#I... I hope I don't sound... too... you know.

[heartikeu]

IN ALL YOUR PERFECTS

〔 𝒾 〕 How did you get so lucky as to bag one of the hottest men on campus, Sim Jaeyun? That question rings in your head often, even in moments you shouldn't feel insecure. And every answer is too unkind to speak out loud to the beautiful boy stealing hearts on the lacrosse field and upending your world with every smile he gives you. But he can sense something is off, and if you don't explain why soon, you may just be the downfall of everything.

𝐬𝐢𝐦 𝐣𝐚𝐞𝐲𝐮𝐧 𝓍 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 12.2K ⋮ 18+ ⋮ fluff, angst, smut, plus-size!reader, lacrosse player!jake, semi-fwb au, college au, downbad!jake, insecurites (of the reader), self-manipulation, negative self-talk and thoughts, body worship, praise kink, oral (f receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, creampie ᯤ 𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍𝖾𝗇 𝗍𝗈: 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦 — 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘭𝘥𝘭𝘧𝘦, 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘦 𝘮𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 — 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘷𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘸𝘢𝘢𝘭, 𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘬 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩 — 𝘤𝘰𝘪𝘯, 𝘥𝘪𝘻𝘻𝘺 — 𝘺𝘶𝘦𝘬𝘶, 𝘣𝘦𝘴𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 — 𝘢𝘭𝘦𝘹𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳 𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘸𝘢��𝘵, 𝘩𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦 — 𝘥𝘢𝘴𝘩𝘣𝘰𝘢𝘳𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭, 𝘬𝘪𝘴𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘴𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘴 — 𝘢𝘶𝘨𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘺𝘢𝘭𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦!

⌗ 𝐨𝐩𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 ── First and foremost, thank you for all the love the teaser for this fic got, it makes me so happy that everyone was receptive to this premise and wanted to see the entire story! All of my loves who read this (@lovetaroandtaemin @frenchkisstheabyss @xomakara @innocygnet @tinycatharsis @xylatox @aeristudios and many others), I love you guys and thank you for motivating me to continue it. And to all of you, like I said in the teaser, you are greater than your worst thoughts, and the love that you deserve is waiting for you no matter your size or self-doubts. I hope you enjoy!

You never step out of the car.

It's routine to pick Jake up after every Tuesday and Friday lacrosse practice. You detested the idea at first. You didn't know Jake's teammates and friends—you made a point not to—but you predicted long ago they would smell your anxiety the second you shifted gears on the pavement. "Just have San or someone else do it, please?" You'd responded with something to that effect the first time he asked, and the subject was dropped.

But sticking to your guns became especially difficult once Jake discovered your undoing via his incessant pouting and perfectly-executed neck kisses. Ultimately, your resolve crumbled.

You've driven to and away from the field many times in the past four months, yet your physical reactions in between the driving never change. You sit with bated breath as you see the clock on your dash shift, ten minutes past when you were supposed to be here passing in a blur. Fingers tap against the steering wheel in time to the beat of the song, the melody humming low from your speakers. All of the humdrum habits and safety of your car keep you from feeling small, but the second your head turns, or a sound pulls you from your daze, you're fucked.

Your 2011 Volkswagen is no match for the Audis and Range Rovers surrounding you in the parking lot next to the lacrosse field. In the 9 PM moonlight, they all shine something fierce. The chrome and glossy finishes are in excruciatingly stark contrast to the chipped paint on your front bumper and aged rubber lining your tires.

You can't picture what the field must look like. Booster parents and college alumni's donations ensured top-dollar amenities for the team that you've never seen play once. The Red Hawks have to be formidable in some capacity in order to garner such adoration from your peers and financial support from the school administration.

Jake laughed it off when you said you never went to a game before him and didn't plan on doing so even after ending up in his bed. He just went back to kissing you at the time and let it go because he knew the truth: it wasn't a part of the deal you both agreed upon.

"Yet picking him up is?" Jungwon asked one morning after you told him about taking Jake home the night prior. You lovingly told your best friend to fuck off and mind his business. The questions on his face could have easily cracked through your cool resolve, but you wouldn't let them.

All that can do that is your own nerves, psyching you out in a million ways before Jake can step away from the field and make it to your passenger side door.

Ultimately, though, finally seeing his sweat-soaked hair and cherry-red uniform hugging his body makes the fears dissipate enough for you to breathe normally again. A handful of guys walk off, but Jake and a few friends remain near the edge of the field. You can hear his laugh before he can get to your car, his conversation with his teammates turning from strategy to straight comedy, no doubt. Felix and Vernon share brotherly handshakes with him before making it to their own cars. You tell yourself not to follow them with your eyes, but they betray you the second the two men leave your peripheral vision. The girls waiting outside their vehicles are eager to greet them, sporting denim cutoffs and tank tops meant to show off their midriffs.

Subconsciously, your hand drifts to your own stomach. The skin there hasn't seen the sun in a hot minute. The last time had to be when you were too drunk to care. Now, more than clearheaded, you feel the hard truths come in like tidal waves. The outfit you could never pull off taunts you like the cars do. It's another piece of the puzzle to prove you don't fit in, not really.

The light but purposeful taps to your window pull you from the precipice of another mental spiral. You turn to find Jake fogging up the glass with his quick breaths. His megawatt smile is electric, unfurling your somber mood like a bird's wing. He may desperately need a shower and some rest, but he's never looked more radiant than with his flushed cheeks and damp curls. For how bright the moon shines outside, he's the sun incarnate.

He gets in the passenger side once he sets his equipment in your back seat. After he's settled in, his smile is back on you, warming you with silent heat.

"You smell," you say before pecking his lips. The kiss lasts for only a few seconds, but it could be a lifetime from how slow and smooth it feels, numbing your thoughts to their core like novocaine.

"Oh?" he asks when you pull away, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

"You're lucky I'm into that."

He chuckles. His lips are back on yours in the next second, the sound of his laughter still rumbling on his tongue when it enters your mouth. He presses his hand to your cheek, pulling you into him. The protective taping wrapped around his hand, running from knuckles to wrist, rubs against your cheek with every move of his mouth and fingertips.

You pull away to catch your breath, dizzy from the force of him. He whispers, "Let's go home."

He says the last word reverently, like home is just the two of you and nobody else. Exactly as it should be in his eyes. You try to believe it as you start the car, his hand firm on your thigh as you begin the drive back to his studio apartment. You want to take his words to heart, the only reassurance you'd ever need to quell the fear of opulence and beauty you barely possess, but you know the facts.

It won't last, so you have to enjoy what you can while you have it. But even that seems to be the hardest feat in the universe when you're reminded of what will soon be gone.

"Jaeyun—holy shit—right there." You gasp, moving your hips harder against Jake's soft lips. His tongue swirls around your clit as his fingers enter and exit your spongy walls. The brush of his fingertips hits you as hard as the murmurs of his words against your folds, praise leaving his lips as he admires the essence around his digits. You tighten around them with every swirl of his mouth on the hood of your cunt. He's desperate to make you fall apart once more, nuzzling deeper into you and moving faster.

You made it to his apartment quickly, the tension between you dissipating your earlier worries and transforming them into pure need. He may see it only as an expression of his desire for you, his stamina never-ending despite hours of practice. For you, it's the perfect way to make your ghosts go away, if only for a little while—his shower and rest be damned.

"She's sucking me in so well. Fuck, I love it," Jake comments, more for you than himself. He's a particular type of vulgar in bed. In normal conversation, he barely curses. Sure, he's still a guy surrounded by raging testosterone who possesses some fraction of perverted humor, but when he's lost in you and the sheets, he's feral. His composure becomes frayed in all the right ways when he sees your pussy flutter around his fingers, his tongue, his cock. He can't control it, and you don't want him to.

"God, please let me come again." You sink into his sheets as you arch your hips, chasing the feeling with eager and sweaty limbs. He pins you down harder, squeezing your plush skin between his palms while unraveling you. Jake's too good at this, snug amongst your soaked thighs and warm heat. Maybe he's made to live there in a land of skin and slick, forever existing between your legs.

"Yes, pretty girl. Let me feel it around me this time."

He switches positions quickly, sinking his aching tip inside of you as his wet fingers rub against your clit. He only manages a few strokes before you're losing your composure completely, clutching tightly to his shoulders with weak hands but lit-up nerve endings. His hips flex as your tongue shapes curses and half-completed moans.

"You're so perfect—ah, goddamnit—when you come. It's incredible. You're incredible." Sweat quickly paints his face as he maintains his slow but deep pace. He gains speed only once he feels his high trickling up his spine. "Where do you want it tonight, beautiful?"

You roll your eyes lazily, your head turning into the pillow from his praise. He always asks, although you both know the only correct answer. But you're so lost in him and the afterglow, you swallow the rhetorical barb on your lips and whisper, "Inside, Jaeyun. Fill me up, please? I want it all."

Jake curses once more before he ruts into you. Animalistic, choked cries erupt from deep in his diaphragm when he reaches his orgasm. He already had no composure left to speak of, but it’s as though he's finding it again by letting himself fall apart above you. Ropes of his seed coat your insides with warmth, and you think that this must be what he meant when he said "home" earlier in the car. There's nothing inside or outside of your bubble to fear when you're both so intertwined, so attached to one another in the most primal form.

You lay there together for a moment, evening the tempos of your heartbeats and pace of your breaths together. It's peace at its barest elements. The quiet of your mind feels as foreign as a new language, but Jake makes it easy to learn when he swims the uncharted waters with you.

But that's the trick with ghosts. They creep in the moment after a person believes they've bested them once and for all.

"I gotta ask you something," Jake whispers. He rubs his hands against the expanse of your back, but it's no longer soothing. The warmth you felt a mere ten minutes ago turns to ice, the calm waters transforming into a harsh current you're preparing to drown in. Jake senses the sudden rigidness of your body in the aftermath of his statement. He chuckles and pulls you in closer. "Relax, I'm not proposing to you."

You huff, quietly relieved. "Would've been an odd way to ask, anyway."

His chest rumbles with laughter. Your fear lowers to a manageable degree, but you remain on your toes. Possibilities flicker across your mind, the cryptic message capable of anything. Will he make another stink about you seeing one of his games? Does he want to risk you finally agreeing to attend one of the dumb house parties you've said no to a million times over, only for you to swat him on the arm and tell him to go to bed?

Your throat dries up in anticipation of the inevitable. After a moment, he says, "I want you to meet my parents."

You try silence to listen as Jake explains further, but you're running on half concentration and half inner turmoil. A few of his words play in a loop in your brain as you watch his lips move.

Jake's parents. Home from overseas. He wants to introduce you to them.

There were only a handful of rules established at the onset of whatever your relationship was. One of them was not to make the relationship itself intimately known amongst friends and family. Jake's teammates and your friends are aware you both are seeing each other, but that's the beginning and end of it. There's no showing off photos of each other, no bouts of PDA to make people envious or uncomfortable, and definitely no sharing of personal information.

You like it that way. It keeps the outside world from creeping in and expanding the doubts already adequately sized in your mind. You don't think you can take that reality, the one where everyone pulls their two cents together for the destruction of what little you've scrounged up with Jake, so you live in this one instead. You're at an arm's length from the entirety of him and his life, but he's still reachable. And you're still safe.

Only now, Jake is threatening that safety by wanting what's outside of your bounds, asking you to give parts of yourself you can't breach.

You pull away from him sharply, tasting alkaline metal in the back of your throat. In response, Jake's blush-painted cheeks go white. He presses both hands to either side of your face before you have time to move further away. His touch is so sweet, but it doesn't save you from getting lost in your head. "I know it's a lot, but they'd love you right away. And I—"

"What would we even say?" You interrupt him with bite, your teeth gnashing together in hard clamps. "'Hi, Mom, this is the girl from my organic chemistry class I've been fucking all semester. Dad, that's a nice tie'?"

"I wouldn't exactly put it like that," he jokes. He pushes some of your sweaty strands of hair from your face as he composes his next words. "And my dad doesn't wear ties, so we're good there."

"Jaeyun, you're missing my point!"

"I'm seeing it loud and clear, babe. I'm just saying there's nothing to worry about, especially my dad's fashion choices."

His teasing only makes your stomach sink deeper. How can you make him understand your perspective without cracking open months' worth of anxiety? You aren't officially dating, but it's been working just fine within the parameters of no labels. Why screw it up? "Yunnie, I can't. You know why."

He gulps and rubs one thumb along the apple of your cheek. He says nothing, but his brown irises and downturned lips hold all the questions in the world you can't answer. The biggest one of all nearly upends your willpower: Why can't you want more?

The problem is not that you don't. You do, so much so the desire for it could suffocate you. There's no woman on this planet who could sleep with Jake for this long and not grow fond of him. And that fondness has only grown stronger with time, time to be breathless with him by your side and time for your mind to race around thoughts of him when he wasn't there.

But you can't get lost in fantasy; you must be realistic. There will be a day he realizes you both are on two different planes of existence. You're perpendicular lines that, by some galaxy's grace, converged once and never will again.

He's Sim Jaeyun, lacrosse co-captain and statuesque head to toe. And you're you, the girl who your middle school bully nicknamed "Pudding" as she poked your stomach with a ruler. The teenager who delivered love notes to your friends from boys searching for less love handles and more sex appeal. The woman molded from pitiful pats to the chin and words of judgement caked with sugary understanding. "It's just baby fat, darling. We all get it, and it'll go away when you hit a growth spurt one day."

That day never came, and the extra tissue stayed. But, with time and effort, you grew callous to protect what remained soft inside of you.

Jake is the only person who seems to seep past the hard edges you've built without knowing any of your history, and it terrifies you. It makes you believe for a millisecond that he could make all the intrusive thoughts disappear if you'd let him.

But he can't, not when he asks for things that will never come, and definitely not when you're positive he won't care when he leaves you behind.

It doesn't make the pain on his face any easier to bear, though. It sags from defeat, and his lips turn in the pout you adore when he sees you don't want to hurt him any more than you already have by saying no. Before he can utter another word, or his expression can wound you deeper, you shut him up with something you'll regret later, a trade that feels like a death sentence. "The Hawk's Gala."

His eyes widen. "What?"

"The Hawk's Gala's this Sunday, right? After Saturday's game?" You swallow your fear like a dry pill. "I'll go with you."

Jake asked you weeks ago if you would attend the team's annual gala to celebrate the midway point of the season. One night, he mentioned it when you were too preoccupied with his cock in your mouth to give him a definitive answer. You expected him to not broach the topic again after you left him with no elaboration. But he had no room to complain after you swallowed every bit of his cum and mental energy. Unfortunately for you, he asked one more time after that, and you blew him again to make the invitation disappear from his mind.

Now, you’ve sprung the idea back on him to escape from the original conversation, but it only makes you feel worse as every pore on Jake's face lights up. "Really?"

He's like a kid sneaking a peek at his birthday present, tentative but ready to burst at the seams. You nod, not smiling but not frowning either, and the dam of his excitement breaks.

He squishes you back into bed, unaware of the terror in your eyes as he smatters kisses across your face and neck. His elation breaks your heart evenly down the middle, the hope seeping out of him souring instead of sweetening your mood. He's buzzing with the beginning of something more while you see the slow crawl to your end. The credits are rolling quickly past your eyes, the cackles and judgement ringing in your ears, and you can do nothing to stop it.

Working retail has to be one of the worst jobs you've ever had. It's monotonous to boot, the only upside being the extra money in your pocket for extra college expenses.

For all the glamour of the glitzy tops and convenience of the mall's constant markdowns, you have thought of quitting almost twice a day. Once customers see the name tag pinned to your shirt, you cease to be a person and become another goal post to the shopping bag they'll walk out of the store with.

The only bright spots have been your coworkers. Like Heeseung, who runs a tight ship as the store manager, and Sunwoo, your right-hand man when you need him to help with folding or handling rowdy teenagers.

Well, them, and the rare occurrence when Jake breaks your rules and stops by after classes to see you. It may only be ten to twenty minutes of time, most of those minutes being spent near the pretzel stand adjacent to the store, but it means more than you'd ever admit to anyone.

Today, you know it will be one of the hardest shifts of your life. Watching Wonyoung walk into the store with a random guy on Jake's team on her arm is like the knock of Death's fist on your door. You assume the poor kid is on the team from the Red Hawks letterman jacket he's wearing. The scoff that leaves your mouth is unavoidable. She couldn't be more transparent in her tactics to make her ex-boyfriend jealous when he's not even around.

Her presence makes a knot form in your throat as you finish rearranging the jeans on the display near the cash registers. What could she want in this store on this night when you're one of the few employees working the floor? Heeseung's on his half-hour lunch break while Sunwoo's been delegated to dressing room duty. You could use your walkie, call for backup and pretend the SOS is for a legitimate emergency, but then Heeseung would pry into it as your friend and superior. In short, there's no escaping the situation presented to you on a cruel, platinum-blonde platter.

When Wonyoung appears in front of you with a lacy dress in one hand and her boy candy's hand intertwined with the other, you stifle the bile crawling up your throat and paint on your best smile. "Welcome to Fatal Trouble Fabrics, what can I help you with?"

Wonyoung's own smile is more artificial than yours, saccharine yet glazed with venom. "Is XS the smallest size you guys have? I think it may be too roomy in the hips for me."

Your jaw ticks, and you tug the corner of your bottom lip between your teeth. "There's always alternative sizing options on our website. We go from XXXS to XXXL in almost all of the garments." You can hear the clinical objectivity in your voice, but it's the only way to get through the hell that is this conversation.

She's everything you're not in too many ways to tally up. She's half your weight soaking wet and effortlessly dolled up in the most natural makeup you've ever seen. Not to mention she has two years of experience with Jake to speak for that you'll never measure up to. He’s spoken about her in the rarest of times, only saying it ended badly during his second semester and he would never venture down that path with her again. His reassurance was a slight comfort, but not enough to quell the insecurities she springs out of you.

The second her eyebrow quirks up, your urge to vomit heightens. She can see she's getting to you; with the way her lips purse, she has to have some inkling. Knowing you’re going against a snake ready for the last strike against its defenseless prey, you steel yourself for whatever will come next.

She looks past you to the rack with tube tops in multiple colors. She lets go of Boy Candy's hand to rifle through the clothes, completely silent. Then, she pulls one bigger-sized article off the display before saying, "I'd love to buy this for my sister, but she's a bit chubbier than this. You know, your size."

Boy Candy can't fight the laughter that sputters past his lips. Your face twitches once, only once, but it makes your sight turn to the smallest capacity of tunnel vision you've ever known. She didn't have to go there, yet she did. You don’t have to feel the bruise of her insult, yet you do. It’s all over your posture now, and you can’t avoid it.

You grip another pair of jeans tighter in your hands. Turning to fold them, you say over your shoulder, "You should check out the website, then. It’ll have a lot more options for…easily accessible clothing, if you get what I mean."

Just as she's about to step closer to you, her plastic grin turning to a pissed-off pout, Jake saunters through the store and immediately wraps his hand around her upper arm. You know he's not hurting her, but it still makes your blood run cold seeing him in this protective mode. It's not one he's ever had to use for you, or maybe anyone, before. "Won, don't do this here. I mean it."

"Dude, you can't do that!" Boy Candy interjects with a high-pitched yell. He shrinks immediately when Jake turns in his direction, looking at the smaller and younger kid with rigid apathy.

"Kai, get lost before I tell Coach to bump you to second line just for pissing me off."

Kai raises his hands in defense and walks backwards to the store entrance, leaving Wonyoung to fend for herself. Jake goes back to staring down his ex-girlfriend, his expression on the cusp of explosion. “I’m asking you nicely to not cause a scene. Next time, I won’t.”

She huffs and yanks her arm from Jake's hold. "Whatever. Call me when you get tired of slumming it with food court trash." She looks back at you with a smirk before walking away towards Boy Candy.

You want to throw all the pairs of jeans at her until her smug face disappears from your mind. More importantly, you want to muffle the thoughts now overloading your headspace.

Please keep it together, you tell yourself when Jake puts his hand on your hip with reverence, a gesture that makes your heart swell but your breath quicken. Don't remind me I don't deserve him right now.

"Are you okay?" he asks patiently, moving his hand to run his thumb under your shirt. No coworkers or customers are around to see him be so secretly intimate with you, but you blush all the same.

You nod. "Yeah. I just wanna get through this shift,” You manage a smile, and he visibly relaxes when you affirm you’re fine. “You could've texted and said you were coming by."

"Well, it was a surprise." Jake moves away from you to take a box from his denim jacket. It's wrapped with a white bow, but he quickly unties it in order to open the packaging. "I know you said no gifts, but I wanted to give you this."

A gold necklace appears between his fingers. The rectangular pendant hanging from its center features a cutout of a bird, the negative space forming the shape of a hawk in flight.

You could cry if you weren’t awestruck by the gift’s beauty. Combing through your memory, you realize nobody has ever given you something so precious. It would be criminal to say no to it, although every basic instinct tells you not to fall for the false comfort it provides. But how could it be false when Jake looks at the jewelry like it's his own heart laid bare for you to take?

Without a word of protest, you turn and tuck your hair away from your shoulders so he can put the necklace on you. You can feel his smile without looking, and your knees buckle a touch.

Jake secures the clasp at the back of your neck. The pendant falls perfectly over your heart, shining against the store's halogen lights. His fingertips brush your nape as he moves away. He lights your skin on fire in every way, but the subsequent smile he gives you is what makes your belly ache with need. "I know you're going to look beautiful, but I couldn't have you going to this dinner without wearing something…symbolic."

"Symbolic, huh?" You smirk, feigning confidence, but you feel as vulnerable as he does when you ask it.

"Yeah, I think so." He runs his hand across your waist again, like he wants to pull you closer and harder against him. "If it wasn't unprofessional of you to make out with a customer, I'd have kissed you already."

You giggle, your smile beaming. "I don't think anyone's around to stop you, Sim."

He mumbles a "Fuck it" before attaching his mouth to yours, warming you to the bones slowly. You smile into his kiss and let it wash away the pain. For a moment, you think you might come out of the dinner in a few days without issue. As long as he never leaves your side, you think you can do it. Maybe.

Your fingers were tentative against the bruise marring Jake's shoulder blade. Tinted a shade deeper than his normal skintone but visibly lighter at the edges, the bruise will fade in another few days. You know this from asking him a few hours ago how it happened. "From practice, it's fine—just let me touch you, please," he had said in haste to pull you closer and take your clothes off.

Now, you tread across it gently as you sit shoulder-to-shoulder with him, covers pulled up to your chest to cover your naked skin.

"Broken blood vessels cause the bruise itself," he says. "It can take up to two weeks for the body to break down the buildup of blood, depending on the level of injury." He runs his bottom lip along your forehead, and you shiver against him, making him chuckle. "You could try listening, you know. I'm giving you important medical information here!" 

You laugh into his neck, playing with the ends of his hair. "I am! Just didn't expect you to know so much about the anatomy of a bruise when your degree is for veterinary medicine."

He shrugs, suddenly bashful. For all the talk of Jake around campus as a beast on the field, he's incredibly intelligent. One class was enough for you to see how engaged he was with his studies, more than just some jock you knew by name only. He always asked questions, took diligent notes, and collaborated in discussions without dominating the conversation. In truth, it was a shock that he asked to exchange lecture notes with you over coffee two months ago.

"You're one of the only people who jots down everything Mr. Choi says!" You tried not to sound rude when responding to his proposition, but you were unsure what exactly he wanted from you in the first place. Especially when he was the equivalent of a movie starlet and you…well…

He just smiled and said, "Well, it was kinda hard to do that today when I spent half of his presentation staring at you."

You shake away your bout of reminiscing, coming back to Earth to hear Jake's breakdown of bruises for dummies. He rolls his eyes dramatically after you apologize for losing your train of focus. "Anyway, that's why bruises can be hot to the touch. It's also why they change color little by little as the blood is broken down.

"From black and blue…" Jake presses a kiss to the spot between your eyebrows. He drags his mouth across your face with every pause he takes between speaking. "…to brown…sometimes green and yellow…"

His lips on your neck make you tremble once again under his touch. Your body acts as though he didn't already spread it out for the taking a mere half hour ago.

"…and then back to its normal color," he murmurs before another tantalizing kiss lands on your lips. You stifle a moan, but a partial sound squeaks out anyway that turns your cheeks a rosy hue. "Good as new."

"Now who's losing focus, huh," you jest.

"I think I'm doing just fine in that department, pretty girl."

The edges of your mouth turn up before you press your mouth to his wounded skin. His body feels all kinds of warm against your lips. He groans unabashedly, his own gooseflesh perking up on his arms and neck from your attention. You giggle like a teenager, vulnerable in a way that isn't sounding off alarm bells in your brain.

He's the beginning, middle, and end of safety, every emotion stirred up in your heart cared for with his gentle hands.

"Who needs the body's healing process when you can just kiss it better?" he teases before pinning you between his body and his bedsheets.

You scoff playfully. "Do those lines work with all the girls?"

He pokes his tongue at you before booping your nose with his index finger. "Hopefully just one, the only one that matters."

You think Jake may be your own personal bruise, an unexpected force that's affected every inch of your body. But you don't want him to fade, not now and not ever.

You wake from your dream to the sound of your phone's text alert. Jake's contact photo lights up your phone, but what catches your attention the most is the time on your homescreen. "Fuck," you mutter before leaping from bed. Your hands make quick work of rifling through your closet as a million more curses leave your lips.

You thought a quick hour nap before getting ready would quell your anxieties about the gala in question finally coming around the corner. Unfortunately, your anxieties also made you forget to set a damn alarm, and thus left you with only an hour and a half to get ready.

And the brutality of your nerves smacks you in the face as you scroll through Jake's messages.

J 🤍 [04:15]: Hey, pretty girl. Just in case you forgot and want to coordinate, I'll be wearing red ;)  J 🤍 [04:18]: Well, a red letterman jacket and a dress shirt. But red! J 🤍 [05:05]: Ok, a bit worried you haven't responded, but I don't want you freaking out about anything. You could walk in wearing a sack and you'd be gorgeous like you always are… J 🤍 [05:07]: I mean, don't come in a sack if you think that's too basic, but I'll love whatever you wear. Text me when you're on your way. J 🤍 [05:59]: Is everything okay?

"Damnit," you say before typing a quick response back to him that you're okay despite oversleeping. You end the text with a winking emoji and a heart that will ease his worries.

If only the little pixels could assuage yours.

The pit in your stomach from this morning was the size of a golf ball, manageable until you needed to sleep to take your mind off of its presence. Now, it's the size of a dinner plate pressing down on your ribcage with each and every dress you put on. They all fail to impress you, none of them doing the work of making your burdens disappear. One burgundy dress that falls to the middle of your thighs is passable, but you still want to punch a hole through the mirror hanging on your bathroom door when you see your reflection.

Even as you run heaps of makeup across your face and curl your hair, you feel like a clown that's missing the best parts of their costume. In the next second, you swipe too much lipstick on your upper lip and let out the wail of a wounded animal. It's ragged and spent, tattered from all sides.

At that moment, the first truth becomes an unmistakable blow to the stomach: every pretty garment and expensive cosmetic in the world won't keep you from embarrassing Jake. You will stick out like a sore thumb at that dinner, a stain over the picture-perfect moment he could have if you stay out of sight and mind.

In the next moment, the second truth appears: you won't be leaving your apartment tonight. You set the lipstick tube down on your desk and try not to dry heave, waddling back to your bed to disappear under the covers.

You'll break his heart for breaking your promise, but all you can do is hope he'll allow you to mend it. Maybe some part of him will understand there's a valid reason you missed it, one you cannot verbalize, but he recognizes under the layers of pretty words you'll use. That will be better than knowing the entirety of your excuse for blowing him off.

You don't bother wiping off the wreck you've made of your face or discarding the dress in the heap of clothes you've made on the floor. You toss and turn under the comforter, tears streaming down your face and hands clutching your necklace as the sun sets. Hearing the sounds of the outside world greeting dusk, you feel half your size but steel yourself to sleep with the knowledge it's better this way. It has to be.

Jake has tried to be patient. 

He knows he could not have been more reasonable and nonjudgemental as he watches your chest rise and fall in your sleep. Your figure in the throes of your slumber is so beautiful, especially when your fingers remain wrapped around the pendant at your throat. He swears to himself he could fall in love with you all over again tonight if he wasn't so disappointed and pissed off. And with those emotions too present in his gut to avoid, he knows you've worn his patience down to the quick.

He waited for a half-hour outside of the restaurant for you to show, biting the skin around his nails as each minute passed by with your face nowhere in sight. Texts went unresponded to, calls unanswered, even video chat requests went through dead air. He had half a mind to run away from the venue to make sure you hadn't slipped in the shower or something far more dangerous kept you from meeting him.

