎

plan 1 self care act every day: Something small, just for you. A walk, skincare, journaling, no-screen time, reading. Doesn’t have to be fancy or expensive—just consistent and kind to yourself.

xoxo, sally

pic1 | pic2 | pic3

[bloomzone]

2025 : #22 How to LOCK IN

✒️..You overwhelmed. u keep saying, "I need to get my life together," but you don’t even know where to start. That feeling being stuck in ur own head, paralyzed by everything and nothing at the same time it’s real ikr I've been there but there’s a way out of this messy shit is to locking in. Locking is when "u stop reacting, and you start creating" . You start showing up for yourself like you matter because you do but how .. ?

1. SET GOALS & INTENTIONS

Before anything else, you need direction. When life feels messy, it’s usually because you're reacting to everything instead of moving with purpose. So start with a pause. Ask yourself: What do I want my life to actually look like? Not in vague terms like "success" or "happiness" but specifically. What kind of mornings do you want? What kind of work fulfills you? What kind of people do you want around you? What does peace look like for you?

Now set intentions. An intention isn’t just a goal it’s a way of being. A goal says "I want to lose 10 pounds." An intention says "I want to treat my body like it matters." That's the difference. Intentions give your goals a soul. Write both down . This is your why and you're going to need it when things get hard then u will remember to keep u going

2. KILL DISTRACTIONS

When life feels messy, the first thing you have to do is quiet the noise. And I don’t mean just the literal noise . I’m talking about the mental clutter: endless scrolling, group chats with no purpose, random content you consume that makes you compare yourself to others (hear me out) All of it is stealing your focus. You can’t figure out your life if you’re constantly filling your brain with everybody else’s.

Start by auditing your digital life. What apps do you open as soon as you wake up? What’s constantly grabbing your attention but giving you nothing real back? If it doesn’t help you grow, if it doesn’t calm your mind, if it doesn’t fuel your creativity it’s time to let it go. At least for now. Silence can be uncomfortable at first, but within silence lives clarity. And clarity is the seed of change.

3. FLIP THE MENTAL SWITCH

This part is important as setting goals . If your life feels off track, you have to make a hard decision with yourself: Am I going to keep living like this, or am I going to do something about it? This is where you flip the switch. And flipping it means choosing to no longer accept a half-lived version of your life. It’s the moment where you say, "I’m tired of feeling behind. I’m done wasting time."

You might not know how to fix everything yet, but the decision to lock in is the beginning. This switch is an energy shift. It’s the point when you stop waiting for motivation, stop waiting to feel "ready," and decide that showing up is no longer optional. You become your own motivator. You stop asking, "Can I really do this?" and start saying, "Watch me." It’s about becoming unrecognizable to your past self, one action at a time

4. CONTROL YOUR SPACE

When your life feels messy, often your space reflects it ofc . Look around your room. Your desk. Your phone. Your inbox. Is it all chaos? Then your mind will be too. You don’t need to do a full makeover you just need to create order. Clean your room like you're clearing your head or like someone important will come in organize your stuff like you’re organizing your next move.

When your physical environment feels chaotic, it signals your brain that you’re not safe, not grounded, not focused. And that’s exhausting. You deserve a space that supports the person you want to become. Light a candle. Open a window. Get some sunlight in . Your space should be a place where change can happen. Because once your space feels clean and calm, your mind starts to follow.

4. FUEL YOUR BODY

You can’t lock in if you’re running on fumes. That foggy, tired, heavy feeling you’re carrying A lot of it is physical. You’re probably dehydrated. You’re probably not sleeping enough. You're probably surviving on caffeine and chips or whatever. And I get it when your mind is a mess, eating right and sleeping well feel impossible.

But your body is the machine that gets you out of this rut. If your body is crashing, your mind can’t focus. Your emotions spiral more easily. Start small: more water, less sugar. Stretch your body in the morning. Take deep breaths. Cook for urself , go outside. Move your body. Fuel it. Your energy and mental clarity will thank you. You don’t have to go from 0 to gym rat. You just have to treat your body like it matters.treat your body like how u will treat your child

5. FOCUS YOUR MIND

Right now, your thoughts are probably bouncing everywhere. You feel overwhelmed because your brain is trying to solve everything at once. But focus isn’t about doing everything. It’s about doing the next thing.

And to do that, you need clarity. You need to know what matters right now. not next week. not next year. right now. What’s one thing you can finish today that moves you forward? Is it doing laundry? Submitting an application? Journaling your feelings? Focus on that doing your homework ?. Give it all your attention. Turn ur phone off and pour into that one thing. Get used to being present. That’s what real focus feels like your full self showing up to a single task.

6. OWN YOUR TIME

When your life is a mess, time just slips through your fingers. Days go by and you don’t even know what you did. That stops now. You need to get intentional. Before bed, plan tomorrow. Write three things you want to accomplish. Block off your time, even if it’s just: wake up 1h before ur usual time , workout , cook breakfast... . It doesn’t have to be extreme. It just has to be deliberate.

Think of your time like currency. Once it’s spent, you don’t get it back. So don’t spend it on guilt, fear, overthinking, or distraction. Spend it on action. On healing. On building something that matters.

7. ALIGN SPIRITUALLY

Here’s the part no one talks about when you're in a mess: your soul is tired. U feel disconnected. You might not even remember what peace feels like. Locking in isn’t just about habits It’s also about realignment.

You are more than your productivity. You are more than your checklist. So pause. Sit with yourself. Be still. Breathe. Talk to God, the universe, your ancestors whatever u believe in , journal . Let your spirit speak too . Let your pain surface. Let yourself feel again. That’s where the answers you’re begging for will show up always have some minutes everyday whenever in the morning or night to sit and talk to urself and let everything out (negativity) .

8. EMBRACE DETACHMENT

Detachment isn’t about not caring it’s about caring from a place of peace not panic. When you’re locked in, you learn to release your grip on things you can’t control: people’s opinions, outcomes, and timing. You stop chasing, and instead, you start aligning. You don’t beg for energy, attention, or results you trust that what’s meant for you is flowing your way. The art of detachment is what keeps your power close. You give your best and focused, but you’re no longer shaken by what doesn’t go as planned. That’s is called control .To practice detachment, start by identifying what’s stressing you out or what you’re obsessing over ask yourself if it’s something you can change or if it’s beyond your control or out of it . Then, consciously let go of the attachment to that outcome or person. This doesn't mean you stop caring it means you trust that whatever happens is part of the journey and that it will all unfold as it’s meant to. You can practice detachment by shifting your focus back to what you can control your actions, your attitude, and your peace of mind. With time, detachment helps you remain calm, clear-headed, and more connected to your own path without being weighed down by the uncontrollable.

If your life feels messy, that doesn’t mean you’re broken. It means you’re being called to level up. To stop floating. To stop waiting for someone to save you. Locking in isn’t boring it’s freedom. It’s how you take back control. And once you feel that click you’ll never want to go back.have a good luck 🍀.

@bloomzone

[omgfangirlland]

The Shadows That Nurture 9

Ch9 is here and with it everything is set in motion! The bomb is ticking- Ch 10 is done and ch 11 is in the works, uhhh a lot of characters are about to make an appeareance along the way-

Enjoy!

Masterlist || First || previous<< Chapter 9 >>next

The Grayson household was having dinner like every night, the table filled with enough food to fill everyone, the kids on one side of the table and the adults on the other. “So- guess who’s finally getting his powers?” Mark started softly once the conversation quieted down, quickly getting met with a smile and praise from you and Debbie, neither noticing Nolan’s suspicious glare laced with worry.

“Are you sure?” The praise stopped as soon as Nolan’s voice was heard. Your foot immediately met his shin, making him look at you with surprise as you glared angrily at the man. “Dude-“ you almost hissed. “Don’t be like that. You know Mark wouldn’t lie about this, not when you put enough pressure on him as is.” The slight jab at his tough parenting made Nolan clear his throat and give a soft apology to his son.

Mark gives the man a small smile as he shrugs. “I mean- I did throw a trash bag into space at work.” The boy’s confirmation was met with a happily surprised look from Nolan, your eyes narrowing with suspicion at the older man’s customer service smile, after which he offered the young man to join their training sessions from tomorrow on.

All in all, Mark felt quite great! He could finally join his sister and father in their “saving the world” adventures, he could follow in Nolan’s steps. Finally be the protector of Earth alongside his family. He’s gonna be able to fly. He was finally going to be able to fly!

He went out onto the roof and knocked on his sister’s window. He wasn’t going to do this alone, what if he was the odd one out and couldn’t fly and fell and cracked his head open? Nuh-uh.

“Don’t look down, you’ll only scare yourself.” You warned Mark, your brother quickly shushing you as he muttered to himself. “Dad always said it was like a reflex, so if I don't want to fall, I won't, and even if I do, maybe it won't even hurt-“

“And Superman said it’s a leap of faith, so leap.” You interrupted his worried mutters, your hair flying around you as you lifted off the roof, ignoring his beg for you to be on the ground below just in case. “Don’t think about it, Mark. I believe in you.”

Mark’s tense muscles relaxed as he looked at his sister’s reassuring eyes. He didn’t look away as he stepped back until his back hit the wall and he didn’t look away as he started running, taking a leap and flying right to you.  You both laughed with glee at his success, you almost snorting as he started rolling like a ball and stopping upside down.

“Well. I guess we’ll have to work on you keeping upright.” You couldn’t help teasing him. “Shut up! I can do that-“ Your dear brother whined as he wiggled a bit in the air before he figured out how to turn. “See? It’s not that ha-auch!” Mark winced when he hit a tree branch while he unknowingly drifted as he talked, making you snicker.

His speed was good, and his landing needed work, but you weren’t one to talk. You almost crashed through a building on your first few landings. By morning Mark barely got an hour of sleep but with a whole pot of coffee, he was as good as new. Until he crashed again. “I guess that still counts as a landing.” Nolan sighs and tells Mark to get back up. “And it was in the middle of nowhere- so points for no civilian casualties?” you mutter as you cross your arms, one hand covering your mouth. “…That looked like it hurt.”

The man cleared his throat. “How about a bit of insight on how to interrogate?” You tried to argue against it, but Mark insisted he was fine, pushing to continue training. “Well…” You sigh before a mischievous smirk takes form on your mug. “I think I know just the guy for it.”

You three watch as the clown’s laughing turns into worried yelling for help, you and Nolan smiling while Mark just looks worried. “Shouldn’t we catch him?” You just waved him off. “Nah, the bastard is a rapist, abuser, and kid killer, let him suffer a bit.” The men look at each other before they look at you. “Rock, paper, scissors for who gets to throw him into space?” Nolan asks.

“You're really going to keep the shirt?” Mark asks as he looks at the fabric clenched into your hand. “Yep. I’m entitled to it. Won the game square and fair. And- I’m going to cross out Jason Todd and add The Joker so it’ll say, ‘I killed the Joker and all I got was this lousy t-shirt’. It’ll be fun.” Mark just shrugged, brushing it off as a Gothamite thing. “It’s fair and square.” His correction was met with you flipping him off.

While Nolan decided to teach Mark how to throw a good punch you went off for a bit, busy helping a kid get her cat from a tree. It was surprisingly common, too common for your liking- but you didn’t have it in you to ignore it. By the time you came back, Mark was gasping for air as Nolan was apologizing g. “Mark… If you really want to do what I do, what your sister does, you have to be prepared for anything. No one is gonna pull their punches.”

“Nolan.” You hissed at him as you stormed closer, helping your brother sit up. “I know you have expectations of him, of your son, a true Viltrumite or whatever- but you can’t just start hammering into him at full strength! It took time with me to develop my full strength and immunity, it will take time with him too.” The older man looked like a sad puppy as you berated him, but he nodded and apologized again, unable to argue with you. It was hard to get rid of the way he was raised, though, if push came to shove he knew who he’d stand by.

Debbie had a similar thought about her husband’s actions. Nolan was pushing too hard and at his outburst, you knew that he also felt the same. You decided to give Mark some space, he’ll come to you on his own. Nobody wanted to hear their father say that he’d rather you not have powers.

The next morning instead of flying Mark to school, you flew with him, greeting William and leaving with a hug to both boys and a goodbye. College was a bitch, but you wouldn’t have it any other way. It was nice to see all these passionate people.

Your mind, however, was still stuck on Nolan. He was acting weird since your brother got his powers, paranoid or skittish. The man was… peculiar. Not quite Wayne or Luthor's level of hiding secrets but you could tell he was never telling the full story, the Viltrumites seemed too good to be true. As you walked out of school, ready to get home and out for some work, a message made you change directions.

Hiding in the shadows, melting into them, was easy for you, natural even. So, when the two figures finally walked by you, you were quick to pounce, climbing onto Nolan’s shoulders while pushing Mark lightly, the younger man screaming at the sudden touch, swinging blindly behind him, only stopping when the lights came on and you giggled.

Your brother’s face flushed as he glared at you and Nolan’s smiling face. “You’ll get used to that. And you-” The man said while flicking one of your ears gently, making you whine. “Don’t scare your brother like that.” His tone was too light for you to take that as a serious warning so you just childishly booed.

The introduction to Art was quick, the best, and seemingly the only hero costume maker in Chicago. He also made your prom dress, which you loved, but this was… a questionable suit. “Forget the orange and yellow- What are those disks all over?” You asked. The old man just shrugged. “They’re solar-powered batteries. I designed that costume back when I was under the impression your dad’s powers were solar power based. Like that Krypton alien.”

“It’s a common mistake, don’t worry about it. Though, I think I’m a better hero than him.” Nolan couldn’t help but preen, trying to show off in front of his kids. It only resulted in you snickering. “I don’t know dad. He can shoot lasers from his eyes.” The father just huffed. “You’re biased, you have a crush on the man.”

The accusation made you stutter, face flushing at the thought. “I do not! Besides, he has kids around our age!” You huffed. “She’s right.” Mark shrugged. “Thank you-“ Your thanks were quick-lived as your brother continued. “Her daddy issues lie in bad boys, like that lead singer from Mucous Membrane.”

“Whose side are you on?!” You scoffed at Mark’s teasing, making the boy shrug. “The winning side.” Nolan only smiled at the interaction. “You do like the older people-“ you opened your mouth to comment but Nolan interrupted. “Like War Woman, Wonder Woman, Immortal, Brit, you mentioned that Slade mercenary once-“

You could only cover your face as he continued naming heroes and mercenaries, even some rich folk you’ve been working with, mortification slowly making you shake. “Shut up- please- just shut up- if I knew that this is what having an actual dad and sibling was like, I would have run away. This is treason- this is- I just mentioned these people once!”

"You did doodle War Woman and Wonder Woman once and put hearts around- ack!" Mark didn't get to finish as your hands grasped around the base of his neck tight enough for him to feel but not enough to do damage, and shook him back and forth. "Shut it, you little snitch!" The male specimens in the room only laughed at your misery.

As the men talked about Mark’s idea for a costume, you were sulking in the darkest corner of the room, the shadows were filled with amusement, chirping with happiness as they tried to lighten you up. “You want a symbol. That’s good. Have you thought of a name? It helps. Darkwing has dark wings, the Red Rush is a red rush when he runs by you. Your sister, The Sorceress, seems to have a new power every month like she’s magical.”

“I made her suit the darkest green I could find with bright green and gold accents to nod to the color of her powers and the average magical color that so many mages seem to have. The hood is a nod to the stereotypical witch cloak but the body was inspired by the viltrumite outfit your dad wore when he first came to earth. Small details for someone who has quite the bag of tricks, but when people see her, they know who it is. You get it? You give me something to go on, I'll strive for iconic. Think about it and get back to me.” Art reassured the boy.

The shadows hummed with a sensation of happiness and love as your hero's name was mentioned, after all, they’re quite proud that you chose their pick, Omni-girl was such a “follow into my footsteps” dad thing for Nolan to try and push onto you, they always judged him for that.

After the whole “find your identity” fiasco, Mark had to go do his homework, leaving you and Nolan alone quite a distance from anyone else who may be trying to listen in. As the man turned to face his daughter, she was already facing him, your eyes locked on him.

“Look- I don’t know what’s up with you, but you need to fix it.” When he opened his mouth, you immediately hushed him. “Let me finish. You’re being weird. I can’t tell if you’re paranoid or if you’re scared about something, but I know you trained me amazingly- whatever that was with Mark was sloppy- like you wanted to test him instead of teach.”

“I’m neither. Mark and I are Viltrumites; it’s our job to be the best of the best so we can- so we can help others-“ Your eyes narrowed and your lip curled at his stutter. He was slipping. “Don’t give me that bullshit. I told you before that I don’t believe that stuff about you Viltrumites being goody two shoes who only want the best for others. I’ve seen what other humans and aliens could do in the name of good. For all I and everyone else know, your race could be a long line of conquerors who kill those who refuse to bend.”

“Don’t-“ You interrupted him again when he tried to speak up once more. “I don’t care about that. Your past is whatever to me because you’ve helped so far. But you seriously need to think long and hard about where your loyalty lies. Debbie loves you, Mark loves you, Art believes you are a great friend, I-“ You can’t help the shaking in your hands as you give his chest, where his heart would be, a soft punch, barely making him grunt. “I love you, dad. Don’t fuck that up. Don’t make me regret that.” Pulling away from him you decide to give him some space to dwell on it. “I’ll tell Debbie you’ll be late.”

Tonight, you fell asleep to the thuds of Mark trying to perfect his landings, the only thing that made you shoot upright in your bed was a deep, gut feeling. “Someone’s being rude to mama.”  You slur, groggy with sleep as you get out of bed and crawl out the window, your hair a mess as you look over the roof down at Mark and Debbie. “Stop being mean to ma, Mark!” Your yell makes the two flinch, Debbie laughing at the sight of you half asleep glaring at your big brother. “I apologized! And she made me realize what my hero name is going to be! It’s-“

Tag list: @bat1212 @trashlanternfish360 @shycreatorreview @syrooo @a-lurking-fae @alittletiredcry @kittzu @plsfckmedxddy @blackhood1229 @nxdxsworld @leeiasure @dandelion-delusion @lovebug-apple @sillysealsies @tsxukikami @enchantingarcadecreation @alishii @d3nnji @itsberrydreemurstuff @yuyuzi-ling @welpthisisboring @1abi @mxvoid26

The title card is a one off joke- I can't do it every chapter :)))

[cloverapple]

how do you induce emotion / feel like your in your dr? maybe inducing isn’t the right word but how do you feel feelings when shifting?

There are so many ways to do this! Like listening to music, a song that sparks a memory from your DR, or even an ambient soundtrack that lets you fanfic your way deep into a scenario, really sinking into the vibe of the scene. There's no right or wrong method here. I promise, something in your life right now connects you to your DR and your DR self—whether it’s a song, a specific scenario you replay in your mind, or just that one thing that makes you feel like you’re already there, pulling out those strong emotions like a magnet.

Now, there’s this visualization I love—a simple, step-by-step process (because, ADHD brain here, I live for structured steps leave me alone). I usually use it to manifest in my CR, but it’s perfect for inducing that feeling of being in your DR, too. It goes like this:

Relax. Take a few deep breaths, let your body soften, melt into your chair, your bed, wherever you are. Let the tension drain away—really let yourself sink in.

Now, pick the scene you want to drop into. Maybe it’s your first morning waking up in your DR, maybe you’re chilling with your friends, maybe you’re wrapped up with your S/O. Whatever feels right.

Once you’ve got your scene, you’re going to count from 1 to 10. But with each number, you’ll visualize something specific in that space—look around, touch your surroundings, feel the textures, the warmth, the coolness. Flex your hands, feel your body in that world. It’s about anchoring yourself in the moment, fully immersing.

Let me give you an example so it’s crystal clear.