Throughout the entire dinner, he brushed the concerned questions from his teammates off and said you fell too ill to make it. The guys said nothing and continued on with the engagement, but Jake remained rattled through the rest of the night. When he said his goodbyes, he felt a small semblance of relief, because that meant he could drive straight to you for the answers he desperately sought.

He didn't expect to find you passed out. You usually greet him at the door with eager arms and peckish lips, but you were too fatigued and lost in sleep to hear him unlocking your front door and stepping inside. He was also floored to find your apartment in ruins, the place akin to a bomb going off in all directions that gave no clues as to what happened to you. So, all he could do was sit at your bedside and watch you, your eyelids and body twitching as you dreamed.

Jake's been patient long enough, more than understanding for you, the girl he loves, but now he needs some sense of direction that only you can provide.

Jake runs his thumb over the lipstick smudge on your cupid's bow, and he curses himself when your eyes flutter open. You look peaceful for a moment as you wake up, but your irises immediately flood with fear at Jake's presence and the darkness surrounding you both. "What time is it?" you ask.

"One on the dot," he responds. "I used the spare key in the plant pot by your door."

You rub your face and rise, shame flooding every part of your body. You ran through the cycle of chastising yourself and swearing you were doing the right thing a thousand times over before you passed out, but facing Jake is a new breed of raw. His hurt is palpable, especially in the quiet cold of the night. It pierces you long and hard when he asks, "What happened?"

You mumble, "Nothing looked nice enough to go out in." You shrug, balling the fabric of your dress between your fists. "And I couldn't come out and meet everyone like this."

"I think this looks just fine," he says with an incredulous expression, still tainted with pain but newly inscribed with wholehearted empathy. "Better than that, actually." 

Jake's hand comes to meet the side of your neck, brushing the gold necklace along your nape, and you bite down on your lip hard to fight the swell of emotion crawling up your throat. "I need you to talk to me," he whispers as you taste blood in your mouth.

You step away from him to grab your hamper, pawing at the heaps of clothing on your floor with trembling hands. If you can't control the conversation, the least you can do is make your house less of a war-zone. Anything is better than facing Jake head-on right now. "There's nothing to say besides that I didn't come and I'm sorry, I really am." You look at him directly in the eyes, forcing some confidence to rise to the surface. "Can we please just drop it?"

He scoffs at your question. "You stand me up, refuse to give me a valid explanation why, and think it's okay to ask me to drop it?" He makes you stop grabbing clothes from the floor by clutching both of your shoulders in his palms. "What is going on with you?"

You shake your head so fast it makes you dizzy. "I can't do this, Jaeyun. Please."

"Baby, I just need help understanding this, 'cause I'm so fucking confused right now." His arms run up your skin to rest on your face. "Is this about what happened the other day with Wonyoung?"

"Partly," you admit. You walk away from his touch again, but he follows behind you as you move around your small apartment. When you've done enough tidying up, you throw the hamper to one side by your bed, unbothered if the mess of clean clothes is now mixed with your dirty laundry. "How about I tell you how the night would have played out if I did show up? Your friends would've looked at me like a zoo attraction but tried to keep the peace by making small talk that means fuck-all to anyone. And no matter how polite or funny I was, they would've thought to themselves or said to their girlfriends by the end of the night that you're fucking insane for spending time with…"

The silence is impenetrable, charged with words you can't say but you hope Jake can make sense of without needing verbalization.

His face morphs in the quiet, seething.

"With what?" Jake invades your space, his quiet voice and stoic face chilling you to the bone. You lose all sense of courage to continue, but he quirks an eyebrow up as his eyes darken. "Finish the fucking sentence. With what?"

You swallow hard, terrified to say the words rattling around in your brain. You settle on something simple, but the two letters feel anything but. "Me."

The tears slide down your cheeks like knives, cutting you open for Jake to see. This is the moment that you've been dreading since the second he made a home in your heart. It won't go back to the way it was before, before every insecurity was laid bare.

"I'm fucking disgusting, Jake," you mutter with despair. "It's a miracle I've gotten past being terrified of you seeing me naked, but everyone in your life knowing that we're together would be too much because it's obvious that—" You choke on the words, the tears now coating your throat like poison. "I'm not meant for you, and you should be going out with someone like your ex, someone who's beautiful by every standard known to man." You laugh sadly. "Or maybe someone who meets even half of that criteria. But not—"

"Fuck you." He slams his letterman jacket down on the desk. A mixture of your makeup falls on the floor when the jacket meets the wood slab, but you barely hear the crack of your compacts or tubes of lipstick on the laminate tile. You're too focused on Jake's appalled and betrayed face to notice anything but him. "You have no right telling me who I'm supposed to be with, who I should want, who to love. That's nobody's business but mine. And you must think somewhat highly of yourself to think you can control that. Screw my friends' opinions or anyone else's." 

"It should! They matter to you."

"You matter more, more than anyone!"

He inhales a sharp breath as his eyes water. You thought his pouts broke your heart before, but seeing him worn down like this is true heartbreak. He's broken from how broken you are, and you wish you had the power to stitch him back together. Clearly, you've made a bigger mess than you intended to, and now there's no going back.

Jake takes a few short, tear-stricken breaths before saying, "Fuck I—I love you, okay? I love you so much that all of the criticism in the world is background noise when I look at you. You're the one person, the only person I've ever known, who makes time stop for me and my problems matter less. And you're so gorgeous I can't think straight sometimes." A hollow laugh escapes him, but you can't react to it properly. Not when you're crying as hard as he is.

"I wish you could see yourself how I see you, so much it kills me, but I can't do that for you. You have to see that for yourself."

You're stunned into complete silence, your heart denying his confession as your brain computes he's walking closer to the door, prepared to leave before you can find an adequate response. You don't find one in time as he turns the knob and prepares to leave.

Before he can, he says with a somber lilt to his tone, "I hope whoever gets to see the version of you who loves herself as much as I do knows they're lucky. Because that girl will be invincible."

The slam of your door is a gunshot, piercing your chest and staining your dress a darker shade of burgundy. You manage to grip Jake's jacket between your hands and hold it close, the only thing keeping your shattered heart held together being his scent on the fabric. What could you have said to keep him, to make him stay? How could you tell him you love him too despite all the disdain you hold for yourself being what drove him away in the first place?

Your cries converge with piercing screams, rubbing your voice raw until there's nothing else to do but continue sobbing silently in a ball on the floor with his jacket as your lifeline.

The last week has been hell, to say the least.

You didn't try reaching out to Jake the next morning when you woke up. You were too hollow, too shaken. At the same time, the last words he said filled you with a sensitivity you could not find words for, and trying to pretend that didn't happen would be disrespectful to both of you.

And, to make it worse, there was no outreach on his end. He didn't show up to class on Monday or Wednesday, and there were no messages or calls from him to springboard off of. What else could you do besides leave him be? Why else would he walk away from you the way he did, spent and out of chances to give, if he didn't want to be left alone?

Hours rolled into days of silence, both parties unsure how to break the now insurmountable block of ice. You felt like a coward with every passing day, missing him desperately in spite of your lack of words. The newfound hole in your chest, inscribed with Jake's name, could only be filled by him, and it grew wider while you waited for the day he'd return or for you to find the strength to undo the pain you caused.

You sweep the store floor with your aching heart, eager to end your Sunday shift in an hour and sink into bed once again. Without Jake, your routine has been heading to work or school, running home to eat takeout, streaming a movie to cry to, and passing out. It's not that dissimilar from the habits you had before he came into your life, but it's even more soul-crushing knowing the before and after of his presence is starkly different.

Just as you walk over to the counter to grab your dustpan to collect the dust, Felix and Vernon appear like phantoms near the register.

"Jesus Christ!" You immediately stick your broom in the space between you and the two men, and their eyes widen at your defensive stance. "How the fuck did you get in the store? We closed ten minutes ago."

"We bribed some blonde kid to let us in," Vernon responds, rubbing the back of his shaved head with a sweaty palm. Although he still looks surprised you're using a cleaning tool as a weapon, his voice is deadpan.

"Fucking Sunwoo," you mutter under your breath. "Listen, you guys might be great with lacrosse sticks, but I'm even better with this broom." You waggle it to prove your point. "So, you should get the fuck out before I knock one of you on the head."

"Please, just hear us out," Felix starts. His deep voice, thicker than his counterpart or even Jake's, stuns you. "J is miserable without you."

"Yeah," Vernon confirms. "He had to sit out of the game yesterday."

You're surprised your heart can still beat after being so perfectly decimated a week ago, but it breaks once again hearing about Jake's disposition. "The feeling's mutual."

"Okay. Then talk to him and say you're sorry, simple." Felix gives you a close-lipped smile, but it seems more forced than friendly.

Your brows furrow as your hand raises up to clutch the pendant close to your heart. "He's the one that left me."

"After you stood him up," Vernon interjects, pointing a finger out. Your lack of a response makes Vernon huff out an exasperated breath of air. Before he can say anything else, Felix cuts him off.

"We shouldn't have come, this is clearly pointless."

"Oh really?" You clench your fist around the broom, the curved plastic biting into your skin.

Felix's lips mold into a deep frown, hurt rather than anger coating every feature on his face. "You made judgements about us before we even got a chance to meet you—"

"Yeah! That's pretty fucked up, by the way. We wouldn't fat-shame you. We like curvy girls!" Vernon defends himself, and Felix fights the urge to smack his older friend upside the head.

"Thanks," you respond. The word on your lips is more of a question than a statement, but you appreciate Vernon's sentiment.

"And yet you were worried we would look at you a certain way," Felix continues.

"Is that so surprising?" you justify, eyes on the verge of watering.

Felix nods before responding with, "Because the things you were so worried about were built up in your own head. It wasn't Jake's or anyone else's doing."

You bite your bottom lip, unable to deny his declarations, but offended. "Tell that to Wonyoung."

"Won's a bitch to almost everyone. She doesn't count," Vernon counters, and Felix can't help but laugh a little and nod.

Felix turns serious again. "Jake loves you no matter what you think others see when they look at you, and if that isn't apparent by now, you're not the person he told us so much about."

Felix walks towards the entrance, and Vernon leaves you with some ultimate words of advice before following his teammate out. "Just…talk to him, please."

You feel like a kid with a stomachache, scolded for eating too much candy and expecting a different result. In a way, your reactions have been admittedly childish, despite every good intention you had keeping Jake on the outskirts of your worst self-critical thoughts. But maybe he wouldn't have shied away from you that night if you had been honest from the beginning about the fears you had beginning a relationship with him. Maybe you would have survived it, perhaps even thrived despite all the monsters insisting you two weren't fit for each other.

But that was the past. Now was undetermined, and maybe it could still turn in your favor.

Sunwoo steps into view after the two guys exit the store. Your eyes burn with ire for your younger coworker, but he raises his hands immediately and says, "I need a new hard drive, and they gave me twenty bucks!"

You let go of the irritation directed at Sunwoo and finally make work of picking up the dust from the floor. If anything, it reminds you of all that still needs fixing, especially between you and the boy you can't forget.

But it's all down to you, and whether you can put in the effort to dispel your own demons once and for all.

You begin healing.

On Monday morning, twelve-ish hours after seeing Felix and Vernon at work, you skip class and head to the university's counseling center. It's two hours of intake forms and appointment setting, but it makes all the difference in the world walking out of that office a few pounds metaphorically lighter.

You talk to Jungwon and Sunwoo in a coffee shop off-campus and unload the fears that have plagued you your entire life, their voices of reassurance being the first ones you've ever heard that allow the tears to lessen and the reality of your situation to settle on your body like a warm blanket.

"You're a human with anxieties," Jungwon says as Sunwoo rubs your back in circles. "You need support like any other person. It's not right to go through it alone."

And you don't. You sit with them through lunch and dinner, drinking coffee and acknowledging your mindset needs to change.

When your head hits the pillow that night, you go to sleep with the comfort of knowing you're taking the first steps to a version of you that's better.

Wednesday, you prepare to talk to Jake. You have the words picked out perfectly in your head, recognition of your mistakes and willingness to change littered throughout. Only he never shows, and your heart sinks. He certainly can pass without a few days of attendance, but if he's putting this much effort into avoiding you, is it too late?

Was this your penance, having figured everything out after getting it so irrevocably wrong?

The answer to the question comes in the form of a sweaty Felix on the cusp of dusk. He grabs your shoulder just before you can get into your car, the day's fatigue and sadness weighing down your bones.

"J's meeting his parents tomorrow for dinner at the Italian place across from the field," Felix says through ragged breaths. "He better look like a dog with a bone when I see him on Friday at practice or I will kick your ass personally, girl or not."

You chuckle, tears lining your eye ducts. "Thank you. Really."

"Yeah. Thank me after you talk to him. He loves you but you know as well as I do that he's a stubborn fucker sometimes." He gives a last nod for good luck before running in the opposite direction.

You park in front of the restaurant with two bouquets in hand and your anxiety shot to hell. Nerves entrench your body from head to toe as you walk into the place, too busy with the flowers to bite your nails.

Before, you would pick out everyone else's clothes and physiques compared to yours like a ruthless guessing game, the only players being you and your harshest critics. Do I look as hideous as I feel? Can everyone tell? Now, that's the furthest thing from your mind. All you care to do now is fix what you've damaged.

"Welcome to Maggiano's," the perky hostess says as you walk closer to the podium. "How can I help you?"

"I'm meeting a party of three. S-Sim should be the last name on the reservation." You stutter over your words. You're unable to see Jake or his parents in the sea of crowded tables under dimmed chandelier lighting, and it throws your confidence off even more.

She directs you to their table, a corner booth off of the kitchen, and you will yourself to make the trek over to them with the last of your strength. Jake's gaze remains focused on his parents, and it's a small kindness that you don't need to face him just yet.

His parents notice you first, and they smile kindly at you. "Hello there," the woman you assume to be Jake's mother says, eyes crinkling with a smile that is all too familiar.

Jake turns to meet the subject of his mother's attention, and a million emotions flash across his eyes like shooting stars when he sees you, brief but telling. Only pain remains when the surprise wears off, and you wish his face held any other emotion but the one you know so personally.

You smile at his parents politely. "I'm Jake's girlfriend. I apologize for being late, but I was busy grabbing these." You hand one bouquet to his mother, her face lighting up at the peonies wrapped in pink tissue paper. You give Jake his own set of flowers, yellow marigolds. "For tomorrow's game. The florist said they represent good luck, not that you need it."

"Thank you," he whispers, his voice hoarse but cheeks immediately flushing pink. He turns to his parents, the couple still surprised and happy to see you. You can only wonder what Jake has told them about you, but Jake cuts your wondering short when says, "Can you guys give us a minute to talk?"

His hand in yours as he pulls you away feels too right, too easy to fall back into. A thousand memories cross your mind as you recognize this may be the last time his skin touches yours. Sleeping in and missing class as the sun rose high in the sky. Nights after practices where you couldn't remember your name unless Jake was saying it in sighs and curses. And the last ones where you were the source of his disappointment.

Can the good outweigh the bad at this point? You can only hope so.

When you're a respectful distance away from the table, Jake stands in front of you with his hands nestled in his pockets. You can see him fumbling with his thumbs under the cloth, a telltale sign of nerves he doesn't want to show. "What are you doing here?"

You swallow heavy air, your gut tightening. "I came to apologize. I should have told you from the beginning that there were these terrible opinions of myself and my body image. And keeping them from you didn't stop them from coming, but I should've given you more credit. You never made me feel like I was unworthy of being with you. That was all me."

He nods, sadness tugging the edges of his lips down. "I know."

"I'm actually turning things around, believe it or not." You laugh, the sound filled with promise rather than desolation. "And it helped me to realize now that living behind a wall I thought kept me safe did nothing but hurt you, the only person I've ever loved, and I'm so sorry."

His face perks up hearing the last few words on your lips. You clutch the pendant on your neck for strength, and his face softens at the realization you're still wearing it. You never stopped.

"I love you," you confess, "the guy who fidgets with everything at his desk when he's bored, and even when he's not. I love you because it's heart-stoppingly cute when you talk about the atomic makeup of random objects just for fun. Because you're an incredible friend, a beautiful person, and someone I want to keep getting the privilege of knowing. You saw and loved me, past all the reasons I found to hate myself." Your words fall apart by the end, voice fragmented from vulnerability, but you continue. "And you may not be in love with me anymore, but you deserve to know that you are loved by me still, and I'm thankful I had the chance to—"

You don't recognize Jake is kissing you until he places both his quivering hands on your face, the brush of his lips on yours being everything necessary to heal the hole in your heart. It's so unexpected, but essential for you to breathe again. Jake kisses you like he knows it too, like he feels the same ache inside of him that needs repairing with your help.

Tears run down your face until you taste saltwater on your tongue, but you don't care. You refuse to waste another second without him. Home is here with him, with all of your ghosts revealed.

Jake pulls away softly. "I missed that," you confess against his lips, water still trickling down your face.

"Me too," he affirms, his own wet lids reflecting in the lights of the chandeliers. "I love you."

You giggle, relief flooding your body. It's cool water over parched earth, saving a being close to the brink of ruin. "I love you more."

Jake laughs too, shaking his head like you've said the silliest words known to humankind. "Not possible." He tucks his hand under your chin before kissing you again, his lips the only salvation you'll ever need.

His dad whistles at the two of you, and Jake begrudgingly lets go of your face. "Lovebirds, we need to put in our order!" he yells from across the restaurant, and almost everyone in the room laughs. You can't fight it, laughing too into Jake's suit jacket as he holds you close.

Tonight, you don't mind the spotlight, especially with Jake nearby.

The ride back to your apartment is so long it feels like you're suffocating with every minute that remains of your ETA. You try abiding by the traffic laws and staying in your lane, but you may die if another stoplight keeps you from taking Jake home. "Patience," Jake murmurs with a smirk, rubbing small circles into your outer thigh.

"Coming from you, that's ironic." You squeeze your thighs together for friction, and Jake chuckles to himself. It's unsurprising the way your body reacts to him and his words, both charged with electric currents you've gone without for too long.

The way up to your apartment is tense, only for the fact you're trying to listen to his earlier warning of patience and not pounce on him the second you both walk through the doorway. He sets the marigolds on your kitchen counter with a shit-eating grin, one that makes it even harder to maintain composure. "Beautiful flowers from a beautiful girl. How did I get so lucky?" He pulls you in, the notes of lavender and sage from his cologne tickling you to the core.

"It helps that you're beautiful also." You hide your face in his broad chest, your necklace rustling against his dress shirt. "Thank you," you whisper into his clothes.

"For what?" He rubs your back soothingly, the responding words easy to release when he's holding you so delicately.

"Not giving up on me when you had every reason to."

"I could never," he admits. He pulls your face away from his shirt to run his fingers across your cheek, adoring you with the simplest touch. "Just wanted to make you squirm a little longer."

You mock offense with a hand to your chest. Jake chuckles and kisses the corner of your mouth. "So mean," you taunt.

"You haven't seen mean, pretty girl." Jake brushes your hair away to kiss the nape of your neck, making you shiver. Trailing his lips down to your shoulder blade, he bites down on the curve of it to elicit a yelp from you. He eagerly swallows the sound with his lips, tongue entering your mouth without protest from you.

Jake knows all the ways to make you acquiesce, to fall deeper into him without thinking of looking back up. He makes you want to live in his touch like a second skin, and it's clear he feels the same when he holds you tight against his body.

Jake's thigh rubs your core through the front of your dress, and you whimper against his lips. He moves you both to the bed, slowly undressing you with reverence and soft kisses to each piece of newly revealed skin.

Once you're naked, save for your underwear, he sits up on his knees to admire the view. You don't shy away or cover yourself, too restless to touch and be touched to feel timid. And there are still too many clothes on him.

You tsk. "Not fair," you mumble, but you make quirk work of unbuttoning his shirt and pants with keen hands. You kiss the pulse point at his neck, his chest, and the tuft of hair below his belly button. By the time you're done, his flush cock poking your thigh and your cunt pulsing with need, you're both shaking with desperation.

"Sit on my face, pretty girl," he whispers.

You giggle, breathless and dazed. "What?"

"You heard me. I've been without this pretty pussy for too long," he emphasizes his point by moving your panties to the side and running his finger through the wetness along your folds. You're already breaking, and he treasures that. "I want to show her how much I missed her."

You both get comfortable, you positioning your legs on either side of his head and Jake running his hands along the outside of your thighs. You hover above his lips, scared to truly suffocate him between your skin, but he immediately slams you down onto his chin and makes work of lapping at your cunt.

His whimpers and whines match yours, his nose bumping your clit with every drag of his tongue along your core. It's like he's never tasted it before, the way he's lapping so vigorously. A starved man waiting for his last meal, so desperate yet so giving. Jake runs his tongue around your hole before sinking it inside, his eyes rolling back at the essence gathering on his tongue.

"Fuck, so sweet," he gasps, "My beautiful girl's dripping down my chin. I love the way you taste, you know that? You're amazing."

You nod, moaning wantonly, without true acknowledgement of his words. He retracts his lips from your cunt, and you whimper at the loss. "Say it, beautiful. I want to hear you say how amazing you are."

Jake teases his tongue along your wet walls again, and you buckle down against his face, riding it harder. "I-I'm—oh shit mmph—I'm amazing."

He hums in pleased agreement. He goes faster, bumping your clit with every quick lick and suck. You thrash with the encroaching release your body ardently craves. It wraps around you with each press of his mouth and tongue, and you want to let him take you to the precipice. "I know you're close, beautiful," he whispers into your mound, drunk on the feeling of your body at his mercy. "Be my good girl and come all over my face."

You do as you're told, crying out as your orgasm takes over your senses, endorphins washing over you in expansive ripples. You ride it out until the waves calm to a steady sea, your body wholly and utterly boneless. "Ah, fuck," you breathe out once you come down.

Jake repositions you so you're resting in his lap, his aching cock leaking pre-cum at the sight of your essence soaking your thighs. He presses kisses all over your face, not bothered by the sweat coating your forehead and cheeks. "So beautiful."

You flush, glowing under his praise. Without warning, he sheathes himself fully inside of you, your wetness making the glide effortless. There is still some give, your walls clenching around him as he slides in like he's finally back where he belongs.

"Oh fuck. You're so tight, every time." His head bumps the headboard as your pelvic bones brush, his hips flush with yours when he sinks you further down his cock. "I've missed this—fuck, missed you—so much."

"Me too, Yunnie. So much." Your body bows, taking him in completely without complaint.

"Think I'd die if I didn't get to feel you wrapped around me again," he babbles, lost in the feeling of your velvety walls encasing him. They flutter around him as you begin riding him, your movements slow but calculated to induce tremors. And he feels it, every touch of your hips against his, your slick thighs against him with each time he bottoms out. It's hedonistic heaven, a serene oasis he wants to drown in.

He groans into your chest before sucking one of your nipples into his mouth. You keen, arching your back into him deeper as you slam your hips down onto him. "Bounce on me, baby," he says, releasing your nipple with a pop before teasing the other one with his tongue. "Show me how much you've missed me."

Under his spell, you cater to Jake's every whim, rocking against him harder and grinding faster to push him closer to his release. He bites down on your collarbones to muffle his cries, the pleasure overloading his senses to the point he needs to occupy his mouth and hands with something else. He kneads your breasts as he sucks and licks the skin of your upper chest with care when it blooms a dark color under his lips. "So perfect, and all mine," he mumbles, rutting underneath you, creating stars when you close your eyelids.

"Fuck, Jaeyun, I'm gonna come again," you mewl.

"Me too, pretty girl. Come with me."

You fall together in pieces, the beautiful parts of both of you intermeshing until you're one again. Jake groans as his semen fills you with warmth, ropes of cum spurting out until you feel both of your releases seeping down your legs in droplets.

It's happiness, a passion so pure shared between two people sheltered from the outside world with their intensity.

It's perfection, the way Jake loves you so well. All you can do now is pray he knows you love him just as much, if not more.

Jake wraps himself around you, encasing you tightly after you exit his lap. Your thighs burn, your skin is sweaty, but you feel lit up from within Jake's arms.

"You look happy," Jake says finally with a dopey grin, chest rising and falling.

Once upon a time, you would've brushed his words off with a quick kiss and witty comeback to hide your denial. Now, you don't deflect. You take him and his words with acceptance, knowing for the first time that his words go beyond the surface, their truth undeniable.

"I am."

This time, you step out of the car.

You nod at the respective girls waiting for their boyfriends as you rest against the passenger side door of your car. Your clothes aren't as revealing as theirs, but that's okay; someday you will be ready to be as confident as them, but the first step was exiting the driver's side. "Progress," as Felix would say with a teasing smirk and elbow to your side.

The girls all smile and acknowledge you, but Winter, Felix's girlfriend, waves back with a jovial energy that makes you wave back. Your heart swells thinking about how close you've gotten to Jake's friend group in only two months, even when you believed you would be shamed or outcasted for your appearance. Sometimes, you kick yourself for believing they would repeat the history of taunts and teases you know too well. Building armor was necessary years ago, but now, you can disarm without fear of judgement.

Sure, people like Wonyoung will continue to exist, and the doubts will always fester somewhere in your head like unpickable weeds. But you can dispel both with self-affirming words and kindness now, no longer weak to the worst skeletons in your closet. You're stronger, for both yourself and the boy you love.

There's not a lot of certainties in life, but one promise you can keep without fail is never coming so close to losing Jake again.

Like clockwork, Jake and your mutual friends walk off of the field with their gym bags in tow and sweat drenching them head to toe. Felix's newly dyed red hair is practically the same color as their practice gear, and you chuckle at the sight.

Hearing your voice, Jake's eyes lock on yours. He rifles the stray bangs from his eyes almost to confirm it's you waiting for him and not an apparition. His ensuing grin is so bright it can put the moon to shame, as usual.

"Whoa, guys," Jake says with a flourish, raising both of his arms to stop his friends from moving further across the parking lot to their significant others. You roll your eyes as you smile, shy for all the right reasons. "That's my girlfriend, right? Or am I seeing things?"

"Can you not be so down bad for her in front of us, Sim? It's gross," Felix teases, but he smiles in your direction when you wave to the guys surrounding your boyfriend.

"Whatever, cherry bomb. Tell Winter I said to go easy on the Splat next time." Jake slaps his friend on the shoulder before running towards you, his gym bag swinging in all directions while strapped to his shoulder. His teammates holler at their captain for his eagerness to be next to you, but neither of you care.

You both may be out of the shadows, but you still feel like the only two people in the world when you're with each other, onlookers and inner critics be damned.

"Hi." Jake says when he makes it to you, his body a few feet from yours. He drops his bag at his side before intertwining your fingers together, his hot and moist palms making a home in your cold ones. "You look beautiful."

"You look sweaty." Before Jake can compose a rebuttal, you slam your lips into his, teeth clashing as your tongues meet. Jake kisses you back earnestly, sounds of pleasure muffled against your mouth. He rests his hands on your hips as your fingers weave through his hair, scratching your nails along his scalp. His lips taste like salted caramel and fatigue and home, and it makes you fall in love for the thousandth time. "But I'm still into that," you say with a grin when you pull away.

"Oh, really?" His smirk reminds you of all of his kisses, his touches, and his love that has brought you here. And today, for the first time in a long while, there's no fear at all. No doubt creeping in to keep you on guard or tell you the happiness is temporary.

It's just peace.

"Always."

── .✦ 𝗧𝗔𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗦𝗧 (𝗔𝗣𝗣𝗟𝗬 𝗛𝗘𝗥𝗘):

@xylatox @tinycatharsis @filmnings @lovetaroandtaemin @gyubookeries @jaylaxies @innocygnet @anormieee @lollipop3 @fancypeacepersona @luvksnn @k1ttyjwon @hii01mii @nithxhoon @cutehoons02 @invsomnixa1 @lilyofthevalley6 @mossarine @blooqz @firstclassjaylee @seongiewon @rairaiblog @jakessrealwife @bbokaricentral

© 𝗛𝗘𝗔𝗥𝗧𝗜𝗞𝗘𝗨; 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒, 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍, 𝗍𝗋𝖺𝗇𝗌𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖾, 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝗆𝗈𝖽𝗂𝖿𝗒 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝗂𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗐𝖺𝗒 𝗈𝗇 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌!

[youthguk]

Black Ribbon Bride Finale ۶ৎ | jjk (m)

Mafia AU · Dark Romance · Arranged Marriage · Angst · Smut ·

“I want this one,”he said, eyes on you like a predator. A marriage sealed in diamonds and blood. You were supposed to hate him, but monsters don’t let go of the things they’ve claimed.

⚠️ explicit smut, dom!Jungkook, kidnapping, torture (non-explicit), murder, gun violence, morally grey characters, mafia themes, power imbalance, emotional manipulation, possessiveness, toxic dynamics, angst, betrayal.

This is part 2 to this, read part 1 first!