Say I want to shift to a DR where I’m waking up in a bedroom with an ocean view and my cat curled up next to me. I’d do it like this:

“One.” *I glance up at the ceiling, watching the ceiling fan spin, I notice the little imperfections in the paint, like I’ve seen them a thousand times before*

“Two.” *I sit up, feeling the softness of the sheets against my skin. I look at the clock on my nightstand, it reads 9:03 AM in glowing red numbers*

“Three.” *I turn my head toward the window. The ocean is right there, stretching out into the horizon, the waves crashing, the sunlight beaming through the window*

“Four.” *I stretch my legs under the blanket, my cat shifts displeased beside me, purring, and I reach out to scratch behind their ears, feeling the warmth of their fur beneath my fingertips*

“Five.” *I slide out of bed, my feet touching the cool, wooden floor. I hear the faint creak of the floorboards beneath my weight*

“Six.” *I walk over to the window, press my palm against the glass. It’s warm from the sun*

“Seven.” *I glance around the room: the books stacked messily on the desk, the glow of morning light spilling over everything. I can even see the coffee mug I left out the night before because I'm an idiot*

“Eight.” *I look down and adjust my pajamas, running my hands over my body, flexing my toes*

“Nine.” *I run my fingers along the windowsill, feeling the smooth wood beneath my touch, and I think about what I'm going to do that day*

“Ten.” *I reach for my phone, gripping it in my hand, feeling its weight against my palm, before unlocking it and seeing a dozen messages from my friends*

4. Once you’ve hit ten, just sit with it. Let yourself marinate in that feeling of already being there, of already having it. You’re not reaching, you’re not chasing, it’s yours now. Feel the weight of that reality settle into your chest. How do you feel? Happy? Calm? Relieved? Whatever it is, let it flow through you. Own it. You’re not imagining anymore—you’re experiencing.

And that’s it. That’s the whole process. Simple, but powerful, trust me!

[persevereforahappyending]

A Legacies Regret |11|

Pairing: Tara Carpenter x Reader

Summary: You were living in New York with your girlfriend, trying to forget about last year and just enjoy life, but that was easier said than done. (Sequel to A Legacies Secret)

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Attempted Murder, Stabbing, Shooting, Violence

Word Count: 3.6k+

Main Masterlist | Series Masterlist | A Legacies Secret Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15

You rode all the way to Gale’s place in silence. You felt Gale constantly glancing at you out of the side of her eye, but you refused to acknowledge it, you just kept your eyes focused straight ahead. When you finally reached Gales’ place you couldn’t help the way your mouth hung open. You knew Gale lived on the upper west side, but it seemed you didn’t realize how well off she truly was.

You couldn’t help but press your head against the window, trying to look up at the building. You furrowed your brow as Gale pulled down into a garage under the complex. Your eyes widened, it was a struggle finding parking in New York and yet Gale had an entire parking garage under her building. You didn’t even have a car anymore, you and the others walked everywhere and where you couldn’t walk you rode the subway.

You followed Gale out of the car, clearing your throat to try and hide just how impressed you were. The two of you entered the elevator, Gale swiped a card then hit the button for a floor near the top. Your eyes widened; she wasn’t at the very top of the complex, but she was pretty close.

Some soft music played in the elevator to fill what would have usually been an awkward silence. The elevator dinged as you arrived at the floor in no time. You stepped out into a small hallway that had less than a handful of doors in it. You had your hands shoved in your pockets as Gale step up to one of the doors and pulled out her keys. You glanced around as she unlocked the door, if there was less than five condos on each floor that meant the space had to be rather large.

“Make yourself at home,” Gale said, holding the door open for you.

Your mouth once again fell open as you stepped into Gale’s condo. It was an open floor plan with the door opening up right into the living room. From where you stood in the doorway you could see the kitchen, a long hallway that probably led to the bedrooms, and a balcony that stretched the length of the kitchen and the living room.

“Damn,” you couldn’t help but whisper.

You could barely afford the one-bedroom crappy apartment you had in Woodsboro to begin with. New York was another monster all together, you made more money bartending than you ever did back home, but rent was also more than triple what you paid. The only reason you were able to afford the current place was because you, Sam, and the money Bailey paid for Quinn’s share helped divide things up. You weren’t sure what would happen now, a Ghostface attack happened, meaning the apartment was no longer safe, meaning Sam would want to move again. Quinn was also murdered in said apartment, which definitely didn’t help, and a roommate, along with you, Tara, and Sam was the only way you could afford the place.

“Didn’t know a reporter’s salary could get you all this,” you mumbled to yourself.

“Helps when you’ve written several bestselling books,” Gale said.

You couldn’t help but scoff. Those books she wrote, though based on real events, tended to paint everyone in a bad light, except for herself of course. Sam got the worst of it but even Sidney was never portrayed the best.

“Profiting off others pain,” you commented. “Definitely something to strive for.”

Gale let out a sigh and when you turned around, she at least had the decency to look at least a little be ashamed. “I know you weren’t a fan of my interpretation from last year’s events,” Gale said calmly, like she was trying to choose her words carefully.

“It was a bunch of bullshit,” you snapped. “What you said about me, about Sam,” you started gesturing with your hands. You and Sam might not have been friends and only really tolerated each other because of Tara but she didn’t deserve all the crap Gale said about her. “The only one portrayed decently was…” your words quickly died, and you had to look away. You quickly tried to blink away the tears.

“You weren’t portrayed bad by any means.”

“No!” You snapped, the anger coming back to you in full force. “You just used me as a prop to make you look better.” Gale physically flinched at your words. “Abandoning your daughter to keep her away from the horrors of Ghostface,” you mocked. “How honorable.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Gale whispered.

“Well, at least our fictional relationship is better than our real life one,” you shrugged. “We really get to bond and reconnect.” You saw the tears in Gale’s eyes, but you didn’t even so much as begin to back down. “To bad in real life our relationship is nonexistent.”

You turned away, no longer able, or wanting to, look at her. You were the reason the two of you didn’t have a relationship. A part of you wished things could be different, you didn’t regret your decision though, maybe if Gale was different, if she had proven she could be different. In her book she made it seem like she did you a favor, giving you up. She went on about how you reunited, how the two of you grieved Dewey and despite how hard it was you found yourself able to forgive Gale for what she did. The thing about fiction though, it had a habit of being better than real life.

“I know,” Gale whispered. “When I got to writing I…” you glanced back to see her shaking her head as she tried to figure out what she wanted to say. “I got carried away; I started fantasizing about how I wish we could be. Meeting for lunch regularly, getting to know you,” she began to list off. “Being a part of your life.”

“Well, none of that is true,” you snapped.

“No,” Gale whispered sadly. “I’ve tried to respect your decision, in wanting nothing to do with me.” You were thankful she couldn’t see your face as a lone tear escaped your eye. “And I apologize for any pain my writing might have caused you.”

“Whatever,” you shook your head, your voice hardening. “I didn’t come here for apologies, I meant what I said,” you turned to face Gale again. “There’s safety in numbers. So, let’s just keep this simple.”

Gale’s eyes fell to the floor, but she didn’t argue, she just nodded her head. “Make yourself at home,” she said again, gesturing to the living room.

You opted to sit on the couch, stretching out your leg just enough to give your knee some relief. You checked your phone, making sure Tara hadn’t messaged you. The last text you got from her was her replying to you telling her to be careful. Nothing good ever came from you and Tara separating but you couldn’t just let Gale go off on her own.

Gale grabbed her laptop and set up next to you on the couch, though she made sure to leave plenty of room between the two of you. You glanced at her out of the side of your eye when you heard her mumbling to herself, it sounded like she was complaining about Kirby. You glanced at her laptop screen and saw she was still researching Jason and Greg, she was still investigating, trying to figure out who this new Ghostface could be.

“Jason and Greg weren’t involved,” Gale mumbled. “They were just in the way.”

“Meaning whoever this asshole is,” you said. “Doesn’t just want us dead, they want to be the one to do it.” Gale looked at you, you could see her clench her jaw before she nodded.

If this Ghostface just wanted, you guys dead they could have just hung back and let Jason and Greg try to fulfill their plan. You doubted it would work, you didn’t think the boys would have taken down any of you. That wasn’t the point though, Jason and Greg weren’t a real threat, they were just in the way of what the real Ghostface was planning.

“I’m hungry,” Gale said. “Are you hungry?” she was already getting up as she looked at you. “I have takeout menus in the kitchen.” Before you could even open your mouth, Gale was already walking away.

You watched Gale disappear into the kitchen and grabbed your phone when you felt it vibrate. You furrowed your brow at Tara’s name popping up. “Hey,” you answered, a slight frown on your face. It was a little early for them to already be done, that was unless something went wrong. “What happened?”

“Ghostface is there!” Tara shouted.

“Wait, what?” You sat up straighter. “What are you talking about?” You were already moving, intending to find Gale. “What…” your words died in your mouth as you turned around, Gale was standing there, phone to her ear and tears in her eyes.

Gale’s eyes widening was your only queue. You turned around, raising your arm just as Ghostface brought his knife down. You kept him at bay, but he used his other arm, pushing the knife closer to you. In the process of trying not to get stabbed you dropped your phone, you just hoped Tara wasn’t freaking out too much.

“Hey!” Gale shouted right before smashing her phone into the side of Ghostface’s head.

Gale yanked you to the side when Ghostface stumbled away. You didn’t know the layout of the penthouse, so you were really relying on Gale. She dragged you to the kitchen, rounding the enormous kitchen island. Ghostface recovered and now stood on the opposite side of the island.

You were at a standstill, the only potential place to go was out onto the balcony. Ghostface could easily block your path to the front door, as soon as you went one way he’d know where to move. The only options were to wait for Ghostface to get impatient and move first or to split up. If you went one direction and Gale went the other Ghostface would have to choose who to go after. You weren’t willing to take that risk, the odds were never in your favor it seemed when pertaining to Ghostface.

Ghostface rocked back and forth, their patients clearly waning, though they didn’t seem anxious about it. Finally, Ghostface moved, opting to take the side that would block the front door. You spun around, giving Gale a gentle shove as the two of you made your way to the balcony.

Gale flung open the door, not hesitating to rush out into the cold. You were right behind her, but Ghostface was right behind you. He jumped on your back, slamming you into the doorframe before you could actually get outside. You yelled out in pain as you felt the knife pierce your shoulder, just barely missing your neck.

The two of you tumbled out the door together. Ghostface was still on top of you, straddling your waist as you managed to turn around. Your hands shot up, catching Ghostface’s hands just as he brought down his knife. You gritted your teeth, trying to hold him back as best as you could but he had the advantage.

You couldn’t help but notice how familiar this position was, the first time you were ever attacked pretty much the same thing happened. You had been alone in your apartment when Ghostface attacked, managing to get the jump on you. You had turned the tables on them in the kitchen, and you had been the one pushing the knife towards Ghostface’s chest though.

Another key difference from last year was that you weren’t alone. You were reminded of that when Gale seemingly came out of nowhere smashing a potted plant over Ghostface’s head. As soon as you felt his grip loosen, you shoved him to the side, instantly finding Gale’s hand as she yanked you to your feet.

The two of you rushed to the other door. If you could just make it there, then you could lock Ghostface out. On the balcony he’d have nowhere to go, he’d be trapped for once. Just as you were about to run through the door someone grabbed you by the collar of the shirt and yanked you back. You were pretty sure you heard Gale call out your name, but you were too busy catching yourself on the railing of the balcony.

You groaned when your back hit the railing, you looked up to see Ghostface slamming the door closed in Gale’s face. You didn’t even have time to push yourself off the railing before Ghostface was on you again. They leaned all their body weight on you, forcing you to lean over the railing as much as possible. You held them by their wrists, trying to keep the knife away from your eye.

You glanced back, your eyes widening at the city below you. You weren’t sure which would be worse, falling to your death or Ghostface gutting you. Your breath caught in your throat as the knife came down, inching closer while you were distracted. You did your best to wiggle your body to the side, using enough leverage to get Ghostface stumbling forward.

The two of you went back and forth fighting over the knife. Ghostface kept trying to stab you and you did everything to keep that from happening. You weren’t sure when the two of you started moving, you were so busy focused on trying not to go over the balcony that you weren’t ready when the two of you crashed through the door.

You rolled over with a groan, glass crunching beneath you. Gale didn’t waste time asking if you were okay before she yanked you up and began dragging you down a hall. You furrowed your brow, it seemed going out the front door would be the better play but when you looked back you saw Ghostface already on their feet, though a bit disoriented.

Gale dragged you into a room, quickly pushing you to the back and slamming the door closed just as Ghostface got to it. She clicked the lock and ran to her closet. It wasn’t the time, but you couldn’t help the way your eyebrows raised at the closet, it was more than half the length of the room. You and Tara were supposed to share a closet, which was still mainly filled with Tara’s stuff, while yours was all in the dresser, which Tara also took over half of.

“Are you okay?” Gale asked. She looked over from what she was doing but quickly dropped her attention back to trying to open a silver case. “Fuck!” She smacked the case when the lights lit up red, rejecting whatever code she punched in.

“Are you okay?” she asked again.

“I’m fine,” you said.

Gale punched in the code again and finally the lights lit up blue. She grabbed the gun and was already aiming it at the door even though it sounded like Ghostface stopped slamming his body into it. Gale didn’t wait though, she fired a few rounds into the door, if Ghostface was still on the other side he surely would have been hit. Your entire body went rigid when a phone ringing shattered the already uneasy silence.

Gale picked up the phone and by her irritated tone you knew it was Ghostface trying to mess with her again. She walked closer to the door, firing two more rounds into the door. You moved to follow her but let out a hiss as you winced. You looked down to see spots of blood staining your shirt. You flicked your eyes to Gale; her attention was fully on the door and talking to Ghostface. You gritted your teeth as you gently lifted your shirt, getting a good look for the first time at the bit of glass stuck in your side.

You rolled your shirt back down as gently as possible, then powered through the pain as you came up behind Gale. She flung open the bedroom door, her gun steady in her hands as she held it out, moving and checking every potential place Ghostface could be hiding before passing it. You made sure to stay close, you had nothing to defend yourself with and you were sick of Ghostface catching you off guard.

“Hold please,” Gale said. You furrowed your brow and watched as she clicked a few buttons on the phone and redialed the number Ghostface had used to call her.

The two of you whipped around when ringing started coming from the closet you had just passed. Gale set the phone down, allowing the ringing to just continue as she gently nudged you back and stepped in front of you. She fired a couple rounds into the hall closet and the two of you heard a thud.

Gale inched forward, still making sure to keep the gun raised. Just because you both heard what sounded like a body falling to the ground didn’t mean Ghostface was actually down. Ghostface had faked being down plenty of times, he could have also stashed some random person in there to use them as bait. You didn’t think that last one was likely, but it definitely wasn’t insane to think about.

Ghostface launched out of the closet before Gale could react, knocking the gun out of her hand and shoving his knife into her shoulder. He pushed her back until she hit the stone column in her living room. He gripped her by the hair and began slamming her head against the stone. You didn’t think as you charged forward, tackling him off her like as if you were a football player.

The two of you rolled around on the floor, both of you fighting for control of the knife. Ghostface reached up and clawed at the stab wound on your shoulder. Pain seemed to radiate through your entire body, forcing you to instantly release Ghostface. Ghostface tackled you, your head smacking back against the hard floor. Ghostface seemed to like bashing someone’s head because he gripped you by the hair and slammed your head into the floor until you were seeing spots.

You were sure you had a concussion, again. When the image above you began to clear you were left frozen as Ghostface hovered above you, holding his knife high. You wanted to move, you kept telling your body to move, to roll out of the way, to fight back, to do something, but you just lay there. Ghostface brought his knife down but before it could get to you Gale tackled him off you, sending the two of them crashing into the glass coffee table.

You rolled onto your stomach; through blurry vision you could see Gale get up first. You couldn’t help but let out a relieved breath. She approached Ghostface, stepping on his wrist before yanking the knife out of his hand. She turned the knife in her hand before kneeling down next to Ghostface.

“Wait,” you gasped.

You reached out with your hand, as if you had any of hope of reaching Gale. Before Gale could bring the knife down, finally ending Ghostface, his hand shot up, impaling her in the side with a shard of glass. Gale collapsed, managing to drop the knife as both her hands went to her side. Ghostface rolled over as if none of what had happened had phased him.

“Don’t take it personally,” Ghostface said, taking the knife back. “A legacy character was never going to make it out of this.” He stood above Gale as she continued to gasp for breath.

You managed to use your forearms to push yourself up and began crawling towards them. You didn’t know what you were going to do, you stood no chance against Ghostface, you were probably only going to just get yourself killed quicker. Ghostface looked over at you, tilting his head before giving it a shake in disappointment.

“Look on the bright side,” Ghostface said. “At least you don’t have to see your child die.” He looked back at you as you continued to crawl towards them. “But they do get to see me gut you in their last moments,” he chuckled, his laugh sounding more sinister through the voice changer.

Ghostface brought up his knife, finally ready to end things once in for all. You heard someone shout, Ghostface looked up from Gale and dove away as whoever yelled came running into the room. The person grabbed the forgotten about gun on the floor and instantly began firing as Ghostface ran through the penthouse.

“Oh my god,” someone said, dropping down next to you.

You blinked several times and could finally make out Tara’s face in front of you. You let out a relieved breath that turned more into a sob. “I’m fine,” you tried, Gale was in worse shape than you, she should be the priority.

“Shut up,” Tara snapped, but she cradled your head as gently as possible and helped ease you back until you were laying on the ground again. “Just, stay awake,” she ran her hands through your hair.

Your eyes drifted past Tara to Gale. Sam was on her knees, trying to stop the bleeding. “G-Gale,” you rasped out. You even attempted to reach out with your hand again.

“Focus on me,” Tara guided your chin until you were staring up at her again. “Just focus on me.” You weren’t sure if it was your concussion or what, it was hard to tell, everything was still slightly fuzzy, but it looked like Tara had been crying.

You did as Tara asked, you stayed still and focused on only her. Even as the medics came in, you focused only on Tara. Even as you saw them loading Gale onto the backboard out of your peripheral you only focused on Tara. You never lost consciousness as the medics checked you out, you figured that was a good sign.

Taglist: @mamas-evil-hag @thatshyboy1998 @btay3115 @idontliketoread2137 @nwestra

@honorarysimp @canyonyodeler @chxrryxcx @aceofspades190 @worstendingever

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[unseenbuthere]

Almost, Maybe, Us

Solivan Brugmansia x Fem! Reader

Content Warning(CW): Mild language & teasing banter, Romantic tension & physical affection, Light suggestiveness, Fluff, slight slow burn (not really)

Summary:

After weeks of teasing and unspoken tension, Solivan finally takes MC on a proper first date. Over dinner at a cozy restaurant, their usual banter gives way to something softer—confessions, quiet moments, and the undeniable pull between them. When Solivan walks MC home, the teasing continues, but beneath it lingers something real. A challenge, an invitation. And when MC finally closes the distance, meeting him in a slow, heated kiss, it's clear—this was never just a maybe.

Word Count: 1,500–1,700 words

Reading Time: Slow readers: (8–10 minutes)

Fast readers: (5–6 minutes)

Almost, Maybe, Us

It’s already January, and somehow, Solivan is still here.

MC doesn’t know when it started. The late-night arcade runs. The too-long glances. The way he always manages to be in the same place, the same time, with the same easy smirk like he planned it all along. Maybe he did. Maybe that’s just how he is.

They’re at a café today, tucked into the corner near the window where condensation clings to the glass, blurring the world outside. The city looks cold, but in here, it’s warm, the scent of espresso and cinnamon thick in the air.

MC stirs their drink absently, watching Solivan across the table. He’s scrolling through his phone, one hand curled around his mug, steam rising in soft tendrils. He hasn’t looked up in a while.

Which is fine. Totally fine.

MC shouldn’t care.

"You’re quiet today."

MC blinks, jolted out of their thoughts. Solivan’s looking at them now, head tilted, eyes sharp but amused. Like he knows something MC doesn’t.

"Not that you talk much anyway," he adds, lips twitching.

MC scoffs, rolling their eyes. "I talk plenty. You just don’t listen."

"Mmm." He hums, noncommittal, but his smirk deepens, and suddenly, MC is very aware of the way his fingers tap lightly against his mug, the way his gaze lingers just a beat too long.

It’s annoying. It’s nothing.

It’s everything.

They’ve been teetering on the edge of something for weeks now, maybe months. Solivan is always there, slipping into their space with effortless ease, a constant presence that never feels unwelcome but always feels deliberate.

And MC—MC doesn’t know what to do with that.

"You gonna stare at me all day, or did you have something to say?" Solivan teases, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on the table.

MC feels heat creep up their neck and immediately looks away, focusing on the window. The blurred outline of the streetlights, the soft swirl of frost against the glass.

"You’re deflecting," Solivan says, and MC can hear the grin in his voice.

"I’m ignoring you," MC corrects.

"Sure." He takes a slow sip of his drink, watching them over the rim. "But you’re bad at it."

It’s so obnoxious, the way he always seems so sure of himself. But maybe what’s worse is that he’s not wrong.