You wake to the sound of water dripping - rhythmic, slow, and merciless. Your body registers sensations in fragments: metal biting into your wrists, a chill creeping down your spine, and a throbbing temple that feels heavier than mere pain. The surface beneath you is stone, damp and cold.

Darkness envelops everything, bringing with it the acrid smell of rust and rot. For a moment, you wonder if this is just a fever-dream, perhaps brought on by too much wine, or a cruel hallucination woven from fear. But when you attempt to move, the sharp restraints around your wrists provide cruel clarity - this is neither dream nor nightmare. This is reality.

Your breath catches as panic builds slowly from your core, rising like an unexpressed scream caught in your throat. Then you hear it - footsteps, measured and confident, followed by a voice as smooth and dry as dust on marble. "Sleeping beauty wakes."

You remain silent, letting the stillness become your armor. A match strikes, its sudden flare piercing the darkness just enough to reveal half his face in shadow - Leo Maranzano. The man who ruined your wedding stands before you, wearing gloves and a patient smile.

"You know," he muses with a slight tilt of his head, "I expected more fight."

Struggling to sit up, your body protests with every movement. The effort only draws an amused laugh from him.

"Don't worry," he says, crouching beside you. "You're not here for long. Just long enough to understand something."

He keeps his distance, knowing his presence alone is a form of torture.

"I'm going to tell you a little secret," Leo murmurs, his tone dripping with venom-sweet malice. "Your brother sold you. Cheap, too. Barely put up a negotiation."

Each word seeps into your bones like poison. You shake your head in denial, but he continues, each syllable a calculated strike.

"Families are funny that way," he says. "They'll protect their blood... until something more valuable comes along."

Somewhere, a door creaks open, then slams shut. The temperature plummets as cold water traces down your neck from an unseen source. In the consuming darkness, only his voice remains - that haunting echo and the ice settling deep in your chest.

"You thought being Jeon's wife meant something, didn't you?" he says, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Poor girl. You really thought monsters could love."

His footsteps retreat like a tide pulling back before a tsunami, leaving only his final words hanging in the air: "Let's see how long that faith lasts. Welcome to the dark."

Then he vanishes into the shadows, his presence lingering like a ghost. The darkness wraps around you like a shroud, bringing with it a bone-deep cold and the hollow echo of your heart shattering in the silence. You are completely, utterly alone.

And this is only the beginning.

────୨ৎ────

The steady dripping of water marks time like a cruel metronome as you lie there, unable to measure how long Leo has been gone. Time loses meaning in the darkness.

Despite the burning in your wrists and the aching of your body, your mind remains sharp and focused. You hold onto something deeper than hope - a crystalline clarity that refuses to be extinguished.

When the door finally opens and Leo's silhouette appears in the frame, you remain steady, watching him through the darkness like a flame that refuses to die out. He moves with deliberate steps, claiming the space as his domain with each measured movement.

The soft clink of glass being set down breaks the silence, followed by the harsh scrape of a chair. His voice cuts through the darkness with calculated precision: "Did he ever tell you how many people he's buried beneath his empire?" he asks, the words hanging heavy in the air. "Your husband."

The word "husband" tastes like ash in your mouth as you remain silent, refusing to give Leo the satisfaction of a response.

Leo's smile grows faint as he leans forward, resting his arms on his knees. "You wear diamonds paid for in blood, and still — you looked at him like he was your savior."

Your continued silence seems to crack something in Leo's composure. "He took everything from me," he says, his voice turning cold and bitter. "My father. My legacy. My place in this city."

You glance down at your bound wrists before meeting his gaze, your voice barely above a whisper. "Then you chose the wrong time."

Leo stills at your words as you continue, voice trembling yet resolute. "I left him. Walked away. Told him not to come after me."

He studies you with calculated intensity, his smile transforming from amusement to pure cruelty. "Let's see if monsters like him can love."

Rising to his full height, his shadow stretches menacingly across the floor. "Or perhaps you believe monsters like Jeon are capable of letting go?"

────୨ৎ────

Jungkook finds your letter placed neatly on the black marble table, waiting in silence like an unwelcome prophecy. One look at the handwriting and something in his chest coils, sharp and tight. He reads it three times, each pass more desperate than the last, until he finally crumples it in his fist with the violent urgency of someone searching for a pulse that's already gone. The silence that settles in the penthouse isn't peaceful - it's surgical, precise in its emptiness.

His breathing shifts first. Then the glass of whisky he'd been pouring doesn’t even make it to his lips — he hurls it across the room. The shatter is so loud it echoes through every inch of the space you used to fill. Your perfume still lingers in the air. Peach and warmth and something soft he never had a name for.

He tears through the apartment methodically yet frantically - flinging open doors and ransacking closets in the bedroom, bathroom, and terrace. Some desperate part of him hopes to find you tucked away in some small corner, waiting to be found.

"Y/N!" The rawness in his voice echoes through empty rooms, met only with silence.

His hands shake as he dials your number repeatedly, each call going straight to voicemail after a few hollow rings. Desperate calls to Namjoon, Hoseok, and Jimin yield nothing - no one has seen you, no one knows where you've gone. You've simply vanished.

Jungkook finally stills, the pain inside him crystallizing into an arctic coldness that seeps through his veins, corroding everything it touches.

And in that stillness, surrounded by shattered glass and the black ribbon tangled in the sheets you left behind, Jungkook's voice breaks the silence with a hoarse whisper: "You said don't come after you." His eyes close as his jaw clenches before he growls, "Fuck that." After all, monsters never let go of what they've claimed.

────୨ৎ────

Jungkook storms into your family's estate without warning, the door slamming open with thunderous force. The sound echoes through the decaying house, where half-finished renovations barely mask years of neglect. A dissonant mixture of wet paint and rotting plaster mingles with expensive cologne and rising panic.

His footsteps resound through the once-silent front hall as he strides past the stammering butler, claiming the space as his own. And it is his, in a way - every restored ceiling, every gilded molding, every attempt to hide this family's rot was paid for with Jeon money. Your husband's money.

And now his wife is gone.

"You let her leave?" The words crash into the room like breaking glass.

Your father stands frozen, mouth working silently before managing, "What are you talking about?"

"She's gone." Jungkook's voice trembles with fury beneath his grief. "Left a note, took nothing - no phone, no guards. No one's seen her. And here you all sit, acting like nothing's wrong."

"She—she wouldn't—" your father stutters. "No. She wouldn't be so foolish."

Jungkook's laugh cuts through the air like a blade.

"Foolish?" In one fluid motion, he seizes a priceless vase and hurls it against the wall. The crash echoes through the room as shards scatter across marble. "You threatened her, didn't you? Ordered her not to dishonor me?"

"She promised to behave," your father snaps, his composure finally cracking. "That girl—she was never supposed to embarrass us like this!"

"Embarrass you?" Jungkook's voice cuts through the air like ice. "She's missing and that's what concerns you?"

Your father's voice lowers, fear creeping in. "We told her to stay married. That was the deal—"

"That was your daughter," Jungkook hisses, his words dripping with venom. "And now she's gone."

He turns sharply to Luca, whose composure is unnaturally steady, face showing no hint of concern. "You," Jungkook says, advancing with predatory grace.

Luca's smile remains faint, mocking. "She's not a child, Jeon."

"No," Jungkook murmurs, "but you are a fucking liar."

The temperature plummets as Nora presses a trembling hand to her chest. Jungkook's voice grows colder, more lethal with each word. "Where is she?"

Luca's calculated shrug only fuels Jungkook's suspicion. "You think if I knew, I wouldn’t tell you?"

Jungkook closes the distance between them, his face inches from Luca's. The air crackles with tension as he studies the too-perfect composure in his brother-in-law's eyes.

"You didn't even flinch when I said she was gone," he observes, tilting his head slightly. "Did you help her run? Or did you sell her?"

Your father's sharp exhale and sudden pallor speak volumes. Jungkook's smile transforms into something terrible - all teeth, devoid of warmth.

"You have five seconds to tell me where your daughter is," he says with deadly calm. "After that, I stop asking."

────୨ৎ────

The silence hangs sharp and heavy as Jungkook stares Luca down, his jaw flexed and fists clenching rhythmically, barely containing his rage. The tension breaks when his phone buzzes - an unfamiliar number that makes his blood run cold. He answers wordlessly.

Static crackles through the line before a voice emerges, dripping with malicious satisfaction. "She'll look better pregnant," Leo Maranzano drawls.

Jungkook's entire being transforms in that moment - not frozen, but coiled like a predator about to strike, radiating a silence so dense it seems to bend the very air around him.

"Don't bother trying to trace this," Leo continues smoothly. "We both know how futile that would be."

Jungkook's voice emerges like ice wrapped around gunpowder. "You want blood? I’ll drown you in it"

In the weighted silence that follows, Luca shifts imperceptibly while your mother's face drains of color. Leo's soft laughter filters through the line, dripping with malice.

"Always so poetic, Jeon. So... predictable. You think the world will bleed for you, but what happens when the one you love bleeds for someone else?"

"Name your price," Jungkook demands, each word precisely carved. "Money? Territory? I'll destroy everything you've built before you touch her again."

Leo exhales with calculated disappointment. "I want what's impossible, Jeon - my father's life restored, my family's legacy rebuilt." His voice drops to a deadly whisper: "Since I can't have that, I'll have yours instead."

Jungkook's grip tightens around the phone, the plastic creaking under the pressure as Leo's words slither through the line.

"I'll marry your wife," Leo murmurs, soft as ash, "and knock her up with my heir."

The room plunges into deathly silence. Your father staggers back into a chair, all color draining from his face, while Nora's sharp gasp pierces the air. Even Luca, usually composed, pales visibly as his expression turns unreadable.

Jungkook closes his eyes for just half a second. When they open again, something fundamental has changed - he's no longer human, but something older, something ancient.

"If anything happens to her," he says, his voice quiet with reverent wrath, "I'll kill you. And every living Maranzano that crawls out of your grave."

"Big words from a man who just lost his bride," Leo hums mockingly.

Jungkook exhales once, trembling with barely contained rage, before saying softly, "You have sisters, don't you?"

Leo falls silent, his bravado slipping for the first time.

"Cousins. Nieces," Jungkook continues, a cold smile playing at his lips. "Sleep lightly." Without waiting for a response, he ends the call.

The air in the Amare house grows thick with tension as Jungkook turns, his lethal gaze settling on Luca. "Pray your sister is alive," he says, his voice dangerously low as he steps closer. "Because if she's not, I won't send you to prison - I'll kill you with my bare hands."

The silence that follows is deafening. As Jungkook moves to leave, he pauses at the door, looking back at Nora. "You were angry. Fine. But don't you dare say you loved her if this is how easily you turned your back." His words make her flinch.

"She saved me once," he continues, his tone softening with remembered gratitude. "Years ago when I was still bad at snowboarding. She doesn't even remember it was me, but I remember her. She gave me something no one else ever did - mercy."

After a weighted pause, he adds, "Maybe we were always going to end up here. Maybe that's what fate is - not clean, not kind, just inevitable."

With his hand on the door, he delivers one final truth: "You don't have to believe in love. But at least believe in the sister who never stopped believing in you."

And with that, he steps into the rain, ready for war.

────୨ৎ────

The rooftop is a stage of glass and steel, suspended above a city that doesn’t sleep — just watches, waiting. The wind slices sharp against concrete, pulling at coat hems and loaded holsters, as if the night itself senses what’s coming and wants to retreat.

Above the city, beneath a bruised sky veined with lightning, six black cars idle like hounds ready to devour. Their engines hum low, headlights cutting through the dusk like a premonition, restrained only by the men who command them. Jeon mafia assembles — suits pressed, weapons hidden, hearts armored.

Namjoon locks a magazine into place with quiet finality, sleeves rolled to the elbow, throat tight with tension. Beside him, Jin checks the radio frequencies, his gaze flickering once toward the skyline — toward the place they believe she’s being held. Hoseok straps a blade to his thigh, expression hollow, all his usual brightness buried beneath something colder. Jimin adjusts the cuffs of his jacket with the stillness of a killer in prayer, and Taehyung pulls his hair back with shaking fingers, eyes glittering with rage he hasn't yet learned to name.

Yoongi is silent. He always is, before blood.

And at the center of them all stands Jungkook — not their heir, not their prince, not their spoiled bloodline darling — just a man in a black suit that fits like a vow, trembling in places no one dares acknowledge.

His hands tremble with barely contained tension, an unprecedented sight among the Jeon legacy that leaves his men in reverent silence. These same hands that have dealt death with practiced ease, that have wielded both knife and power without hesitation, now betray a deeper truth - their leader is afraid.

Jungkook avoids their watchful eyes, his gaze fixed on the sprawling cityscape where, somewhere in its depths, you're being held captive. His mouth grows dry as his thoughts race louder than the approaching storm, each moment of separation feeling like a blade against his skin.

He remembers your eyes when you told him not to touch you, your voice trembling with the words "don't come near me." The memory of your retreating footsteps haunts him, along with the image of you shrinking away as if his every promise had been hollow.

And perhaps they were - not because he concealed his true nature, but because he foolishly believed that his monstrous side could deserve tenderness. That he could shield you while remaining unchanged. That you could withstand the darkness he carried.

He let his rage speak louder than your fear when he should have protected you. Now he faces the possibility of having to kill again, knowing the bloodshed will forever stain him in your eyes.

But you'll be alive.

He can accept a future where you never touch him again, where your voice falls silent around him, where you flee at his approach. He can survive all of that, but he cannot exist in a world without you.

Namjoon steps forward. "The convoy's ready."

Jungkook nods once, remaining silent as his trembling fingers clasp behind his back, curling into fists while he struggles to steady his breathing.

Taehyung murmurs low to Yoongi, "You ever seen him like this?"

Yoongi doesn't look away from the cars. "He's never had something to lose."

Jungkook lifts his head and adjusts the diamond cufflink on his left wrist — the one you once teased him for wearing like a crown. His voice carries clear authority as he addresses the group.

"I want clean entry. No noise until I give it. We don't spill unless we have to. We don't risk anything unless it's her."

The others nod in a silent, unified pact.

"I want Leo breathing," Jungkook adds, "just long enough to watch me burn everything he ever touched." His voice drops then, stripped of command and practiced arrogance — leaving only bone and soul and desperate love: "Bring her back."

As engines rumble to life, thunder rolls above them like applause for the damned. Jungkook lingers at the edge, his eyes fixed on the city skyline, heart in his throat. He doesn't pray — he doesn't believe in anything that ever refused to protect you. When he finally turns toward the convoy, his face unreadable and hands steady, he whispers into the storm: "This ends tonight." And then he disappears into war.

────୨ৎ────

The air inside the Maranzano estate reeks of rust and ruin, a stark contrast to its former splendor. Marble imported from Verona adorns the walls, while high ceilings showcase frescoes of indifferent gods, and chandeliers heavy with Bohemian crystal hang like frozen memories of old Italian guilt. Now the place stands as a tomb - a forgotten cathedral of betrayal awaiting fresh bloodshed.

Blackened windows cast the interior in shadow, while faulty electricity hums an ominous drone. The distant ocean crashes against the docks, and moonlight filters through a cracked skylight, casting fractured patterns across the dust-covered floor.

When the doors burst open, it's not with theatrical chaos, but with deadly precision - swift and silent as a guillotine's fall. Dark figures glide across the polished floors, their tailored coats rippling like liquid shadow, weapons at the ready. These aren't mere soldiers; they're Jeon men - predators whose very essence speaks of wealth and violence, purpose and unrelenting rage.

Namjoon takes point on the left, moving silent as a curse, while Jin covers the right with cold-eyed vigilance. Jimin and Taehyung follow, their steps ghosting across the carpet as golden chandelier light plays across their expressionless faces. Hoseok secures the stairwell as Yoongi dissolves into shadows, a lethal presence unseen until the moment of strike.

And at the center: Jungkook. He moves with deadly precision, as if the very air parts in fear of his advance. His black suit remains pristine, but his face betrays something beyond rage in his locked jaw and gleaming eyes - something far more dangerous. With bare hands and cold determination, he makes it clear that this night will end in blood.

A bullet pierces the silence like shattering glass, followed quickly by another. Screams echo through the corners as men shout in Italian and English, panic rising in their voices. The Maranzano guards, previously secure in their territory, find themselves unprepared for the wolves that have breached their sanctuary.

Chaos consumes the mansion as smoke bombs transform light into swirling fog. Gunfire reverberates against stone walls while someone desperately calls out Leo's name. But Jungkook remains focused, deaf to everything except his mission.

He moves through the space like death incarnate in his three-piece suit, evading bullets with fluid grace while returning fire with precise elegance. His shots are calculated - one to the neck, another to the thigh - each movement deliberately chosen to disable and disarm.

To punish.

He takes no lives unless they stand between him and you.

Locked behind a wrought iron door in a cold cellar two floors down, you feel the war before you hear it - a distant hum through the floor, screams vibrating through pipes, Leo's orders echoing from above as footsteps pound and lights flicker overhead. The chaos builds to a crescendo before everything suddenly stills, leaving only your thundering heartbeat in the silence.

Then the door slams open - not from the guards, but from him.

Jungkook enters the room with an almost supernatural presence, drawn to you as if by divine magnetism. His black shirt hangs open, blood staining his collar while his eyes blaze with intensity. Though chaos erupts behind him - screams and the heavy thud of falling bodies - his focus remains unwavering.

He only sees you - bound, bruised, with dried blood on your lip and raw wrists. Something within him fractures at the sight, a subtle but terrifying transformation. Kneeling before you in silence, his trembling fingers work to untie each rope with delicate precision, as though handling fragments of your broken trust. In this moment, nothing else in the world exists beyond freeing you from your bonds.

Your voice barely rises above a whisper. "You came…"

But before you can say more, he wraps you in his coat, presses your head to his chest. You smell smoke, sweat, blood, his cologne. His heart is pounding like it’s trying to break through his ribs to reach you faster.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The door groans open behind him, and Leo Maranzano steps into the cellar. His slow, mocking applause fills the space as he appears in the doorway with his gun raised. Blood spatter has already dried on the sleeve of his suit jacket, his tie hangs askew, and one side of his mouth curls like something sharp beneath silk.

“Touching reunion,” he drawls, stepping into the room like it belongs to him. “You made good time, Jeon. Was hoping you’d take a little longer. The real show’s always better with an audience, right, wifey?”

Jungkook’s body locks into stillness, but the rage in him surges like a tidal wave against its dam. He rises slowly, placing himself between you and Leo with terrifying precision, his voice ice-cold and taut. “Don’t speak to her.”

Leo smiles. “Why not? We’ve gotten so close, your little bride and I. Haven’t we, princess?”

Your fingers twitch where they rest on the floor.

“She’s untouched,” Leo continues, circling now, slow like a vulture. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? I didn’t want to ruin the canvas before the artist arrived. Would’ve been such a waste to play with her while you were out in traffic. I wanted you here, Jeon. To watch. To beg.”

Jungkook doesn’t speak. He drops the coat from his shoulders and steps forward into the light. You watch the muscles in his back tense beneath the thin fabric of his dress shirt, now half-untucked and stained with dirt and blood.

“But look at you,” Leo muses, head tilting. “You’re rattled. Afraid. Has she already made a man out of you, Jungkook? Has she already softened the executioner?”

And that — that’s when Jungkook moves. Like lightning refracted through glass, he lunges forward, shoving Leo hard into the concrete wall. The gun clatters to the ground, metal screeching against tile, as fists replace bullets.

Their fight devolves into raw brutality, all calculated strategy abandoned for pure survival instinct. Leo lands a heavy punch to Jungkook's ribs, and Jungkook retaliates with a vicious blow that sends Leo reeling. When Leo draws a hidden knife from his boot and slashes upward, Jungkook barely manages to dodge, but the blade still finds its mark - tearing through his shirt and leaving a bloody gash across his shoulder.

Your heart races as you scramble to your knees, eyes fixed on the gun lying just within reach. Neither man has noticed it yet.

JJungkook slams Leo into the ground with crushing force. Leo twists and drives his thumb deep into Jungkook's wound, causing him to unleash a primal scream of pure fury. Without hesitation, Jungkook's elbow connects with Leo's temple before grabbing his collar.

Gunshot.

The sound of your scream fills the air as Jungkook staggers backward. Leo stands with the smoking gun, a cruel smile playing on his lips as blood trickles from his temple. Fresh crimson blooms across Jungkook's arm and shoulder.

Your body moves on instinct, hands finding the discarded weapon. The weight of it feels foreign yet decisive as you raise it with trembling fingers.

Leo's eyes meet yours from where he stands, his bloodied smile widening. "Now this... this is poetic."

Your entire body shakes with adrenaline, each breath a struggle.

"Don't," Jungkook pleads, his arm outstretched toward you. "Y/N—don't. You don't need to do this."

Seeing Jungkook wounded and bleeding weakens your resolve.

Leo's soft laughter fills the space. "Go on, sweetheart. Pull the trigger. Be a good wife."

Your finger trembles on the trigger as the world spins around you. When you finally pull, the bullet tears through Leo's thigh with a sickening crack. His scream echoes through the room as he drops to one knee, grasping at the wall for support. The gun slips from your shaking hands as you collapse to the floor.

"Fuck—" Jungkook crawls to you immediately, his good arm wrapping protectively around your waist. "Baby—hey, hey, look at me."

Through your tears, you can barely form words. "I didn't mean to—I thought—he—"

Jungkook reaches for the gun and fires a single shot through Leo's heart. Leo collapses instantly - face slack, eyes wide, gone. Jungkook exhales and pulls you into his lap, ignoring both blood and pain.

"You didn't kill him," Jungkook whispers, voice rough. "You didn't kill anyone. It was me. Look at me. It was me."

You press your face into his neck. “You’re bleeding—Jungkook—your shoulder—”

“I’m fine,” he breathes. “I’m fine. You’re alive. That’s all that matters.”

His breath catches as he cradles your face between his palms, handling you like the most precious thing in this burning world. "Don't ever run from me again," he pleads, his voice raw with emotion. "Don't ever doubt that I would tear everything apart to find you."

Trembling in his embrace, you watch as Jungkook Jeon does something he's never done before - he prays. Not for himself, but that he'll never again have to see such fear in your eyes.

With infinite care, he lifts you against his chest and carries you from the wreckage. His promises fall like whispered prayers: "You're safe now. No one will ever touch you again. You're mine." And despite everything you've witnessed today - the violence, the monster within him - you believe him completely. Because just as you belong to him, he belongs entirely to you.

────୨ৎ────

What depths of loyalty and sacrifice arise when we call something love? In those quiet moments before dawn, as memories of cold rope and smoke still linger, you contemplate how a single moment can transform everything.

The weight of the gun, the tremble in your hands, the look in Jungkook's eyes - it all comes back with haunting clarity. His plea for you not to shoot wasn't born from fear of Leo, but fear for your soul. While Jungkook had long ago accepted his capacity for darkness, you were still untouched by such choices.

He was a man who had made peace with being a monster. But you? You stood at the precipice between innocence and necessity, between who you were and who circumstances demanded you become.

Looking back, you're still uncertain whether pulling that trigger came from survival instinct, overwhelming fear, or fierce love. The line between those emotions blurs in moments of desperation. That night gave you a glimpse into Jungkook's world - the terrible choices and the weight they carry. Though his lifestyle remains brutal and dark, you've gained a slight understanding of what drives him.

────୨ৎ────

The air tonight tastes like peach blossoms and spring dust. The city is humming outside, but here in this little pocket of golden light and linen, the world feels slower, softer — like something on the edge of a fairytale.

Jungkook is asleep on the couch. Or half-asleep, you’re not sure. His head rests back against the cushion, long legs stretched out like he owns the entire room, which in truth — he probably does. One arm draped over his stomach, the other slack at his side, the sleeve of his thin black shirt pushed up, revealing the edge of gauze still wrapping his shoulder. He refused the hospital, of course. Said he’d had worse.

For a week now, he's been with you. Every second. Every breath. He hasn’t returned to the office. His phone only lights up when there’s something urgent, and even then he barely glances at it before silencing the screen. He walks with you in the mornings — silent, careful steps by the river. He reads beside you in the afternoons, chin propped on his hand like he’s memorizing every inch of your face. He touches you constantly. Not with greed, not with hunger, but with quiet worship — a hand at the small of your back, fingers brushing your jaw, a palm spread against your thigh under the sheets like a silent vow.

And in sleep, he clings. Wraps himself around you with the desperation of someone who knows what it means to almost lose something you weren’t ready to live without. You feel it in his breath when he tightens his hold around your waist. You feel it in the way he kisses your shoulders before he even opens his eyes.

The world has settled into a new kind of quiet, no longer haunting but healing. Though nightmares occasionally visit, they're growing fainter with each passing day.

More powerful now are the gentle rhythms of life with him - his steady heartbeat against your back, his voice greeting the morning sun, his forehead resting softly against yours. These moments have become your anchors, drowning out the echoes of darker days.

Tonight marks a transformation. You've shed the weight of vulnerability, no longer feeling like someone in need of rescue. Instead, you feel whole - ready not just to receive, but to give.

You rise slowly, careful not to disturb him, and walk barefoot across the penthouse’s polished floors. The silk robe you wear clings lightly to your body, the black ribbon from days ago now tied loose in your hair like a quiet signal — one he won’t notice until he’s already undone. The perfume on your wrists is faint, but it still carries — white peach, soft and haunting, the scent he once recognized through memory alone.

You pause in the kitchen to pour a glass of water, your hands trembling with anticipation rather than fear. Tonight feels different - you want to show him that the weight of devotion flows both ways, that despite everything, you chose to stay.

Through all the darkness and ghosts that have haunted your chest, you remained. Not just beside him, but with him. And now, perhaps most importantly, for him. Taking a steadying breath, you walk back to the bedroom. Your fingers find the knot of your robe as you prepare to show him what love truly means when given freely.

────୨ৎ────

The bedroom is steeped in quiet gold, shadows curled against the edges of the walls like folded silk. Outside, the city is a blurred constellation, lights scattered beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass. But here — here, time forgets to move. The air hangs soft, perfumed with something sweeter than white peach, something warmer than memory. Something like safety.

Jungkook stirs when he feels the dip of the mattress. His lashes flutter, a slow exhale leaving him as his eyes open — still soft from sleep, but sharpening the moment they register your silhouette against the dark. The black robe has slipped from your shoulders. Beneath it, skin glows like candlelight, bare and tender and alive. Your hair spills forward, the ribbon still clinging to it like a secret vow. You climb over him carefully, knees bracketing his hips, fingers ghosting over his ribs like you’re afraid he’ll disappear if you press too hard.

He swallows. The muscles of his stomach tighten beneath your palms. “Baby…” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep and need, “what are you—?”

But the rest dies on his tongue when you lean down, kiss his collarbone, and whisper, “Let me.”

His breath catches as you shift forward, reaching between your bodies with practiced ease. He’s already hard — has been since the moment your weight settled over him — but he doesn’t move, doesn’t rush. He watches you, chest rising with shallow breaths as your fingers guide him in, slow and deliberate, the stretch making your lips part in a quiet gasp.

Your hands steady on his chest as you sink down. And he groans — not loudly, not desperately — but like something sacred just broke open inside him. His hands twitch at your thighs but he doesn’t grip you. He lets you move at your own pace. And you do.

You ride him slowly. Not with rhythm, not with control — but with reverence. With something closer to prayer. Every motion is intentional, the soft roll of your hips a sacred offering, your walls dragging tight around him as you take him inch by inch. His length fills you deep, stretching you with a sweet ache that makes your breath stutter. Each movement draws him deeper, until your bodies are flush, your thighs trembling where they cradle his hips.

You grind down, slow and full, letting the sensation ripple through your spine. Your back arches as you circle once, twice, dragging your heat over him in a way that makes him groan low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin like thunder contained beneath satin.

His hands twitch against your hips but he doesn’t guide you, doesn’t grip — just anchors. Fingers trembling, he lets you set the pace, like he understands that this isn’t about possession. This is about being seen. About surrendering to the truth of you.

You press your palms flat to his chest, right over his heart, and feel it hammering beneath your touch — wild, vulnerable, alive. You rise up, the slow drag of him pulling free until only the tip remains, and then you sink down again, letting him fill you, stretch you, make you gasp. Over and over — each thrust more confident, each grind a little deeper, your breath catching when the head of his cock grazes that soft, aching spot deep inside.

His jaw is slack now, pupils blown wide, lashes damp, lips parted in something close to awe. He doesn’t smirk. Doesn’t speak. Just watches — like he’s memorizing the way your body glows in the moonlight, the way your breasts bounce gently with every movement, the way you whimper when you find the angle that makes your thighs quake.

You roll your hips harder now, pleasure building slow and thick at the base of your spine. Every thrust is deliberate — down and forward, dragging his length against that spot again and again, until his fingers finally tighten on your waist, the first crack in his restraint.