MC exhales, fingers tightening around their cup. "Why are you still here?"

Solivan doesn’t answer right away. He tilts his head slightly, as if considering, then sets his mug down with a soft clink.

"You make it sound like I should’ve left."

"Most people would have."

"I’m not most people."

MC looks at him then. Really looks at him. The easy confidence in his posture, the way his fingers drum lightly against the table, the flicker of something unreadable in his gaze.

Solivan holds their stare, unblinking. Waiting.

And suddenly, the weight of it all—the months of lingering glances, the teasing, the way he never leaves—feels unbearably heavy.

MC swallows. "So why are you still here?"

Solivan leans back, stretching lazily, like the question doesn’t shake something deep beneath the surface.

"Dunno," he muses, but the smirk that follows is slow, deliberate. "Maybe I like watching you pretend you don’t like me."

MC’s heart stops.

And then, like the absolute menace he is, Solivan just grins, tilts his head, and adds—

"Almost as much as I like knowing you’ll eventually give in."

The worst part?

MC isn’t even sure he’s wrong.

---

MC swears they aren’t blushing.

They refuse to be blushing.

And yet, the warmth creeping up their neck betrays them, sinking into their skin like an awful, humiliating confession. Solivan sees it. Of course he does. His smirk deepens, sharp and knowing, like he’s just won a game MC didn’t realize they were playing.

MC huffs, grabbing their drink just to have something to do with their hands. "You’re insufferable."

Solivan hums, as if pleased by the comment. "You say that like it’s news."

"No, I say it like I’m regretting every life choice that led me to sitting here with you."

"Mm." He taps his fingers against the table, considering. "And yet, here we are."

God, he’s the worst.

MC doesn’t reply, choosing instead to take a slow sip of their drink and avoid his gaze entirely. Outside, the city hums with early evening traffic, headlights flashing through the frost-laced windows. Inside, the café is still warm, still soft-lit, the low murmur of other patrons blending into a steady backdrop of white noise.

They should leave.

They should.

And yet—

"You’re thinking too hard."

MC startles slightly as Solivan’s voice pulls them back. He’s still watching them, but something’s changed—his smirk is softer now, his expression less teasing, more thoughtful.

MC sets their cup down carefully. "That’s a dangerous assumption."

"Not really," he says, tilting his head. "I just know you."

The words are simple. Casual.

They shouldn’t make MC’s stomach twist the way they do.

Solivan exhales, stretching again before shifting in his seat, propping an elbow on the table. "Tell me what’s got you all moody, and I promise I won’t laugh."

MC narrows their eyes. "You’ll absolutely laugh."

"Only if it’s funny."

"Solivan."

He grins, unrepentant. "Fine, fine. I’ll be serious. Go ahead. Floor’s yours."

MC hesitates, fingers ghosting over the edge of their mug.

There’s a thousand things they could say. A thousand things they want to say. But they don’t know how to put any of them into words.

Because the truth is, they don’t understand why he’s still here. Why he keeps showing up. Why he teases and lingers and looks at them like that, like there’s something unspoken between them and he’s just waiting for them to catch up.

And maybe—maybe they’re afraid to ask.

Because what if the answer isn’t what they want?

MC exhales slowly, gaze dropping to the table. "It’s just… I don’t get you."

Solivan raises a brow. "Mm. Not the first time I’ve heard that."

"I’m serious."

"So am I."

MC groans, dragging a hand down their face. "God, you are so annoying."

"And yet, here we are," he repeats, voice smooth, teasing, just shy of fond.

MC lets their hand fall away, eyes narrowing. "Do you ever stop?"

Solivan pretends to consider, then shrugs. "Not when it’s fun."

"Unbelievable."

MC moves to stand, exasperation outweighing their patience, but before they can push their chair back, Solivan shifts, reaching out—

His fingers brush lightly over MC’s wrist, warm and fleeting, barely there but enough.

MC freezes.

And when they look up, Solivan’s expression has changed again.

The teasing edge is still there, but there’s something else now, something quieter, something… expectant.

He doesn’t say anything.

Doesn’t have to.

The moment stretches between them, fragile and weighty all at once.

MC could pull away.

They should.

But they don’t.

And Solivan, the absolute bastard, just smiles.

Like he already knows how this ends.

MC should pull away.

That would be the smart thing, the reasonable thing.

Instead, they stay frozen, caught between instinct and something softer, something dangerous. Solivan’s fingers rest lightly against their wrist, his touch barely there, but it roots them, keeps them tethered to this moment, to him.

And then, slow and deliberate, he moves his thumb in a small circle against their skin.

It’s ridiculous how something so simple can send a spark down MC’s spine, a quiet kind of warmth that has nothing to do with the café’s heater and everything to do with him.

Solivan watches them, expression unreadable but intent, like he’s waiting for something. A reaction. A push. A pull.

MC exhales, voice coming out quieter than they meant. "What are you doing?"

"What do you think?" he murmurs.

MC swallows. His grip is loose enough that they could pull away, walk out, pretend this moment never happened. But their pulse betrays them, a slow, steady drum against the warmth of his touch.

They aren’t running.

And Solivan notices.

Of course he does.

His smirk tilts just a little, edges softer now, something knowing in his gaze. His fingers shift, moving from their wrist to their palm, tracing absentminded patterns, like he’s testing how much he can get away with.

MC should tell him to stop.

Instead, they say, "You really don’t give up, do you?"

"Not when I want something."

His voice is low, amusement curling around the edges, but there’s something else beneath it, something heavier. MC feels it settle in their chest, a weight that’s been there for months, unspoken but felt.

And now—now it’s real.

MC doesn’t realize they’ve been holding their breath until Solivan’s fingers tighten, grounding them.

"Tell me to stop."

It’s not a challenge. Not a taunt. Just a quiet offering, the final chance to back out before they step over a line they can’t come back from.

MC exhales slowly, heart thrumming against their ribs.

"I don’t want you to."

The shift is immediate.

Solivan’s smirk melts into something else, something warmer, surer. He leans in slightly, just enough to erase whatever space was left between them, and MC suddenly realizes they’re gripping his hand just as much as he’s gripping theirs.

Then—

"Finally."

His voice is barely a murmur before he moves.

It’s not rushed, not eager, just easy, like this was always the next step, like they’ve done this a hundred times before. The press of his lips is warm, steady, a quiet confirmation of something neither of them had been brave enough to say out loud until now.

MC feels themselves exhale into it, something inside them loosening.

And when they pull back, just slightly, just enough to catch their breath, Solivan grins, thumb brushing against their palm like he knew this was inevitable.

"Took you long enough."

MC rolls their eyes, but they don’t let go.

They don’t want to.

And Solivan?

He never even tries.

---

Solivan doesn’t let go.

Not even when the café door chimes, signaling someone coming in, not even when MC shifts slightly, their fingers twitching in his grip like they’re considering pulling away. He just holds steady, thumb pressing against their palm, grounding, there.

MC lets out a slow breath, blinking at him. "You’re not letting go, are you?"

Solivan grins. "Nope."

It’s ridiculous. It’s so ridiculous, but MC doesn’t pull away.

And that’s how they end up leaving the café together, hands still linked like something out of a stupid rom-com, stepping into the biting January cold with the taste of coffee still lingering on their tongues.

The sun’s starting to set, painting the sky in streaks of orange and deep blue, but the wind nips at their faces, a sharp reminder that it’s still winter, no matter how warm MC feels.

Solivan’s hand is warm too.

"So," he drawls, giving their fingers a slight squeeze as they walk. "Are we gonna talk about it?"

MC huffs, breath fogging in the cold air. "Talk about what?"

Solivan raises a brow. "Don’t play dumb. It doesn’t suit you."

MC kicks at a loose bit of ice on the sidewalk, watching it skitter ahead. "I don’t know. Maybe I want to be mysterious."

"Mysterious, huh?" His voice is teasing, but there’s a certain kind of patience in the way he says it, like he’s giving them time.

Which is annoying.

Because now MC has to say something.

They sigh, glancing at him. He’s watching them with that same easy confidence, like he knew this was coming, like he knew they’d end up here, walking side by side, fingers laced together like it’s nothing.

But it is something.

MC exhales. "I don’t know what you want me to say."

"Start with the truth."

MC bites the inside of their cheek. It’s so stupid that he’s making them say it, that he’s waiting for them to say it. But fine. Fine.

"I like you, okay?"

The words slip out in a rush, like they’ve been waiting to be spoken, like they needed to be spoken.

Solivan’s smirk doesn’t falter. If anything, it softens, shifts into something just a little smug, but mostly—warm.

"I know."

MC glares. "Then why’d you make me say it?"

"Because you needed to."

MC groans. "You’re insufferable."

"And yet," he says, grinning, "you like me anyway."

MC groans louder.

Solivan just laughs, swinging their hands slightly as they keep walking. "Guess that means I should take you on a real date, huh?"

MC blinks. "Wait, this wasn’t a date?"

"Nah." He smirks. "I can do better than a lukewarm coffee and existential staring out a window."

MC snorts, shaking their head. "God, I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?"

Solivan squeezes their fingers again, that same steady warmth still there.

"Nope."

And the worst part?

MC believes him.

---

MC isn’t nervous.

They refuse to be nervous.

And yet, as they stand outside the restaurant Solivan picked—a cozy, hole-in-the-wall place tucked between a bookstore and a record shop—their fingers twitch at their sides, resisting the urge to check their phone for the millionth time.

"You know, if you hesitate any longer, they might think you’re casing the place."

MC jolts, whipping around to find Solivan standing behind them, hands stuffed in his coat pockets, head tilted with that look—amused, knowing, like he expected this.

MC scowls. "How long have you been standing there?"

"Long enough to enjoy the show."

MC groans, dragging a hand down their face. "You’re the worst."

"And yet," he drawls, stepping closer, "you’re still here."

MC doesn’t have a comeback for that. Mostly because he’s right. Again.

Before they can overthink it, Solivan nods toward the door. "C’mon, before you talk yourself out of it."

MC huffs but follows, letting him hold the door open as they step inside. The restaurant is warm, the air thick with the scent of sizzling meat and spices. The hum of quiet conversations and clinking dishes fills the space, intimate but comfortable.

It’s… nice.

And, weirdly, so is this.

Solivan gestures to a booth in the back, letting MC slide in first before sitting across from them. The moment he’s settled, he leans forward, chin resting on his hand, watching them with that lazy smirk.

"So, tell me, what’s your biggest fear?"

MC blinks. "Are you serious?"

"Dead serious. First date icebreaker. Let’s go."

MC squints at him. "You’re supposed to ask something normal, like, I don’t know, favorite movies or worst high school memories."

"Boring." He waves a hand. "I wanna know the real you. What keeps you up at night?"

"You, apparently."

Solivan snorts. "Flattered."

MC sighs, picking up the menu just to have something to do with their hands. "Fine. Dying alone, I guess."

Solivan hums, considering. "Bleak, but valid."

"And yours?"

"Mmm… probably accidentally sending a text meant for someone else and ruining my life in under five seconds."

MC stares. "That’s it? That’s your biggest fear?"

"Do you know how much damage a single misfired text can do?" Solivan leans in. "One wrong message and boom—reputation destroyed. Embarrassment permanent. Can’t come back from that."

MC shakes their head, trying not to laugh. "That’s ridiculous."

"Oh? You’ve never sent a risky text and immediately wanted to evaporate?"

MC opens their mouth, then closes it.

Solivan grins. "Thought so."

Before MC can argue, the waiter arrives to take their orders. They fall into easy conversation after that—teasing, bickering, slipping into the same comfortable rhythm they’ve always had, except now there’s something more.

Something in the way Solivan’s foot nudges against theirs under the table.

Something in the way MC catches him looking at them when he thinks they won’t notice.

Something in the way the check comes, and before MC can even think about grabbing it, Solivan slides his card onto the tray, quick, smooth, like it was never a question.

MC raises a brow. "So that’s how it is?"

"Obviously," he says, sliding out of the booth. "I’m trying to woo you."

MC snorts, standing. "God, don’t say woo."

Solivan grins, nudging them toward the exit. "What, too old-fashioned? Would you prefer I say rizz?"

MC groans. "You are so embarrassing."

"And yet—"

"Shut up."

Solivan just laughs, but it’s warm, light, settling into the space between them like something easy.

Outside, the city hums with the quiet lull of winter, streetlights flickering to life as they start walking, hands tucked into their pockets, shoulders brushing now and then.

For a while, neither of them speak.

Then, soft—

"This was nice," MC admits.

Solivan glances at them. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He hums, thoughtful, then—"Guess that means we should do it again."

MC exhales a quiet laugh. "Guess so."

Solivan bumps their shoulder lightly, smirk tilting just a little softer.

"Good."

And maybe, just maybe—

MC doesn’t mind the idea of more.

---

The walk back is easy.

Their hands brush more than once, neither of them mentioning it. The cold nips at their cheeks, but the warmth between them lingers, settled in the spaces where words aren’t needed.

Solivan walks MC to their door like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he’s been doing this forever, like he plans to keep doing it.

"So," he drawls, leaning against the doorframe. "Rate my first date skills. Be honest, but not too honest—I am fragile."

MC scoffs. "Please. If you were fragile, you wouldn’t be standing here fishing for compliments."

"Caught me," he says, shameless.

MC pretends to consider. "Solid seven out of ten."

Solivan gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. "A seven? I paid for your food and everything."

"Yeah, but you also said ‘rizz’ unironically, so."

"Wow." He shakes his head. "Harsh critic."

MC bites back a grin. "You’ll survive."

Solivan hums, then tilts his head slightly. He’s close, not quite crowding, but enough that MC can feel the warmth radiating off him, enough that they’re suddenly aware of how much they don’t mind.

His gaze flickers, down to their mouth, back to their eyes.

"You know," he says, voice quieter now, "I’d have aimed for a ten if I thought I’d get a reward."

MC exhales a laugh, rolling their eyes. "So transparent."

"You love it."

And the worst part?

They do.

MC shakes their head, but their fingers twitch at their sides, resisting the urge to grab the collar of his coat and pull.

Solivan notices. Of course he does.

He lifts a hand, slow, deliberate, brushing his fingers lightly along their jaw, barely there but enough to make MC’s breath hitch.

"Tell me to stop," he murmurs.

He always does this. Always gives them an out.

MC doesn’t take it.

Instead, they lean in.

That’s all it takes.

Solivan meets them halfway, closing the distance with a kiss that starts slow, measured, a quiet test—until MC presses back, fingers curling in the fabric of his coat, and then it shifts.

He makes a quiet sound, something pleased, something warm, tilting his head to deepen the kiss. His hand slides down, settling at their waist, not pulling, just holding.

And god, it’s good.

It’s dizzying, the way he moves, the way he tastes, like coffee and something sweet he must’ve swiped off their plate when they weren’t looking.

MC sighs into it, letting themselves melt a little, just enough to feel the press of his grin against their lips, smug and so him.

"Finally," he murmurs when they pull back for air, voice rougher, breath warm against their skin.

MC huffs. "You keep saying that."

"Because it keeps being true."

They roll their eyes but don’t let go. Neither does he.

For a moment, they just stand there, the cold forgotten, the night stretching ahead of them, quiet and waiting.

Then—

"So," Solivan murmurs, smirking, "does this bump me up to at least an eight?"

MC groans. "Oh my god, shut up."

Solivan just laughs and kisses them again.

----

♡♡♡

[htaesan]

　ᅠ ✿　ᅠ WHERE NO ONE KNOWS ME 　　────　ᅠ ( lee heeseung )

𝓹recis ⠀ : ⠀after a long day of relentless fame, you find yourself in the comfort of a small cosy coffee shop, only to be met with a barista who treats you like any other person. in his quiet kindness, you find something worth living for again𑁋a place to be unknown, and maybe the start of something more.

　　　ᅠ 이희승 ⠀⠀◜◡◝ ⠀⠀𝒇 reader ⠀wc 1.4k ⠀ genre fluff meet cute barista au non idol au ⠀ contains mentions of food ⠀ tagging @a-dream-bookmark ,@/k-labels , @k-nets , @k-films , @sgz-net

　　　ᅠ note ᅠ from ᅠ 𝐋𝐈𝐋𝐈 ! ᅠ i.. have no idea how i managed to pull this off amidst having like 10 reports to write but i pulled through !! happy birthday @flwrstqr, this is for you !

　　　ᅠ ＞︿ 　　please leave feedbacks 　　& 　　reblog

THE city lights blur around you as you step out of the car, pulling your mask over your face. You sigh, taking in the view around you—everyone is busy with their own lives. Some are walking, hand in hand with their partner; some are on the phone, talking to someone on the other side with no care in the world; and some are enjoying a stroll through the city’s nightlife. Ordinary, simple, tranquil. 

And that is all you want. 

Your schedule has been busy these past few months—brand deals rushing in like a massive flood, photo shoots every other day, interviews here and there, paparazzi and flashing cameras everywhere you go, people recognising you and taking videos of you anywhere. You didn’t expect it to turn out like this. You didn’t expect that your debut album, filled with songs which lyrics you heartfully wrote and melodies you intricately built, would blow up almost instantly over the course of three weeks. And the hype hasn’t died down, even after six months. It just got bigger and bigger. 

It’s not like you don’t like it—your fame is what you rightfully deserve after all the sleepless nights working to make sure your debut is as perfect as possible. But now, you’re tired, and it’s like your life isn’t yours anymore. 

You take a deep breath, eyes glued to the café in front of you. It looks cosy, tucked into one of the only quiet streets of the city. The warm glow radiating from its windows pulled your interest. You walk towards its entrance, realising that this place is near your apartment, but you’ve never had the time to visit. Not until now. 

You push the café door open, the warm air bursting against your face. You scan the small space—there’s a few customers, but so far, none of them are paying attention to you.

You gulp. You can’t let your guard down just yet. 

You approach the register, lowering your cap down as you instinctively prepare to lower your voice—an attempt to mask your well-known identity, even though the entire country already knows who you are just from one look at your eyes. 

From the other side of the counter, the barista is cleaning a mug. He looks a little too stylish—perhaps a little too good looking to be working in such a tranquil place. He perks up at your presence, and you immediately look at the name tag pinned against his apron. 

Heeseung. 

“Welcome,” he says, his smile polite and his voice calm. You narrow your eyes at the black-haired man in front of you. 

He didn’t let out any gasp of recognition, and there wasn’t any frantic energy radiating out of him. 

You pause. 

This is new. This is weird. 

“What would you like to order?” he asks, fingers ready to key in your order into the iPad in his hand. 

You clear your throat, ordering a drink and a dessert for yourself, your voice steady but alarmingly cautious. 

“A caramel latte and a pavlova, please.”

“Alright. Name?”

The world goes silent for a minute. You look around rather anxiously. For a moment, you think everyone’s listening. 

“Elle,” you lie. 

You watch as Heeseung raises a brow at the way you’re eyeing him, but he doesn’t do anything about it. He keys in whatever you’ve told him, then he nods at you before turning to make your order. 

You linger at the counter for quite a while before retreating to a table at the corner of the café, away from everyone else. 

It’s weird. Why is he treating you like any other person here? Doesn’t he know who you are?

You sink into your chair, letting the cushions embrace you. You lean against it, letting the exhaustion settle in. The day’s events rush to your head, and it makes you feel like you’re spinning. 

And it makes you question Heeseung too. 

Every second you’re outside, you have to keep your guard up, in case of anything. You can’t really do what you like, afraid that it’d make you face ridicule. You have to make sure you’re always donned up, and you have to make sure you’re following all of the other ridiculous rules society sets upon you—you never know when people are watching. 

But why isn’t Heeseung treating you like everyone else does? Why doesn’t he treat you like you’re the most perfect person on earth? Why isn’t he analysing your every move, waiting for some kind of mistake that he could bring you down with?

“Excuse me,” Heeseung’s voice rings through your ears, and as you eyes flutter open, you don’t realise you’ve been dozing off. He gives you a polite smile, a tray with your drink and your dessert in hand. 

“Here’s your order, Elle,” he says, setting down the mug and plate on the table. “Enjoy.” 

You sit there, frozen as you don’t know what to do.

Then, as he’s about to turn to leave, the question that’s been lingering around in your head leaves your mouth without you realising. “Do you know who I am?”

Heeseung pauses. “Yeah.”

“Who am I, then?” you ask, and albeit the awkwardness, you meet his eyes.

“You’re Y/N,” he replies, his voice quieter this time. 

Your chest tightens. 

“Then… why aren’t you acting like everyone else?”

Heeseung gives you a small smile, and you feel goosebumps jolting through your body. “Because you’re you. You’re a celebrity, you’re a talented singer, and you’re beautiful—I admit that. But I don’t see why I have to make you uncomfortable over those facts.”

Your eyes widen, and something begins to stir in your chest. 

When you don’t reply, Heeseung’s smile shifts from something more genuine back to his polite, customer-service smile. He turns and walks away, leaving you watching him in a complete daze. 

Your heart is hammering against your chest, more violently than you expected it to. 

When was the last time someone ever saw you as just a person, not as a celebrity?  

You take a glance at Heeseung, who’s back to his work behind the counter. Suddenly, you notice everything—the way his sleeves are rolled up at just the perfect angle, the way his brows furrow when he’s focused on making another drink, and the way his black hair falls on his forehead, and the way he looks just… perfect. Cute, even. 

You remember his small smile, and the way it tingles you in a way you’ve never felt before.

Your fingers tighten around the warm mug. 

For some reason, this fuzzy feeling that’s filling up your heart feels rare. 

You don’t even realise you’ve finished your latte, and that your pavlova is completely devoured. You’re too lost in thought to even realise how much time you’ve spent in the cosy little café.

Quickly, you take your things and pull your mask up to your nose. For some reason, you hesitate as you approach the counter. 

But then, some kind of nervous energy rushes through you, and you quickly scribble a note on the napkin you’re holding. 

Thanks for your kindness. It made my day. 

You hand Heeseung the money, slipping the note with it. 

Heeseung immediately notices the napkin. He looks down, his eyes scanning the words.

When he looks back up, your eyes meet, and you give him a small eye smile. “See you next time,” you say softly. 

And for the first time in a long while, you actually mean it. 

Heeseung watches you walk out the door of his café, the small bell hanging on top of it chiming as the door closes. He leans against the counter, fingers tracing the edge of the folded napkin. Once you’re out of his sight, and the café settles back into its usual rhythm, his focus turns to the note. He unfolds the napkin, his eyes scan the neat handwriting. He chuckles—there’s something just adorable about it.

Thank you for your kindness. 

He smiles. 

It made my day. 

The quiet smile on Heeseung’s lips grows larger. His mind replays the memory of you: how you looked so at peace, sipping the hour away at the corner of the café that he worked hard to establish. He remembers looking at you, and in the midst of admiring how pretty you actually are, he realises that you’re different from what the media made you out to be. Quieter, maybe. Softer. More beautiful, definitely. Less of the dazzling, perfect, and untouchable figure he sees on the billboard everywhere he goes. Instead, you’re more… human. 

His gaze flickers to the door, where you stood a few moments ago. 

Would you come again?

He dearly hopes so. 

― © htaesan, 2025.

⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀want more like this? check out the 𝐂𝐀𝐓𝐀𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄

[kquil]

DIVORCING ORION BLACK | CHAPTER TEN

10 : HOLIDAY

CHPT. SUM. : The winter holidays start with a stiff Yule soiree but you're determined to give the boys a far more memorable holiday than that.

LENGTH : 12k

TAGS : domestic fluff ; holiday/festive vibes ; meeting the potter family ; orion being a stickler for 'traditions' ; Kreacher is part of the family ; holiday surprises for the boys! ; reader is the best mother for sirius and regulus!

← PREV. 9 : REPUTATION

23rd December 1971 | 12 Grimmauld Place 

The crackling fire in your home office does little to warm the icy tension filling the space between you and Orion, whose face is a chilling mask of stoic disapproval. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest as he glares at you with a thinly veiled mix of hatred and scepticism before moving his stare to the offending letter you clutch in one hand, the one you intend to send to the Lestranges. 

Orion had wondered about your evening activities and wandered into your study late in the evening. At your desk, he found you urgently writing as if you were against a ticking deadline. He could tell that you knew he was in your space but felt it safe to step further in when you didn’t verbally protest his presence. What were you writing and who you were sending so many letters to so late in the evening? As he stepped up to your desk, he glimpsed the familiar names and addresses on the back of the envelopes and gave an approving hum.

“You don’t need to worry about accepting their invitations; I have already sent them letters welcoming their requests for our family’s attendance at Yule celebrations this holiday.” Orion looked on in wonder when you continued writing, steadily piling up the letters in batches for your owl to deliver. His steel-grey eyes narrowed when you silently tied the batch of letters together and magicked the window open for your owl to swiftly deliver its hefty package. With a click of his tongue, a clear expression of distrust from your dismissal, Orion slams his hand on the table to leer at you, “I said there’s no need. Didn’t you hear me?”

“I heard you, Orion.” your unfazed demeanour irks him more than he’d care to admit. 

“Then why are you continuing to write?” He looks down to read the contents of the letter you were currently writing to the Lestranges, focusing intently on trying to read your cursive upside down. 

‘…sadly we would need to decline your invitation to dinner on the…’

“—WHAT ABSURDITY IS THIS?!” Orion attempts to snag the letter from your grasp but you’re faster and hurry to seal away the letter of rejection in an envelope, swiftly addressing it on the back. He shouts your name, calling for your attention, for an answer, and you silently huff at his volume; he’ll end up disturbing the boys at this rate. With this man-child in the house, how can you possibly anticipate any peace to occur? 

Now you are having a stand-off in the middle of your home office, husband and wife scowling at each other with equal distaste, both stubborn about their stance. “This isn’t absurd, Orion! Why would our choice—”

“It’s your selfish choice!”

“Yes, you’re right; it is a selfish choice, but it’s with good intentions! We have a right to reject their invitations in favour of celebrating with our own family.” Orion visibly bristles at your reasoning, like a raptorial cat spotting its prey and immediately preparing to pounce. 

“ABSURD AND SELFISH! WHAT REASON DO WE HAVE TO REJECT THEIR INVITATIONS?!”

The parchment feels heavy in your hands, carrying the weight of your defiance, but you stand strong by it. “…Orion,” you begin after taking a slow breath, voice steady but pleading — you need to be the calm one or else this argument will spiral dangerously. And you don’t want either of the boys to hear upstairs; evenings like this should be spent winding down for bed. “I want this Yule to be just us. No dinners, no soirees, no endless gatherings. Just our family. For the boys.” Orion doesn’t show any sign of understanding, but you press forward. You find that every interaction has become a latent test, putting your husband on trial to assess his fitfulness as a father. However, every exchange has been marked by increasingly lamentable results, such that you feel stupid for believing he may have some redeeming qualities as a father. “Regulus will be leaving to attend Hogwarts next year, and then it’ll just be… us. Let us have this one Yule to focus on each other and be together as a family, please. It’s a precious time we must commemorate appropriately.”

Orion’s jaw tightens, his dark eyes narrowing. “It is our duty to maintain appearances. We cannot simply abandon tradition because you’ve decided to indulge in some sentimental whim!” 

Your temper isn’t usually quick to rise, but you feel it spike exponentially within you from his bitter words. This was worth taking offence over. How dare he demean the precious time you intend to spend with your loved ones — namely only Sirius and Regulus. He has no pride as a father or a husband. With another slow breath, you try to tame your racing heart.

“The only tradition we must abide by is attendance at the Yule soiree with the slew of other wizarding families,” you counter, your voice rising slightly despite your attempt to hold down your tongue. “Every other dinner, every other event—they’re not necessities, Orion. They’re only frivolous distractions. And I won’t have my boys grow up thinking that their worth is measured by how many pureblood gatherings they attend.”

“Sirius is already a poor example of an heir. The first in centuries to be sorted into Gryffindor—”

“Orion, please!”

“—he must spend time with the right sort!”

“He is with the right sort! He has friends who care about him in Gryffindor.”

“That’s not worth anything!” 

“Oh! Get over yourself, Orion!” your voice gets louder and louder, swept up by the intense emotions making the air in the room vibrate tensely. “Those dinners and gatherings aren’t a necessity! Sirius will grow up to be a fine man without them! Trust in yourself as his father!” you try to play with his compassion as a parent but it’s no use.

“It is a necessity because I say it is!” Orion snaps, his voice booming through the room. “No further arguments, wife. This is final.”

You bristle at his curt command, your temper flaring once more, mirroring Orion’s climbing wrath. “That’s not how the world works, Orion. How childish! The boys and I will be spending Yule together. If you’re so desperate to attend every last gathering, you may do so by your lonesome!” You step to the open window and call for another owl to take and deliver the Lestrange’s letter.

Orion’s face darkens, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He doesn’t dare lash out as he can sense that his magic is already making the walls and furniture shake around the room — he also gathers that you would have added to the telekinetic quaking as well. This house was a precious property, a standing legacy of their ancient and most noble house. No argument was worth its potential collapse. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

“I am not the ridiculous one!” You shoot back, your voice as sharp and piercing as your eyes. Once again, Orion cannot recognise you, the occurrence of which has been more often as of recently that he’s lost count long before. Where had his wife disappeared to? This wasn’t the woman he married… “It is you who is being ridiculous! Why can’t you see that this is important? For them, for us as a family?”

Orion takes a step closer, his expression softening slightly but not from concern. Looking into his eyes, you see the judgement and suspicion and desperately move to bite down your tongue. The Black family patriarch’s tone is firm, strong and demanding. “Why have you changed so drastically, wife? This is unlike you…” Never had the two of you been so disparate in mind and intentions, it was unusual to have such a quarrel; usually, Orion can trust in his wife and lady to manage the house elf and their sons while he focuses on their reputation and his job. However, now, it was difficult to trust you with managing anything in the Black family home without his supervision; your ambitions have changed far too drastically, and even the house elf has changed— the filthy thing. There wasn’t a clear answer to this dilemma either, not one that he could attempt to foresee and the mental instability that thought brings was beyond frustrating.  

You swallow hard and carefully consider the weight of his words pressing down on your chest. It was suffocating being put on the spot like this; your mind is racing, but you’re desperate not to appear flustered beyond convention. “…I simply want to be a good mother to my children, both of which will soon leave the nest together. I want to treasure as much of the little time we have left with each other.” your confession comes out quietly, your voice trembling with sincere emotions from the thought. As much as you wanted to be a mother in your past life, experiences like this are ineluctable to all parents; you just didn’t believe it could affect you to such a profound degree. You suppose it’s one of those things in life that you can’t expect to be familiar with until you’ve undergone it firsthand.  

“You are a good mother,” Orion replies, his tone almost dismissive as if the matter can be settled with his singular comment of reassurance.

The words sting more than you care to admit, however. You know what his perception is of how a home should be run, and you know of his closed perspective on what it means to be a ‘good mother’—obedient, dutiful, upholding the family name at all costs, even if it’s at the detriment of a long-term relationship with your children. The kind of mother who raises sons to be carbon copies of their father, even if that father has more shameful qualities than good.  But that is not the kind of mother you want to be, not for your darling boys, not ever. Overcoming that sadness and the thoughts of what Sirius and Regulus had to endure before you took over Walburga, you quickly fill up with rage and disgust. It’s repulsive how misinformed and disparaging his views are towards parenting —he should be ashamed of himself.  

“I have not been a good mother,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. This might be a good time to provide a fair reason to explain the sudden and drastic changes in your behaviour and views. Orion will have no choice but to accept something so profoundly simple that it becomes a hard pill to swallow. “And I can admit that. But I’m doing my best to change, for my boys. Please, Orion. I know you can be a good father to the children too. It’s what they deserve.”

Orion lets out a humourless and brief laugh — a mockery of your new ideations. His anger flares once again, his patience worn thin after you’ve blatantly offended his attitude and parenting. “No. What they deserve is a strict education and upbringing. It’s all done to honour our family’s name. We are the most ancient and noble house, house Black! Where is your pride?” he leers down at you, unconvinced and judgemental.

“Where is your shame?” you counter far too quickly to stop yourself. 

“…you will have to go alone with them, then,” he says coldly, turning away from you. “I will uphold our name without your sorry, audacious existence to humiliate me.”

Your spine straightens as your resolve hardens; you don’t care much for his offending words rather, you are relieved. At least he didn’t demand the boys accompany him anyway, instead of you. “Fine then,” you say firmly, clearly unaffected by his words, which makes him want to lash out in anger once again. However, you were already turning on your heel and striding out of the room before he could attempt another heated exchange, your sharp footfalls echoing against the floor. As you reach the hallway, closing the door behind you, you pause and glance up at the bannister above, managing to catch two blurred figures ducking out of sight. 

“Come out, you two,” you call softly, not wanting to appear confrontational or irate and smile to help colour your words warmly. “I know you’ve been listening.”

After a moment of silence, there’s a shuffling of feet as Sirius and Regulus slowly come into view, peering down at you from their perch in the upper hallway. They share the same sheepish expression. You sigh and move to meet them upstairs, gesturing that they go ahead of you, “Into Sirius’ room, we need to talk.”

The boys follow your words obediently, their heads bowed as they hurry through the door with Sirius’ name hanging at the front. Once inside your eldest’s room, you close the door gently and turn to face them where they’ve settled atop Sirius’ bed. They can see the frustration and fatigue on your face and they wonder if it would have been better if they didn’t know the reason behind it. Nevertheless, they come to one conclusion and it's that they don’t like seeing you in such a state. Their kind, gentle and loving mother doesn’t deserve to be distressed — and it makes them feel all the more guilty when they realise that you were having to deal with them as soon as you finished arguing exhaustively with their father. They wouldn’t blame you if you, instead, had ignored them altogether in favour of resolving your frustrations. Nevertheless, it meant the world to them that they were such a high priority for you that you didn’t give it a second thought before joining them upstairs to talk.

“I’m sorry you had to hear that, boys,” your voice is filled with regret, an achy feeling that they mirror in their own silvery-grey eyes. “It’s not a good example to set, arguing like that with your father. I’m sorry.” The two share a somewhat astonished look — they fully believed you would reprimand them after being caught listening to your quarrel. “Eavesdropping is not proper behaviour, either.” There it is…

“Sorry mother…” They guiltily apologise in unison, looking down from the shame weighing down their stomachs as you slowly approach.

“It’s alright, just don’t do it again, okay?” you raise both your pinkies so that they can seal the promise by curling their pinkies around yours — you were so happy to have shared this little ‘muggle’ tradition with them; it was a good enforcer of good manners and promises. Satisfied with the pledge, you take a seat at the foot of Sirius’ bed, your legs hanging off the edge as you partially turn towards them. 

Regulus looks up at you, his wide grey eyes filled with concern. He remembers hearing the way you reasoned with his father on why you were rejecting invitations and it left him holding onto a peculiar mixture of guilt and joy that you were willing to turn away other families just to have a memorable Yule holiday with him and Sirius before they leave for Hogwarts together. 

“But there’s no need to be sorry, Mother… it’s not your fault.”

Sirius, the bolder one of the two and acting on the emotions he felt safe enough to express, crosses his arms and scowls. His opinion of the situation has been made up already. “Yeah, Dad’s being an idiot.”

You raise a questioning brow but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips — you didn’t know your son could look so cute being a grump. But, you attest that to his bias on taking your side over his father’s, loyally and stubbornly taking your side on things definitively. “Your father is not an idiot, Sirius,” you reach out to gently pet down his curls, slightly pushing the stray strands away from his forehead. Almost instantly, Sirius uncrosses his arms and leans into your touch, his grumpy expression melting away, “Orion is just… a stubborn old fool.” The last part slips out in a whisper, and Sirius and Regulus exchange a glance before breaking into quiet snickers. Clearly, they agree with your sentiment, but you have to hold yourself back from joining their giggling.

“You don’t need to defend him, Mother,” Sirius says, his voice tinged with frustration as he and Regulus shuffle closer to you. “Men are fockin’ pricks!”

Your eyes widen in shock. “Sirius! Where did you hear such language?”

Your eldest has the decency to look sheepish but doesn’t back down and answers honestly. “From some Muggle-borns at school,” his chin jutting out defiantly, and your eyes frantically move between him and Regulus over and over. You don’t like the intrigued expression on your youngest’s face, your concern for his language development growing with the blatant curiosity and fascination in his appearance.

Just as you see the familiar question of: ‘What does it mean?’ appear clearly on your sweet youngest’s face, you hurry to denounce Sirius’ speech, “Don’t repeat what Sirius just said Regulus.”

“I’m sorry, Mother, I won’t,” while Regulus apologetically looks up at you, Sirius looks at his brother with a sneaky smile tugging at the corners of his lips. And it was at that moment that you knew Sirius couldn’t be stopped from explaining the curses to his little brother. With a sigh, you shake your head, already accepting Sirius’ silent plans to go against your distaste for the swears. The least you could do is set a boundary so they know not to speak like that around you — you trust that they would use the words sparingly. 

“I don’t want that kind of language in this house. Please refrain from making such exclamations again. And no more eavesdropping, either. It’s bad manners.” The boys nod, their expressions downcast and apologetic, but they instantly light up when you lean down to kiss their foreheads, a reminder that you still love them despite their mistakes. You no longer have to word the sentiment but can’t help refraining from speaking through your actions. They needed the reassurance, though, and they appreciated your proactive, loving gestures. “I want you to grow up to be gentlemen… unlike your father.” The last part is whispered once again, but Sirius and Regulus hear it anyway, and, again, exchange another round of stifled snickers.

Sirius leans forward, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What were you and Father arguing about, Mother? And why are we all in my room?” He and Regulus managed to hear bits and pieces above their racing heartbeat drumming against their ears, but he needs you to confirm things. He didn't want to get his hopes up on the aspect of no longer attending those stiff and boring Yule dinners with other prestigious families. He didn’t want to get his hopes up on finally being able to celebrate the holiday the same way his friends had fondly and excitedly described.

With a fond smile, you brush a hand through Sirius's hair before doing the same to Regulus. There’s a warm affection in your eyes that’s hypnotising and makes them lean in to hear you even closer as you straighten your back from where you’re seated at the edge of the bed. “You two need to pack some luggage, enough for a week or so away.” there’s a lightness and purpose in your tone, a premature excitement.

Sirius deflates, his shoulders sagging as his face falls into an adorable pout. “But I just finished unpacking…”

You can’t help but giggle at his dramatics, adoring the sight of Regulus reaching over to pat his brother on the back comfortingly. “But you’ll want to pack for where I’m taking you two,” your eyes twinkle with mischief. “We’re leaving right from the Yule soiree tomorrow.”

That gets their attention immediately. Both boys perk up with interest and elation swimming in their wide eyes. “Where are we going?” Regulus asks, his voice filled with wonder. Both boys were standing on Sirius’ bed now and you can easily predict that they would soon be jumping about if you revealed anything more.

“You’ll find out tomorrow~” you sing playfully, standing from the bed to move to the door as you have to pack your own luggage. With half-hearted whines of protest, the brothers clamber off the bed and rush to your side, clinging to the long skirt of your dress in an attempt to pull more hints from you. “We’ll be getting there via the Floo Network, so I’ll keep your shrunken luggage with me at the soiree tomorrow. Your father won’t be joining us, I’m afraid, so make sure to say your goodbyes before we leave in the afternoon.” You wave your wand, summoning two identical lists that float gently into their hands. “Here’s a list of everything you’ll need to bring.”

“Okay, Mother,” they chorus, their voices filled with anticipation.

As a farewell, you lean down to kiss their temples, your heart swelling with love for them and their adorable antics. You’ve been blessed with the sweetest boys on earth! “Good. Have fun packing, you two.” As you leave the room, Sirius and Regulus’ vocalised animation for what’s ahead fades into the background. You hear that they’ve decided to help each other pack, starting with Sirius’ things — they believe that they might be able to piece together what you have planned for them through the list, which makes you giggle. Would they be able to deduce such a thing? This was a big surprise, after all. 

A spark of hope lights up within your chest, warming you up from the inside out. This Yule will be different, you’ll make sure of it. It’ll be different for them, for you, for all of you. There isn’t a trace of guilt or regret in your veins as you go through the list of events you have planned. You will create and share precious memories together — this will be a holiday to remember!  

24th December, 1971 | Yule Soiree, VIP Room 

The soiree is a glittering affair, an event dripping with such opulence that the induced propriety was suffocating, even to those accustomed to the affluence, but they did not show it. Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen waterfalls, suspended in the air high above, alight with enchanted candles that never shortened, shining brighter than the muggle sort and emitting enthralling prisms of light. Expensive perfumes smothered the air in their thickness and polite conversation weaved through the palpable tension between some families. For the room to be considered the dignitary sort, set aside for the Sacred Twenty-Eight families, it wasn’t very remarkable aside from its adornment, credited to those in the staff who helped decorate. There was a designated area for quiet murmurings and another area for sharp laughter and even sharper smiles accompanying frivolous chatter. 