“Fuck,” he chokes, voice torn. “You feel like fucking heaven.”

You moan in response, your body clenching around him, and he bucks up into you — once, sharply, making you cry out. You bite your lip, nails raking gently down his chest, and then move faster, chasing the heat gathering between your legs.

Your thighs begin to tremble with the effort, your breath coming ragged. You rise and fall, again and again, his cock dragging thick and hot inside you, the wet sound of your bodies meeting echoing through the room. He thrusts up into you now, meeting your pace, the friction growing wetter, messier, more desperate with every collision.

The intimacy of the moment transcends mere physical connection. This is about reclamation - a sacred vow expressed through movement, marking the moment you embrace being cherished, desired, and wholly accepted.

“You’re mine,” you whisper, voice shaking, legs trembling. “You’re only mine.”

His answer is a groan torn from the chest, hands flying to your hips as he meets you thrust for thrust now, the rhythm breaking apart in something raw and wild. “I’ve always been yours.”

The sounds between you are quiet, wet and slow, the room filled with broken whispers and low moans. You lean down, kiss him softly — once, twice, again — and he gasps into your mouth when your walls flutter around him.

His voice is wrecked now. “Fuck, baby, please…”

“Please what?” you murmur, lips brushing his.

“I need you to come. Like this. On top of me. For me.”

You press your forehead to his. “Then say it.”

He groans, head tipping back, breath shaky. “You own me.”

You gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders now as your hips roll deeper, harder — still slow, still tender, but with a purpose now. With power. Your body tightens, pleasure gathering low in your belly like a storm you’ve been holding for years.

And then he says it — broken, wrecked, utterly yours. “Take it all. Fuck, take me.”

With a gasp that shatters into a cry, you break, your entire body pulsing around him, walls clenching tight as the pleasure explodes. He grips your hips hard, slamming up into you once, twice, three times — then spills into you with a deep, broken moan, holding you flush against him as he throbs, shaking beneath the weight of it.

And like stars colliding - inevitable, cosmic - your bodies stay locked together, hearts beating the same wild rhythm. His touch remains anchored to your skin, a silent promise written in the press of fingertips and shared breath.

The moment stretches like honey, sweet and infinite, as neither of you dares to break this delicate thread of connection.

────୨ৎ────

The days that follow feel like silk. The kind of days you once believed belonged only to magazines or other women — women with lives built on choice and safety, not sacrifice. Mornings spill in slow like cream over espresso, and you wake to his breath against your shoulder, his arm heavy around your waist, your legs tangled beneath linen sheets that still smell of white peach and the ghosts of what you whispered the night before.

Jungkook barely lets you leave his orbit. He touches constantly — not possessively, but tender, reverent. A hand at the small of your back when you pass him. Fingers brushing your wrist under the dining table while his phone rings unanswered. His thigh pressed to yours on the sofa, unmoving for hours. He kisses you in the hallway without warning — sometimes just your shoulder in passing, sometimes your mouth like it’s the only thing tethering him to this world.

You catch him watching you like that sometimes — in the mirror, in the kitchen, while you tie the black ribbon into your hair — as though he still doesn’t quite believe you’re real. He never says it aloud, but you feel it in how he pulls you into his chest at night, hands gripping tighter when you try to roll away. He’s afraid the softness might vanish. That you'll vanish.

You learn things too. That his coffee must be scalding hot. That he sometimes murmurs in his sleep — nonsense, fragments of English and Korean and violence you don’t always understand. That he always carries two knives. One he shows. One he doesn’t.

And in return, you let him see more of you. You tell him about the time you lied to your fencing coach just to sneak out to the lakeside. You let him read the old Latin poem you wrote at sixteen, still folded inside your Saint-Margaux notebook. One night — only once — you cry again. He doesn’t ask why. He just pulls you closer and holds you tighter, whispering your name until sleep comes like a tide.

You wonder if this is love. Not the brutal, all-consuming version you were warned about — but the kind built quietly in the echo of war. A soft defiance, a rebellion in kisses.

────୨ৎ────

He’s kissing your temple when the call comes. You’re wrapped around each other on the velvet sofa, barefoot, wine half-finished, a K-drama playing on mute just for the light. He checks the screen and tenses.

"Grandfather," he says quietly, tension filling the single word.

You understand the weight of it immediately, though your fingers still clutch at the hem of his sweatshirt. He leans down to press a soft kiss to your lips. "I won't be long. Don't wait up."

────୨ৎ────

The Jeon estate is too quiet when he arrives — grand halls humming with tension rather than servants. The lights are dim, the kind of half-lit stillness that announces something heavy is about to begin. His grandfather waits in the ancestral chamber — all dark wood and high ceilings and paintings that watch. The old man stands in front of the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, no drink in sight.

"Do you understand what you've done?" The words cut through the silence, his grandfather's voice sharp with disapproval. Jungkook stands tall, his coat still on, jaw locked in defiance.

"There is an order to everything," the old man continues, turning to face him. "You shattered that order when you - a Jeon - chased after her. You humbled yourself before her family, lost control, lost face. We are not the ones who get left. Have you forgotten what that means?"

“I went after my wife,” Jungkook says, voice low but steady. “She wears my name now. She is my family — as much as you are.”

His grandfather’s face contorts, torn between fury and something colder. “You killed Leo Maranzano. After the boy you already orphaned.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, but he says nothing.

“And not in darkness. Not quietly. In an open war. Blood. Witnesses. Chaos. We killed two Maranzano men now. And the world — the other families — they saw. They heard.”

“That is not the worst part,” the old man mutters. “The worst is what it means. That our enemies will now dare to look. To test us. The wolves are circling, Jungkook. They think the lions are wounded.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer at first. His hands are still, but his eyes have darkened — storm breaking slowly beneath the surface. “If they come,” he says at last, “let them. They’ll learn.”

The old man watches him for a long, unbearable pause before turning back to the fire. Without waiting for permission, Jungkook leaves, already texting Namjoon as he moves. In the end, the circles of blood and empires of fear mean nothing to him - his only concern is what awaits in the soft quiet of the penthouse, in the arms of the only thing he still believes in.

You.

────୨ৎ────

There’s a kind of hush that settles in just before it begins — the penthouse awash in low light, the city’s skyline blurring like a memory behind glass.

You move through the bedroom like a whispered promise, the black ribbon coiled softly around your fingers. The same ribbon he’s come to associate with you — with defiance, with surrender, with the moment he first truly chose you. Tonight, you wear nothing but silk: a slip the color of moonlight, the scent of white peach clinging to your collarbones like a secret.

He’s on the bed, leaning against the headboard, shirt already gone, dark sweatpants riding low. Jungkook watches you with something primal curled in his gaze — but there’s softness too. Always with you now, always just beneath the surface. Like he’s ready to kneel even while he commands the room. You move toward him with the quiet confidence he's come to crave, gracefully settling onto the mattress.

"What's that for?" he murmurs, his gaze drawn to the ribbon.

You don’t answer. Instead, you climb onto his lap, straddling him slowly, your bare thighs brushing against his skin, the slip of your hips bringing him to attention beneath the cotton. He exhales harshly, head falling back slightly, eyes dragging over every inch of you.

You press the ribbon to his lips. “Let me.”

He doesn’t ask again. You tie the ribbon around his eyes — not tight, just enough to veil the world, to make everything else fade except your voice, your mouth, your scent. When you pull back, he’s breathing differently already — deeper, more aware. His hands clench at his sides.

“What are you doing to me,” he whispers.

You slide down his body, soft kisses at his throat, his collarbone, lower — your breath warming the trail of his tattoos. And when you peel away the last of his clothes and take him into your mouth, the sound he makes is desperate. His hands twist into the sheets. His thighs tremble.

You work him with your mouth, slow and unrelenting — not chasing rhythm, but exploring it. Your tongue drags along the underside with deliberate curiosity, swirling once around the head before taking him deeper again, letting the heat of your mouth embrace him fully. You hollow your cheeks just enough to make him groan, the sound pulled straight from his chest like something unwilling, like something sacred. He tastes like salt and sin and everything you’ve ever been denied.

Above you, his thighs tense under your palms, the muscle twitching in waves as he fights the impulse to move. You glance up through your lashes, only to find his jaw clenched, head thrown back, lips parted in something between prayer and profanity.

His fingers flex against the mattress — not grabbing you, not guiding you, just trembling there, like he’s trying to remember what it means to let go. You can see him unraveling beneath the weight of your touch, the tight control he always wears now splitting at the seams.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice hoarse, “you’re gonna break me.”

And maybe you are — maybe that’s the point. Because this time, he’s the one undone. This time, your mouth is the weapon and your name is the surrender he can’t swallow.

“Let me see you,” he pants. “Ribbon off. I wanna see you.”

You pull back, smirking against his skin. “No.”

That single syllable makes him snap. He tears off the ribbon with a growl, eyes wild and burning as he grabs your waist and pulls you up with one swift movement. “Switch.”

Your wrists are bound in the same ribbon before you can speak, your arms raised above your head as he lays you back into the pillows, eyes devouring every inch of you like he’s starved. Like he’s trying to memorize you. Like you’re his.

“You like playing games, huh?” he mutters against your throat. “But you’re mine now.”

His voice is low, dark, possessive and when he sinks into you, the stretch burns just enough to make your breath catch — slow, unbearably deep, every inch claimed with the kind of reverence that borders on cruelty. Your back arches off the sheets, a helpless curve, your body bowing beneath the weight of him, beneath the pressure of every inch pressing you open, pressing you full.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice already wrecked, forehead tipping against yours as he stays there, unmoving for a heartbeat too long. “So warm. So fucking perfect. Mine.”

He pulls out halfway, slow and dragging, and then pushes back in, even deeper. You moan into his mouth — soft, cracked, desperate. He moves again, then again, each thrust patient, almost lazy, but unbearably thorough. He’s not fucking you to finish — he’s fucking you to memorize you.

You’re gasping already, your tied wrists straining just slightly as your hips rise to meet him, your legs wrapped tight around his waist, caging him closer, like you need him deeper even though he’s already buried to the hilt.

He growls low in his throat, biting gently at your jaw. “Say it,” he demands, his rhythm still slow, still devastating. “Say who you belong to.”

“You—” you choke out, your voice caught between a gasp and a sob. “I’m yours, Jungkook. Yours—”

He groans like it’s a prayer answered in flesh. The control shatters. He snaps his hips harder now — deeper, faster — his chest dragging against yours, his breath burning hot across your throat. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, wet and sharp and desperate.

“That’s right,” he snarls against your ear, his hand sliding between your bodies to find that perfect spot — circling, pressing, just enough to make your thighs tremble around him. “My wife. My fucking everything.”

Your fingers curl tight in their silk bindings. Your spine bows. You feel him everywhere — inside you, around you, claiming you with every thrust, every low growl of your name. You’re unraveling under him, your voice breaking on every moan.

The pleasure builds unbearably — the coil tight and hot and rising, pulled taut until it can’t be held anymore — and when he angles his hips just right, hitting the spot that makes your vision blur white, it explodes.

You cry out as your orgasm hits, hard and shaking, your body convulsing beneath him as his name rips from your throat. He fucks you through it — hard and fast and relentless — chasing his own release as your walls flutter and pulse around him.

And when he comes, it’s with a broken groan, deep and guttural, his body pressing fully into yours as he spills inside you. His hands cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear, and he keeps moving just a little, just enough to keep you open, to keep the heat between you alive.

“Mine,” he whispers into your neck. “Mine. Mine.”

When he finally slows, breath ragged and body trembling, he unties your wrists with gentle fingers, kissing each mark left behind. He doesn’t say anything, not right away. Just strokes your cheek, presses a kiss to your collarbone, your shoulder, your mouth — soft now, reverent.

You’re both breathless, sticky, spent. And yet his arms stay wrapped around you, strong and still trembling from how close it all felt to ruin. His voice returns only in a whisper, lips brushing your temple.

"I don't care if the whole world burns. Just don't leave me again," he whispers against your skin.

In response, you pull him closer and stay wrapped in his embrace - a wordless promise that speaks louder than any declaration.

.

.

taglist: kelsyx33 , maariinaaaaa estyshitposts oatmealbar jkemmi @sassywildbunny @maruperalta05-blog @aaabbbbllll @estyshitposts @nellbyy @mar-lo-pap @llallaaa @koogenre

@kooklv

[ari-ana-bel-la]

We need Carlos being comforted by daughter reader after the Canadian gp qualifying 🥺🥺

My Little Sunshine

The Montreal air was thick with frustration and disappointment as Carlos climbed out of the car. The helmet came off with a sharp, practiced yank, his brows furrowed beneath damp curls. P17. Seventeenth. It might as well have been last.

He took a breath—deep, controlled, as his engineer approached with a tablet, numbers and deltas and sector times lighting up the screen. Carlos barely looked at it.

“I don't want to see it,” he muttered.

The engineer blinked. “Okay. Debrief at 4:30?”

Carlos just nodded. His hands went to his hips as he stared at the car, painted in Williams blue and white. He was grateful for the opportunity, truly. But today, everything just hurt. The tires hadn’t hooked up. The wind was unpredictable. And traffic during his final push lap ruined what little momentum he had.

He turned away from the car and walked toward the back of the garage, head low, pretending not to hear the murmurs of the media gathering just outside the barrier.

From behind the coffee counter, one of the mechanics—Jules—watched him quietly. “Tough one,” he whispered to his colleague. “Hope he’s okay.”

Carlos heard none of it. His mind buzzed with frustration, replaying every turn, every tenth he’d lost. He dropped onto a padded bench, elbows on knees, staring at the concrete floor.

And then—

“Papá?”

The small, familiar voice came from just outside the back of the garage, where a gentle breeze blew through the open flap.

Carlos looked up.

There she was—Yn, his little sunshine. Six years old, her dark curls bouncing in the breeze, a pair of oversized Williams headphones over her ears and a lanyard with her paddock pass swinging against her tiny chest. She held something behind her back, her smile as radiant as ever.

Carlos tried to smile, but it was tight. “Hola, mi vida.”

Yn stepped closer, lowering her voice in the way kids do when they think they’re in a serious moment. “Are you sad?”

Carlos sighed and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees again. “A little bit, sí.”

Yn tilted her head. “Did your car break?”

“No,” he said softly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “The car was okay. But Papá didn’t do a good job in qualifying.”

“You didn’t win?”

He shook his head. “Not even close.”

Yn seemed to think for a moment. Then, with both hands, she brought the hidden treasure from behind her back—a handful of white wildflowers. Daisies, messy and imperfect, with a few tiny green stems still clinging to them.

“I picked these for you!” she said brightly, holding them up to him. “Because you're the bestest driver. And I love you even when you don't win.”

Carlos blinked.

His heart squeezed so tightly in his chest he could barely breathe. Slowly, he took the flowers, cradling them gently in his calloused palms. They were a little wilted, a little crooked—but beautiful. Perfect.

“You picked these for me?” he asked, voice cracking just a little.

Yn nodded proudly. “By the fence! I had to be very careful because there were bees.”

He chuckled softly, the sound like sunlight after a storm. “Gracias, mi corazón. They’re beautiful.”

She smiled, and he scooped her up without another word, pulling her into his lap and holding her close. Yn giggled as he kissed both her cheeks, over and over.

“Mwah! Mwah! Mwah! Ay, you’re going to have too many kisses!”

“Nooo!” she squealed, giggling louder. “Not too many!”

Carlos’s arms wrapped tightly around her, burying his face into her shoulder. The scent of sun-warmed skin and strawberry shampoo hit him like comfort itself. His breath slowed. The ache in his chest lessened.

“You always know how to make Papá feel better, don’t you?” he murmured.

“I’m your special girl,” she said, with that proud little tilt of her chin that she definitely got from her mother.

He smiled against her shoulder. “Sí, you are. My special, perfect girl.”

Rebecca appeared a moment later, walking around the side of the hospitality tent. She looked elegant and calm, but her expression softened when she saw Carlos holding Yn so tightly.

“She saw you walking back looking all gloomy,” she said gently. “Told me she had a job to do.”

Carlos met his wife’s eyes and gave her a grateful nod. “She did more than a job. She saved me.”

Rebecca came over and sat beside them, reaching out to smooth Yn’s curls as Carlos continued to cradle their daughter.

“I know today wasn’t easy,” Rebecca said softly, her gaze on him. “But it’s just one qualifying. You always bounce back.”

“I know.” Carlos exhaled, leaning his head against hers. “It just… it gets to you sometimes. All the work, and then it goes wrong in a second. And you start to think—maybe it’s you. Maybe you’re not good enough anymore.”

Rebecca’s hand gripped his knee. “Hey. Don’t talk like that.”

“I’m being honest.”

“And I love you for that,” she said. “But don’t forget who you are, Carlos. You’re a fighter. You always have been. And this little girl?” She pointed to Yn, who was now playing with Carlos’s fingers. “She thinks you’re a superhero.”

Carlos smiled as Yn traced his palm, her small fingers exploring each line.

“I want to drive fast one day too,” Yn said suddenly. “Like you.”

“Really?” Carlos raised a brow, amused. “You want to be a racing driver?”

“Yes! But I want pink on my car,” she added seriously.

Carlos laughed, a full, warm sound. “We’ll make sure it’s the fastest pink car on the track, then.”

Behind them, a few team members had wandered over, watching quietly. There was something about the moment—Carlos’s smile returning, Yn’s happy chatter, Rebecca’s calm presence—that made the air feel lighter in the garage.

Jules turned to another mechanic and whispered, “Look at him. He needed that.”

The other man smiled. “Kid’s got superpowers.”

Back on the bench, Carlos stood up with Yn in his arms and looked at the white flowers again, still held tightly in his hand.

“Where should I put them?” he asked.

“Maybe in your room!” Yn said. “So you can see them before the race and feel happy.”

“That’s a very good idea.”

Rebecca stood as well, brushing dust off her pants. “Come on, I’ll help you get a little vase for them.”

They walked back toward the hospitality suite, Carlos holding Yn like she weighed nothing, her arms around his neck. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he could feel the soft rhythm of her breath against his collarbone.

“Papá?”

“Hmm?”

“You’re not allowed to be sad anymore.”

He smiled. “Is that so?”

“Uh-huh. Because I love you always, even if you're last. But I know you won’t be last, because you're amazing.”

Carlos kissed the top of her head. “You’re too good for me.”

“Nooo,” she said, snuggling in closer. “You’re my Papá.”

Later that afternoon, after the flowers were safely in a cup on his nightstand and Yn had gone off with Rebecca for a snack, Carlos returned to the garage for the debrief.

As he walked in, everyone looked up—expecting maybe the same low-energy version of him from earlier. But he was different now. His eyes were brighter. Shoulders relaxed. The white flowers were tucked gently into his water bottle like a makeshift vase.

“Better?” his engineer asked with a careful smile.

Carlos glanced at the flowers, then at his teammates.

“Much better,” he said. “I’ve got my lucky charm with me now.”

The team laughed, and the tension lifted like clouds parting after a storm.

As they settled into the meeting, someone whispered from the back, “We should give Yn a team radio. Bet she'd motivate him better than we do.”

And as Carlos sat down, fingers brushing the petals once more, he thought—

No matter what happens tomorrow, I’ve already won where it counts.

♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♥︎♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡

Authors Note: Hey loves. I hope you enjoyed reading this story. My requests are always open for you.

-♡○♡

[iluvbuckets]

game time decision

concussion protocol part 2

paige bueckers x fem!reader 

summary: after the wings vs sky game where paige took a hard hit to the head from an opponent, she is placed under concussion protocol. you had a particularly intense reaction to the hit, and it does not go unnoticed by the women's basketball fans. now, there was already speculation that you two had a romantic relationship on social media, but this only added fuel to the fire. the overwhelming concern and worry for the possibility of her having a serious head injury has new, deeper feelings you had never considered before bringing themselves to the front of your mind, and you begin to wonder if maybe those comments were right all along.

warnings: fluff!!, friends to lovers, slow burn, just you two being cutesy besties, hurt/comfort, idiots in love!, talk of philosophy/mythology/doctor who bc i'm nerdy like dat (but it's romantic, i swear!!), talk of the kendrick/drake beef (it relates to u being the #1 koclanes hater), lots!! of!! plot!!, eye contact, quite a bit of teasing (no one is surprised), sub!paige, you're a giver fs, both are stubborn af, you're a lil whiny for a second, u luv paige's biceps, choking kinda, thigh grindinggg, oral (of courseee), begging obviously

word count: 27k

notes:  i hope this was worth the wait <3 & i rlly hope y'all don't mind the references in this but i am just a girl with niche knowledge to share with the world and this is my outlet :( everyone thank my psychiatrist who prescribes me 70mg of vyvanse for the word count :)

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you couldn’t contain your nervousness sitting at the table, trying to do post-game media availability without making it too obvious how pissed and antsy you were.

much to her dismay, paige reluctantly told the trainers that she had a headache immediately following your team’s post-game locker room talk. she knew that if she didn’t say anything, you would, so it was probably better if she just did it herself so you didn’t make it sound worse than it was.

since paige wasn’t available, the media team had asked you to step in for the media availability, especially after your little outburst on the court. but you didn’t want to be sitting there next to your coach who was useless and stupid for that stunt he pulled, keeping her in the game. apparently it was obvious to everyone but him that paige was the type of player to pretend nothing was wrong in those instances, needing the coach to step in and take her away.

“can you talk about what happened on the court today? we’ve never seen you so fired up like that before,” one of the reporters asks.

you almost laugh from bitterness, but you manage to keep your expressions pretty contained. 

“uh,” you started, staring down at the table and not making eye contact, “emotions were high. it was an intense game, no doubt about that, and i was definitely feeling it.”

the answer was vague and honestly, didn’t answer the question at all, but you hoped that would be good enough. that it would be a sign that you didn’t want to talk about it right now out of fear that you may say something you regret. it wasn’t.

“right, but you’re not usually the type to yell like that. what caused it?” the same person asked. 

“you know, sometimes we all just get a little frustrated and it comes off more fiery than intended,” you answered, your tone just barely dripping in sass. it was intended, though. maybe not when you were speaking to paige, but definitely to coach.

“it looked like you were frustrated with paige,” someone else started. “during the third quarter, you seemed to have a moment and hugged it out, though. can you talk about that?”

you glanced up at the reporter asking the question, then at chris, then trained your gaze back down onto the table, your leg shaking violently while you did so.

“yeah, i just had to remind her that i still love her despite being frustrated with the way things were going. just mid-game intensity, no big deal,” you replied as you looked up again and gave a tight-lipped smile.

and media couldn’t get over fast enough. after what felt like years, you were able to finally get back to the locker room for a quick shower and to change.

when you got on the bus that was taking the team to the airport, you sat in the front, not even bothering to see where she was sitting. not that it really mattered though, there were enough rows that you wouldn’t have sat in the same one anyway. 

it was the same thing on the plane too, but it really wasn’t intentional. you weren’t even mad at her either, you were mad at everyone else who handled the situation poorly and the reporters trying to get a rise out of you. sure, she could’ve spoken up, but everyone else on staff should’ve stepped up when they noticed she didn’t–no matter if it was really a concussion or not. getting hit in the head isn’t something to play about.

“hey,” you heard her voice from beside you. 

you and the team were standing on the tarmac, waiting for your luggage to be unloaded so you could get back to your cars. your eyes were trained on the plane, trying to distract yourself from how truly annoyed you were and thinking about how you needed to get away for a little bit to defuse it. 

“hey,” you replied quietly. 

“i’m in concussion protocol.”

you whipped your head to the side to look at her. she looked innocent and vulnerable, like one wrong sentence could set her off into a crying fit. the annoyance and anger quickly melted away at the sight. your shoulders sagged from their tense position as you turned to wrap her into another hug, putting a hand on the back of her head comfortingly. 

“i’m sorry, paige,” you murmured softly into her ear.

“you can say i told you so,” she tried to joke when she finally pulled away after a few moments. “i can’t play the next two games. can’t travel either. they said i’ll be reevaluated on tuesday. i can do limited practice on monday if i feel better, though.”

a sympathetic smile rose to your lips at words. you knew that she might not have a concussion, it was just a precaution, but it didn’t stop the worry from flowing like nobody’s business. and even worse, you knew this was devastating for paige. she was holding it together externally so no one would worry, but she was cracking internally from it. 

you pinched her cheek jokingly making her smile. “i’m not going to tell you i told you so. i was just angry because i care and i worry about you. i don’t care to prove a point.”

as you were talking, the cart with your bags was brought around for the team to take. before paige could even argue or try to grab it herself, you grabbed both of your duffle bags. luckily, neither of you were heavy packers–and this wasn't a long trip anyway–so they were pretty light and easy to carry. you nodded your head in the direction of the building of the airport in a wordless gesture to start walking back with you, which she did.

“thank you,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. “could you–um, can i ride home with you? i just–i’m not allowed to drive myself until i’m cleared and we live in the same building. otherwise, one of the trainers has to drive me so–” she cut herself off before finishing her sentence.

honestly, you didn’t know why she was nervous to ask. maybe she thinks you’re still mad at her after not talking to her on the bus and plane, maybe she’s embarrassed of having to be taken care of, or maybe she’s embarrassed to even be in this situation. still, you had driven her so many places and definitely to practice a few times a week, so she shouldn’t be that nervous to ask. not to mention, you had already planned to offer because you assumed she would still try to drive herself home despite the protocol. 

“of course, p,” you replied with a smile. you considered making a joke about how it was a dumb question or something similar, but you assumed this wasn’t the right time for that. sure, paige has a childlike energy and is always cracking jokes, but still. you did think of one joke that would still lighten the mood, though. “i always have room for my favorite passenger princess.”

“i am not a passenger princess,” she protested. her eyebrows scrunched in annoyance at the claim because she thought it was ridiculous (even if it was true), and gave you a side eye. 

you scoffed, rolling your eyes at her weak argument–or lack of argument–but still keeping the smile on your face out of amusement. “yeah, you drive so much,” your tone dripping in sarcasm.

“i do!” she cried defensively. she threw her hands in the air in confusion, like this was genuinely the most surprising thing you had ever said, and she seemed genuine too. which is crazy because she definitely did not drive often enough for her to try to defend herself.

“maybe by yourself, but not with me,” you chuckled. she pressed her lips together in a thin line at your words. “you don’t even offer most of the time. you just walk straight to my car.” 

“okay, fine. maybe you do drive all the time, but you know dallas better than me! it’s easier if you just drive,” she admitted, grabbing the door to the airport and holding it open for you. that surprised you, too. usually, she was too stubborn to admit you were right and would argue until you either agreed with her to make it easier or dropped it all together. even though it was annoying that she would do this, you also thought it was cute how dedicated she would be over things that are stupid.

“you’re saying i’m right?” you contorted your face into a shocked expression to sell the joke you were about to make. if your hands were free, you would probably put them over your heart. instead, you changed your shocked expression into a concerned one, shaking your head in fake disbelief. “that’s not like you. the concussion must be really bad. i better take you to the hospital right now.”

she knocked her shoulder with yours lightly, not trying to push you over, but enough for you to take a stabilizing step to the side. you didn’t realize how fast you two were walking until you were approaching the doors that led to the parking lot, but you weren’t that far from them anyway. this time, they were automatic doors, so you walked through them side by side instead of her grabbing it for you.

“you’re so funny,” she replied sarcastically. 

you chose not to reply, so you both walked across the parking lot in a comfortable silence. though, it was abnormal for paige. she usually was running her mouth about anything and everything that possibly came to her mind, so you knew that meant she wasn’t feeling that great. not that you were surprised.

once you finally approached your car, you set your bag down on the concrete behind the trunk, fishing in your pockets for your keys. despite being in pain, she still felt the need to be helpful, so she opened your trunk and put your bag in it once you unlocked it. she reached for her bag in your hand, too. 

“i can do it,” you said as you moved the bag backwards out of her reach.  “i’m the healthy one here. get in the car.” 

she threw her hands up in defense, but did as you said anyway, which you appreciated. you closed the trunk hard, making sure it actually closed, then walked to the driver’s side door to get in. when you finally sat down and shut the door, you paused for a moment to look at paige. she was staring forward like she was zoned out, chewing on both her lips absentmindedly. 

when you didn’t start the car after a few moments, she looked over at you with confused expression filling her features. you tilted your head at her, shooting her a look of sympathy back. her mind was probably running wild with all kinds of thoughts that she would stress about until she could come back, but would also probably still stress about even when she was back. 

“it’ll be okay,” you said, reaching over the console to grab her hand and intertwining your fingers. “hopefully they are being cautious over nothing. you’ll just sit out these next two games, then you’ll be cleared and ready to get back to work.” 