You manage to navigate the room with practised ease, your posture regal and expression composed, but your heart aches for a simpler affair, one filled with warmth — if not for you, then for your boys. Pity throbbed within the depths of your chest as you looked upon their grim features, they didn’t look like your sons; your boys were spritely and smiling, carefree and talkative but these two were not like that at all. Rather, they were stiff, their small shoulders straight with tension and their lips sealed shut, offering tight-lipped smiles to those who greeted you before eventually greeting them. Earlier on, you had asked Alphard if he would be attending the soiree too but was downhearted to find that he had some last-minute business at the office to deal with and that he wouldn’t be able to make it. The original Walburga grumbled in your head over her younger brother’s undistinguished behaviour, wanting to reprimand him for his lack of commitment to tradition but you quickly stamp out her unreasonable complaints by harassing her right back and threatening to whisk Sirius and Regulus away prematurely. That shut her right up.

From a distance, you spot three sisters comfortably chatting near the grand fireplace, their heads bent together to hear one another clearly amongst the chatter muffling the air. All three share the same black locks and pale complexion but adorn different demeanours and manner of dress for the holidays. “Are those your cousins, dears?” you ask in a whisper, leaning down slightly so you can be better heard by both children. 

“Yep,” Sirius confirms as Regulus nods from beside him. 

“Alright.” you take a moment to ponder on what to do next, “Do you both mind if I take a moment to speak with them? I’ll try to be quick,” the brothers share a brief look before nodding in unison. “Thank you, my loves. Try to occupy yourselves in the meantime okay?” As you approach the three sisters, Sirius and Regulus make their way to the food and beverages, not wanting to stand by their father even in your absence. 

Once you’re close enough, the girls spot you in their periphery and turn as a group to greet you appropriately. Their expressions were a mix of curiosity and wariness as they wondered what the matriarch of House Black would want with them and without the patriarch beside her. It was odd to see you and Orion separately and even more odd was to see you without Sirius and Regulus at your sides; it was a known fact that you, as the matriarch kept an invisible leash on all three, maintaining the puppeteer of all behind the scenes.  

“Lady Black, good afternoon.” A sister greets you, her black hair fashioned into tight curls as her eyes hold a depth to them like that of a black hole. She is slightly taller than the other two and stands in the centre, subconsciously marking her as the eldest. You hazard a guess that this was Bellatrix, “You look different today,”  

With a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, you reply, catching all three off guard as you’re not usually the type to smile. “As do you, Bellatrix… ” She doesn’t protest, so your deduction to her identity was correct. All of you have grown so much since I last saw you properly. You’re all so lovely for the Yule soiree today.”

Andromeda’s eyes soften while Narcissa remains impassive though you can see a flicker of some emotion in her eyes. Was she secretly flattered by your compliment? Bellatrix, however, narrows her eyes in scrutiny and confusion all at once. “Rumours say you’ve been acting strangely.” She leaves the air open for you to either confirm or deny her claim. The three had been able to see the affectionate way you acted towards Sirius and Regulus in the time you stepped into the celebration together, and it’s clear that they aren’t the only ones shocked by your drastic change in behaviour. 

“Is that so bad?” you watch carefully and patiently as Bellatrix mulls over your comment for a while. No one has outright dubbed your mannerisms unsuitable, and as the matriarch of the noble and most ancient house of Black, surely you have every right to act the way you deem most appropriate. Bellatrix can’t fault you for that so she concedes, she admires you, after all, so if you are acting this way, it’s for good reason. 

“I suppose not…” your smile finally reaches your eyes and the three sisters welcome your stunning visage. Rumours from your drop-off and eventual collection of Sirius at King’s Cross station have made its rounds and many praised your radiant smile. Now, not only are you the prestigious lady matriarch of House Black but you’re one who radiates beauty with a simple smile. They secretly consider themselves lucky to have experienced your beauty in person, they truly didn’t know what to believe, at first with the rumours, but they quite like them thus far. 

Now that Bellatrix’s suspicions have been dealt with, you focus instead on the warmth you want to convey. Something you had intended to commit from your detrimental notations for future events. “If any of you ever need anything—anything at all—I’ll be there for you. Within reason, of course. All you have to do is ask or send a letter. We’re family, after all.” The three sisters’ eyes widen in unison, even demure and poised Narcissa. Andromneda’s breath hitches and there’s a wildness that swamps her eyes momentarily. 

“…Even for arranged marriages?…” Andromeda, the one who looks the most similar to Bellatrix comments, her dark curls are looser and her eyes are shaped less fiercely. With a snarl, Bellatrix nudges her twin sharply with an elbow whilst Narcissa gives an almost saddened look. 

“Andy!” Bellatrix hisses in a warning tone.

You freeze up, trying to comprehend her words as quickly as you can — if you pause for longer than normal, they’ll only grow suspicious of you; you should already know their world after all so nothing should surprise you to this extent. After a moment, your heart sinks in realisation and a sad softness floods your gaze.

“Your marriage is already arranged?” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

Bellatrix straightens and lifts her chin, stepping forward to partially shield her sisters. “Yes. And so is mine. I am set to marry Rodolphus Lestrange after I graduate. Andromeda will follow soon after, as she’s the younger twin. I will have an Autumn wedding and she will have a Spring wedding.” Bellatrix turns to smirk at Andromeda, though you don’t think it’s out of malice; her words didn’t ring maliciously to you, only factually as if she’s already accepted her and her sister’s fate. Andromeda turns her gaze to the floor and hugs herself for comfort whilst Narcissa steps closer, wanting to offer comfort in her own way.

“Do you want to marry Rodolphus, Bella?” you ask gently. Bellatrix blinks, her eyes wide with confusion as she’s momentarily thrown by the use of her nickname — only her sisters call her intimately yet you say it so naturally. Did you mean to call her by such an affectionate nickname or was it just a slip of the tongue? 

“It’s what’s expected of me,” she says in a dismissive tone, finally overcoming her slight surprise. “It’s our duty to carry on the purity of our blood.”

You accept the eldest sister’s answer with a slow nod before turning to the middle sister. “And you, Andy?” the child is just as shocked by your use of her nickname but, with some hesitation, eventually looks up at your soft and welcoming gaze. “Do you know who you’ll be marrying? Do you want to marry him?”

Andromeda shakes her head with a troubled expression. Even before this, it was clear from her body language alone that she was unwilling to accept her circumstances. “No…”

Bellatrix huffs at her sister’s side and pins her with a sharp glare before hissing out. “That’s because you’re being too picky, Andy. Do you know how upset Mother and Father are getting with you?”

“I know…” Andromeda sighs but doesn’t look as guilty as she should, in Bellatrix’s opinion, making her huff once more while Narcissa moves to stand between them as a silent mediator. “Mother and Father have been… difficult to talk to about these matters. One of the suitors they had picked out for me was over ten years my senior.” You suppress a shudder as your stomach churns at the dreadful thought. How could a parent submit their young daughter to such a fate? 

“…My offer stands,” leaning forward, you meet each of their eyes individually, emphasising your words. And, although your voice is stern, your gaze is warm and comforting, and you hope they can see the sincerity in it. “If you need anything, I’ll be there to help you as best as I can. All you need to do is ask.” The three sisters nod in unison but Andromeda’s eyes linger on you, unable to let go of the implication in your words. For once, she feels hopeful as she remembers her beloved Ted. You can see the wheels turning in her mind, and you wonder if she’s thinking of someone in particular — you have to hold back a smile when you realise she’s probably thinking of Edward Tonks. 

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔 ݁ ˖

The VIP room feels much colder now, and the air weighs heavily with unspoken words over your unusual behaviour. There have also been hushed whispers floating about—whispers of the Dark Lord and alliances forming in the shadows over the misinformed need to rebel against the acceptance of muggle witches and wizards entering their secret society of magic—making your stomach churn. The divide between the blood purists and the rest of the wizarding world was growing and growing; it had grown so much that it was palpable even in what was supposed to be a festive gathering. But you do your best to ignore the whispers and the stone of dread in your stomach, instead choosing to focus on finding Sirius and Regulus again. Glancing around, you spot them near the edge of the room leaning into each other. It appears as though they were looking for someone too, their expressions a mix of frustration and worry. You gather that they are looking for you and quickly make your way over to them, where you have the pleasure of seeing their adorable reactions as soon as they spot you in the crowd, your heart softening at the sight of your boys’ adorable faces brightening at your appearance. 

“Mother, there you are,” Sirius steps up to greet you once you're close enough, Regulus following closely at his side so that they can embrace you for a brief moment. 

“I’m happy to see you boys again, did I take too long?” Regulus shakes his head and presses his face into the folds of your long, emerald green dress. His actions make your brows furrow with concern and you meet Sirius’ gaze questioningly but your eldest seems to have the same downhearted expression on his face too. “What’s the matter, my loves?” 

“We’ve been looking for Uncle Alphard,” Sirius runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, his eyes darting about the room as he tries to find his favourite uncle once more, “We didn’t want to miss him because you said we’d be going away soon. But we can’t find him anywhere.” 

With a sigh, your expression softens with understanding, and your hand comes up to comfortingly pet Regulus’ hair, his face still buried in your skirt. He had been so excited to see the reunion between his uncle and Sirius; he desperately wanted his brother to know that there were more people, other than him and their mother, supporting him despite his sorting into Gryffindor. “I’m afraid your uncle had to work late at the office. He sends his apologies.” That doesn’t seem to help ease the boys’ sadness, so you allow them a slight peek into their holiday surprise, “He promises that he’ll see you both soon, though.” 

“But— didn’t he say he’d be here?…” Regulus pouts up at you, finally lifting his face off of your skirt. 

“I know, darling,” you place a gentle hand on his shoulder. “But duty calls, even during the holidays. Now, how about we leave this dreary room and head downstairs? The music is livelier, and the atmosphere is much warmer.” 

Sirius perked up at the suggestion, his grin returning as he nudged Regulus beside him encouragingly. “Finally, something fun. Come on, Reggie, let’s go.” the two walked ahead of you, though it was clear that Sirius wanted to run and pull Regulus along behind him, his nerves very obviously vibrating with excitement —you were glad for his restraint, however, and smiled in adoration at the brothers’ very sweet, very ordinary appearance from behind. 

The grand staircase led you down to the lower floor that buzzed with life. Laughter, chatter, and the festive tunes of a wizarding band filled the air, colouring the expansive room with much brighter colours than that of the upper floor you were earlier confined to. Wizarding families of different backgrounds mingled impartially and freely, their joys, infectious, and their movements, unburdened by the weight of blood purity or social standing. The live band at one end of the ballroom plays a lively tune whilst couples dance with abandon at the centre, people were free to join in or step out of the dance whenever they wanted. It was a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the VIP room above, where the so-called elite sat in rigid clusters, their conversations hushed and their expressions guarded — this was what a true Yule celebration should feel like. Even with Walburga shouting like a possessed banshee in the back of your head, you have no regrets and plan on whiffing the smelling salts in your pocket as soon as possible. You weren’t about to faint on your boys and bring any amount of distress onto them so you’ve come prepared. 

The energy of the lower floor greeted the three of you like a warm embrace as you stepped down the final few steps. From your elevated perch on the steps moments ago, Sirius had quickly spotted a familiar figure across the room: another boy who was similar to him in age, sporting messy black hair, round glasses and an infectious, unmistakable grin.

“James!” Sirius calls with an enthusiastic wave. He calls his friend’s name several times before his voice manages to carry over the crowds and the music, prompting the messy-haired lad to finally turn and meet his close friend’s eyes, “Over here!”

As soon as James saw Sirius across the hall, his face lit up with a charming grin. He lifts a hand to wave your small family over to where he proudly stands with his parents. Sirius didn’t hesitate to push ahead as shy Regulus clutched onto your hand, staying back with you, despite meeting James briefly at King’s Cross, it appears as though he can’t quite get over his shyness yet. As Sirius neared the Potters, your heart warmed and raced; Fleamont and Euphemia were the perfect picture of benevolence, adding to their grace as they smiled, sincerely welcoming Sirius in return.

“Sirius, I didn’t know you were here!” James exclaimed, clapping his friend on the back once he was close enough. Sirius grinned widely in return and squeezed James with equal affection around the shoulders, “Mum, Dad, this is Sirius, my friend from Hogwarts. I’ve told you about him!”

Fleamont extended a hand to shake as his eyes twinkled under the chandeliers. “Pleasure to meet you, son. Fleamont, or Monty, whichever you prefer.”

Sirius shook his hand with a look of mischief in his eyes. “Nice to meet you, Monty, my man!” Your son’s cheekiness couldn’t be ignored, and Fleamont threw his head back with a laugh, welcoming him as James’ friend with open arms. 

Equally charmed, Euphemia stepped forward to give her greeting with a radiant smile. “I’m Euphemia, but you can call me Mia. Our Jamie has told us so much about you; it’s good to finally put a name to the face.” Rather than a handshake like her husband, she crouches down and pulls Sirius into a brief but warm hug. You can see the brief surprise and delight on Sirius’ face before he melts into her embrace with a warm grin. Sirius likens the feeling to the same one he feels whenever you hug him affectionately—of course, his mother’s hugs will forever be the best but he happily accepts the small comfort he finds in James’ mother too.

“So, how are your holidays so far?” James asked, his enthusiasm undimmed.

“Great!” Sirius replied with a similar enthusiasm, the image in his head only consisting of you and Regulus “Mother and Reg are here with me. Father’s up in the VIP room with the snobs.”

“Your mother, you say?” Euphemia’s eyes widened in surprise, and she exchanged a glance with her husband. Both turn just in time to see you approach them with Regulus at your side, their surprise still evident on their faces. You could see the wheels turning in their minds—the woman before them was not the cold, distant matriarch they had imagined. This can only mean that they didn’t hallucinate your friendly figure when they had gone to pick up James at Kings Cross Station. 

“Yeah! I’ll introduce you.” Sirius’ chest puffs out slightly as he gestures to you first, then Regulus, “Everyone, meet my mother and my little brother, Regulus.”

“Hello,” Regulus reaches out to shake the Potter couple’s hands before waving at James, who brings him into a friendly, one-armed hug over the shoulder. Sirius snickers beside them for a moment and quickly joins in the hug too, he loves seeing his brother get along with his close friend; he can only imagine how well Regulus would get along with Remus or Peter!

With a warm smile, you extend a hand in greeting. “Good afternoon. A pleasure to meet you both,” you shake Fleamont’s hand first before shaking Euphemia’s. You then turn to James, your smile ever soft and kind. “And it’s so good to see you again, James.”

James grinned. “You too, my lady.” he bows at the waist as you giggle and Sirius rolls his eyes, tempted to smack his friend over the head, “It’s good to see you in something other than black.”

“James!” Euphemia scolds with a wave of her finger.

Rather than the scowl of offence they were expecting you to wear, however, you laugh lightly and briefly play with the skirt of your dress. “Why, thank you. I suppose you could say the holiday season has gotten to me.” 

Euphemia stares in shock at you, so surprised by your change in demeanour that she couldn’t hold her tongue and agrees, “Indeed…” Embarrassed, Euphemia covers her mouth as Fleamont laughs heartily, pulling his wife close by her waist — a small gesture of comfort.

“There’s a special type of magic that goes around for the holidays,” The Potter patriarch says with a warm, understanding voice. 

Your small group falls into easy conversation after the tension was thoroughly melted away by introductions. There’s talk of the boys’ achievements at school, Regulus’ eagerness to join his older brother in the next academic year, the struggles of parenting such rambunctious youths followed by whining protests, and many more. Eventually, James drags your boys off to the food tables, promising them the best mini treacle tarts they’d ever tasted, and he should know, as a primary lover of the sweet treat. Regulus hesitated at first, glancing back at you for reassurance and relaxed when you gave him a small nod.

“Bring me back something tasty, darling,” you politely ask with an encouraging smile.

“Something salty or something sweet, Mother?” his voice is soft and dripping with consideration, ever the attentive type.

“Hmm… why don’t you pick?” Regulus nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips before dashing off to catch up with his brother and James. With the boys gone, you turned to the Potter couple with a question on your tongue. “Fleamont, Euphemia—”

“—Monty is fine,” Fleamont interrupted kindly.

“And just Mia is perfect for me too,” Euphemia added kindly. They were now able to tell for themselves that you weren’t the type of person they originally thought you were and it was a comfort; they found that any friend of their beloved son, they easily see as one of their own so it was a comfort to know that Sirius had you as his mother. 

Surprised by their willingness to be familiar with you, you take a moment to process what they’ve said before nodding, your cheeks heating up slightly from the prolonged pause you had taken. “Of course, thank you Monty, Mia…” The couple’s smiles brighten at your use of their nicknames, “So, for the holidays, I planned a surprise for my boys: a little getaway from our city home. I was wondering if we could organise some sort of playdate, where James could come over along with Sirius’s other friends for a day or two — the two of you are perfectly free to attend as well.”

Fleamont’s eyes light up in an instant. “That sounds good to me. I’m sure James would appreciate spending time with friends outside of school.” As Fleamont laughs cheerily his wife nods in agreement, their eyes sparkling with equal excitement.

“It would be nice to get out of the house too. Is it okay for us to spend the day with you as well?”

“Of course! Honestly, it would be preferred.” You’re quick to reassure her but pull a rather sheepish look, “I don’t think I’m ready to monitor five rambunctious teens by myself.”

“Won’t Orion be with you?” Fleamont asks curiously. 

“I’m afraid he has other important matters to attend to.” The Potters exchanged a concerned glance but said nothing and followed your lead on ignoring the subject altogether. Their smiles quickly returned as they agreed to your invitation. 

“We’d be happy to attend!” Euphemia perks up, “Do you already have a date in mind?”

“I was thinking a weekend but not Yule, that is a day for families; so the weekend after that. On the first or second of January would be ideal.

“Done.” Fleamont shares a smile with his wife. 

“We should be careful that the boys don’t try to convince us to have a sleepover,” Euphemia laughs as you and her husband join in. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if they do. From the letters James sent home, they’re a rather troublesome bunch.” Prompted by her husband, Euphemia combs her fingers through his messy locks as she straightens her back, appearing to look for something through Fleamont’s locks. 

“Still no grey hairs, darling, you’re not to worry.”

“So cheeky,” Fleamont rolls his eyes at his wife, who just giggles and cuddles into his side. Their exchange is adorable and sweet, and pulls a fond smile onto your lips.

“It’s settled then; I’ll be sending you an owl closer to the time as a sort of formal invitation. You can easily use the floo network to get there, I’ll provide instructions in the letter I send you. Oh and please try to keep the date a secret, I want the whole thing to remain a surprise for the boys.”

Nodding enthusiastically, Euphemia agrees as  Fleamont smiles lovingly at his wife’s obvious excitement. 

“Of course! I can’t wait for the day!

“I’ll make sure to be a good host,”

When the boys finally return, Regulus proudly presents you with a sweet treat, while Sirius hands you something savoury. You sample both equally, your expression brightening with delight at their delicious choices for you. “Thank you, my darlings. Both were very tasty!” after wiping your lips with a small handkerchief, you kiss each of them on the forehead to which they beamed up at you with radiant smiles.

Watching the exchange, James’ expression becomes almost shy as he looks up at his mother, who gives him a questioning look. “Why are you looking at me like that, Jamie?…” 

“Nothin’.”

“It’s because I wasn’t given something yummy that you don’t get to have a kiss~” She giggles as James blushes, dashing off for a quick moment before coming back with a treacle tart for his mother. Finally, Mia kneels down and gives him a kiss in thanks, giggling as her husband chuckles behind his hand. 

“I told you you should have got it the first time, you plonker,” Sirius teased, and James groaned, his cheeks flushing.

“Shut up, Sirius,” 

As the afternoon grew a little older, you were dragged onto the central floor by Sirius and Regulus, who planned on sharing a dance with you together. All three of you joined hands and improvised a three-person waltz as best as you could to the festive music. The entire time, your cheeks hurting from how hard you were smiling — to think that your boys could get any more precious. You questioned why they were both dancing with you at once rather than separately, and their answer was said in such an obvious tone that it made you think that they didn’t argue for long on the topic, deeming the compromise as the perfect solution. 

“We couldn’t decide who got to dance with you first. So we’re dancing the first dance with you, together!” They’re too sweet! 

Several dances later, you were finally gathering the boys to say their goodbyes. First were to the Potter family, who wished you all well for the holidays, and you, them. Then, you ascended back to the VIP room, where Orion remained engrossed in conversation with the other purist families. While you voiced your goodbye to your husband, the boys gave curt goodbyes to all of their cousins except Andromeda, who received the warmest goodbye — she was very obviously their favourite for her kind and understanding nature. When it came to saying goodbye to their father, however, the boys hesitated. You had already moved on to bidding farewell to other patriarchs, matriarchs and cousins, so you weren’t there to see their attempts to bid their father goodbye. Each time, they were met with a dismissive wave, pushing them away more and more.

“Come on Reggie,” Sirius huffs under his breath, glaring at his father from under the stray whips of curls that had fallen over his eyes, “Mother is waiting for us.” Sirius leads the way to where you stand by the VIP room’s exit.

“But—! We didn’t say goodbye to father—” 

“Why does it matter? He doesn’t care anyway!” 

When they finally reach you, their sadness dissipates from the sight of your radiant smile. “Did you say goodbye to your father?”

The two nod with guarded expressions thinly veiled by a smile before you move to urge them to the exit, “Then let’s be off.”

Together, you collected your coats and stepped into the fireplace. With a small countdown, you all simultaneously threw down the powder as you called out the clear destination. “Astrolite Hall!” Green flames engulf your small trio in an instant, and, moments later, you emerge to find yourselves standing in the grand sitting area of a breathtaking countryside estate nestled in the Yorkshire Dales. The boys gasp, their eyes wide with wonder as they take in the establishment around them. They weren’t very familiar with the other Black family estates outside of their city home and the few dotted around France so this was a pleasant surprise, a new adventure. At this new thrill, their earlier displeasure with their father is easily forgotten. Taking in their precious expressions, your heart swells with love.

The manor was breathtaking—a sprawling countryside estate that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction. Afternoon sunlight streamed through the tall, arched windows, casting golden beams across the polished antique furniture. Through the windows, you could glimpse the gorgeous greenery outside, symmetrical, well-kept and lush despite the winter season, there was even a fountain at the centre. The air smelled unfamiliar but pleasant with a touch of tuberose and amber, a welcome change from the cramped atmosphere of Grimmauld Place, though you do miss the touches of dried lavender you and Regulus littered about the house.

“Welcome, my darlings,” you softly announce, leading them inside.

Sirius was the first to break the silence, his voice ringing with awe as his eyes took in the manor. “Blimey, Mother, this place is massive!”

“Yeah!” Regulus rolls on the balls of his feet beside his brother with equal enthusiasm. Both were as charged with energy as the other, feeding off one another’s excitement and vigour as their wide eyes took in the grandeur of the parlour. The high ceilings were adorned with intricate carvings, and a crystal chandelier hung above them, one that looked even more extravagant than the ones they saw at the soiree. Their incontestable joys were infectious but you did your best to temper your own excitement as much as possible, settling for a calm smile so that there was a balance of emotions in the positively charged atmosphere.

“This place is called Astrolite Hall, and I don’t think we’ve been here before,” you inform them helpfully shrugging off your heavy coat to hang on the back of an antique grandfather chair. “But it’s going to be our home for the holidays. What do you think?”

“It’s brilliant!” Sirius exclaimed, eager to dart off and explore. Regulus was more for a moment, glancing up at you briefly, before looking to his brother with a smile — you don’t know if he wanted to silently apologise for his uncharacteristic zest or seek brief assurance from your body language. You can tell that they were keen to scout out the new space, they were like racehorses eagerly awaiting the horn and the opening of the gates to launch them into competition. 

“Why don’t you two pick out your bedrooms upstairs? Once you’ve decided, I’ll un-shrink your luggage, we can unpack and then you can explore to your heart’s content.” 

Loving the idea, Sirius and Regulus zip up the grand staircase, their footfalls muffled by the thick carpet as you follow close behind, gigging into your palm as you lift the skirt of your dress to better traverse the stairs. By the time you got to the upper floor, they had already chosen their rooms, indicated by the doors they had left open for you to peek into. You weren’t surprised that they chose rooms that were right beside each other, but it still made you smile at the close bond that they have with each other; they deserve to have a close sibling relationship, and it warmed your heart to see it’s open display. 

“Is this the room you want?” you ask, pulling Sirius’ luggage out of your pockets. From where he lay sprawled over the large, king-sized bed, Sirius launched himself into a sitting position and nodded with much enthusiasm, his curls bouncing up and down with the movement. 

“My room is the next one over, Mother,” Regulus announces, grinning widely at you as he sits up with his brother. It looked as though they were making snow angels from the bedsheets, their excitement making them forget their usual manners. But you were happy to see them having fun so you don’t fuss about it the same way Walburga was shrieking up a storm in the back of your mind. Once you had deducted who’s room was who’s, you approached and un-shrunk their luggage with a wave of your wand — you love magic so much; it made things so convenient for you.  

“Which room will you pick?” Sirius asked as he jumped down to begin unpacking. 

“I think that one will do,” you announce, standing in the doorway and pointing at the room directly across from theirs, this made the boys grin in delight as they secretly cheered that Orion wasn’t there to ruin the mood. So as to not waste any more time, Regulus hurries to his room so that he can unpack as well. 

“Once you unpack, you can explore the estate as much as you like but try to make it downstairs in the sitting room by 5 pm, please; I have a special task I need you two to help me with.”

“What sort of task?” Sirius asks with curiosity as Regulus appears in his doorway with an equally curious look. The two watch as you elegantly walk to your room to unpack your bags too. 

“A fun task,” you replied, looking over your shoulder so they could see the giddy twinkle in your eyes.

Regulus’ pulls the sweetest most hopeful expression you could think of. “Really?”

“Yes! And we’re going to do it together while Kreacher cooks dinner in the kitchen.”

“Kreacher’s here?” Regulus lights up even more, like a Christmas tree.

“Of course,” you smile as your youngest vibrates with excitement, and Sirius laughs at his little brother’s obvious joy before poking fun at him teasingly. Regulus whines, expressing that he likes Kreacher so, of course, he’s excited, but you can see the fondness that remains in their eyes — they’re true siblings.

“But it feels a little stiff in these formal clothes,” you add, easily magicking your luggage’s contents into the appropriate storage compartments about your room, “Why don’t we change into our pyjamas for the rest of the day?”

Regulus frowned. “But it’s not nearly bedtime yet.”

Sirius rolls his eyes but grins brightly. “That doesn’t mean we can’t be in our pyjamas! Come on, Reggie!” The two hurry to finish unpacking so they can change into their pyjamas while you change into your own as well, though it took you a little longer than anticipated.

“Have fun exploring boys, see you downstairs!” you call, finally walking out of your room and down the hall to descend the stairs in your ankle-length, white-cotton sleep dress with long sleeves. Despite the cold temperatures outside, the estate was the perfect climate, even the carpeted floors were heated as you walked about in your socks.

“See you later!” The boys call back in unison.

When you meet with Kreacher in the kitchen, the boys were already causing a storm upstairs, though you didn’t quite mind; it was nice to have a lively atmosphere about a home for once. With Orion at Grimmauld Place, the air always felt a little stiff and dull so you’re glad the boys could finally act like children without any restraints. 

“The young masters be being very loud today,” Kreacher comments with a small smile as the two of you prepare the ingredients for dinner together.  

“Yes, they are. Doesn’t it sound lovely?” you ask but giggle when there’s a loud shout from upstairs (Sirius), quickly followed by a sharp ‘shush’ (Regulus) and then shared laughter.

“Very lovely the sound be, mistress!” Kreacher shares a smile with you before you both return to the task at hand, indulging in the music of cheer your two boys create upstairs. Tonight’s menu consisted of a comforting, slow-cooked beef with potatoes, carrots, peas, garlic, and onions in a hearty beef and red wine broth. With it, you have the options of garlic bread and, or mashed potatoes. 

“You’ll join us for dinner, won’t you, Kreacher?” it was a gentle request, one that you consistently make before every meal as you and the house elf work together to prepare something delicious. Your hope is that the holiday season will finally allow him to agree and dine with you. 

“N-no thank you, Mistress…” you sigh but don’t express any frustration or dismay, only acceptance as Kreacher looks up at you with a small, apologetic smile. At least he felt comfortable enough to reject your offer. “Big master Black will be wanting his dinner tonight too so Kreacher is busy.”  

“I understand,” you make a point of meeting his glassy eyes before expressing your gratitude sincerely, “thank you for working so hard for our family, Kreacher,”

“Mistress is welcome.” And at least he was comfortable accepting praise and saying ‘you’re welcome’, now too.

˖  ݁𖥔.☁︎.𖥔݁ ˖

Sirius and Regulus ran through the halls, their endless laughing echoing off the walls as they explored every nook and cranny of the large, unacquainted estate. The manor was everything you could dream of for the boys. There was a grand library with towering shelves filled with books and plush reading nooks; it was much larger than the one at Grimmauld Place. There was a games room filled with magical and Muggle board games (courtesy of you), a cosy reception area with a roaring fireplace, and a curving staircase that had a sturdy bannister to slide down. All the available bedrooms, of which there were six, had their own en suite bathrooms and balconies with equally scenic views all around. A beautiful, ergonomic study room was at the very end of the upper floor’s hall, with its own mini library, two large desks with drawers and golden emeralite bankers lamps. There was even a room full of paintings ranging from portraits to scenic views of the ocean or sloping fields. All of the paintings moved, and most of the portraits were of ancestral Black family members, who, unfortunately, had many unpleasant blood purity things to say, so Sirius and Regulus didn’t stay long to admire the gallery. 

Once the boys came downstairs, they slipped into the dining room, which was a masterpiece of elegance. It was primarily occupied by a long, polished table that could seat twenty. A sideboard took up space beneath the scenic painting hung on one side of the room, where inside its drawers were matching plates and bowls with analogous silverware. There were also antique china: teapots, cups and saucers, and a tiered dish tray for afternoon tea. Yes, the boys opened and searched every drawer and cabinet. The other side of the dining room had floor-to-ceiling glass walls that opened to a raised decking area so that there was an option for outdoor dining should the weather permit it.

Through the tall windows, the outside grounds were just as impressive. In the distance, there stood a large greenhouse that was bursting with colourful flora within. It was so large that the boys debated whether they could faintly see a spiralling staircase and mezzanine inside or not. There was also a sprawling porch area that overlooked a serene pond with many lily pads on the surface, surrounded by the well-kept gardens and it’s tall, topiary cone hedges and walls. To end their adventure, the boys returned to the sitting area they had first entered, touching every piece of furniture and clambering onto every place to sit before they admired the view outside. The greenery was identical to the one they had seen through the dining room windows, except there wasn’t a large greenhouse or a pond, but there was a beautiful fountain spouting water at the very centre of it all. 

“Did you have fun exploring?” you turn to face the boys who enter the kitchen with flushed cheeks as they softly panted. Looking about the space, they could tell that the kitchen was a chef’s dream, complete with a walk-in pantry stocked to the brim so that you may never grow hungry. The smell in the air was mouth-watering, and they could spot a stewing pot on the impressive gas stove bubbling away beneath its cover. Another pot of boiling potatoes sat beside it with a fork and a wooden spoon nearby to help check the potatoes’ tenderness. The ovens were also at work, it seemed, though they couldn’t quite make out what was inside. Dinner smelled delicious already, as usual. 

“It was so much fun!” They said in unison as you giggled. Undoing your apron, you step up to their buzzing figures with a smile, committed to hearing all about their explorations but they have other plans. In their barely contained excitement grab one of your hands each and tug you away pleadingly, asking about the special, fun task you had promised them earlier. Of course. How could you think that their sharp minds would forget such a promise?

“Let's go do that thing you needed our help with!”

“What is it anyway, Mother?”

“You’ll find out soon enough, it’s in the living room—” They begin to drag you away more earnestly but you stop them before they can pull you too far. “Hold on now,” you laugh and look over your shoulder at Kreacher, who was standing on a stool by the kitchen counter, preoccupied with the brief side-task you had given him earlier, “Why don’t we grab some snacks from Kreacher, first? Don’t forget your ‘please’ and ‘thank you’s.” Kreacher’s ears perked up at the mention of his name and he eagerly turned to brighten at the sight of his young masters’ fixed gazes on him, his long ears flapping in delight. 

“Can we have a small snack, please Kreacher?” Regulus begins as he and his elder brother step up to stand on either side of the house elf. 

“Are you preparing our snacks right now?” Sirius asks, peering over the counter to glimpse at what the house elf had been so preoccupied with. 

“Yes yes, eldest young master,” Kreacher eagerly cheered before looking a little sheepish, “Kreacher will be taking just a little bit more time with thems though, young masters.” his veiny hands shyly covers the finger sandwiches he had been assembling, embarrassed from their half-made state.

With a nod of understanding, you urge the boys to the pantry, “That’s alright Kreacher, it’ll give us time to make hot chocolate,” your comment makes Sirius snap his attention towards you, eyes bright — making hot chocolate together was something James had mentioned that he and his family did every night during the Yule holidays. Would he get to partake in the same cosy ritual with his own happy family? “Oh! Are you excited, Siri?” you softly coo, tenderly poking his cheek with a teasing grin as Regulus snickered at your other side. 

“H-how are we making the hot chocolate, Mother?” Sirius diverts the topic, wanting to get the attention off him and focus on the hot chocolate. Thankfully, you follow his lead with grace. 

“We’re making it on the stove but we need to get the ingredients first,” working together, you gather up the ingredients and melt chocolate blocks into a pot with four mug-fuls of full-cream milk. While Sirius carefully stirs the softly bubbling, chocolatey liquid, you and Regulus whip up the cream to go on top together. Each person was allowed to assemble their own hot chocolate after you poured a portion into the four mugs (the last being for Kreacher). You made yours the way you liked before looking over to see how everyone liked theirs. Sirius had a mountain of fluffy, whipped cream on his with chocolate shavings on top. Regulus liked his hot chocolate with a reasonable amount of whipped cream and mini marshmallows. When presented with his own festive mug of hot chocolate to assemble, Kreacher didn’t care for the whipped cream but went crazy over the mini marshmallows, which made all of you giggle. 

Now that everything was complete, Kreacher snapped his fingers to quickly assemble the freshly baked cookies and finger sandwiches onto decorated tea plates atop a wooden tray, leaving room for coasters so that you had a place to put your hot chocolate mugs on. “Thank you, Kreacher,” you voice kindly, taking the wooden tray into your hands from where it was suspended mid-air before Sirius and Regulus soon followed you with their gratitudes. 

“Thanks, Kreacher!”

“Thank you so much, Kreacher!”

“Mistress and the young masters a-are welcome…” Kreacher hides his shyness in his mug of hot chocolate, his droopy ears tinted an adorable pink at the tips. 

“Feel free to join us in the living room, Kreacher, the more the merrier!” you call behind you, stepping out of the kitchen and making your way to the living room as Regulus and Sirius hold the doors open for you. 

As soon as you made it to the living room, you set down the tray of snacks and hot chocolate on the coffee table before waving your wand to reveal your surprise: the hidden Christmas tree. The proud, bushy Douglas fir tree stood in the corner, tall and full but undecorated, occupying the space with its lush branches, and almost reached the high ceiling. Earlier, you had asked Kreacher to enchant the tree with a preservation charm just for the holidays so that the boys don’t have to see the fir shedding its needles, with ease, Kreacher did just that with a snap of his fingers. 

Eying the tall fir’s barren appearance, Sirius is reminded of the marvellous way December began for him, where he and his close friends saw Hagrid dragging the giant Christmas tree into Hogwarts’ main hall. Once magicked upright, all the professors extravagantly decorated it, leaving behind the most beautiful tree he had ever laid eyes on. Sirius was surrounded by magic since birth but seeing the tree get decorated so beautifully was the most magical thing he had ever witnessed.

Sirius’ expression dropped into a frown, disappointed that this tree may remain the same bare and joyless tree they’d had for every Yule growing up. If only his family’s tree could look a fraction similar to the tree at Hogwarts. “It looks a little dull, Mother.” 

“Dull?” Sirius snaps his attention to Regulus, only just realising what he had said aloud. “Isn’t it usually like that?”

Your heart broke at your youngest’s genuine confusion and the implication of his innocent words. It makes you want to lash out at the poor excuse of a mother sequestered in the back of your mind but your priority will always be your boys first so you steady your smile, instead, watching the two interact as you lift your wand once more behind them. Without them noticing, you manage to nudge a heavy box into view. 

“You should see the giant tree they put up in the main hall at Hogwarts,” Sirius’ voice is filled with awe and there’s a thrill behind it that makes you believe he’d stop at nothing to show his little brother the grandly decorated tree he had witnessed. “It’s beautiful, Reggie.”

“And our tree is going to look equally beautiful with all the decorations we put on it,” you announce, grinning at their wonder-filled expressions before directing their attention to an innocuous box at the side of the tree. The boys waste no time rushing to it, their eyes widening as soon as they see the beautiful ornaments inside. There were shiny baubles of all different shapes, delicate glass figurines, and strings of golden tinsel. The common theme of colours were gold, silver, red and green.

Sirius looks up at you with a hopeful expression as Regulus brings out a string of tinsel to play with. “Are we… are we decorating the tree together, Mother?”

“Of course we are, my love.”

Sirius’ chest swells with warmth and launches himself at you without a second thought, hugging you around the waist as he buries his bright grin into the cotton of your night dress. This was his second wish for the holidays that had come true, first the hot chocolate, now tree decorating with the family. Regulus, though quieter and still awing over the glittering tinsil, looked equally thrilled, his hands now reaching for the beautiful ornaments.

“Our tree is going to be the most beautiful tree ever!” Sirius cheers, digging for the ornaments that he finds are the most aesthetically pleasing before rushing to hang them on the fir tree’s needles, “Come on Reggie!” Regulus hops up beside his brother and happily lays the tinsel on the green branches with a happy cheer. To set the mood properly, you approach the gramophone on a side table and begin to play a Christmas album.

As you decorate the tree together, Kreacher eventually joins you and, with him, you enchant the candles to prevent any fire hazards before fixing them onto the tree and setting them alight. There was a small ladder at hand for you and the boys to utilise so that you could reach higher up the tree, but you left the climbing to the boys, choosing to remain at the foot of the ladder, instead, to hold it steady and catch them if they ever toppled over. On occasion, you would all partake in a small snack and drink break, the boys happily gulping down their hot chocolate before it has the chance to cool down. However, in their eagerness, they were left with melted cream above their upper lips, sending everyone into a fit of giggles. Everyone managed to, at least, acquire a white moustache throughout the evening. 

Laughter, the soft clinking of ornaments, and softly playing Christmas songs never allowed the room to grow quiet. For the first time in what felt like forever, you were together, happy and carefree, creating precious memories that would last you a lifetime.

NAVI. | SERIES M.LIST | NEXT. 11 : PLAYDATE →

A/N : this was a pretty long one, i'm so sorry my loves but i hope you enjoy the read! i'm also really sorry that it's come out so late, life has been really busy for me recently and i have a lot of things going on at once, i hope you understand.

i also want to announce that this series will be going on HIATUS as i want to take the time to thoroughly plan future chapters and plot points, i also want to focus on other writing projects i plan on releasing this year. and, i hate to admit it but DOB has grown a little exhausting to keep up with because of everything going on currently and i don't want to push updates to the point of burnout as that'll risk me abandoning the series altogether and i intend to finish it.

i hope you darlings can understand where i'm coming from, i'll try to get back to the series as soon as i can but i can't guarantee a definite date of return. i love you all so so much! thank you for supporting and loving the series so far! see you soon!

[faistizer]

you’re here, that’s the thing

and i know you said that we’re not a thing but you’re here, that’s the thing - you're here that's the thing, beabadoobee

pairing: teen!patrick zweig x childhood bestfriend!reader

in which: you and patrick have spent summers tangled up with each other. you're in love, he's in denial. and yet— he's here, that's the thing.

warnings: patrick being an idiot, mutual pining, lack of communication

note: patrick and reader are 18-ish. this based off my favorite beabadoobee song, which is very patrick coded (in my opinion). this is my first fic, i hope you like it!!

“so we’re both here, aren’t we?”

you turn around, a stupid grin instantly blossoming on your face at the sight of patrick zweig standing a few steps above you on the staircase.