“yeah, i hope so. it would really suck to add my brain to my extensive list of injuries,” she attempted to joke with a laugh, but her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes. she looked down at your hands to try to hide it from you. of course, it didn’t work–you could see right through it.

she was a touchy person–her love language definitely was physical touch, so she was glad that you allowed her to show her appreciation in that way and even did things like holding her hand when she was feeling upset or sad. you made her feel seen and appreciated, especially when she needed it most at this big life transition. you were just glad that she was comfortable enough to express herself like that, even if it meant she was always touching you when she was near you no matter what. 

the comfortability didn’t happen immediately, though. at first, when she would talk to you, her hand lingered in the air between you instead. then, she gradually started patting your arm when she wanted your attention, resting her hands on your shoulders when she talked to you, and resting a hand lightly on your back when you were talking to her. then progressed to things like hugs when she did something well at practice, poking your waist from behind to distract you while you were trying to get shots up, and grabbing your shoulders while you were standing in huddles.

you definitely did not share that love language with her, but if it made her happy, you didn’t mind it. and you definitely weren’t nearly as touchy as her, so it took some getting used to. you would just initiate it by tapping her arm to get her attention every now and then, but would always reciprocate her touch without fail. she didn’t seem to notice that you barely initiated, or if she did, she didn’t mind. it probably helped that you never shook her off either (unless it was as a joke after she was making fun of you, of course).

“i know it’s easier said than done, but please, try not to stress about it too much. give yourself some grace and focus on finally being able to let yourself rest,” you said. you knew you were stating the obvious, but it didn’t hurt to remind her of it to really drill it in her head.

she only nodded her head in reply, keeping her gaze trained on your head to keep her emotions from flowing out of her too forcefully. you definitely could’ve continued the conversation with more things to say about it, but you decided to keep quiet. instead, you pulled your hand away from hers to turn the key and put the car in reverse so you could finally leave.

her grip wasn’t tight enough to prevent you from pulling away, but she kept her hand on her leg with her palm facing up as a hint that she wanted you to grab her hand again. after you backed out of the parking spot and put your car in drive, you reached over the console. 

the ride back to your apartment building was silent except the faint sound of paige’s playlist playing in the background–her phone automatically connected to your carplay every time she got in it. she had turned her head to the side to keep her eyes trained outside the window, either deep in thought or trying to distract herself. you stared ahead, thinking about how worried you were and what people would say.

now that you had calmed down, you could admit that maybe you had overreacted a little. you were never one to yell at all, so you knew that your teammates were definitely surprised. your coach definitely was. paige definitely was. but you couldn’t help it. seeing her go down on the floor and holding her head in pain ignited a whole new type of worry that you don’t know if you had ever experienced before. something that made you want to drop everything and take care of her–nurse her to health. and when she lied about feeling fine? god, you don’t even know if you could even describe how deep the pit in your stomach was–the angry, knowing feeling that she was not okay.

you loved paige. she was your best friend and you would do anything for her, she knew that. you hated when she got hurt in anyway. but you couldn’t help but think about how you were the only person who acted that way about it. sure, your teammates were concerned, but not like you. not enough to cause a scene in the middle of the game yelling at their coach–which would probably end up on espn, or at least be the talk of women’s sports social media pages for a few weeks. they didn’t even say anything about how she should be taken out like you did. 

did you overreact? 

maybe you were just angry about your coach dangerously under-reacting and not her getting hurt in itself. would you have been just as concerned if she was taken out by your coach or the trainers? would it have eaten you up the whole rest of the game in the way? was it really as big of a deal as you made it?

well, yeah, head injuries or potential head injuries are a huge deal, but you still couldn’t help but stress about it.

the stressful thoughts seemed to make time fly by because before you knew it, you were pulling into the parking garage of your apartment building. you found your assigned parking spot which was in the corner of the ground floor, pulled in, and put your car in park. you let your free hand fall to your lap as you leaned back in your seat instead of turning it off though.

“will you stay at mine tonight?” you asked suddenly but quietly. 

among the other thoughts swirling in your head, that was another one you had been thinking over asking. there wasn’t any reason for her to need company other than your own peace of mind. this wasn’t necessarily the kind of injury that she needed help moving around with or really any type of assistance at all, but you knew that she was having a hard time. even if she didn’t admit it. not that you didn’t trust her to be alone, but you would still feel better anyway. then she could get some real rest. 

“i mean,” she started hesitantly, looking in your eyes. her unreadable expression softened into something else, something more fond and understanding. “yeah. yeah, that would be good.”

you almost expected her to argue. something about how she’s okay and you have better things to do than take care of her while she sits on her ass, because that’s the way she was. she didn’t want to be burden, and she would nurse herself back to health instead of feeling like one (even if you tried to reassure her that it was okay).

maybe her decision was influenced by the fact that this wasn’t the first time she had stayed over either, so she knew she would be in the guest room instead of on the couch. not that you would’ve offered if the best you could give her was a couch, though. or maybe that didn’t influence her decision at all. maybe she was purely doing it for you, because honestly, it really was more for your sake than hers–to make you feel better about her recovery.

once again, you grabbed your bags from the trunk and carried them inside yourself. she used her key to let you two in the building and held the door open for you after doing so. you gave her a nod of appreciation as you walked through. she pressed the elevator button for your floor, which opened immediately, much to your surprise. when you got in and the door closed, you dropped her bag on the floor and playfully covered her eyes with your hand.

“just putting in my contribution to helping you adhere to protocol,” you said as you raised your hand. “too many bright lights.” 

she blew a laugh out of her nose, shaking her head, and pushing your hand down. you stiffened your arm to fight her for a few seconds, but ultimately let her push it down. “bruh, we literally just played in an arena. be so for real.”

“exactly. you’ve reached your limit for today,” you replied, picking up her bag off the floor again. 

the elevator dinged, indicating you had finally reached your floor, and you shuffled out first with her following close behind. luckily, you were only a few doors down from the elevator so it wasn’t too far of a walk. 

before she could insist to open it for you, you dropped her bag again to grab your keys from your pocket, unlocking the door swiftly. though, she swiped her bag up before you could reach for it again with a goofy grin on her face. you didn’t argue, though, you knew she could’ve been carrying it this whole time because it wasn’t that heavy. 

“the room is still set up from the last time you stayed,” you said casually, throwing your bag haphazardly in the living room to grab later, shrugging your backpack off your back and throwing it in the same direction too.

“ew, you’re making me sleep on dirty sheets?” she replied, scrunching her nose like that was the most disgusting thing she had ever heard.

“you literally only slept on them once since i last washed them. are you saying you’re dirty?” you shot back, raising your eyebrows in a challenge. you knew that had been an argument between her and azzi at uconn–who was messier or dirtier–and they argued about it more often than you would think. honestly, you would say she wasn’t that messy, but maybe she’s cleaned up her act since then. 

“nah,” she said, shaking her head. “i’m clean as hell.” 

“then what did you do on those sheets to make them dirty?” you asked innocently, tilting your head slightly. 

her cheeks flushed at the implication in your words, suggesting that she had done something sexual in your guest bed. it definitely was not the case, but her physical reaction wasn’t pleading her innocence very well. her hands shot up in defense before she replied.

“nothing! i just–i slept on them! nothing else. i didn’t do anything. that’s weird,” she said quickly. maybe it was a little too quickly, but the sudden awkwardness of the subject was making her nervous. 

“yeah, okay,” you replied sarcastically like you didn’t believe her, your lips forming into a tight smile and your eyes widening. “doesn’t really sound like you didn’t do anything, but i guess the law i have to follow is innocent until proven guilty. i can’t really prove you’re guilty.” 

“you’re mean to me,” she pouted, her lip jutting out slightly. 

“you love it,” you said with a grin. 

“because i have to.”

the rest of the night was no different than any usual hangout between the two of you. you ordered in food from doordash; normally, you would’ve insisted that it was your treat, but she was a partner. obviously, you were going to use her account for the good deals that came along with that. and of course, she insisted that she get to pick because it was her account, even throwing the extra argument of her having a concussion. not that you minded, you were going to let her pick anyway for that very reason.

she managed to convince you to watch a movie while you ate despite needing to limit her screen time, but she said either you watched it on television or she would watch it on her ipad. you decided to pick your battles because having the ipad close to her face would definitely be worse, but you made her promise that she would put the screens away after it finished. she agreed, but you knew that it was just to shut you up and she would still try. 

almost immediately following the movie, you both excused yourself to bed. you followed behind her in the hallway, stopping at the guest room because it came first before your bedroom. before she could put her hand on the knob to open it, you tapped her shoulder to grab her attention. once she turned to face you, you wrapped your arms around her waist in a hug. she melted into your touch, wrapping her arms around your shoulders without any hesitation and burying her face in your neck. 

“everything will be okay,” you whispered, rubbing circles into her back slowly. “get some rest, p.”

she sighed as you pulled away, her expression looking significantly more defeated than it did five minutes ago. she didn’t verbally reply, though, just nodded and opened the door to the room. you didn’t wait for it to close before you were walking to your own room, closing the door softly behind you. 

you rubbed your hands over your face once it closed, exhausted from the physically and mentally tiring day. after peeling off your travel clothes to replace them with pajamas, you grabbed your phone from the pocket of your sweatpants now in a pile on the floor and crawled into your soft, comfy bed–not even bothering to throw the clothes in the hamper where they belong. you hoped that paige still had leftover pajamas in the dresser of that room, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care enough to check and make sure.

instead, you opened twitter. this was something you never did immediately following a game in fear of the hate comments about how bad you played and how you need to be kicked off, because there would always be those no matter how well you played–how many points you scored, or steals you got, or rebounds, or free throws made. this time, you couldn’t help it because of the events of the game.

and the very first one you spot when you look up your name in the search bar, then clicked latest, was a photo of you and paige hugging during that free-throw. the actual tweet attached to it?

do they know it’s legal

you blew a laugh out of your nose in amusement at the joke. admittedly, the hug did look pretty intimate without context, but you two were close off the court. so was it really that surprising? you clicked the back button to keep scrolling. 

unprofessional af who yells at their coach like that

you didn’t disagree for sure, but it was unprofessional the way they handled her getting hit in the head, so you didn’t really care. and there were comments under it defending you for that.

it was justified imo the coach should’ve taken paige off immediately

well the was unprofessional so who cares

someone who is pissed that their coach doesn’t gaf?

there were all kinds of tweets criticizing the way coach chris handled the situation, talking about how he clearly doesn’t care about his players, and more stuff like that. you definitely didn’t think they were wrong, but you were careful not to accidentally like any of those tweets to keep yourself from being involved in drama. 

you didn’t really know what you were expecting from scrolling besides maybe some criticism over how you handled it, and criticism how the coach handled it, but you didn’t expect the tweets you saw. there were many, many tweets speculating about how you two were definitely more than just friends or teammates because you reacted to so strongly.

the way y/n looks at paige like she’s the only girl in the world

wherever y/n is, paige is #noticing

i have a theory that they’re in love 

yeah idk if her yelling at the coach like that was something u would do for just a friend

i’ve been thinking they’re in love but this just solidified it

there were hundreds more of them, too. and they went beyond just that game. people were pulling footage from earlier games, pictures and videos from practice, and pictures and videos from when you two were out in public, and the footage from the few times you two did your tunnel entrance together to find any detail they could use to prove that it was more than a friendship. 

you scrolled for a while, getting way too deep in theories about yourself, giggling at particularly funny ones and ignoring the hate, trying not to think about why everyone thought you and paige were together. sure, she had definitely earned the title of your best friend, but you had never really thought of her as anything more. right?

you definitely thought she was pretty, but that was obvious. anyone with eyes could see that she was a gorgeous girl. and she was definitely the full package–funny, caring, sweet, kind, loving. there were a lot of things you loved and admired about her, but you had never thought of it as more than just platonic love. was paige seeing these tweets? you figured maybe it was better to not mention it.

after one particularly mean tweet, you slammed your phone down on your bed and pulled up your sheets to finally go to sleep.

though, you didn’t fall asleep. instead, you tossed and turned for hours trying to get your racing thoughts to slow down. 

you couldn’t stop stressing about the way your coach handled the situation. if paige weren’t stuck on that team for the next three years, you probably would request a trade. well, you definitely could, but you didn’t want to leave her. who else would advocate for her? definitely not the coach. but you also just wanted to stay near her. you would miss her too much if you were on different teams. 

you couldn’t help but wonder if that was a thought that someone who was more than a friend would have. it was definitely the tweets making you consider, because that would never be in the front of your mind otherwise–or the back, or, like, in your mind at all. and would someone who was just a friend even be stressing about it like this? you had to say probably not. 

at around two in the morning, you crawled out of bed to grab a glass of water. you weren’t thirsty, but you hoped it would reset your mind and allow you to sleep. on your way to the kitchen, though, when you passed by paige’s door, you heard soft crying coming from the inside. 

you stood in front of it for a moment, debating whether or not you should say something–if you should knock or just leave it. despite your judgement telling you to leave it because she probably wanted to be left alone, you slowly turned the knob and opened the door. 

she was lying on her side, facing away from the door with her hair sprawled out behind her, but you could see her shoulders shaking slightly still. she didn’t turn around or acknowledge you, but you knew she heard the door open. you softly closed it, making sure it wasn’t too loud, then walked over to the bed. without any hesitation, you lifted the comforter up and crawled under. she was near the end of the bed, so you didn’t have to move much before you were right next to her. you wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her back flush against your front.

she took a deep breath, and didn’t move except for her body relaxing in your touch. you waited for her to say something, but she remained silent, not letting any sobs escape either. 

“paige?” you whispered into her hair. you chose your next words carefully, wanting to refrain from asking if she was okay because it was pretty obvious that she was not. “what’s going on?”

she sniffed, shaking her head just barely as a reply. that wasn’t surprising, though, because she had a bad habit of internalizing her emotions–especially the hard ones. she always felt like she needed to be the strong leader who shouldn’t show weakness in front of the people who count on her. unfortunately, sometimes it even extended into her life off the court too–getting her to talk about how she’s feeling if she’s anything but good can feel like untangling a necklace in the dark. 

“you can talk to me, you know?” you tried again, tightening your arm around her slightly. “i’m not here to be anything but what you need.” 

usually, you would probably start rambling some reassurance despite a lack of reply, but you weren’t sure what direction to take here. there were several things she could be upset about–getting injured, the coaching staff, sitting out of games, all of the above. and depending on what the issue was, she may not want to hear ramblings about something else.

“are you happy i was drafted here?” she asked finally, her voice laced with insecurity. 

you were taken aback by that question, honestly. if there was one thing you were sure of about paige, it was that she moved with an unfaltering confidence in her accomplishments and hardly ever expressed anything other than that with them. it was refreshing and motivating to see someone so sure in their hard work, and it inspired you every day. this was much different than her usual mindset.

“what?” you asked, your tone maybe a little more snappy than you intended from the shock. you managed to recover before she could answer. “why do you ask that?”

“are you?” she pressed. 

“of course i am,” you said, still confused. “before i even knew you, i was so happy you were drafted to us because you’re paige bueckers. now that i do, i’m so grateful that we got the first pick because i love having you in my life. it’s great to have page bueckers on my team, but it’s even better that i get the privilege to know paige,” you answered honestly, tracing small circles into her side with your finger. “you know i love you though, so seriously, what’s going on?” 

she sucked in a breath, seemingly hesitant to give the true answer for her intense. for what reason, you weren’t sure. she should know you would never judge her no matter how silly anything she said seemed. and if she didn’t ask that question, you might’ve wondered if it was just the head injury talking.

“i don’t know. i just–this wasn’t how i expected my rookie season to go,” she almost mumbled. 

you sighed, disappointed that she was beating herself up so much over it, but not disappointed in her. and to be honest, you didn’t really know what to say to her. you could sing so many praises over her name from her character off the court to her game, but this territory was different. obviously, no one could predict this happening, especially so early, but there’s nothing she can do to reverse it. 

“i was supposed to be this player who came in, broke all these crazy records, and led the team to all these wins. instead, we’re losing all the time and i’m missing at least two games already because i slammed my fucking head into someone else,” she laughed bitterly.

“you are breaking records, at least,” you replied with an attempt at some humor to cheer her up a little bit.

“yeah, but that’s not good enough, apparently,” she said.

“according to who, paige? not according to me, your team, and the coaches. or your past teammates and coaches. so who cares what anyone else thinks? especially miserable people on the internet who could never do anything close to what you do in their lifetime.” 

“you’re gassing me up,” she mumbled to try to lighten the mood, attempting to bite back the smile threatening to rise to her face at the praise. receiving compliments from you always made her feel better, no matter how down she was, and made her feel more accomplished than from anyone else.

“i’m just telling the truth,” you chuckled.

she shifted slightly, causing you to loosen your grip you had on your waist. she used the opportunity of movement to turn around so she was facing you, your arm not moving from around her and her arms loosely crossed in front of her chest. 

suddenly, the thoughts about whether or not you truly were just friends or if you felt a little more came rushing to the front of your mind because of the proximity. your noses weren’t touching, but if you leaned forward ever so slightly, you could brush them together. not only that, but she was holding intense eye contact. but that’s just paige–she has insane eye contact no matter who she’s talking to. 

you wondered if she was thinking about the closeness, too. if her heart was pounding against her ribcage right now, if she was too aware of her breathing. if you weren’t so close, you probably would be struggling to hold eye contact, but it was a little difficult not to now. there wasn’t much else to look at unless you awkwardly craned your neck. 

your heart sank as your eyes scanned over her face to take in her appearance. in the moonlight glistening in through the window, you could see the tear streaks on her cheeks and her red rimmed, glassy eyes. her nose looked a little red where she had been wiping away snot, too.

“i messed it all up,” she said softly, her voice shaking a little. “i was supposed to come in and fix everything, to take the team out of the losing streak and keep it from staying at the bottom. we’re still losing no matter what we do, so i’m not sure i’m proving why i was the number one pick.” 

you reached up to brush her hair back and tuck it behind her ear, then let your hand drift back down to her waist. you took a deep breath to collect your thoughts, too. she put way too much pressure on herself from the get-go, and you just didn’t know how to take it off her shoulders so she could finally feel relief. it was too much for one person. 

“how are you not? weren’t you the first rookie to have a 20-piece this season? didn’t you set the record for the fastest player to get 60 points and 30 assists? aren’t you the second fastest rookie to get a points-assists double-double?”

“yeah, but we’re not winning,” she replied stubbornly, her voice lowering on the last word. 

you rolled your eyes, shaking your head a little. “so what? win or lose, your stats speak for themselves. i don’t care if people thought you were going to come in and we suddenly would be this unbeatable force. we’re a brand new team, it’s not something that can just rebuild overnight,” you explained. you knew that paige knew all of this, she had made that clear in her interviews, but apparently, she wasn’t listening when she said it. “i know it’s hard to lose so much after coming from uconn and off a national championship on top of that, but that’s way too much pressure to put on yourself.” 

“i know, i know,” she sighed, closing her eyes. “but i was expected to make all these changes and instead, i had to get injured. again. i just wanted one season where i’m healthy for the whole thing.”

“that’s just not realistic, paige. you barely had any time between college and pro season. there was no rest for your body to recharge so you’re bound to get injured,” you said, stating the obvious yet again. but clearly she needed to hear it from someone else for it to really click. “this is your chance to rest.” 

“i don’t want to rest. i want to play,” she complained, her voice a little whiny. 

“too bad,” you said with raised eyebrows, indicating you were just messing with her by your tone. “but now you can relax, rest up, and come back in demon mode with a point to prove.”

she laughed. that intoxicating, adorable, genuine laugh that you loved to hear so much, the one that always brought a smile to your face and made butterflies erupt in your stomach at the sound. 

“demon mode?” she questioned, raising an eyebrow, and poking the spot between your collarbones with her finger. “you spend too much time on online.” 

“this would be better if you didn’t make fun of me for the methods i’m using to comfort you in your time of need,” you smiled fondly. 

you couldn’t deny the sudden urge to lean forward, to change everything about your relationship right there by pressing your lips together in a kiss. it was almost too much for your brain to compute, though, because you had never felt that before. paige had always just been your little sister on the team, the girl who annoys you to the ends of the earth but you love her regardless. she wasn’t supposed to be the girl who made you feel like a teenager with a high school crush again. 

did she feel it too? did she feel the same electricity that you did? or was there even any? were the comments just getting into your head?

“you make it too easy,” she smiled back. 

“you’re so annoying,” you groaned, rolling over so you were lying on your back next to her and staring at the ceiling instead of at her. hopefully it would take some of the tension out of the air that was suffocating you. but then she giggled at your reaction. you tried to pretend it didn’t tug at your heartstrings.

you expected her to stay where she was, to keep the distance you had made between you two, but apparently she was full of surprises tonight. instead, she scooted toward you and wiggled her body down the bed so she could lay her head on your chest, one of her arms coming up to sling over your waist, tangling your feet together. instinctively, you wrapped the arm on that side around her body, resting on her back just above her hip. 

“i really appreciate you trying to cheer me up, you know,” she said quietly. “and, like, i’m also glad i have you in my life.” 

after she finished speaking, you had a serious internal debate on whether or not to reply in a serious manner. you knew she was trying to be serious and express genuine gratitude, but you had the perfect comeback after she just made fun of you. of course, you decided that nothing in life has to be too serious all the time. 

“yeah?” you asked smugly. “well, i’m not sure if i am anymore. all you do is bully me.” 

you could imagine she was smiling at your words. the classic paige smile that made you and everyone around her smile too, the contagious happiness that radiated from her like she was the sun. 

“i’m here to keep you humble,” she replied. one of the things you loved most about her is her ability to not take things so seriously just like you, that she loved to joke around and try to put a smile on people’s faces, no matter what. “your head is already big, can’t let it get bigger than that. not on my watch.”

you gasped dramatically, your mouth dropping open in shock, tilting your head down to look at her to see if she really just had the audacity to say that. “what?!”

she tilted her head to look at you too, biting her lip to hold back the cackles she wanted to spill but it didn’t stop the smile. 

“big head?!” you cried, your face a mix of confusion and annoyance at her words. “bitch, you better be joking with me right now.” 

this time, she definitely cackled. the sound was loud compared to the quiet room, but you didn’t mind. you were just glad you were able to make her laugh this hard. it felt like you won an award every time you did, especially while on camera during media because then there was proof (and you could watch it back).

“it’s okay i still love you,” she replied, still somewhat laughing, reaching her hand up to pat you on the top of your head. “big head and all.” 

“nah, get off me,” you said. you gave her a lethal side eye before pushing her off you somewhat roughly–only because you knew she wouldn’t move if you didn’t add a little force to it. she laughed loudly again, not even trying to latch on so you couldn’t push her off like you assumed she would. 

instead, she rolled on her back, clutching her stomach from her inability to contain her laughter at your reaction. this time, the tears in her eyes were from joy instead of the endless pressure of expectations that come with being the number one pick on the worst team in the league. 

you managed to hold in your laughter to not give her the satisfaction, instead sporting an annoyed expression as you stared at her and waited for her to finish. however, when she opened her eyes and saw your face, she couldn’t help but burst out laughing again. 

“i regret coming in here,” you grumbled, crossing your arms across your chest. “if i had just kept walking, i could live peacefully in ignorance under the assumption that you thought i had a regular-sized head. life would've been better that way.”

she let her laughter die down while you were speaking, allowing her to be able to give a coherent reply, but she still couldn’t stop the giggles. “okay, okay. ‘m sorry.” 

you stared at her, narrowing your eyes. “yeah, that wasn’t genuine. i’m going back to my own bed where there’s peace and quiet.” 

before you can stand, or move at all really, she grabbed your wrist and pulled you toward her in protest. her face instantly dropped from her big, goofy grin into a sad expression paired with puppy dog eyes. 

“wait,” she said, then used her free hand to touch her head and put an expression on her face like she was in pain. “ah, my head. it hurts so bad. i think i need you to stay here with me tonight. you know, to make sure i live to see the morning.” 

you rolled your eyes at her antics, but it made you a little nervous. sure, you two were touchy, but it had never gone further into this territory. you had never shared a bed. that was a whole new game that you weren’t sure if you were ready to play. that was something so intimate, so trusting of one another–it felt a little more than friendly. maybe it was just you who thought that. you had shared a bed with so many friends before, especially as a teen, but this time felt different.

“you’re so dramatic,” you laughed, gently shoving her arm. 

she didn’t reply. instead, she boldly rolled her body over so she was lying on top of you with her full weight, her head resting on your collarbone, and her arms thrown lazily above both of your heads. obviously, she wasn’t that heavy, so it didn’t bother you–she felt like a warm weighted blanket since she was pretty skinny for how tall she was. it definitely helped that you were the same height but actually had a little more meat on your bones than her, though.

you stayed still for a few moments, though, your brain glitching at the sudden contact of your bodies pressing together. your arms stayed awkwardly at your sides for a little too long, but then you slowly let them wrap around her body. she hummed in content at that, shifting slightly to get comfortable, her head seemed to nestle even further into your collarbone. 

you tried to steady your breathing to slow your heart rate, not wanting her to notice how it was beating embarrassingly fast. hers was slow, like it didn’t bother her. it bothered you, though. not in a bad way, but in a down bad way. the weight of her body, the feeling of her heartbeat beating against your chest, the feeling of her breath fanning against your neck–god, you were in trouble. 

“i’m feeling better already,” she said softly, breathing out a deep sigh. 

“maybe i should’ve gone into nursing instead,” you joked, reaching up to brush all of her hair one side so it didn’t get in your face. 

she shook her head against you as best as she could, tensing her body like she was squeezing you tighter even though her arms weren’t necessarily in the position to do so. 

“then you would’ve never met me,” she argued, her tone dripping in the implication of what a ridiculous thing to say. 

“darn, i’d have to live my life still thinking i have a regular-sized head,” you deadpanned, not allowing your tone to falter to anything but serious–not even letting a little giggle slip through the cracks. you were good at that kind of humor, though, and sometimes it made it impossible for your teammates to tell if you were being for real. 

“somebody would’ve told you the truth eventually,” she giggled.

even though you had done it a million times tonight at her silliness, you didn’t roll your eyes. of course, if she was looking, you definitely would’ve, but there was no point if she couldn’t see it. instead, you paused, taking your bottom lip between your teeth in thought as you debated saying the words that were sitting heavy in the front of your mind, staring at the ceiling like you would find the answer for what you should do.

“you know, paige,” you started, your voice barely a whisper, sucking in a quick breath to ease your nerves. “i would’ve met you whether i went into nursing, you were drafted to a different team, or neither of us even played basketball. it doesn’t matter what could’ve happened because i would’ve always found you.”  

she didn’t respond right away. the vulnerable words hung between you two heavily, yet it didn’t feel suffocatingly tense like you thought it would. instead, you were just glad you were able to get them out in the open to let her decide which direction to steer them in. she let them sink in before she opened her mouth, not wanting to say the wrong thing and mess up the moment. 

you didn’t really know what you were expecting her to say, or even what you were hoping her reply would be. on one hand, you wanted her to say something equally as sappy so you didn’t feel alone in being emotional, and to know she felt the same way without needing to read between the lines. on the other hand, you wanted her to say something unserious, to diffuse the emotionally charged energy that was making the hair on your arms stand straight up–something that would imply that she felt the same, but didn’t straight up say it to leave a bit of wonder and make your heart flutter.

“for real?” she finally asked, her voice cracking like she didn’t fully trust that the words actually came out of her mouth. you could imagine she had a smile on her face and red, flushed cheeks, too. 

you should’ve known she would’ve said something like that. no matter how many awards she won, how many compliments she received on social media from fans, and how many veterans treated her like she was a force to be reckoned with, she was still as humble as ever–still getting flustered when someone (particularly someone close to her) gives her praise about anything, especially when it wasn’t related to basketball. 

“for real,” you replied, smiling to yourself. 

she turned her head slightly to shyly rub her forehead against your collarbone like she was trying to hide from your gaze, even though she wasn’t in your line of sight. still, she felt warm and electric sitting there, like if she didn’t move she would be jolted. like your gaze was the one sending the electricity through the air even though it was trained on the ceiling instead of her. like she couldn’t believe you had said that to her and meant it. 

“like…” she paused, picking at the sheet a little bit as she gathered her thoughts, “even if i lived in the woods off the grid with no way to contact the outside world?”

you huffed out a laugh at the question, not even surprised by her saying something ridiculous and stupid like that as a way to ask for reassurance without actually asking for it. you tightened your arms around her middle so you could shift slightly without moving her, but didn’t loosen them too much after. 

“hm,” you hummed like you were unsure. then paused, pretending to seriously consider that it was a possibility and the solution to that problem. “yeah, i’d find a way. maybe one day i really felt the need to go hiking in those specific woods, and i just can’t shake the urge. so i go, then i accidentally run into your camp along the way. boom, i found you in that timeline. easy money.”

she laughed softly, a fondness laced into the sound, too. “you don’t even like hiking.” 