"you avoiding me or something? you haven't talked to me since you got here." patrick laughs gently.

"no, of course not." you tilt your head slightly, biting back everything you want to say and opting for a smile. you pat the space next to you and he sits down, all in comfortable silence.

whether you’re 10 or 18, you always end up here. with him. an escape from his parents’ suffocating parties and small talk.

patrick sniffs as he lights a cigarette. you scrunch up your nose, “we’re literally indoors, pat.”

patrick scoffs as pillows of smoke escape his mouth. “it’s my house. the window’s open, they won’t care.”

“summer house,” you correct and his eyes fly skyward.

“yeah, yeah. summer house. on the fuckin’, fuckin’— i forget- which island are we on?” patrick snaps his fingers in thought

“santa catalina,” you respond simply, picking at your nails because you don’t think you can look him in the eyes. your insides are already bubbling and he hasn’t even been here two minutes.

“santa fucking whatever-“ patrick snorts, bringing his beer bottle up to his lips and passing it over to you. he doesn’t even ask if you want it or not— he knows you well enough to know that you’ll take a sip.

you wrap your lips around the bottle, and you can taste him. or you think you can. or maybe you just connect everything that reminds you of him to him.

the taste of beer, cigarettes, the subtle hint of his cologne— earthy, citrusy, and unmistakably him

you shut your eyes and swallow down the cold liquid, you try not to gag because you know patrick will make fun of you for it.

“i’ve missed you, y’know?”

you almost spit out your drink, your cheeks burn up and all of a sudden you’re 13 again. “really?”

patrick rolls his eyes again. “yeah, idiot. ‘course i missed you, you’re the only friend i have.”

“you have art?”

“that’s—“ patrick sniffs, “that’s different, you’re like a- a girl.”

“wow, i feel so special,” you can’t help but laugh. “where’s art anyways?”

“he’s staying with his grandmother for the summer this year,” patrick shrugs, taking another long drag of his cigarette. he turns to smirk at you- “why, do you miss him? did you want to see him?”

but you know him enough to know that under all that bravado is stupid, boyish jealousy.

“i’ve missed you too.” you let yourself admit.

he immediately smiles at that. “yeah, you did. you probably dreamed of me every night and fuckin’ cried to thought of me.” he cackles like a maniac, shoving you gently. now it’s your turn to roll your eyes.

you reach for the beer bottle and you brush his hands—warm and calloused— and the touch lingers a bit too long. you pull your hand away as you take another sip, your fingers twitch. it’d be so easy to grab his hand right now. you swallow the drink down with your fantasies as you clear your throat.

“so how��s—“ you begin to say

“fuck, this is so stupid,” he groans. he reaches for your chin and tilts your head.

your eyes meet.

his are a shade of blue and green, like when the sun shines on the ocean. that sort of pretty. comforting. you’d like to swim in them. those eyes flicker to your lips. his thumb brushes over your chin, your insides flutter. and he almost— almost leans in.

“you’re being weird, is this because i kissed you last year?”

yes. yes. it is patrick. you want to scream.

“no, why would— i’m not being weird-“

“you are- you are being so fuckin’ weird-“

“patrick- i’m fine,” you scoff.

“it’s wasn’t supposed to be serious if that’s what you’re so concerned about— we’re not a thing. it was like a drunk thing.”

oh.

a drunk thing. not a thing that happened after years of tension. just a drunk thing. that's all it was to him. you swallow that thought like you could wash it down with the lingering taste of beer in your mouth as your heart throbs in your chest.

but yeah, you and patrick were never a thing. it’s something patrick had made clear several times. but each time was a new stab in the chest.

the kiss was a drunken mistake. it was the last day of summer break, you, art, and patrick around six and a half beers in with some weed in the mix, sitting on the sands of the beach. all drunk out of their minds.

you were talking about something stupid while art laughed. patrick stared at the waves crashing into the rocks before he cupped your cheeks and kissed you.

it was soft. warm. right.

and even though you were both blackout drunk, you remember it so clearly. and so does he— he wouldn't have brought it up otherwise.

art had laughed at the action. "what, is this, like, a thing? you guys a thing now?"

patrick had pulled away at that point, his hand still on your waist, grip tightening with his jaw. "fuck, no. it's not like that."

your family left the zweig’s summer home the next morning.

and you couldn’t bear asking him about it over the phone in fear of ruining seven years of friendship.

so for the next 350 something days, you convinced yourself it was just some summer fling that couldn’t even be considered “a fling.”

you managed to convince yourself that you don’t care. but that doesn’t stop the burning, tingly sensation at your waterline and a tear or two from rolling down your cheek.

his entire face drops, almost comically. “why are you crying? no- don’t cry- what the fuck-“ he panics. he doesn’t know where to put his hands. they cup your cheeks then fall from your cheeks. hold your shoulders, then your hands. it’s almost like patrick’s brain crashed and he was malfunctioning. it would almost be funny if it didn't hurt so much, just because of that stupid look on his face. you almost smile. "hey, no- stop that." he starts to laugh, that stupid laugh you fell in love with, and when notices your glare, he stops.

he chooses to stare at you in silence, reaching over to wipe some of your tears. you push his hands away, it's petty. he sighs. "i dunno what i did wrong, i- i thought you wanted it to be a drunk thing. you didn't— you talk about it after we did it. I mean— girls usually talk about this kind of shit, right? to-"

you look at him through your tears, in a 'are you fucking stupid?' kind of way and he shuts up. through your tears you manage to finally say, "imfuckinginlovewithyou, youstupidfuckingidiot"

patrick's eyebrows furrow in confusion, but not in— 'wow this girl loves me' confusion. no— more in a 'what the fuck did you just say, because i don't understand the words that come out of your mouth when you cry' kind of way. you breathe deeply, calming your shaky vocal chords, and wipe your tears. "i love you, you idiot."

patrick's dumbfounded. he opens his mouth to say something. closes it. opens it again— then closes it for good. he's like a fish. a stupidly handsome fish. then he finally manages an "oh." "oh?" you repeat, then the frustration spills out. "the fuck you mean 'oh'? i just said something that could change the trajectory of our friendship—" without warning, he kisses you. grabbing onto the back of your neck and shutting you up.

your hand drops and you grab onto his shirt. your mouth moves with his, and it's so... right. he tastes like the smoke of his cigarette, he tastes like the beer— he tastes like patrick.

when you pull apart and just stare at him, he laughs. fucking laughs. like an idiot. you roll your eyes. "i like you too." he smirks slightly, pushing a hand through his curls and sighing.

"i just told you i love you, and you're saying you like me?" you tease with a smile. "wow, patrick. i'm hurt." he cups your cheeks again, inching closer. "please don't start crying again."

he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip.

"i love you too." — tags: @hyuneskkami for the divider

[highprettybabyy]

Seeing Red

Part 11 - Finally

jenna ortega x fem!reader apocalypse au

summary: this is pure fluff

warnings: enemies to lovers, typical apocalypse stuff, violence, blood, zombies, gore, maybe angst... some fluff...

AN: i hope this pays for my alimony

word count: 1.3k

Part 10

—//—

Her lips touched yours first.

A soft, trembling brush, tentative - like if she pressed too hard, the moment would break apart like glass.

You sighed into her mouth, your hands finding her waist, pulling her closer by instinct alone. The towels dropped to the floor with soft thuds. The tiny distance between you vanished like it was never meant to exist at all.

The kiss deepened. Grew heated. Desperate.

Jenna's hand found the back of your neck, digging her fingers in firmly to pull you closer. She tilted her head slightly, matching every push and pull with a quiet hunger that sent sparks skimming down your spine.

You stumbled back a step, barely feeling the cold floor under your feet. Only feeling her, the heat of her body pressed into yours, the taste of her mouth, the gasp she tried to hide when you nipped gently at her lower lip.

The world fell away. None of it mattered. Only her. Only this.

Only finally.

You broke apart first, gasping for air. Your foreheads rested together. Jenna’s hands clutched your sides, thumbs stroking slow circles against your skin.

You stared at her mouth - red and kiss-bruised - and then into her eyes.

Then she gave the tiniest smile - that real one you hardly ever saw - and kissed you again. A gentler kiss. A softer one. Like a promise., You pulled her into you with all the fierce, pent-up affection you hadn’t dared let yourself feel until now.

It wasn’t perfect. It was messy, breathless, trembling.

It was perfect.

You stayed tangled in each other’s arms for minutes, maybe hours, neither of you sure where you ended and she began.

When you finally pulled away, your heart still hammering inside your chest, you realised neither of you knew what to say. The air buzzed with possibility, with tension, but also with fear. Saying something might break it. Shatter it.

Jenna broke the silence first - well, kind of.

She tugged lightly on your wrist, a silent question in her eyes.

Come with me.

You went willingly, half-dazed, your free hand brushing along the cold walls for balance.

The bedroom was vast - high ceilings, wide windows covered with heavy blackout curtains. Dust drifted lazily through the silver beams of moonlight sneaking in through the cracks.

Jenna clicked the lock behind you instinctively. Habit.

You watched as she moved around the room with practised grace - checking the corners, the closet, under the bed. Every inch of the space was cleared in under a minute.

You sat on the edge of the bed, breathless with how efficient she was. How safe she made you feel just by being there.

You fiddled with the matches you'd grabbed earlier, lighting the heavy candles you'd found in the bathroom drawers. Their flames flickered weakly against the walls, casting the room in a soft, golden glow.

You shivered slightly. The night air had grown colder.

You headed back into the closet for new clothes. The feeling of fresh clothes feels ethereal after having spent so long re-wearing the same outfit. You put some sleeping shorts and an oversized hoodie on the chair for Jenna.

Jenna stripped the dusty sheets from the bed and replaced them with fresh ones you’d found folded in the walk-in wardrobe. The clean linen smelled faintly of cedar. She worked quietly, methodically, her back to you - but you didn’t miss the way her hands shook slightly as she tucked the corners in.

She was nervous too.

Good.

You sat cross-legged on the bed, wrapping your arms around yourself as the candles burned lower and Jenna got dressed too. You didn’t dare speak. Didn’t dare break whatever fragile magic was holding this night together.

When Jenna was satisfied everything was secure, she crossed back to you.

You tilted your head up as she approached.

She hesitated only a second before climbing onto the bed beside you, the mattress dipping under her weight. Her thigh brushed against yours - warm and solid - and you both froze for half a heartbeat.

Then Jenna shifted closer, until your knees bumped. Until you could feel the shudder of her breath against your shoulder.

Neither of you spoke.

You turned slightly, facing her fully. She mirrored you instinctively.

Her hair was still slightly damp from the pool, curling faintly at the edges. You watched the way the candlelight caught the drops clinging to her lashes. The faint pink flush on her cheeks. The raw vulnerability in her eyes.

You reached out - barely thinking - and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear.

Her breath stuttered.

She closed her eyes.

The room was filled with the sound of your breathing. Slow, tentative, hungry.

You couldn’t stop yourself.

You leaned in again, pressing your mouth to hers - softer this time. Slower.

Jenna kissed you back just as gently.

Her hands cupped your jaw, cradling your face like you were something precious. Something worth keeping.

You tilted sideways without thinking, pulling her down with you until you were both lying on your sides, facing each other in the dim golden haze.

She smiled against your mouth. You smiled too.

For a long, long moment, you just stayed there. Breathing each other in.

Jenna closed her eyes eventually, her face peaceful. Her hand stayed tangled loosely in your shirt.

You stayed awake. Staring.

Because how could you not? After everything?

The girl who used to drive you up the walls. The girl who challenged you at every turn. The girl who somehow, impossibly, had fought through the end of the world and still found her way back to you.

You stared shamelessly.

Until finally, Jenna cracked one eye open.

“You know I can’t sleep because I feel you staring at me, right?” she murmured, voice husky with exhaustion.

You flushed bright red - caught - but you refused to back down.

Instead, you leaned in closer, lowering your voice to a teasing whisper.

“How am I supposed to look at anything else,” you said, “after the way you kissed me?”

Jenna’s mouth quirked up into a lazy smirk. She arched a perfect eyebrow.

“You’re an idiot,” she said affectionately.

You beamed. “Takes one to know one.”

“Go to sleep, Y/N/N.”

The nickname made your stomach flip.

“Oh, are we on nickname basis already, Jen-”

You didn’t get to finish.

Jenna rolled her eyes, leaned over, and kissed you squarely - firmly - shutting you up the only way she knew how.

You melted into her, grinning against her mouth.

She pulled back, shaking her head fondly, and tucked herself against your side - an arm thrown carelessly across your stomach, her head resting just under your chin.

You froze for a second - brain short-circuiting - before cautiously wrapping your arms around her.

Her fingers traced lazy, featherlight patterns along your jaw. Down your neck. Across your collarbone.

You let out a shaky breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

You were going to die.

You were going to die of being gay.

Jenna shifted closer, her legs tangling with yours under the fresh sheets. Her nose brushed the underside of your jaw. Her touch gentled into stillness.

And then she fell asleep - breathing deep and slow against your skin.

You lay there for a few minutes longer - stunned. Euphoric. Terrified.

You stared at the ceiling.

You stared at her.

You smiled so hard it hurt your cheeks.

And then - finally - you closed your eyes.

Sleep took you almost instantly.

For the first time in months, maybe years, you weren’t afraid of what tomorrow would bring.

Because tonight, Jenna Ortega was asleep in your arms.

And somehow, impossibly - impossibly - you were safe.

You were home.

—//—

AN: am i still evil? 🤭

Part 12

[hummingbird24220]

The Ace Effect (Part 2)

One Piece x Reader

You were trying to be scientific about this. Objective. Measured. Data-driven. But science had failed you. You’d run every test, logged every variable, and the conclusion was clear:

Portgas D. Ace was too hot.

An adorable, freckled, emotionally catastrophic hottie.

He smiled too easily. He leaned too close. He listened when you spoke like you were explaining the secrets of the universe—even if it was just about your favorite pasta shape (it was cavatappi, for very good, very passionate reasons).

So, you’d decided to distance yourself.

Emotionally.

Mentally.

Physically.

You now spent most of your time in enclosed spaces, like the crow’s nest. Or the fridge. Or the bathroom with a blanket over your head.

Robin had stopped offering you tea. She just slid you calming herbs and whispered, “Breathe.”

Currently, you were hiding in the observation room with your notebook, furiously scribbling page after page:

“Romantic Threat Assessment: Portgas D. Ace���

Smile lethality: 9.5/10.

Freckle density: unreasonable.

Sweat glisten under direct sunlight: I’m suing.

Eye contact duration average: 3.7 seconds. Heart rate spike detected.

Potential danger to emotional stability: catastrophic.

You were about to add “Dangerous himbo energy” to the weaknesses column when the door creaked open behind you.

You froze.

“…Y/N?” a voice called.

It was him.

Of course it was him..

You slammed the book shut like it owed you money and spun in your chair. “Hi! Hello! What a surprise! How did you get in here?!”

Ace blinked. “The door was open.”

You nodded. “Right. Doors do that. Open. Yes. Physics.”

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets, smiling that smile—the one that turned your brain into pudding.

“I was looking for you,” he said. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I—I haven’t—I mean I’ve just been—researching.” You grabbed a paper nearby and held it up. “Did you know swordfish can swim up to sixty miles per hour?”

He tilted his head. “That’s cool. But you’re kinda sweating.”

“No I’m not,” you lied, absolutely glistening.

He sat on the bench beside you, leaning forward with elbows on his knees, watching you with infuriating softness. “Y/N,” he said, voice low and sincere, “are you okay?”

You looked at him, really looked, and the truth fell out of your mouth before you could stop it.

“No. Because you keep smiling and talking and being shirtless and I think I’m in love with your stupid face and I hate it.”

There was a beat of silence.

“…Okay,” Ace said slowly, blinking. “That’s a lot. But… good?”

You frowned. “Good?”

“I was worried you were mad at me or something. But if it’s just that I’m too hot, I can work with that.”

Your eye twitched. “You are infuriating.”

“And you’re adorable.” He grinned and poked your cheek. “You drew me with a flower crown on Slide 14.”

You gasped. “You looked through my slides?!”

“I had to! Sanji said there was a whole chart of me kissing a sword and I had to know.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Kill me. Please.”

Ace chuckled and tugged your hand down so you’d look at him.

“You wanna know my favorite slide?” he asked.

“…Is it the one where I seduce a sword?”

“Nope.” He tapped your nose gently. “It’s the one where I’m standing next to you. You look happy. I like that one.”

Your heart tried to explode. You coughed like a dying Victorian child.

He stood up and offered you his hand.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go do something totally unscientific.”

You blinked up at him. “Like what?”

He grinned. “I dunno. Sit under the stars. Hold hands. Maybe kiss a little.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Considered diving out the window. Then, slowly, you took his hand.

Later that night, Robin passed by the deck and spotted you both under a blanket, giggling like kids, faces close in the moonlight.

She sipped her tea and murmured to herself with a smile:

“…Hypothesis confirmed.”

-

You’d hidden the folder. You swore you’d hidden it.

Labeled innocently as “Botanical Thermodynamics (DO NOT OPEN),” it was buried three subfolders deep in your cabin’s desk drawer, under your more boring research—like “The Migratory Patterns of Sea Chickens” and “Cloud That Looks Like Sanji.docx.”

So of course, Ace found it.

You came back from the galley with snacks—for bonding, nothing suspicious—and froze in your doorway.

Ace was sitting on the floor of your room, cross-legged and wholly entranced by the contents of your secret folder. Pages everywhere. Scribbled notes. Diagrams. Charts. Several graphs comparing the ratio of shirtlessness to your heart rate. A few pie charts. A Venn diagram titled “Ace’s Personality: Golden Retriever vs Arsonist” with a big overlap labeled “Dangerous to My Sanity.”

He looked up.

Your soul left your body.

“Hey,” he said, grinning, holding up a page. “So, quick question—how did you get this accurate of a sketch of my back muscles? Did you use mirrors or…?”

“…you were napping,” you croaked. “And I made estimations based on your shoulder width. And science.”

“Hmm.” He flipped the paper over. “Didn’t know science used glitter pens.”

You screamed internally.

Ace shuffled the pages again, pulling one out like it was damning evidence. “Also, this one? The flow chart titled ‘Why Ace is Probably Flirting With Me (But Also Might Just Be Nice)’—very thorough.”

You snatched it, horrified. “That one’s a draft!”

“Sure.” He chuckled, clearly enjoying himself. “Y/N, there’s a six-page case study in here comparing me to various fire-based deities.”

“They’re thematic parallels! It’s literature!”

He held up another sheet. “And this?”

You groaned. “That’s Slide 12. The Compatibility Matrix.”

There were at least 23 names on it. Sanji, Zoro, Robin, the sword again, one very romantic dolphin you met on that weird island. All color-coded. Each had stats listed beneath: chemistry, aesthetic, emotional synergy, cuddle probability.

Yours was at the bottom.

Labeled “Me (Accidental Participant??)”

Next to it:

“Blush Index: Catastrophic.”

“Response Time to Flirting: Delayed.”

“Viability: Unknown.”

“Risk of Heart Failure: Elevated.”

“Desire to Kiss: Redacted.”

“Hair Compatibility: Excellent.” (underlined twice)

Ace didn’t say anything for a moment.

He just looked at you.

Not laughing now. Not teasing.

“...So,” he said, voice quieter. “I’m not imagining this, right? This… thing between us.”

Your breath caught.

“I mean,” you said, trying to keep your voice light, “according to the data—”

“I don’t care about the data,” he said softly. “I care about you.”

The room spun.

Ace scratched the back of his neck, glancing at one of your messier pages. “You’ve been overanalyzing this so hard you forgot to just… feel it.”

You blinked. “That’s not very scientific.”

“No,” he said, stepping closer, “but it’s honest.”

He was in front of you now, close enough that your brain short-circuited.

“I like you,” he said, simple and devastating. “Freckles, flirt crimes, and all.”

You swallowed. “Even the page where I tried to calculate what your hugs would feel like?”

“…Especially that one.”

You blushed so hard your ears burned. “I labeled it ‘Theoretical Warmth.’”

He leaned in, smiling. “Want to make it empirical?”

You stared.

Then nodded.

He pulled you into a hug—warm, safe, a little too perfect. Your knees nearly gave out.

“New variable unlocked,” you mumbled against his chest.

“Huh?”

“Nothing,” you squeaked.

Outside, Robin passed the door and paused.

She heard muffled giggling. A thump. A very undignified squeal.

She sipped her tea with a knowing smile.

“…Hypothesis upgraded,” she murmured. “To fact.”

-

Sanji found the folder two days later.

You were still reeling from The Hug. Ace had gone back to his own ship for a few days to handle “logistical stuff” (you didn’t ask; you were too busy trying not to combust every time you remembered how warm his arms were).

So when Sanji burst into your room holding your Ace Compatibility Research Binder 2.0™, cheeks pink and eyes wide like he’d just found holy scripture, you didn’t even try to lie.

“Have you seen how detailed this is?” he gasped. “Y/N. Y/N. You measured his SMIRK RADIUS. You calculated the gravitational pull of his hip dips.”

“It’s called dedication to the craft,” you muttered, snatching a loose sticky note labeled ‘freckle constellation patterns (my death is imminent)’ and shoving it back in.

Sanji placed a reverent hand on the binder.

“…Can you run a compatibility chart for me?”

You blinked. “With who?”

He gave a suspicious shrug. “Oh, I don’t know. Hypothetically. For science. Maybe the hot marine waitress in Shells Town. Or, you know—” (he looked away dramatically) “—anyone who finds me devastatingly attractive but emotionally complex.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you mean you?”

“I always mean me,” he said proudly.

You sighed.

Then grabbed a pen.

It became a thing.

You and Sanji, hunched over the table like mad scientists, surrounded by half-eaten snacks and glitter pens, arguing over whether eye crinkles or jawlines were a higher compatibility asset. The charts grew. The equations got complex. You started adding variables like “voice timbre” and “mid-battle sexiness.”

He brought you coffee. You brought him lipstick-stained rating stickers.

At one point, Robin passed by, saw the two of you laughing with ink on your faces, and whispered to Chopper, “I think they’ve finally snapped.”

Zoro just muttered, “I told you they were weird.”

The folder became… massive.

Color-coded.

Tabbed.

Glossy cover.

You laminated it.

It was beautiful.

It was terrifying.

It was everything.

And then.

Nami found it.

She flipped through it once.

Then twice.

Then closed it.

And threw it off the ship.

“NOOOOOOOOO!” “MY DATAAA!” “MY HEART MAPS!!” “MY MIDRIFF METRICS!!!”

You and Sanji leapt over the railing like widowed scientists. You held each other in grief. Sanji sobbed dramatically. You actually considered diving in after it until Brook gently pulled you back.

“It’s over,” Nami said, brushing off her hands. “You two need help.”

“But it was a work of art,” Sanji sniffled. “You don’t understand. We mapped emotional compatibility by season!”

“I was a (Starsign),” you whispered, glassy-eyed. “Ace was a Leo. It made sense.”

“It’s literally astrology,” Nami deadpanned.

“SCIENCE,” you hissed.

That night, sitting on the deck in a towel like a war survivor, you stared up at the stars and sighed.

“…I think I was using science as a shield.”

Robin hummed beside you. “Mmm. Defense mechanisms often wear lab coats.”

“I spent so long trying to define it. To label it. Ace makes me feel like I’m on fire and floating all at once, and I kept trying to call that a chemical reaction.”

“Maybe,” she said, “it’s just… chemistry.”

You looked at her.

Then stood up, shaky but determined.

“No more analysis. No more charts. No more math.”

Robin sipped her tea. “How revolutionary of you.”

You turned toward the edge of the ship—and right on cue, Ace was arriving back, hopping from his little boat, a wide smile on his face and wind in his hair, like the universe had heard your dramatic declaration and queued his entrance.

“Hi,” he said breathlessly. “I missed you.”

You didn’t say anything.

You ran.

And then jumped.

Straight into his arms.

He caught you effortlessly, laughing against your shoulder as you clung to him like a starved scientist to the truth.

“No more variables,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his.

“No more equations,” he agreed, cupping your cheek.

You kissed him.

It was messy.

Uncalculated.

Absolutely beautiful.

Somewhere, Sanji sighed longingly as he watched from the kitchen window.

“…I should’ve laminated my feelings.”

-

The folder—the last folder—sat in Ace’s hands like it was ticking.

Nami stood over you both like judgment incarnate, arms crossed, hair glinting like fury under sunlight.

“You promised,” she said to Ace. “We’re putting this weird phase behind us. Burn it. All of it.”

You looked up at him, heart cracking like paper held too close to a flame. “It’s fine,” you said, voice small. “She’s right. It’s time to move on. No more graphs. No more compatibility tables. No more glitter pens.”

Ace looked between you and Nami. Then down at the binder. It was a Frankenstein’s monster of data—he’d added his own notes in the margins. Compliments on your hair. A post-it that said “Y/N’s laugh: better than fire.” Another by your graph titled “Back Muscle Density vs Hug Quality,” where he’d written: “Can confirm. Hugged subject. Results: glorious.”

He smiled gently.

Then, very deliberately, pulled two pages out—your drawing of the two of you smiling, and the back muscle chart—and tucked them inside his vest.

Nami narrowed her eyes.

Ace grinned. “Sentimental value.”

You sniffled. “Scientific value.”

Nami rolled her eyes. “Whatever. The rest goes.”

He nodded. And then, with a flick of his fingers, fire danced across his knuckles. You both watched as the paper edges curled, then ignited, flames licking away hours of analysis, overthinking, insecurity.

You stood beside him, watching it burn.

Not sad, exactly.

Just… letting go.

Your fingers brushed his.

You didn’t pull away.

That night, you sat side by side on the deck, legs swinging off the edge, bare feet over calm water. The sea shimmered with stars, and the moon painted his freckles like constellations.

“You okay?” he asked, voice soft.

You nodded. “Feels weird. Like I’ve been wearing goggles for so long, and I finally took them off. Everything’s clearer. A little blurrier, too.”

“Real life usually is.”

You glanced at him.

Ace was leaning back on his palms, head tilted toward the sky, hair wind-tossed, and you were ruined. By him. For life.

“You kept the drawing,” you said, nudging him lightly.

“I like how you drew me smiling,” he said. “And the eyelashes you gave yourself. Accurate.”

You flushed. “Shut up.”

“I also kept the back muscle graph,” he added. “For… fitness purposes.”

You laughed. “Of course.”

The silence that followed was warm. Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just two people sitting together, a spark glowing softly between them.

Your hands found each other again, fingers interlocking naturally this time.

No fanfare.

No charts.

Just feeling.

“Hey,” you whispered.

“Hmm?”

You rested your head on his shoulder. “I think I like you.”

He smiled.

“I know,” he whispered. “I like you too.”

And under the stars, no graphs, no hypotheses, no research—just two hearts, fluttering and new—young love bloomed quietly. Sweet. Simple. And maybe just a little bit inevitable.

[dwaekkicidal]

Any thoughts on daddy boyfriend Minho? x

DADDY BOYFIE MINHO?¿¿??¿?? 😣😣 many thoughts... i got a little (a lot) carried away and made this sugar daddy to boyfriend minho and a lot longer than i meant to lol.. hope you enjoy <3

warnings: gn!reader, last paragraph has pet play, daddy dom!minho

For some reason I instantly thought of Sugar Daddy Minho, who is only <10 years older than you but is well off due to his job AND gives off the dominant vibes that make you respect him as an 'elder' right off the bat. He first sees you in a coffee shop he goes to with one of his friends, you're too pretty for him to miss out on so he strikes up a conversation with you. His looks mixed with the confidence he gave off made you instantly attracted to him. So much so that you fold embarrassingly fast when he brings up a 'Sugar Baby' idea.

You trust him pretty easily right away because he made you both sign a contract containing agreements for both of your safety and HE'S the one who puts the 'no sex' rule in place: only asking for your companionship and occasional dates (he doesn't tell you right away but he only did it for your comfort, he makes it VERY clear how into you he is both emotionally and physically). After you find that out, you tell him you don't want the rule in place and he immediately throws it out the window. (& you two fuck that night hehe) Everything is still the same after this but now you two are dating and the contract hold less meaning the longer you two date (until he inevitably brings up vetoing the contract because he trusts you that much c':)

On the outside: You two look like any other couple! The only time people bat an eye is when you "Daddy! Can you buy me this?? Pleaseee~" to him in public after they just watched you kiss on the lips (LMFAO). And let me tell you, Daddy boyfie Minho spoils you rotten. Even more so now that you two have known each other for a long while so he's no longer afraid of being 'scammed by a stranger'. Now it's just the love of his life who he plans to marry soon enough is asking for a well deserved treat. He leaves no space for any ifs, ands, or buts from anybody when he decides that you deserve a new present. The store is out of stock? Tough shit. Order it now or show him the nearest store that has it in stock. Oh, it's not for sale anymore? That's unfortunate. "I'll pay you triple if you give me the last ones you have in the back."

"Don't worry kitty. I don't care how many places I have to drive to, you earned this this so you are getting this. Nuh-uh! No 'buts.'"

Oh, and Daddy boyfie Minho absolutely folds the second he sees your puppy dog eyes and pouted lips, no matter what is for. Whether it be for him to do something for you that he wouldn't do for anybody else or go somewhere with you that he doesn't want to go or anything that his friends wouldn't catch him dead doing. For you? It's done the second the request leaves your lips. That concert that you want to go to with him but he's busy that day? Oh look at that, the meeting was 'randomly' pushed back a day. That pretty piece of jewelry he told you to 'wait' for? "Don't give me those eyes, kitty.. You know I- Ah. Fuck it. Excuse me, can I buy one of those?" That person hurt your feelings? Realistically nothing much he can do but he will stare holes into their head and do everything in his power to get them far far away from you while cooing at you and comforting you.

"Kitty... you know I hate crowded places.." Pleeeease Daddy! It will only last a few hours! And I promise I'll make it up to you~

Daddy boyfie Minho who is an ass man and absolutely LOVES to spank you in any scenario. You're cooking a meal? Should've kept your guard up. -smack- Oh, you're minding your business doing work at your desk? Will literally go out of his way to stand you up, land a smack to your ass, then sit you back down and walk away. There will be days where he doesn't hit you on the ass even once, but that always means that he has already or will grab a handful and just sit there. Also does this in public and in front of your & his friends. After a while nobody is phased, and everybody goes on with the conversation as if he isn't grabbing at your cheeks like a freak.

In front of my parents? Really? "Sorry Jagiii. (he's not) You know I can't help myself! You're just too cute~"

Behind closed doors: Daddy boyfie Minho who you can't help but submit to immediately every time you're in the bedroom. You did it the first time you had sex and you can tell he felt something awakened in him. Now, after many many sessions, you default to kneeling on the floor in front of him while he stands or sits in before you and pets your hair softy like his little kitty<3. Even on days you're particularly bratty, you tend to just submit the second he's in a position with space between his legs for you. He loves being in power both in and outside of the bedroom, so any time you're below him and oh so submissive he's weak in the knees and his chest is swelling with pride & horniess.

"You're always so good for me, right kitty? Just a good little pet for your Daddy~"

Daddy boyfie Minho who, I literally can't stress this enough, loooves when you submit it him with no struggle. That being said, on particularly stressful days when one of you is pent up and wants a harder scenario, he can't lie to himself and say he doesn't enjoy if you brat out and make him work for it. But on days like that, just remember that he's in MeanRacha for a reason😉 Likes having you lay across his lap so he can swap between fingering you and spanking you (or on particularly fiending days, will use a dildo and/or vibrator on you hehe). Coos at you and smiles at your strangled moans and pleads of "Daddy please! 'S too much" , only to then push the dildo even deeper into you or the vibrator harder against you.

"Awww it's too much? Too bad. Now be a good little kitty and take what is given to you." >.<

I'm a firm believer that Daddy boyfie Minho would love to put a collar on you and keeps a whole collection for you to choose from depending on your outfit/mood. Discreet ones (aka general "submissive collars") for when you're going in public and not trying to be uncomfortable with other people's looks. But then he has very obvious ones for the bedroom, specifically ones with a biiig hole in the middle or a space attached to it so he can attach a leash to it. When you're sitting between his legs he likes to wrap the leash around his hand a few times and hold you close against his thigh, stroking your cheek and just sitting there enjoying the comfort of the moment. But it only lasts so long before he uses the leverage of the tight leash to fuck your mouth onto his dick <3

"Which pretty collar will it be today, my love? The black one matches your outfit, but you know I do love that mint one on you."

[oldmannapping]

Mama - a Red Hood fanfic

Directly inspired by this post by @webshood

Excerpt:

You don’t jack a car in Crime Alley. And you definitely don’t jack a car in Crime Alley that almost certainly has a child in it.

The “Welcome To Gotham: 10 Things You Need To Know” pamphlets that Harley Quinn earnestly distributed to newcomers to the Gotham underworld were very clear about Red Hood’s list of Dos and Don’t.

Among the top Don’ts were:

Crime in Crime Alley

Crimes against women in Crime Alley

Crimes against children in Crime Alley

Mama

It wouldn’t have happened if she hadn’t been so goddam cute.

Felicia Aidia, barely a year old. Couldn’t quite walk yet, but she could stand unassisted for five seconds of startled jubilance before her own shock at the situation would send her flopping back on her adorable diapered butt. Huge almond eyes that were nearly black, wispy black hair and full pink cheeks, she looked altogether too cherubic to be real.

Felicia had been strapped safely in a booster seat, poking at the condensation on the window of the rideshare car she was in with her babysitter, when they were carjacked by an idiot with either a death wish or less situational awareness than a stoned beetle.

There was no other excuse for why this man jacked a She-Share, one of the brightly-marked cars in a fleet that was famous for being Gotham’s first rideshare company to boast child seats in every one of their vehicles at no extra cost.

They were famously affordable and primarily utilised by single parents in low-income areas such as Crime Alley.

You don’t jack a car in Crime Alley. And you definitely don’t jack a car in Crime Alley that almost certainly has a child in it.

The “Welcome To Gotham: 10 Things You Need To Know” pamphlets that Harley Quinn earnestly distributed to newcomers to the Gotham underworld were very clear about Red Hood’s list of Dos and Don’t.

Among the top Don’ts were:

Crime in Crime Alley

Crimes against women in Crime Alley

Crimes against children in Crime Alley

The car thief had shoved the driver and Felicia’s babysitter out of the vehicle but utterly failed to notice the giant car seat and the appropriately-sized child occupying it.

A city-wide Amber Alert was out within minutes, which honestly was pretty good considering it happened in Crime Alley and Gotham police liked to pretend that area was just a mysterious Bermuda Triangle kinda place where people just mysteriously went missing, who can say why, oh well, what can you do.

The police were fast but Red Hood was faster.

The vigilante was leaping across rooftops with the speed of a panther. One police helicopter pilot completely forgot their assignment and started following him instead of the stolen car. People livestreamed blurry videos of the car careening around corners that hadn’t yet been blocked off, panning up to catch a glimpse of red metal and brown leather streaking across the sky in pursuit.

The end was anticlimactic. Hood crashed onto the roof of the car from the awning of a deli like a feral beast and punched straight through the driver’s side window. He knocked the driver out and wrested control of the vehicle until it skidded to a stop a few blocks away from the official police cordon.

Before any officers got there, Hood had hogtied the unconscious car thief and carefully extracted Felicia from her carseat.

She let out a small, uncertain wail at the sight and sound of cheering locals, crowding close to film and too boisterous with relief to realise they were scaring a baby.

Felicia pouted. It had been loud, and then fast, and then unfamiliar, and then loud again, and suddenly she was outside, and she was supposed to be napping, and she didn’t know any of these people.

Wait, yes she did. The man cradling her protectively with one arm and holding the other out to the crowd, telling them to, “Back off, back off, give her some space,”, she’d seen him before. She didn’t know how but he was familiar. His big red face (no eyes, very strange, no mouth too! How did he suck his thumb?) wasn’t scary. He was the man on the wall painting! The big wall near the playground had a picture of him painted on it. The playground was safe, and he reminded her of the playground. He was holding her protectively and he was all nice and warm.

Felicia didn’t know many words. But she did know the word she used for the person who felt safest.

“Mama!” she said loudly, clinging to the red man’s arm. “Mama!”

“It’s okay, kiddo,” he said in a very soothing voice for someone without a mouth, “We’ll get your mom.”

A police officer arrived and tried to take Felicia away. She did not appreciate it.

“Mama!” she cried louder, torn between frustration and fear. No one ever listened to her! She reached for the red man. “MAMA!”

Well. Like we said. She was so goddam cute. All eyes were on her fat little face, her adorable, freshly-rescued, chubby little hands reaching out to Red Hood. Everyone was filming her on their phones.

And she called the Red Hood “Mama”, in a perfectly clear, tiny, adorable little baby voice.

Of course it went viral.

For a while, it was a fun in-joke between Gothamites. People playing vigilante bingo to see who they’d spot each night would jokingly ask each other if they’d seen “Mama” down by the docks. Goons blustered amongst themselves that “Mama” didn’t scare them, as they kept their heads down and prayed he didn’t notice them. One bold news website captioned a picture as “Red Hood/Mama” in a story about Felicia’s rescue, while the commenters lost their minds either rofl skull skull skull dying laughing or warning the editors that they should be careful in case the trigger-happy vigilante didn’t have a sense of humour.

Closer to Hood’s home though, the reception was different. And, to him, wholly unexpected.

It started with Felix, the 16-year-old who’d been a sex worker until Hood cleaned up the under-18 scene in the Alley, and who now helped shuttle street kids to the lowkey safehouses Hood and his team had set up. Felix was a good middleman the kids trusted to take them somewhere with food, water, electricity, and no one called CPS. It wasn’t perfect, but it was a good compromise until Hood could clean the stink out of the city’s social services.

Felix was smoking on a stack of crates one night, chatting to a couple of his friends, when Hood strolled over.

“Hola, Mama,” Felix greeted casually, taking a drag of his cigarette as his friends choked.

Hood just sighed. “Not you too.” With a weary exhale, he got to business. “I got those extra blankets you needed for the safehouse on Cedar. They’re at the Warehouse B if you want to run them over tonight. Sheila knows you’re coming, she’ll sort you out.”

And so, with Felix not dead and two witnesses with big mouths to tell the tale, word spread. It was open season on Red Hood’s new nickname.

“Hey, mama!” called the girls on the corner as Hood checked to make sure none of the johns had gotten too rough.

“Mama’s here!” crowed the gays and theys across the block as he dropped off condoms and hot soup.

“It’s mama!” announced the receptionist at the shelter when Red Hood stopped by to do an inventory check.

Everywhere he went.

Whatever. It would pass. People’s attention spans were shot to shit, and the loudest viral jokes always burnt out the fastest. At least, Hood was pretty sure. He wasn’t really online much but it was impossible to exist in the world without hearing a few meme references, and they always seemed to die out fast. When was the last time anyone talked about Baby Shark? Or that kid who said “corn” weird? This would blow over.

Granted, it was taking a bit longer than Hood initially expected.

When Dick gleefully changed his name in the Family Chat, Jason ignored it. He never replied to that thing anyway.

When Red Robin said, “Mama, you’re clear,” in perfectly neutral tones during an otherwise routine surveillance operation, and several comm lines immediately muted themselves, Jason ignored it.

When Damian’s new black kitten, with huge blue eyes and a white streak on the forehead, was named Mama, Jason started to get annoyed. Even DAMIAN?

When Roy answered his call with, “Mama, I missed you!” followed by thirty seconds of unhinged cackling, Jason hung up the phone and didn’t speak to Roy for three days.

When Cass used the ASL sign for Mom to relay information to him during a mission brief, his shoulders dropped.

When Alfred gave him an exquisite pink cupcake on the second Sunday of May, Jason thanked him, left the room, walked into the nearest bathroom, carefully put the cupcake on the bench, and screamed into a towel for six minutes.

When Duke finished a story about growing up in the Narrows with, “Mama knows what I’m talking about, right?”, Jason was defeated.

Fine. They win. Everyone wins.

He worked so hard on a legacy. He dug out of his own GRAVE. He clawed himself back from insanity and anger and reclaimed himself, reclaimed Red Hood, reclaimed his home. He carved a new space for himself, not quite a vigilante, not quite a villain. He made his own rules. He built an empire.

And now, he’s FUCKING Mama.

Life isn’t fair. Sometimes the Joker kills you and you sever heads and butcher bad guys and build up a reputation and then one goddam adorable child says two goddam syllables and you’re fucking MAMA for the rest of your goddam life.

Fuck it. He’s going home. He’s too tired for this shit.