“exactly, so if i suddenly have the urge to do something i hate, i better listen because it’s probably for a good reason,” you stated matter-of-factly, like you had already considered that. you were quiet for a few moments to give her a chance to reply, but she didn’t immediately give you one, so you spoke again. “have you ever heard of those philosophical theories of the universe or the ones in mythology?”

“no,” she answered. of course, the question was extremely vague so you expected to have to explain anyway. plus, you kind of figured, given her christian faith, that she didn’t read too far into that kind of stuff. you did though, just because it was interesting as the philosophy and history nerd you were.

“well, in philosophy, there’s the inevitability theory. it basically says that certain things in our life are predetermined and will unavoidably happen, no matter the choices we make. even if you could go back in time to do something totally different than the way you originally did–like if i had decided to take dance serious instead of basketball when i was eight–it would still cause those certain things to happen,” you explained, confidence dripping in your tone because this was definitely your niche. after all, you graduated college summa cum laude with a bachelor's of arts degree in philosophy with a double minor in history and mythology and theology. 

again, you paused to let her reply or maybe ask a question to clarify. or even tell you she didn’t care–which she was too nice to say that to you out loud–but you were always worried that someone would tell you that while you were rambling about this kind of stuff since it can be boring to most people. but it didn’t matter, because she always cared when you talked to her about this stuff. not because she personally found it interesting enough to research on her own, but because she loved to listen to you speak about things you were passionate about. she wanted to hear about it purely because it was something you loved. 

“in norse mythology, there’s the norns. they are three female beings who are said to be the most powerful beings in the universe because they control what happens to everyone in the universe, mortal and god, by weaving together the threads of fate,” you continued, running your fingertips gently up and down her spine. 

her breathing was starting to slow like she was getting sleepy, but you continued talking anyway. “or, you might know this one from, like, tiktok or something; the red string of fate from east asian mythology. it’s been adapted from the original ancient theory to be more modernized to apply to more than just a romantic relationship between a man and a woman, though. basically, it says that two people are tied together with a red string that will eventually bring them together. the thread can be pulled and tangled, but it won’t break–to symbolize regardless of what happens or how far away they are from each other, they are destined to have a meaningful relationship together.” 

“yeah, i’ve heard that one,” she mumbled, her voice having a trace of sleepiness when she spoke.

“or, like, in christian theology, there’s predestination–god has already chosen certain outcomes for us, but theologists think it’s supposed to be referring to being predestined for salvation. you could definitely interpret it to be about certain events being predestinated to happen, though. but it’s a calvinist theory, and kind of contradicts the premise of free will in the bible so it’s really debatable,” you said, lowering your voice slightly to hopefully aid in putting her to sleep instead of keeping her awake. you just hoped it was taking her mind away from the dark place it had wandered earlier. 

again, you pause, waiting to see if she wanted to reply. she doesn’t, but you know she’s still awake because of the way her foot is shaking against yours. you had just thrown a lot of information (irrelevant information, at that) at her, so she could just be processing, but you hoped that she wasn’t shaking her foot to force herself to stay awake for your ramblings like this. 

“if we want to get real unserious, i could tell you what they say about it in doctor who,” you said with amusement, testing to see if she was bored of you talking yet. 

“doctor who?” she echoed, laughing afterwards. “you’re such a nerd.”

“basketball is just how i maintained my cool status. it’s not reflective of my true spirit,” you joked. 

though, you were kind of serious. you definitely would’ve been considered one of those weird kids that people make fun of online if you weren’t so good at basketball. and, you hate to say it, if you weren’t conventionally attractive–both in your facial features and your tall stature and athletic build. at first glance, someone probably wouldn’t assume that you spent your free time reading history textbooks and nonfiction books at the library after practice, giving yourself unnecessary homework. or that you had a life-sized cutout of matt smith facing your bed. 

not that your actual friends would’ve cared because they knew (of course, you had many sleepovers so it was hard to avoid them finding out) and didn’t mind hearing about your interests, but there were always those select few insecure, mean girls who hated when other people experienced joy–especially if the joy came from something they deemed to be cringe.

“tell me about it,” she replied gently. her finger moved down from where it was rested against the sheet by your head to trace over the neckline of your t-shirt, her fingertip occasionally brushing over your skin. 

you tried not to let it distract you as you cleared your throat, desperately trying to will the information that had suddenly gone out the window to come back to your mind so you didn’t look suspicious. luckily, you managed not be too outwardly obvious that her touch was playing tricks on your mind. 

“um, well, the doctor called the idea the burden of the time lords when he told donna that he couldn’t save everyone in pompeii eruption, even if he wanted to because it was a fixed point. it’s, like, an event that is so pivotal that even time lords can’t tamper with it because it has to happen or it would fracture time. it doesn’t have to happen exactly the way it originally did, but, like, the basic concept has to remain in tact. like how they ended up saving some people from pompeii but not all of them.”

with closed eyes, she moved the finger that was tracing over your neckline to tap you gently in the middle of your forehead a couple times. “big brain,” she chuckled sleepily, then returned her finger to its previous action. “it’s cool that you know so many things.” 

you couldn’t fight the small smile that rose to your lips at her words of praise, feeling accomplished that she thought you were smart. her breathing started to slow again, though slower and deeper than before–indicating that this time she really was falling asleep. you switched from tracing over her spine to rubbing slow, gentle circles into her back with your palms. 

though, before she could drift off into a peaceful sleep after her stressful day, she broke the silence once more. 

“this is my fixed point,” she said, her voice quiet and breathy from her sleep quickly approaching to take her away. 

you sucked in a deep, sharp breath in surprise, your hands stalling their movement on her back for a moment before recovering. though, you didn’t reply, knowing she probably wasn’t even still awake to hear it. 

of all the things you assumed she would say, that was not one of them. it wouldn’t have been surprising if she agreed with you that meeting you would always happen no matter what, or even if she didn’t say anything at all. but that was probably the last thing you expected to hear. 

it slapped you in the face with emotions you were not ready to confront, suddenly making you aware of how fast your heart was beating underneath her–it felt like it could burst out of your ribcage and run away. and you almost felt a little nauseated, too, just because of the overwhelming feeling. 

this is my fixed point.

this moment. after hitting her head, being placed under concussion protocol, and told she would have to miss at least two games of her rookie season. after she had been bawling her eyes out over the expectations that people were pushing on her, the ones she was pushing on herself, and feeling more insecure over her game than she ever has. yet despite all of those things, she didn’t want this moment to be tampered with.

if you separated the moment of you two cuddling while she listened to you ramble about things she would’ve never known if it wasn’t for you–because she didn’t care about that stuff–from the reason you were even lying there with her in the first place (and only considered that part), you would understand. but when you considered everything that had taken place today, you figured she would’ve rather forget. even at the expense of forgetting this emotional moment.

you wanted to shake her awake, to demand an answer on what she meant by that. if it was a friendly statement or if she was feeling the same way you were–if it came from a place of unspoken feelings and doubts of ruining something that was already good. 

but you didn’t, you let her sleep because you knew she needed it. so you closed your eyes and tried to will yourself to sleep, too.

the following morning, it was difficult to get up. it was probably the most difficulty you’ve ever had trying to pull yourself out of bed, actually. not because her entire body weight was still on top of you, because it wasn’t. she had rolled in her sleep so she was half on you and pressed against your side, her hand still placed where it was on the collar of your shirt last night. her mouth was dropped halfway open, and you could see a little puddle of drool on the pillow. if you hadn’t left your phone in your room, you probably would’ve taken a picture.

but despite how adorable and peaceful she looked, you had to get to the gym for practice. 

you slowly and carefully peeled your body away from hers. instead of leaving her empty-handed, though, you grabbed one of the pillows she wasn’t using and slid it underneath her arm, gently setting down her hand on top of it like it was on you. she didn’t stir at all, clearly getting some much-needed deep sleep. after quietly closing the door behind you when you left, you covered your face with your hands and sighed deeply. even though you wished more than anything that paige could come to practice, you were glad to get some separation so you could think over not just what happen last night, but the way you were feeling after. 

you tried to push it to the back of your mind while you got changed, put your hair in a ponytail, and grabbed your keys off the island where they were. you glanced at where she had thrown her bag last night when you first walked in, noticing that the space was now empty. she probably walked out and grabbed it after you were already lying in bed.

and you managed to drown out the thoughts on your drive to the arena, turning the volume up in your car to fifty and playing songs that you knew couldn’t possibly relate to the situation, even if you squint. though, you didn’t sing along like usual, just stared ahead at the road with a tense grip on the steering wheel. 

practice was a great distraction. despite the comments about paige not being there from the coaches and teammates, and your teammates asking if she was doing okay, you managed to keep your mind pretty fixed on the task at hand. you channeled all those feelings into the defensive drills, knocking down your teammates and practice players with the same aggressiveness as usual–only subtly turned up just a notch. you would have to really know your game to know that you were playing different than usual. paige definitely would’ve known. 

you didn’t even think about it as you moved across the floor swiftly, executing the drills effortlessly. that is, until it was time for the usual end-of-practice shoot-around. there were no team drills, no team activities, just working on your shots in your own (or with a partner or small group, if you wanted) with one of the assistant coaches. this would usually be the time that the media team was able to capture the most amount of footage of you and paige messing around for the instagram page, whether it was a candid shot or something organized. 

and that made it impossible not to think about her and your feelings for her.

you were so confused, rightfully so, about what exactly was going on. did you even feel anything more than friendly for her or are you just letting the comments play tricks on you? had the thought of being more than friends ever crossed her mind, even if it was just once? did she feel the energy shift between you last night? 

she had to have. it felt so obvious. the air in that room was so thick, you’re not sure that a chainsaw was powerful enough to cut it.

is her feeling that energy why she said what she said? did she even realize she said it or was she speaking in a half-asleep daze? would she stress about it like you are right now? was she trying to convince herself it meant nothing? did it mean nothing?

god, there were so many thoughts racing through your mind all at once, you genuinely considered slamming your head against the brick wall of the gym to get them to quiet down. but that wouldn’t do you any good, you’d be placed in concussion protocol too. and that would definitely look a little suspicious on your part if you got them so close together, and if they published the reason you were placed in it.

even though you had only been shooting for five minutes, you decided to take a water break try to calm down a little bit after missing three mid-range jumpers in a row. it wasn’t even that shots weren’t landing like they were supposed and generally having a bad shooting day, you were just barely paying attention to what your body was doing, what your form looked like, and if they were going to go in–your mind somewhere else entirely. 

you sat on one of the folding chairs, reaching under it to grab your water bottle. your phone was sitting next to it on the floor and for some reason, you hesitated–debating on if you should grab it or not. it was common for you to bring your phone on the floor like this, just because it made you feel less anxious having it close in case something were to happen, but you, pretty much, never checked it until practice was over. you didn’t really have a reason to. 

the only person you wanted to talk to was standing right there on the court with you.

and maybe the unusual, overwhelming urge you had to check your phone while practice was still running because she wasn’t there. you snatched it from it’s position on the wood, quickly tapping the screen to see the notifications you had missed. you tried to bite back the smile when you saw paige’s name at the top from imessage. 

boogie 

y’all miss me yet or what

once, after practice was over and the team was still hanging around waiting for one of the coaches to grab something from the locker room so you could have your post-practice meeting, you all got in a group discussion about nicknames that they were given by your respective high school and college teams. after she said the important ones like p and paige buckets, she mentioned one of her lesser known nicknames, p boogers, that was used a lot during the 2023-2024 season by her teammates at uconn, specifically kk–who was the one who came up with it–but it was only used periodically after that. 

of course, you were determined to give it a comeback because it was hilarious. even though when you were verbally speaking to someone, you didn’t use nicknames that much, you decided to utilize it other ways. like changing her contact name to that, and you had used it in a few instagram captions and comments. and between those captions and comments, it had somehow evolved from p boogers to boogie. you don’t even remember how, but you don’t think you’ve ever actually called her either of those names when speaking to her. unless someone introduced themselves with a nickname when you met them, you mainly just used their name. whatever name they introduced themselves with, whether it was their full first name or a nickname, was the one you stuck with and you rarely ever didn’t follow this unspoken rule you had made for yourself.

your fingers moved quickly across the screen to type in your passcode after your face id denied and opened the imessage app, trying to remind yourself that you couldn’t sit here for too long and needed to get back to shooting. not that it mattered too much because the coaches wouldn’t say anything, you’re a professional. they don’t babysit you anymore like in high school and college.

you

nah

we actually don’t need u anymore sorry

boogie

you’re supposed to be miserable without me

you

why would i be 

i can actually get shots up without this random annoying girl trying to distract me

boogie

don’t know why you’re complaining

i’m just simulating real game situations

it’s important to practice how u play

you

real situations huh

nobody is gonna try to pants me in the middle of a game

boogie

u never know

now i’m gonna do it to prove to u that it can happen

you

bruh we’re on the same team

u just want to see me without pants sooo bad

boogie

maybe i do 👀

you nearly choked on your own spit as the clearly flirty message came in. you and paige didn’t really have the type of friendship for you to brush it off as nothing, too. you two were often physically close, complimented each other, and said that you loved each other often (often being everyday, of course), but never straight up flirted with one another, even as a joke. you only “flirted” if an outside observer perceived a conversation as flirty while listening in, like when you would compliment each other on the court or hug in the tunnel, but it was never like that on purpose. and you don’t think that really counted anyway.

you

gonna start tying my shit extra tight

and avoiding u at all costs

if u need to talk to me, you’ll have to yell across the court bc that’s as close as i’m getting

boogie

☹️

i’m never coming back

you

thank god

get off ur phone concussed ass

as soon as you pressed send on the second message, you threw your phone back under the chair and shot out of your seat to get back to working on your shots. the short break definitely didn’t help because your shot accuracy is just about the same as when you started, if not worse. not that you were surprised, because now you had all new material for this situation to stress over that was fresh in your mind.

that message could’ve meant nothing. she could’ve been playing around, flirting as a joke, not really meaning for you to take it so seriously and stress about it. but that wasn’t really like her, her humor wasn’t like that–at least, with you. you had to wonder if she was being bolder after sharing a bed, which she was, for sure, that was obvious. but was it because you shared a bed, and cuddled all night on top of that? was she also battling with the same internal struggle as you were, trying to decipher hidden meanings behind everything that probably weren’t even there in the first place? 

“have you talked to paige today?” a voice broke you from your trance. 

you froze in place at her name. you tried your best to be nonchalant about, though, as you shifted the ball you were holding to rest on your hip, turning your body to the culprit. it was maddy, of course. you had been fairly close with her ever since you got drafted together. you knew of each other in college, following each other on instagram, but you never talked to her before that. obviously not as close as you were with paige, but you were still good friends. 

“uh,” you started, scrambling to rack your mind for a good answer that wasn’t literally oh yeah, she stayed the night and we slept in the same bed, no biggie, she’s as good as she can be. but you were overthinking that anyway. would it really be that weird to say she slept over? probably not, it wasn’t a secret that you two were close outside of work, and you both had mentioned sleeping over at each others’ apartments multiple times. it felt different to admit it this time though, like you were talking to someone new and trying to keep it quiet in case it doesn’t work out. instead of being honest about the sleepover, you just went with your safest option while still maintaining honesty. “yeah, she was just texting me.”

“is she doing okay?” maddy asked genuinely. she didn’t seem to be suspicious of your behavior. yet, anyway. “i feel so bad for her.”

“yeah, um, she’s okay. pretty bummed about missing so much, but what can you do, you know? she was just asking me if we missed her yet,” you replied, sliding in the last part to ease the tension you had worked up. 

maddy laughed. “i’ll check in on her later. my phone is in my locker and i assumed you had spoken to her since i last saw her anyway, so i figured i could ask you for now in case she doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”

“i know she’d love to hear from you,” you said genuinely, shooting her a reassuring smile. 

“i’ll let you get back to shooting,” she said as she walked down the court to the other hoop where she had come from. 

you shook your head to try to shake some of the awkwardness out of you from that interaction because there was no reason for you to feel awkward. it didn’t mean anything that she had asked you about paige instead of just texting her herself, especially because she probably knows that concussion protocol says to limit screen time. 

you managed to get through the rest of the shoot-around without a problem, though it passed by way faster than you hoped it would. to make up for it, you decided to shower here at the arena instead of at home which was a rarity. and you didn’t even check your phone either.

yes, you were literally only doing it to prolong seeing paige again. she probably wasn’t even still in your apartment unit, though, so you don’t know why you felt the need to do it. you loved her, seeing her, spending time with her. yet, today it felt like the last thing you wanted to do. it wasn’t her fault, either, it was you and your stupid feelings. you didn’t need to complicate things like this when she’s recovering from a potential injury, especially one that could be as serious as that. 

but that was the other thing, it wasn’t even complicated. you were just making things up in your head to justify your avoidant behavior at this point. 

your heart pounded the entire drive home in anticipation, your palms getting more and more sweaty the closer you got to the building. you found yourself subconsciously looking to see if her car was there, and it was, parked in her assigned spot. duh, she can’t drive by herself, you muttered to yourself.

when you walked through the front door of your apartment, not even bothering to turn the light on, you were greeted with the sound of silence rather than paige’s voice. the couch was empty and the tv switched off, but she could still be in the bedroom? she is supposed to be sitting in the dark. before you could turn to go down the hallway and check, you noticed a paper sitting on the counter of the kitchen. 

of course, you couldn’t ignore the curiosity bubbling up inside you, so you walked over to it somewhat cautiously. you’re not sure why, because who else would’ve written it besides paige? it’s not like someone is going to break in your house and leave you a convenient little note to apologize before leaving, or that a murderer would wait for you to read it before they killed you. 

when you picked up the paper and got a good look, you would’ve recognized that handwriting anywhere.

i would say i hope you had a good practice but i know you didn’t because i wasn’t there

went back to my apartment to shower and change 

please text me when you’re back!!!

– love,

your favorite basketball player of all time

the funniest person you know 

the best part of your day 

the reason the sun rises every morning 

the source of your happiness

the reason you haven’t requested a trade yet

you laughed when you saw all the names she added to her signature, not at all surprised by any of them. you did as the note said, pulling out your phone to shoot her a text to let her know you’re back. she had replied back from earlier, too, when you were texting her during practice.

boogie

yes m’am 

it was simple and casual, but it still made your stomach flip a little bit. it shouldn't have, but goddamn, you were down atrocious over this girl. 

you

my fav player is a’ja but i love the confidence!

boogie

so you’re rooting for the enemy?

you

be fr

boogie

i’m just saying 

that’s like betrayal

i’m ur fav wing at least right

you

in ur dreams

boogie

😥

open the door

you immediately glanced toward the front door, then back at your phone, debating whether it was necessary to answer. ultimately, you decided to just walk over and open it rather than put in the effort to reply and open it. it’s been a long day, what can you say?

when you swung it open, you were met with the sight of paige, her purple glasses perched on her nose, hair pulled back into a messy low bun, dressed in a random team hoodie, black nike sweatpants, white socks, and slides on her feet, and her lips pulled in a grin when she saw you. 

you stepped to the side to let her in, closing the door as she sat herself on the couch like she had done so many times before. however, it felt like the first time. it felt like an awkward first date with someone you matched with on a dating app where you’re so nervous you can hardly catch your breath, but they seem as cool as can be. 

just like the night before, you ordered food off of her doordash account, putting on a movie to watch while you enjoyed it. you told her what you did in practice, conveniently leaving out any parts that would involve confessing that you really did miss her being there, even if it had only been one day. you could tell she was already really missing being there too by the sad glint in her eyes and the way her smile didn’t quite reach them. 

you knew that paige hated missing training, especially for injuries. she had spent so much of her time at uconn injured, that she wanted to have a clean slate and start her professional career off right with a completely healthy season for once. but that goal was over almost as quickly as it began. she barely even had a chance to prove why she really was the number one pick, the girl everyone was raving about, the girl everyone said was on the same level on the greats. you just wished you could take that pain away that you knew was eating her up. 

for the rest of the evening, you sat on the couch with her in your dark living room. as you were sitting on opposite ends, your feet were tangled together in the middle under the giant blanket you were sharing. you had the tv going, though it was softly playing some medical show, mostly for you as she took periodic naps. you had figured out how to turn the brightness of the screen down, too, hoping to reduce any strain in case she wanted to watch when she was awake. 

you were growing more and more anxious over the possibility of her sleeping over again as each minute ticked by. you definitely wouldn’t mind if she did, but there was a game tomorrow. before she was put in protocol, she made sure to always be in bed by 8pm the night before a game to prioritize her rest, for recovery purposes, and try to keep her body as healthy as possible. 

you definitely weren’t as strict with yourself as she was, but she always tried to impose her pre-game rules on you. even though you weren’t worried about that kind of stuff like she was, you always followed along. because if a girl with a player bio that extensive was telling you that doing something would make you a better player, you’re obviously going to do what she says. though, you have yet to notice a big jump in your stats and you never felt much different either, you always assured her that it was definitely helping and you definitely felt much better than before. just a little white lie to make her happy and put a smile on her face, of course.

to no surprise, once the clock read seven-thirty, she jumped to her feet. 

“time for you to get ready for bed,” she said with a smirk, holding out her hand to help you up off the couch. “big game tomorrow. you gotta avenge me.” 

you rolled your eyes while shaking your head to feign annoyance, but took her hand anyway. she yanked you up easily, but put too much momentum into it, causing you to stumble forward and crash into her chest. 

“woah,” she said, the word slipping out without permission. 

your hands landed on her waist in a subconscious effort to stay upright, but you quickly pushed yourself away from her, putting a little more distance than necessary between the two of you. when her face contorted a little in confusion, you mentally cursed at yourself for the insane reaction. there was literally no reason for you to do that, to make it a bigger deal than it was. you were just trying to not make it awkward–which, of course, made it a hundred times more awkward than it would've been. 

after a few moments of observing you, she broke the silence. “um, are you good?” she asked slowly, seemingly unsure of where to tread. 

“yeah, i–um–” you started, then paused, pointing your finger towards nothing as you searched for an excuse somewhere, anywhere in your brain that would make even a little bit of sense. you came up with nothing, though, because there really was no good excuse for that. “i just wasn’t expecting to fall was all.” 

you avoided eye contact as you waited for a reply, hoping that she would believe it. if she couldn’t see you right now, you would drop on your knees and plead to whatever god–or entity or whatever else people worship–was listening that she believed it and didn’t question you further, maybe you would even offer your firstborn child to get out of it. or maybe selling your soul would be better?

apparently, no one was listening. 

“yeah,” she said, clearly not at all convinced. “you’ve been weird since you got home. was it that text i sent you at practice? because i swear i was just–”

before she could finish her sentence, you cut her off. “no, no. it’s not that. i’m just–” you paused, once again looking for any excuse that you could possibly latch onto and run with. “–nervous about the game tomorrow.”

“right,” she replied slowly, furrowing her brows in confusion. you couldn’t tell if she straight up didn’t believe you or if she was trying to decide whether or not she did, but this time, she didn’t press it. she threw her hand up before she opened her mouth, using her thumb to point at the door. “i’m gonna head out. text me when you wake up so we can get breakfast before you have to be there?”

“of course,” you nodded, watching as she started walking toward the door. “rest up, paige.” 

she didn’t reply, but stuck her hand and the air and pointed up as acknowledgement as she grabbed the doorknob, pulled it open, then shut it softly behind her. 

you blew out a breath of relief, grateful for that terribly awkward interaction to be over so you don’t have to be drowning in it anymore. you wanted to punch yourself in the throat for acting like this, but you had been spiraling all day about whether or not you had feelings for paige, romantic feelings so now everything felt so much more emotionally loaded than before. but was it different than before?

you made an attempt to collect yourself as you stood there, contemplating whether or not you should just crawl in a hole and die to avoid having to reflect on that interaction again. the decision was that maybe it wasn’t the best idea the night before a game, or just in the middle of the season in general. maybe once the season ends, you’ll find a nice wooded area somewhere in the middle of nowhere when you can dig a hole to spend the rest of your days in. maybe in appalachia? no one goes in those woods because they’re afraid to see something supernatural. or maybe the mountains of utah? though, you weren’t the biggest fan of snow so the winters would be hard. god, this could've been avoided if you just approached these situations like a normal person instead of making them ten times worse than they had to be.

you slapped your palms against your forehead, both as a punishment and to get yourself out of your head. after taking a few calming breaths, you moved toward your bedroom to do as paige said–get ready for bed. you could only hope to get even five minutes of sleep tonight though, knowing the interaction, the sleepover last night, the new feelings, and the flirty texts she had sent would haunt you every time you closed your eyes. well, they were haunting you even with your eyes open, so there wasn’t much hope there. damn, you were going to play like shit the next day if you couldn’t chill out. 

without thinking twice or even allowing yourself to consider skipping, you pushed open the door to the bedroom and then the one to your en suite bathroom as well to turn on the shower. the water was hot against your skin, turning it red on contact, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care. it’s not like it hurt anyway, it just looked like it did.

your eyes stared intensely at the water going down the drain, wishing you could wash away with it. at this point, your thoughts were racing through your mind so quickly, you couldn’t even settle on just one to stress over, so you felt a little fuzzy–or maybe disconnected was the better word. you barely even blinked too, meaning you were in a classic state of dissociation. 

you didn’t know how long you stood there just staring, barely blinking, unmoving, but the water running cold snapped you back into reality. you nearly jumped out of your skin when you felt it, quickly reaching to turn off the water. you grabbed a towel of the hook and wrapped it around your body, turning to face the mirror above the sink. 

“chill the fuck out,” you whispered, making eye contact with yourself in the mirror. “you’re working yourself up over nothing.” 

the night goes by in a blur, mostly because you actually managed to fall asleep fairly quickly. you had not expected to until at least three or four in the morning because you didn’t feel tired at all, not even a little bit, even when your head hit the pillow. still, you closed your eyes to try to will your stress away, and they didn’t open back up until you heard your morning alarm going off on the nightstand next to you. 

unfortunately, the new day is no different than the one before. 

you decided to skip the breakfast with paige, feeling too nauseous to eat.

the stress was eating away at you at the pre-game practice–your legs were jiggling every time you found yourself sitting on the bench, your fingers constantly fidgeting with each other, shifting your weight from one leg to the other every couple of seconds while you were standing restlessly.

your mind was plagued with thoughts about paige. about how she felt laying in your arms or how she seemed to fit so perfectly into your side like a puzzle piece. the way she listened to you ramble about your stupid history shit she didn’t care about like it was the most interesting movie she had ever watched, and how she would smile to herself when you would watch a sporting event with her that she knew you didn’t care for, like a football game. the way your minds felt connected while you were on the court together, like she knew what your next four moves would be before you could even compute them yourself, or the way you always knew if her shot was going to go in before it even left her hand. 

how you felt sick to your stomach watching her collide with vandersloot and tumble to the floor. the sense of dread that washed over you when you realized she was lying about not having a headache after. how you couldn’t even stop yourself to think things through and calm down before you were screaming at your coach, the worry taking over you like a demon controlling every action.

the way her voice sounded as she asked you for reassurance later that night, as she let you see how truly buried in insecurity she felt. the way she blamed herself for the losses of your team rather than pointing a finger at anyone else. how puffed up her eyes were the following morning after how much she cried over it. 

how if she were there in that gym with your team, she would be passing around compliments to everyone for every little thing without a second thought. how she would be dancing to the music playing over the speakers while standing in place like a dork. how she would look towards you immediately every time she did something well–even before looking toward the coaches, or would shoot you a tight-lipped smile when she didn’t. how she would be smiling like an idiot when she effortlessly made the half-court shots, throwing her hands up like it was all in a day’s work. because it was, to her. 

she was the ray of sunshine you desperately needed. that the teamandorganization desperately needed. 

if paige had been texting you as pre-game practice went on, then as you were getting ready for the game, or as you were arriving to arena again, you didn’t know. you didn’t even look at your phone, but had put it on do not disturb so she didn’t think you were seeing them and ignoring her. it wasn’t even on purpose either, your mind was just too occupied to even think about picking it up. you contemplated turning it off completely before the game, but you didn’t want to do that without telling her first so she wouldn’t assume you blocked her. 

well, she probably wouldn’t, but things were a little too out of the ordinary right now for you to be considered mentally stable enough to be making rational assumptions. 

when they called the starting lineup, you didn’t even want to hear them say someone else instead of hers, watching them high-five the line instead of her. and when you were standing around the circle waiting for the tip-off, you barely managed to hide the disappointment when it was nalyssa standing across from you instead of paige, who would be nodding at you as her silent way of saying lock in if she was there.

and to make the game, that was bad before it even started, worse, you played like shit, throwing out any possibility of joking about getting your lick back from the team who sidelined your best player. you tried not to think about the fact that you could pretty much guarantee she was sitting on the edge of her couch in her apartment, watching you play probably the worst game you had played since getting drafted (or maybe even in general over your entire career), and how obvious it was that she carried your team on her back like a seasoned veteran despite being a rookie. 

you felt like a hot mess on the floor, and you probably looked like one to all the spectators and even those watching on the livestream too. like you had never played basketball in your life and just casually threw on a jersey before walking onto the court. like you were playing a video game for the first time ever as a kid, trying to navigate the controls while pretending you knew what you were doing, as if they didn’t seem like a foreign language to you. if you didn’t have a coach who believed in peace, harmony, and togetherness, he probably would’ve said the same things–or worse. if you were still playing for your college coach, you most likely would’ve left crying. instead, this coach just tossed out some empty statements: it’s okay, we’re learning, we’ll get ‘em next time, let’s focus on working together.

and goddamn, you were genuinely thinking about sprinting home to print your trade request paperwork and fill them out tonight to keep in preparation for the absolute shit show this season would turn out to be. so they are ready for you to turn in the second the season ends, and you don’t have to endure more of this hell than you are contractually obligated to. especially if paige doesn’t clear protocol after the seattle game. 

well, if the organization didn’t trade you before you had the chance to do so. after your outburst in the last game and your god awful stat line–so shitty a fifth grader on a recreation team probably has better numbers–from this one, you wouldn’t be surprised in the slightest if they tried to rush you out the door and didn’t look back before you could finish out your season.

but really, you wouldn’t be that mad if they did. you couldn’t stand this laid-back coaching style of this new coach one bit, and the fact that the new general manager supported it and continued to ignore the concerned comments from dedicated fans? like it actually irritated you to a point you didn’t know was possible to see this guy stay calm and collected during intense moments instead of getting loud. or when he would stand by the bench quietly, staring like that would do anything, instead of standing on the court arguing with the refs like he didn’t care that he could get a technical foul or two, or even be ejected. 

if you had told your college self that you missed being yelled and cussed at just for dumb little mistakes even if they were unavoidable, or watching your coach throw chairs (mind you, it was never in the direction of the players and most often because of bad ref calls), or getting automatically ejected because he got t’d up twice for being on the court, you would’ve laughed in your face and begged to trade places for someone more chill. 

guess it’s true when they say you don’t know what you got until it’s gone. 

admittedly, it got you so heated, you had created two burner, anonymous accounts on different platforms to scroll through tweets and comments on reddit threads criticizing coach chris. not that you weren’t doing it before they were created, but then you didn’t have to worry about accidentally liking one and that getting spread around tea pages. it was just better if you kept the hatred internal and keep the assumptions that you weren’t a fan of his as assumptions rather than making it obvious publicly by being messy like that. it was already unprofessional enough that you were doing it in the first place, but you had to reassure yourself that you–and your team, of course–weren’t the only ones noticing these things.

maybe at some point in the season there would be something so diabolical that it would be the turning point for you to like the hate posts publicly with your name and profile picture and all. something that would make it hard for everyone to tell the difference between you and kendrick lamar. something that would have you tapping into your full hater potential, dropping diss tracks that name-dropped him and criticized everything you could possibly criticize with nothing safe from being mentioned–starting with that dumb man bun that he feels the need to clutch onto. maybe it would even extend to the general manager too since he was an enabler for the shitty coaching, like how kendrick mentioned j. cole just once in like that, but didn’t do it again. or maybe something like his verse on big sean’s control.

you didn’t know the general manager personally so you didn’t hate him in the same way as your coach, with the same amount of passion pulled from deep inside your core that could be felt burning throughout your entire body from the top of your scalp to the tips of your toes. but it was enough that he was encouraging the shitty coaching by staying passive instead of intervening and firing the coach that isn’t delivering results to have a strong distaste for him. and not only that, he chose this guy who looks like he owns one of those overpriced trendy burger restaurants where they give you mason jars instead of cups and metal trays instead of plates for $30, fries not included–or like a temu version of jesus, as paige’s fans would say–instead of someone like the lisa leslie, a legend in women’s basketball. 

but even with how early you were in season, you definitely felt like you had collected enough material on the coach to embody the lethal, poisonous spirit of the world-destroyer atomic bomb that is meet the grahams. if he hasn’t figured this shit out by now–that something just isn’t working, isn’t clicking–then you’re not sure he ever will. and it’s obvious the problem isn’t with the players on team.

maybe before nobody wanted to really get into his faults since this was his first season in the league, they wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but you just couldn’t sit there quietly and hope things would get better anymore. you couldn’t excuse his behavior. not after he watched paige slam her head hard into someone else’s, fall to the ground, then see his entire lineup circle around her to make sure she was okay, just to keep her in the game without even briefly (at the absolute bare minimum) checking on her before it resumed. not after he claimed in an interview that he didn’t see it happen. even though when you watch the livestream back, you can clearly see him standing there next to the score table watching it all go down like it was normal and nothing to be concerned about.

you tried to understand his thought process behind that so many times, to try to understand why he handled that the way he did, but you just couldn’t. 

god, the anger burning up had your fingers itching to pick up a pen and write your own version of kendrick’s euphoria. it was so fitting for this situation too–the title referencing drake’s overconfidence in his ability to win the battle, and that fits because chris was overconfident in his ability to coach. but you digress.

it was so hard to bottle in your frustration with how your professional career was moving, but that was all you could do to keep the image you had built for yourself. the level headed player who rarely got in fights with other players and refs, and was often diffusing the tension between other players on the court whether they were on your team or not. you never found yourself on the cusp of bursting like this in college so it was easier to keep your composure, but this organization was really testing your patience. 

after the game, you had wandered into a side hallway immediately following the post-game locker room talk, needing some quiet time to collect your thoughts and chill the fuck out before you headed home–before you got behind the wheel. you pressed your forehead against the cool brick, rubbing your hands roughly over your cheeks, your breath coming out a lot shakier than you thought it would.

you felt yourself spiraling. was feeling like this really worth being able to say you played professional basketball? was pushing through really worth it at the expense of your mental wellbeing? was it really worth it to stay and lose any love left you had for the sport instead of leaving it on a high note before it got too bad?

maybe you were being dramatic, because it really wasn’t even that bad. there were many players who had it significantly worse than you, issues with their organizations that were personal, beyond the game of basketball. and it wasn’t that you were losing. you were used to losing considering last year’s season was rough enough to land you with the number one pick, but not like this. and this was one extra shitty game, so what? you’re supposed to brush it off and come back even better at the next one; you used to be able to do that just fine.

but you didn’t know how you would do that when it was like this coach just did not give a fuck. nothing ever changed, corrections were never made, and every play felt like a free-for-all instead of a cohesive play, and then he wondered why you could never hold onto a lead to save your life.

you tried to think of any reason to stay for the rest of the season. to at least stay in dallas until october instead of requesting a midseason trade or taking the rest of it off for personal reasons. anything that could even influence your decision to leave just a little bit. and there was one.

paige. 

she was your reason. she made it tolerable even when it felt like you couldn’t last another day. she made you remember why you loved the game so much, why you had dedicated your entire life to it. 

you scrambled to grab your phone from where it was tucked into the waistband of your shorts, giving yourself silent praise for grabbing it from your locker before leaving the locker room. when you tapped the screen and the while in do not disturb tab, you had quite a few missed texts from paige and you immediately felt terrible for ignoring her all day.

boogie

good luck today bestie boo

you’re the best ever so i know u don’t need it

i’ll be watching from the couch seething with jealousy but i’m happy i can put my full attention into watching u do ur thing out there

i’ll try to sit still and not get a noise complaint but no promises

you smiled, wondering how you ever got so lucky to have someone like her in your life. you wish that everyone could experience someone as supportive as her, whether it was a friend or partner. 

boogie

wait you’re on dnd

okayyyy miss locked in

triple double watch baby‼️

damn i wish i was there

um ty to whoever approved the rebel uniforms 

u look so good girl

jealous of everyone who gets to see it in person tonight

you felt heat rush to your cheeks reading the compliments from her. again, it wasn’t something that was abnormal for you two, but it hit you harder this time. you glanced down at your uniform, wondering if she intended it the way you were taking it. there were more messages, but they started to get into commentary about the gameplay, and you weren’t sure if you wanted to get into that while it was so fresh in your mind. 

instead, you tapped her contact photo and pressed call, raising your phone to your ear with a shaky hand. 

“hello?” she asked, her voice instantly making you feel better. 

“paige,” you breathed, an unexpected choked sob leaving your lips and tears welling in your eyes. you hadn’t expected to cry, you would’ve expected to punch wall before you cried tonight. this must’ve been the point where it became too much, finally spilling over. 

“hey,” she said, her voice softening in a way that you had never heard before, “it’s okay.” 

“i wish you were here,” you replied, ignoring her attempt at being reassuring. you appreciated it, but it wasn’t what you needed to hear to start feeling better. 

“i know,” her voice was small, like she was trying to be careful about the words she used to keep your emotions from spilling again. “i know. i wish i was there too. i miss playing with you already.” 

“i played like shit today,” you blurted. it came off a little snappy, but you hoped she understood that it was just because you were frustrated with yourself. 

she hesitated for a moment, trying to decide whether she wanted to be reassuring or lighten the mood. “you said it not me,” she said finally, her tone playful while still trying to be careful. you were grateful for it though, because you knew she was only trying to make you laugh and cheer you up. and it was the truth, anyway, so her denying it would be a lie.

“asshole,” you muttered, but with a fond smile on your face. “i’m bawling my eyes out over here and you’re just kicking me while i’m down.” 

it wasn’t actually the truth, you weren’t crying, tears hadn’t fallen yet, but you felt like you could. you honestly felt like you could sob until your throat was raw and you lost your voice–until you didn’t have any tears left. but the sob when you answered the phone and the shakiness in your voice as you spoke probably gave her the impression that you were. 

“you want me to lie to you?” she asked seriously, but you could hear the smile on her face despite her tone. “because i can. i can pull all kinds of sweet things out of my ass for you right now, if that will make you feel better.” 

you laughed, shaking your head at her in amusement even though she couldn’t see it. “that would probably make me feel worse. you’re not very good at lying.”

“a blessing and a curse,” she replied. 

“how is it a blessing?”

“bruh, i don’t know. it just felt like the right phrase to use,” she said defensively. you could imagine she threw her hands in the air like she usually did when you were actually speaking to each other.

“you’re dumb,” you giggled. she laughed with you, just happy that you shifted to a much happier tone compared to when you first called, even if it meant you were making fun of her. not that she would ever take it too seriously from you, anyway, because you would never mean it maliciously.

there were a few moments of silence before she spoke again. “are you still at the arena?” 

you glanced around like she had caught you doing something you shouldn’t have been, like you were trespassing despite being in your own facility. when you remembered she couldn’t see you, you lowered your voice sheepishly. “um, no.” 

“i would offer to come get you, but,” she said, drawing out the u in the last word a little, “there’s a pretty big chance that someone will see me and i’ll get my ass chewed for not following protocol.” 

“i don’t think getting caught should be the part you’re concerned about here,” you replied, your tone a little sassy as you said it. “maybe we should be worrying about the fact that you would get in trouble because you might have a brain injury. knowing what happens if it doesn’t heal correctly should be enough motivation to keep you from getting behind the wheel, dipshit.” 

you threw in the name at the end to ease the tension of your words, because you were serious. you didn’t want her to brush it off like was just broken nail or something.

“you’re no fun,” she grumbled. 

“you know what else isn’t fun?” you asked, pausing like you were waiting for an answer, but you continued before she could. “post concussion syndrome, second impact syndrome, chronic traumatic encephalopathy–”

“okay, okay,” she interrupted, her tone mildly exasperated. “i hear you, damn. i’m trying to make you feel better and you’re turning it into a lecture.” 

“i would feel better if you took this seriously,” you said sternly.

“i am taking it seriously. it’s just–the possibilities for how this could turn out are really scary and i don’t want to actually think about what happens if i don’t get cleared,” she confessed. “but we’re not talking about me right now, we’re supposed to be focusing on you.” 

you blew a breath of your nose. “has anyone ever told you that you’re, like, a pro at deflecting?” 

“yes, quite a few times actually, all from the same person,” she said. “but she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.” 

your lips parted in surprise at her words. “you’re mean.” 

“well, can you blame me? i’m getting impatient waiting for you here,” she stated like it was obvious. you felt butterflies erupt in your stomach, biting your lip to try to hide the smile threatening to rise.

“waiting for me, huh?” you teased. 

she paused to debate if she wanted to say the joke that instantly came to her mind, and ultimately decided that life is too short to keep her best material to herself. “yep, just naked and oiled up on the couch right now, feeling a little bit like a raw french fry before it goes into the deep fryer.”

your face scrunched in amusement at her joke, trying not to cackle loudly and attract anyone’s attention to figure out where it was coming from. you covered one side of face with your hand, shaking your head, deciding to play along.

“why didn’t you say so? i would’ve been out of here so fast that you wouldn’t have had the chance to hang up before i was knocking on your door,” you replied, trying to hold back the laughter. 

“too much talking, not enough driving,” she simply said in reply, barely even waiting for you to finish your sentence. 

“you know, the more you rush me, the slower i want to move,” you sassed. still, you pushed yourself away from the wall to start walking down the hallway towards the locker room. it wasn't too far of a trip, either.

“okay, fine. what do i have to do to get you to hurry up?” she asked. your heart rate quickened at her words, feeling the flirtatious tone in her words. you weren’t sure if it was intentional or if you were just hearing things, but you swear you heard it.

you hummed in thought as you threw open the door roughly, rushing over to your locker as soon as you got through the frame. “good question,” you finally said after a few seconds of silence, trying to stall for some more time for a funny answer. you couldn’t think of anything though, so you decided to flip it back onto her. “i don't know. what did you have in mind?” 

“i was really banking on you having an idea,” she admitted sheepishly.

“nice. all i get are empty promises,” you pretended to sound disappointed, falling effortlessly into the banter. you pressed the phone between your ear and shoulder as you grabbed your bag and dug around for your clothes, letting it rest on the bench for support. “let me guess, you being naked and oiled up was another one?” when you didn’t get a reply from her, you nodded your head. “of course, can’t trust anyone these days.” 

then, you grabbed your phone and tapped the speaker button, setting it down in your locker so you could clumsily strip out of your uniform. you’re not sure if you had ever gotten undressed so fast in your life, and the quickness caused you to fumble to get your sports bra over your head–of course, that would happen when you were trying to rush.

“i can do that for you, if you really want. you would have to be okay with extra virigin olive oil, though,” she chuckled. she furrowed her eyebrows when she heard the faint rustling from your end, but decided not to mention it.

“um,” you started. you were feeling a little distracted as you threw your uniform lazily in your locker, not bothering to fold it as you struggled to pull off your sweaty underwear and nike pros. luckily it was easier than the bra, so you were able to throw those in your locker quickly as well and yank your sweatpants up your legs and t-shirt over your head. “yeah, i think i’ll pass.”

immediately after you finished your sentence, you snatched your phone out of the locker, slammed the door, and grabbed your backpack so you could finally head out. 

“finally,” she muttered when she heard the sound of the door. “i was starting to think you were planning on sleeping there tonight.” 

“yeah, yeah, i’ll see you in a few,” you didn’t wait for her to reply before hitting the end call button.

you were definitely the only person left besides the janitors, so the walk to the parking lot was a little dark, but not dark enough to pull out a flash out. not that it mattered, because you practically ran even though you had just played 34 minutes of a game.

anything that could possibly slow you down on your drive happened, too. you tried to remain calm by playing sza over your car speakers, but you seemed to hit every single red light and get stuck behind every slow driver. you gripped the steering wheel until your knuckles turned white to keep yourself from screaming obscenities at the fellow drivers.

you barely waited turn your car off before you were opening the door, too, running toward the door like you had done in the arena. you didn’t really know why you were running either. earlier you had dreaded seeing paige, now all you wanted to do was be in her company. maybe talking to her had eased your mind a little bit.

when you finally got to her door, you didn’t even get the chance to knock before she swung it open, your hand hovering in the air like you were about to knock.

“were you staring through the peephole like a weirdo?” you asked with a light chuckle, dropping your hand to your side. you expected her to deny it a little too fast to not be suspicious. 

“yeah, i was. so?” she shrugged. “didn’t realize it was a crime to be excited to see you.” 

you rolled your eyes at her, shoving past to enter the apartment. she just shook her head with a fond smile, closing the door softly to keep it from slamming. you threw your backpack off to the side somewhere, plopping down on the couch and leaning back like you owned the place. this was good, normal even. it was a post-home game tradition at this point to order a big dinner to her apartment as a treat–to make yourselves feel better after losing.

she didn’t sit down immediately like you thought she would. instead, she stood with her arms crossed and eyebrows raised expectantly. you raised an eyebrow at her in return, confused. 

“why did you take so long after the game?” she blurted.

your eyes widened slightly in shock at the abruptness. “um, i don’t know,” you answered, your voice quiet because it felt like you were in trouble. so you decided to make an attempt at a joke to try to ease the mood. “just needed to gather my bearings after that absolute shit show.”

her expression didn’t change so you knew it wasn’t the answer she was looking for. “well, you ignored me all day and then took as long as humanly possible to get here.”

you hesitated, then slowly extended your arms out to her in a silent invitation. she also hesitated, shifting her weight from one leg to another, then sagged her shoulders in defeat and walked over to your spot on the couch. she dropped down next to you, wrapping her arms around your waist as yours wrapped around her body and letting her head fall to rest on your chest. 

“i’m sorry,” you said, not elaborating any further in hopes that she understood. 

“i thought you were being weird because of my texts,” she confessed. “you know, the, like, flirty ones.”

“no,” you chuckled awkwardly, not knowing what else to do. “it wasn’t because of your texts.”

“then what is it?” 

it wasn’t shocking that she wanted an answer, that she would push until she got it, but you wished she was okay with not knowing. this was a dangerous conversation to have with your confusing feelings, and it could tread into a territory you weren’t ready to enter yet if you weren’t careful. but you had hope that she had those same feelings and that was why she wanted an answer.

you fiddled with the hem of her hoodie, trying to work up the courage to speak. luckily, she didn’t make you feel rushed, like it was urgent, but you still felt that pressure from yourself.

you sucked in a breath, staring down at your lap. “when you went to the ground, i swear i saw my life flash before my eyes. i’ve never been that worried in my life.” to encourage you to continue, she grabbed your hand and laced your fingers together. “i didn’t mean to get so angry with everyone, to lose my cool like that, especially on live tv, but i was so scared.”

“i know,” she said so quietly it was almost a whisper.

you pinched your eyes shut in mild frustration, shaking your head. “no one else reacted like that, paige. no one else screamed at coach like you were dying or something. i think i care about you more than i’m supposed to.”

you opened your eyes slightly, but still made sure to keep your gaze trained away from her to avoid eye contact. you really hoped that she understood what you meant by that–what you were trying to confess to her without actually saying it.

there was a beat of silence. and then another. 

and on the third one, you fully expected her to pull away from you, to put a little distance between your bodies. to tell you that she didn’t feel the same way, that maybe you needed some space for a little bit. once again, making things up to excuse your avoidant behavior. 

finally, her tongue clicks absentmindedly. “more than you’re supposed to?” she questioned.

you couldn’t tell if she genuinely didn’t understand or just wanted you to say what you meant with your chest, but you should’ve known she wouldn’t let you skate by with a vague, cryptic answer, whether she did or not. you attempted to swallow the lump that had formed in your throat, but it was unsuccessful.

“like,” you echoed before hesitating, trying to convince yourself that you were already knee deep in this, so you might as well just fully dive in because there was no turning back now. she already had your half-confession. but you chickened out and panicked. “i don’t want things to change between us.”

her body stiffened against you like that wasn’t what she was expecting, like you had said something she was afraid of hearing. she didn’t pull away, though, and after about a minute, she somewhat relaxed. it was a little reassuring that her hand never left yours, so you tried to cling onto to that as a motivator for working up the courage to say it.

“um, okay,” she said awkwardly quiet, a little afraid of the answer that you were avoiding by saying that. the last thing she wanted was to lose you, especially because she was assuming it was her fault–that she had done something wrong, something to make you uncomfortable.

“can i ask you something?” you whispered. though, you continued before getting confirmation. “you know last night, when we were talking about doctor who and stuff. you said that, um, you said that moment was your fixed point.” she nodded slowly. “why that one?” 

she slowly pulled her body away, even her hand, shifting to sit next to you, so you leaned forward to mirror her position. not because she felt awkward or weird or wanted to exit the conversation, but because she wanted to look you in the eyes when she spoke to reassure you that she meant every word she said. and maybe so she could read your reactions to her words too–to see if what you were saying matched how you were feeling. there wasn’t much distance between your bodies, your knees brushing in front of you, but you still felt disappointed by the lack of contact. 

“because,” she started, sucking in a deep breath like she was about shoot free-throws. “i felt…safe lying there with you, like nothing could hurt me. it felt like all of the expectations, and the pressure, and the negative comments–they didn’t exist. nothing else mattered as long as you were there.”

you felt like you were going to throw up from anxiety. you did your best to choke it down so you could speak. “yeah, but i was there because you were upset. i don’t understand why you would want to mark that as something that has to happen, i guess. especially because it followed all the concussion stuff.” 

she smiled, looking down at her lap. “it doesn’t matter.” 

“but there aren’t happier moments you’d prefer?” you asked, trying to understand her thought process. 

“that was a happy moment,” she argued.

you shot her a confused look, your eyebrows furrowed, still not understanding. sure it was eventually happy, but still.

“i was so upset, and you made me feel better almost instantly. it’s like being around you feels like taking a deep breath,” she said, glancing back up to meet your eyes. “and i just–i guess i realized that i wouldn’t change anything if it meant that i could keep that moment and that feeling of safety. i wouldn’t change banging my head against sloot's or overthinking about the comments being posted about me. hell, i wouldn’t even change tearing my acl however many years ago if it meant all of that led me to you, no matter how hard it was for me.”

honestly, you didn’t even know what to say and you weren’t usually one to be left speechless. luckily, she seemed to be on a roll with her confessions tonight.

“you’re my best friend, but i don’t see you as just that. you’re like my other half. better half, maybe,” she chuckled with a casual shrug. 

against your better judgement, you allowed a joke slip past your lips before you could think it through, but you couldn’t help it. the emotionally loaded tension was making you feel a little awkward and clumsy with your intentions and actions, rather than your usual certainty. and yet again, your avoidant behavior was coming to the surface again.

“if i didn’t know any better, i’d think you were confessing your love for me.” it wasn’t meant to be anything but a light-hearted statement, a comment about the intensity of the moment, but you knew that it much more than that when she just stared at you with a blank expression. you threw your hands in the air defensively for a few seconds before throwing them back down into your lap. “woah, i was kidding.”

she licked her lips, suddenly feeling more confident than she did five seconds ago. “what if i am?” you couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not, but she leaned forward slightly like there was a magnet pulling her closer to you. “and what if i’m not kidding?”

your eyes darted across her face, trying to fight to urge to run away from this sudden confrontation of very real emotions like you usually would. you swallowed again, but it was uncomfortably dry and the urge to throw up suddenly significantly stronger than before.

“yeah, um, cool,” you scrunched your eyes together at the painfully awkward response, feeling that one hit deep in your soul. that would definitely be the subject of your nightmares for the next few years and cause lasting damage that would carry over into your next lifetime, and maybe even the one after that.

you expected her to pull away at that, to assume it’s a rejection, but she knows you. instead, she glanced down at your lips for a brief moment, then smiled. once you noticed how close she really was–like the tips of your noses were probably only a centimeter apart–you swear you stopped breathing. not only that, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look anywhere except in her eyes out of nervousness.

“cool?” she nodded, shifting her gaze down to your mouth and keeping it there. 

you didn’t trust your voice to remain steady, so you just nodded in agreement.

“yeah?” she whispered this time, clearly mirroring your words and actions. 

your lips parted without permission in anticipation, but you didn’t nod again, expecting her to lean forward and close the gap between you. much to your surprise, she stayed still.

“still don’t want things to change?” she asked quietly, her eyes flicking back to yours to watch your reaction. 

the action caused you to close your mouth so you could wet your bottom lip with your tongue. you didn’t really intend for it to be something suggestive or flirty, or add to the moment at all, just a nervous habit but she swallowed nervously when she saw it. she hoped you didn’t notice the way she squirmed a little in her seat.

“depends,” you answered, tilting your head just barely. maybe it was just a natural shift by your body that didn’t mean anything, maybe it was a challenge. you didn’t really have an answer for what it depended on, though, you were just saying that to be annoying–to keep her tiptoeing on this line for fun, have her wondering what she has to do to win you over.

“on…” she trailed off as a signal for you to finish her sentence. you expected her to ask that, of course; you shrugged gently.

“i dunno,” you whispered noncommittally, a smug smirk making its way onto your lips.

“you don’t know, huh?” she challenged, her smile never faltering. it felt threatening, like she was about to ruin your life and she knew it.

she tilted her head, breaking this unwavering stand-off you were in to lean forward. she was stubborn and competitive, you knew that, so you didn’t expect her to give in so easily. her lips barely brushed against yours, offering nothing for you to imagine what they would feel like on yours, except a feathery light touch. it wasn’t surprising; she was trying to get you to break. unlucky for her, you were just as competitive and even more determined.

“easy, rookie,” you said, adding a breathy laugh to the end. 

her mouth fell open slightly in surprise and her cheeks flushed, obviously not expecting you to call her that–especially when you were off the court. 

“what?” she giggled, a little more high-pitched than her usual ones. you didn’t know if it was because she was trying to keep them quiet or if it was because she was nervous, but it was adorable. she hung her head for a moment out of embarrassment, letting her forehead touch your shoulder, but quickly picked it back up so your noses were just barely touching again.

“you heard me,” you replied stubbornly. then, you let your smirk turn into a mischievous smile, “this is fun.”

“you think so?” she cocked an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“mhm,” you hummed. you had to admit, the sound had come out much closer to a moan than you had intended, but it only made it even better. especially when you saw her swallow again.

“so,” she started, her voice soft, dragging out the o. “do you wanna tell me what more than you’re supposed to means?”

you laughed, boldly reaching forward to place your hands on her hips. your reach decreased the distance between your lips to the point that you could feel her breath against yours, but you didn’t close the gap. instead, you glanced up at her eyes to search for any signs of discomfort as you tugged her toward you. at first, she looked at you with a glint of confusion, trying to figure out what you were asking, but she quickly understood. 

she climbed into your lap like you wanted her to, though, judging by the way you were tugging on her, she didn’t have much of a choice. her legs straddled the sides of each of your thighs because of your upright position. you let your back rest against the back of the couch. her cheeks were a little flushed as she sat there, her hands awkwardly hanging between you two like she didn’t know what to do with them.

“does this answer your question?” you asked, looking up at her innocently. 

she nodded awkwardly, not meeting eye contact as she tucked her hair behind her ears. you could tell that she clearly wasn’t used to being the one in this position. it was the way her legs tensed because she was too afraid to put all of her weight down, and the way she was keeping her hands to herself. it was kinda cute though–the way you could take away her confidence just like that and get her all flustered.

your hands slowly moved from her hips to gently grab her hands, her gaze flying from her hands to your eyes at the change of touch. you stopped your movement for a second to gauge her reaction before placing her hands on your shoulders. then, you placed your hands back on her hips and pushed down slightly, trying to tell her that she can sit all the way down. 

“it’s okay. you can sit,” you whispered, realizing she might be interpreting it as something different–something sexual. your verbal instructions helped her fully sit down and relax, though.

when you glanced down and noticed how close the waistband of her shorts was to you, you tried to ignore the thoughts of how easy it would be to stick a hand down her shorts right now–to touch her until she’s gasping and begging for more. or how if she leaned back a little bit you could use your mouth–jeez, you needed to distract yourself. you hadn’t even kissed yet and you were already thinking about this.

“about that confession we discussed earlier…” you said to try to shake your attention away from those thoughts, trailing off. 

“what about it?” she mumbled, still not meeting your eyes. 

“you want to tell me about it?” you asked, tilting your head slightly.

she tore her gaze away from her lap to look off to the side at nothing in particular, chewing her lip nervously, then looked back–finally making eye contact. you couldn’t read her expression as she stared at you. then, she sucked in a breath and raised her eyebrows.

“do i?” she challenged. 

a lazy smile rose to your lips at her attempt to gain back control. one of your hands moved from where it rested on her hip to wrap around her throat, not tight like you were squeezing, but enough that you could pull her face closer to yours. your eyes fluttering shut as you brushed your nose against hers teasingly, having no intention to press your lips together–just like what she was doing earlier.

“i think you do,” you whispered, brushing your bottom lip against hers intentionally, “and i want you to.”

you could feel the way her pulse raced under your fingertips, beating at a speed that didn’t seem possible, and you tried not to laugh about how nervous you were making her. you couldn’t say too much though, because yours was probably beating at a similar speed too. why wouldn’t it be with this beautiful girl in your lap?

paige let out a shaky breath to try to pull herself together, the hot air fanning over your mouth. her mouth opened like she was about to speak, but she couldn’t think straight like this. with your mouth in such close proximity while you keep denying her of the kiss she so desperately wants. she knew she could lean forward and close the gap herself, but there was an unspoken game of chicken going on now–she was determined to win.

“you don’t have to tell me, baby,” you said gently, tracing your thumb up and down the side of her throat. “but then you’re not going to get what you want.” 

“you already know what i’m going to say,” she mumbled, attitude soaking into her tone.

you smoothed your hand over her thigh absentmindedly, above her shorts as much as possible of course, from her knee all the way up to where her thigh met her hips, your thumb running over her bikini line. she just hoped you couldn’t tell how worked up the motion of your thumb was making her feel–that you couldn’t feel her pulsing through her shorts.

“i don’t think i do,” you replied innocently, shaking your head.

she groaned in a mixture of annoyance and impatience, and would definitely dramatically throw her head back to go along with it if you weren’t holding her neck in place. not that she was complaining about that, of course. she stuck her lip out slightly in a pout, staring at you with pleading puppy dog eyes–like that was going to help her case. 

“you were so bold before i pulled you into my lap. what happened?” you teased, using your thumb to trace circles into her bikini line. honestly, you were just touching her because you wanted to in the most innocent sense, you didn’t even realize that you were that close until you glanced down. 

when you looked back up, paige was still looking at you with those eyes. suddenly, you had an idea, something that could hopefully speed this process along by making her so desperate that she caves. 

this was definitely not how you thought this night was going to go. 

without breaking eye contact, you slowly slid your thumb to the side. not all the way over, just enough that if she didn’t want to keep going, she could easily slap you away. she didn’t, though, so you did it again, but this time you moved far enough that it was on top of her clit through her shorts–and she was already pulsing. you figured she would try to act like it didn’t effect her, but when she broke eye contact to look down at your thumb as a quiet gasp left her throat and her hips jolted forward, it was hard to deny.

“i want to touch you so bad, baby, i do. i want to make you feel so good,” you said, your tone a little more whiny than you intended, “and i will–” you paused, moving your thumb in achingly slow circles. she sighed at the touch, obviously thinking she got away with it. you leaned forward a little like you were going to kiss her, but moved to whisper in her ear instead, “if you tell me what you were going to say.”

you stopped abruptly, moving your hand away altogether to rest on her back instead. she whimpered at the loss, shifting her hips a little, but it wasn't enough contact for her to be chasing the feeling anyway–just enough to be disappointed that you stopped.

“i wasn’t going to say anything you don’t already know,” she said, trying her best to keep her tone under control but some attitude definitely still slipped in.

“then why are you being so stubborn?” you asked, squeezing her throat for a second but loosening your grip almost immediately.

she clenched her jaw, the frustration visibly bubbling up inside her. she didn’t know why she didn’t want to say it. and her confidence from earlier had subsided, so it felt even more difficult. maybe it was because if she admitted, spoke it aloud, everything would change. you wouldn’t be able to proudly wear the title of friends anymore–you’d be more. it wasn’t that she didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do her dirty, it was the potential risks of what she was losing, no matter the outcome. the reality check for why people say not to get involved with your teammates was a tough one to get smacked in the face with. 

“i–” she started, but cut herself off before anything meaningful could come out of her mouth, looking anywhere but at you.

you decided to let your hand drop from her throat, instead resting that one on her back as well, tracing comforting circles with your fingers in an attempt to be encouraging. 

“it’s okay,” you said softly, trying be reassuring while still standing your ground. “i won’t hurt you, okay? you know that. and you know i feel the same way. i just want you to say it.” 

“i know,” she whispered, picking at the skin around her fingernails. immediately after she started, you grabbed her hands and laced your fingers so she couldn’t, so she couldn’t tear them apart and make herself bleed from the anxiety. “i just–i don’t know.”

you waited a few moments before responding, taking a deep breath to calm your own nerves. “paige, you know the feelings i have for you are more than just friendly,” you paused to use your intertwined hands to tilt her chin up to force her look at you. “and i think you know that i’m falling in love with you. and i know you feel the same, right?”

she bit her lip, glancing down before bringing her eyes back up. “you do want to kiss me?” she asked, her voice was both serious and unserious when she asked, like she knew but was making sure.

you blew a laugh out of your nose, smiling fondly at her. “yes. goddammit, i really do,” you untangled your hands to rest them on her legs, so high on her thighs you had to slide them under her shorts. “i just want you to say it first.”

you swiped your tongue across your bottom lip. there were other things you wanted to say, too, like how you would finger her until she came, eat her out until she cried–whatever she wanted–if she just said it, but it felt like too much for the vulnerable moment. you didn’t want her to feel like you were using her while she’s trying to be open about her feelings. 

“okay,” she said, like she was just now mustering up the courage after dancing in circles around it for this entire time. she blew out a breath, “i love you.”

“i know that,” you replied, nodding your head for her to go on. that wasn’t what you wanted to hear, and she knew that. that was something that you two had said to each other as friends, so it didn’t really hold the same weight. sure, it had a whole different meaning now, but you had heard her say it a thousand times before.

she sagged her shoulders in disappointment for that not being enough. yet still nodded, closing her eyes and pressing her fingers to her lips–her visibly shaking fingers. 

“damn, you’re acting like you’re taking free throws in a close game right now,” you said jokingly, trying to lighten the mood a little.

“shut up,” she said, shaking her head with a smile, lightly smacking your chest with the back of her hand. she breathed out again, making eye contact with you. “i think i’m falling in love with you,” she said with confidence, pausing like she was contemplating if she had enough courage to add to it, “and i have had feelings for you since the day we met. i never wanted to be your friend.”

you were taken aback by the newfound information, your face contorted into a surprised expression while you jerked your head back slightly. “what?”

she covered her mouth with her hands and widened her eyes, but you didn’t know if she was shocked that she actually had the courage to say it or if she was shocked that she said it–if she didn’t want you to know that part. but it looked like she was smiling under her hands, judging by the way her under-eyes were a little scrunched, so you would have to assume that she was shocked by her sudden courage to just start admitting things.

her hands fell from her face, revealing she really was smiling under them like you predicted. “i’ve been plotting on you since day one.”

you shook your head in disbelief, closing your eyes for a moment and opening them to check if you were dreaming. you squeezed her legs a little too, then used your thumbs to rub circles into her bikini line–similar to earlier, but you hoped she was feeling it a little more than just some tracing. “you’re lying,” you said definitively. 

“nah,” she giggled, her hands coming up to rest on your chest, her fingers rubbing your collarbone delicately. “i remember when i walked into my first ever practice. you were, like, standing under the basket talking to someone and i literally could not stop looking at you because you were so pretty.” 

you grinned at her, not her words, but at her excitement. she looked like a kid in the candy store while smiling and giggling like that. you couldn’t help but reach up to pinch her cheek lightly, which you honestly did often, so she wasn’t phased

“and then,” she started again, “later in that practice, we were doing defensive drills or whatever. i went to go shoot this layup and you blocked the shit out of me. you fell on top of me and all i can remember thinking is damn, it’s a great day to be a dallas wing.”

you squeezed her hips, not super tight but not gently either, enough to grab her attention. she shifted her gaze back to yours, her smile staying put. 

“you wanna know what i thought of you?” you asked softly, maybe even a little suggestively. 

she nodded her head in reply, so you slid one of your hands back around her throat. you squeezed a little, but only for a few seconds and not very hard, causing her to let out a shaky breath. you pulled her towards you gently. “when i first met you, i thought…” you whispered, trailing off. you brushed your noses together like you had done earlier, her pulse, yet again, pounding beneath your fingertips. “…that you were…” you glanced at her eyes to see where she was looking, only to see that she had closed them in anticipation. you brushed your top lip against her bottom lip, feeling accomplished when you heard her suck in a breath. “…really fucking annoying.”

before she even had time to react to what you said, you captured her lips in a kiss. she kissed you back effortlessly, matching your slow and soft rhythm, hands subconsciously fisting your shirt. it was so easy for your first kiss together, like you had been waiting a lifetime to do this. her lips were warm and soft against yours. maybe even a little familiar–like coming home after being away for so long. you slid your hand down, away from throat down to rest it on her hip.

paige pulled back sharply, her hands on your chest pushing you away. “annoying?” she asked like she couldn’t believe you said it. “that’s what you thought of me?” 

you laughed, keeping your eyes trained on her lips, desperate to lean in and kiss her again. and you tried, you really did, but she kept her hands and arms stiff so you couldn’t move. “well no, it wasn’t just that day. i definitely do still think that,” you teased.

she stuck her bottom lip out in a pout, crossing her arms over her chest. maybe any other time you would’ve had a little more self-control and acknowledged that she was trying to make you feel bad for her, not horny, but your mind was already swirling with arousal from having a pretty girl sitting in your lap–your pretty girl. you couldn’t help but let your gaze shamelessly wander over her exposed arms, her muscles popping so deliciously that you could probably go feral over it. if you weren’t throbbing before, you definitely were now goddamn. and if she was talking, you couldn’t hear her.

your hands subconsciously tightened on her hips as you bit your bottom lip. maybe you should take pictures of them, just like this, to put in a frame. maybe even print out a poster to hang on your ceiling so you can fall asleep happy every night. 

“jesus,” you muttered when she moved her arm a little because it showed a little bit of the definition. it almost under your breath but not quite, not even realizing you said it out loud.

“you’re not even listening,” she stated. honestly, it felt like a movie scene–her voice fading in after a dream sequence. and it was, those arms were definitely what dreams are made of. you would probably let her put you to rest in a chokehold because at least you’d go out with the one thing you loved the most.

“hm?” you hummed, flicking your gaze back to her eyes after much, much difficulty. “you were talking?” you asked jokingly, trying to keep a serious face.

she didn’t say anything, just rolled her eyes, clearly irritated. she shifted her body a little bit, like she was going to get off of you, but you used the grip you had on her hips to pull her back down and still her. her lips thinned into a tight-lipped smile from annoyance, but it didn’t linger on her face for very long.

you held eye contact with her as you shifted one of your thighs inwards under her body, until it was pressing against her through her shorts. her breathing stuttered subtly, so slight that you could’ve been imagining it. after waiting for a few seconds to see if she was okay with this, you used your hands to guide her hips, rolling her forward to grind against your thigh. she broke eye contact to look down at your leg between hers, her lips parting.

you kept your eyes trained on her face though, watching her reaction to the feeling. your own lips were parted too, and you were surprised there wasn’t drool coming out of your mouth at the sight of her. you rolled her hips again, extra slow so you could feel the way she was pulsing against the muscle. her hands flew to grip your shoulders as a result, fingertips digging into your skin. 

after that, she didn’t need any extra guidance. you let your hands fall onto the couch on either side of you, watching as she rolled her hips at a teasing pace against the muscle of your thigh, whimpering as she did so. it wasn’t quite fast enough to chase an orgasm, but it wasn’t slow enough to be considered teasing either. 

you already knew you were soaking through your underwear from this–watching her get herself off like this. you had the urge to kiss her, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to tear your eyes away. and there were so many things you could say, too, but you were just too mesmerized to form a word.

one of her hands loosened the grip on your shoulder to rest on the side of your neck, her thumb touching the side of your jaw. after a few seconds, she tore her eyes away from watching herself, shifting her gaze to your eyes. you noticed her pupils were blown with pleasure, making you clench your thighs a little involuntarily to try to find some friction.

her eyes flickered down for a split second, making it obvious she noticed. you didn’t expect her to do anything about it because she was busy working on herself, and you were more than happy to just watch. yet she smiled, sliding her hand from your neck down your body. without hesitation, she used her thumb to rub circles over your clothed clit. 

“fuck, paige,” you said, your voice strangled in surprise. the barrier between her thumb and your clit provided the right amount of teasing that was making your brain short circuit.

then as soon as it began, she suddenly stopped, stilling her thumb and slowly lifting herself off your leg. you watched with a curious expression, trying to figure out what she was doing without directly asking her. but she stood there awkwardly like she didn’t know what to do, her thumbs hooked in the waistband of her shorts at her hips, her eyes trained on you.

it didn’t take you too long to catch on.

“do you, um,” you paused to swallow nervously, “do you want to take those off?”

she nodded slowly in reply. you scooted to the edge of the couch, holding your hands out for her, and spread your knees as an invitation for her to stand between them, which she did immediately. you looked up at her through your lashes as you leaned forward to press a kiss against the waistband, snaking your hands up the back of her thighs under her shorts to cup her ass.

she placed a hand on your head, weaving her fingers through the strands–meant to be comforting more than anything else. 

you ran your hands back down, stopping halfway to use her legs as leverage. once again, you leaned forward. only this time, you mouthed over her clothed clit a few times, holding eye contact with her while you did. she blew out a shallow, shaky breath of both pleasure and nervousness. then, you hooked your fingers in the waistband of her shorts, pulling them down her legs achingly slow. when they were halfway down her thighs, you leaned forward to flick your tongue against her clit, feeling too impatient to wait any longer.

her body jolted at the contact, eyes closing and mouth dropping open, not expecting it so soon. you pulled away slightly to watch her reaction, breath hot against her as you watched to make sure she was okay–that she didn’t want to stop. after a few seconds, she opened her eyes to stare down at you because what the fuck was taking so long? 

she whimpered, using her hand to lightly push your head back to where she wanted it. you smiled at the feeling, loving how desperate she was for you, how impatient she was for your touch after getting just a tiny little taste. 

“keep going,” she borderline cried after about a minute of not touching her.

“please?” you said as a reminder, smiling innocently. 

“please, keep going,” she corrected herself. she couldn’t even bring herself to be stubborn or fight about it at that point, she just wanted you to touch her already.

you nodded like you understood, leaning closer to her like you were about to give her what she wanted, then jumped to your feet. her eyes flew open, wildly searching the room for a reason why you weren’t literally on your knees eating her pussy right now. you couldn’t help but smirk at her reaction. she grabbed your wrist, tugging on it like she was going to throw a tantrum. 

who knows, maybe she would if she didn’t get what she wanted.

but you weren’t really in the mood to wait either, so you would let it slide this time. you used the arm she was hanging onto to pull her toward the couch, pushing her down on it as you sank to your knees on the floor. she watched you nervously, her breathing almost as rapid as her heart rate. and she didn’t know what to do with hands, so they were next to her in the couch like yours were just a few minutes ago.

you cupped the back of her knees with your hands, yanking her towards you so if you dropped her, she would only be halfway on the couch. and threw her legs over your shoulders so she didn’t fall, catching a glimpse of how wet she was.

there was barely any hesitation before you licked a flat stripe up her center and took her clit in your mouth to alternate between sucking gently and swirling your tongue around it.

“oh my god,” she moaned. she tangled both of her hands in your hair, already grinding against your face and tongue.

“i’ve barely touched you,” you commented, using the opportunity to come up for air.

“don’t care. i don’t care,” she said. “i just want you to fuck me. don’t care about anything else.”

“nothing?” you spoke against her so she could feel your lips move, a little amused by the way she was acting. 

“no,” she shook her head quickly, her back arching off the bed involuntarily.

you kept your eyes trained on her, watching the way every circle, every flick would effect her. the way they would make her face contort and force moans from the back of her throat. how she was struggling to keep it together. the way her stomach would flex and hips would buck. 

you touched your finger to her entrance, swirling it through her folds, the teasing making her whine. “so needy for me, paige. i’ve wanted to see this for so long. to watch you fall apart in front of me,” you said, your voice low with desire. 

the desire wasn’t even because you wanted to come though, you just wanted to please her.

without warning, you pushed your finger inside her, curling like you had done it a million times before, like this wasn’t the first time you were getting to explore her body. you added a second finger, watching her gasp and throw her head back at the intrusion, but grind her hips up to try to meet your rhythm still–like she didn't even realize she was doing it.

“fuck, fuck,” she moaned, her voice going up an octave. “i’m a fucking mess for you. shit, let you ruin me whenever you want.”

you sped up your pace at her words, wanting to see how whiny and need she could really get if you got her close to the edge–the things she would say. you definitely would have to try other things with her just to see.

“mhm,” you hummed against her. “you have no idea what you do to me. i’m going to lose my fucking mind.” 

and then her hips started uncontrollably bucking, stomach flexing against her will, but she was still trying so hard to hold off her orgasm despite that.

“paige, it’s okay,” you tried to reassure, unsure why she was doing that. you hadn’t told her she had to ask permission or anything. “you can come, it’s okay.”

“no, no, it’s too good. don’t want to yet,” she whined, her legs clenching together hard around your head. “want you to keep fucking me.”

the words shocked you a little bit. you weren’t sure if you had ever heard say something anything like that. that they didn’t want to come? that sounded crazy, you couldn’t even get on board with that yourself.

but of course, you did what she said. who were you to deny a pretty lady of the pleasures in life?

even though she didn’t ask you to, you turned your head to nip at the skin of her thighs, just to lessen the stimulation and give her a little more time like she wanted. you kept pumping your fingers though, pumping them as deep as you could and then curling them until you hit the spot that had her crying out in a borderline scream.

“no, don’t stop, please,” she said almost immediately. 

you did as you were told, moving your mouth back to her clit. you were still hesitant, though. this was uncharted territory for you and you didn’t really know what to do here. you maintained a slow pace, trying to do what she said while honoring her other wishes of wanting to last longer. 

as you expected, it only took a few more pumps of your fingers before her eyes were rolling to the back of her head and back arching off the couch in an orgasm. you worked her through it, slowing your pace a little bit. you could only assume it was a hard-hitting one, because the only sound you heard was a chant of thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. 

you kept pumping your fingers achingly slowly as she came down, making her body twitch underneath you, but you weren’t even sure if she noticed. 

when she was finally mostly still, her chest heaving, you pulled them out just as slow. she opened her eyes slowly, immediately smiling when she focused on you. 

you smiled back, using the hand the wasn’t just inside her to pinch her cheek. "how did i get so lucky?"

[lostazuree]

heyy lostazuree!! i saw your requests are open so i’m here with a lil bllk idea 😌 you can pick whoever you want, but if you could add chigiri and kunigami i’d love u forever 🥺💗

so like—reader’s a virgin, totally inexperienced but curious about making love, and they want the bllk boys to be their first. they trust them and just really wanna experience it with them, and the boys are 100% down to show them exactly how it’s done 😮‍💨😌🔥

also your fics?? INSANE. like actually unreal. i don’t know how you do it but they’re always so hot and addictive 🔥 pls make sure you're taking care of yourself too though!! rest, hydrate, all that—your comfort matters too 💕 thank u for feeding us always!!!😘💋

����₊˚✗౨ৎ— First Time.ᐟ

ᯓ♡-Friends to something more?

✦ ʙʟᴜᴇ ʟᴏᴄᴋ ʙᴏʏꜱ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝐒𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: Losing your virginity to your best friend! Soft, fluff-ish smut, NSFW, Implied confession at the end!

ꜰᴇᴀᴛᴜʀɪɴɢ: Michael Kaiser, Kunigami Rensuke, Chigiri Hyoma, Itoshi Rin, Isagi Yoichi.

ᴍɪᴄʜᴀᴇʟ ᴋᴀɪꜱᴇʀ .ᐟ

You were sprawled out on his bed, lazily twirling your fingers around your hair, consumed in your thoughts: Damn, Micha's neighbors are loud as hell, I can hear them across the walls. You thought, while he stood infront of his mirror, drying his hair with a towel, another wrapped around his waist, having returned from a shower. You wondered if he was thinking the same too, till a voice disrupted your thoughts. "Yeah! Pound into her harder, We're cheering." and you froze. Did this man just..?!

And after that, the noises stopped, due to embarrassment or semblance of dignity. "So fucking loud." He said with a casual smirk while you looked at him wide eyed, "Micha, what the actual fuck?" you asked, flustered, he shrugged. "What? You wanted to hear them moan more?" No, surely not, you were...imagining, imagining how it must've felt like. "I bet it was good if she was this loud.." you blurted without a thought and he raised an eyebrow, "Sure. Sounded like rabid animals.", you huffed out at his incredulous attitude, "You say like you can do better.", he cut you short, "I can, could show you if you want.", He said, of course he was joking, but you definitely hoped he wasn't, you wanted that. "I've never done it before.." He looks at you, still holding the towel, "Can see that, and I was just kidding, but if you don't mind-", "I don't." His eyes widened as he registered, and of course, he needed further explanation. But look where that got you? Caged beneath his arms as he leaves hickies down your neck, lips traveling further down, your gasps while he works his tongue truly make him rethink how lucky he is, while he's pounding into you, letting you feel him, not too rough, but throbbing with restraint. He's sure now his neighbors would be the one to be bothered, he doesn't mind. He lets you know exactly how you should be fucked, no, made love to. Gripping your thighs while his dick plunges in and out, your sputtered gasps and moans punctuating his movements fueling him. By the time he's done, he can't help but look at you, his heart fluttering more at the sight than the actions, his arm wrapping around you lazily, zoned out. "What'cha thinkin'?", "You." He whispered, diving in for a kiss far sweeter and lasting. "Us." and he realises how much he wants to be the only one who sees you like this. "Mhm, us."

ᴋᴜɴɪɢᴀᴍɪ ʀᴇɴꜱᴜᴋᴇ (Pre-W/C) .ᐟ

You two were lounging in your living room, he had come over like the usual. He was shitting on one of his friends, whom he caught fucking a girl in the restroom. "Can you believe that? That bozo thought no one would find out." You listened in, wondering how it all really feels like..sex, you mean. "I've never done it before." You blurted while zoning out in your not so divine thoughts. He raised an eyebrow as he looks at you while you continued, "And I wanna know how it feels like." you said like it's the most natural thing ever. He looks at you, blink, blink, blink, before a flush creeps up his neck. "Good for you, i guess." He coughed out. Boldly, very boldly you snapped your head towards him, "Rensuke, Can we do that?" And he froze, genuinely. Kunigami.exe has stopped working. He asked you why you wanted to do it with him, and very innocently you explained that you trusted him the most, and you want him to be your first, because..reasons. Soon enough, you were under him on your couch, he hovered over you with slight hesitation, "Are you sure, (Y/N)?" He asked you in a hushed tone, hoping you wouldn't turn away now, and of course, you didn't. He lifted your shirt up, tossing it away before he did the same to his, sliding his hands down your body, adoringly, wanting to make this session the best. He whispers praises in your ear, telling you how perfect you are, and that he'd definitely wanted this. His mouth finds it's way on your neck, trailing kisses down from your collarbone to chest, hands spreading your legs apart, "Tell me to stop when it gets too much." And gets lost just as much as you do, spreading you apart as he pushes his inches in, slowly, and you see stars just by the size, gripping onto his shoulders. After like hours of getting dicked down by him, "Rensuke...thanks..", his arm tightens around your waist as he pulls you over his chest, "I think I..", "Yes. Me too, Ren." That got him redder than the sex.

(Note: I think post w/c Kunigami would be the same, just less talking, less blushing and more faint smiles.)

ᴄʜɪɢɪʀɪ ʜʏᴏᴍᴀ .ᐟ

You're at his place, sat on a stool as he's deciding his flamboyant hairstyle, while you two are bitching about your friends getting railed at clubs like another friday, "Seriously, can't imagine being such a hoe." He flipped his hair lazily, since he knew you were eyeing it. "Can't imagine...I've never done it before." and he shoots you a not-so-amused gaze from the mirror with a sassy, "Don't you think I can tell?" Borderline offensive but he's just being upfront. "Wow, Princess. Who hurt you?" You retorted and he just smirked, rolling his eyes. God, he looks so great, hair scattered-no. You cut your thoughts off. "I kinda wanna try it though.", you admitted, looking at the mirror at his reflection and he just hummed, "Well, you could always go-..", you cut him off sharply, sheepishly, "With you, Chigiri." His hairtie snapped as he did an animated turn towards you. Then again, after a little admission from your side, he agreed, because that is something he wanted, but thought the better. Things escalate fast with Chigiri, if you didn't know. He is soo deliberate with his actions, even whispering in your ear, describing what he's doing to your body, absolute 4K experience. He lets you grip his hair as he lowers himself into you, liking the way your hands felt on his head. He kisses you over and over, deep, purposeful, like he's trying to engrave himself to your brain, he lets you breathe between the thrusts, not wanting to overstep on the first time, hands gripping your waist and breast, his eyes falling onto your disheveled state, and he realises, he likes this, not just this, but everything, he doesn't see himself anywhere else at the moment. His movements are so worshiping, yet absolutely ruining your weeping cunt while he lowers in, his own body shaking as your nails dig into him. After he's done, "Hey, you good, hun?" and he realises what he said a little too late, his mouth now shut, yet when you giggle at that, his lips twitch into a soft smile, and the next kiss you get, speaks a lot more than what he could phrase Maybe he does want you to be the one who gets to hold him like this, more often, always.

ɪᴛᴏꜱʜɪ ʀɪɴ .ᐟ

You're both on his couch, tucked under a blanket, popcorn in hands as you two watch a horror movie only he's interested in, as you're in your own little wonderland when some lewd scene plays out. "Ew, tch. Don't know why every movie now has to be pornographic." He comments with a deadpan, eyes flicking over to you and he notices. He notices you've been staring at the scene for far too long. "Stop gawking at it like a virgin.", And your head snaps towards him, "Well, because I am one. I've never done it before. Let a girl dream, experience." And guess what? His dense ass after a little admission starts..verbally explaining sex. "No, Rin, like-..like the real thing. Let's do that." And he's blushing furiously, he genuinely doesn't understand why you'd wanna do it with him, not that he minds. He'll show you exactly what it means to have a good time. His bed is neat as he lays you down, sliding both your and his clothes off, his hands raking over your skin like he's memorizing every inch, like he may not get another chance. He whispers you assurances that are so sweet, so unlike him, he just wants to make you feel good, good with him, and only him. He's giving you full verbal explanations like he's teaching how to sin, spreading your legs, pressed against your entrance as he holds you. "Now, I'm gonna-" he cuts himself off with a thrust, your gasp syncing with his grunts as he brushes your hair away. He likes this a lot more than he'd say. As he's trenching deeper, he tells you how pretty you look, and actually tells you how giddy this is making him feel. Now he's the one acting like a virgin. When he's done after hours, you are marked red thoroughly, back aching, but he volunteers for a massage as you two talk it out, and for once, he doesn't care about his ruined sheets. "You were...amazing. Any guy would be lucky to have you, to be with you." The words tasted bitter in his mouth as soon as the last sentence left his lips, you could feel his grimace. "I guess you're really lucky then.", you finally said something you've been meaning to, your chest a little lighter. His eyes widen, before just a faint, imperceptible smile crosses his lips, "You're right, maybe I am, extremely lucky. And I'd like to keep it that way."

ɪꜱᴀɢɪ ʏᴏɪᴄʜɪ .ᐟ

You're at your place with Isagi, of course he's shooting a football while you two trash talk about some of his teammates. "Yeah, like, he is so bitchless, I swear. No way he ever got laid before." and his comment, which was supposed to make you giggle, reminds you that you, never got laid as well. So you very boldly admit it infront of him, "Well, I never got to do it too.", and his feet halted, stopping the ball as he looks at you, slightly flustered and sheepish as he clears his throat, "That's not a bad thing-" and of course, you cut him off. "I wanna change that." And during this whole conversation, he's praying for the ground to swallow him. "That's-..that's great! I hope you you-" "With you? Maybe? If you're-", and he blurts out immediately before realising, "What? Of course." And you both stare at eachother for a while in disbelief of your own words. He asks you over and over if you're sure while he carries you to the bed, "Push me away when it gets too much.", He says, and he's hoping you'd let him show you just how well he can do you. He hovers over you, lips crashing against yours as his hands knead your mounds as he's whispering some absolutely, insanely filthy shit in your ear, his thrusts are slow, yet slightly bruising, his mind hazy from the way your nails rake his shoulders, tug at his hair, and soon enough, it hits him on how much he really wanted this, how much he thought about this before, how he wished you'd let him hit—but now, he wants something more than that, something real and not fleeting. He wants to be the only one who holds you like this. He's thriving on your sounds, they're so unfiltered, so unpracticed, he's enjoying this more than he'd admit. When he's done, you two are a mess of tangled limbs, and he still insists on kissing you. But the way he holds you is so unhurried, so soft, like he's silently praying you get the message. "I don't understand." Liar. You do. "You're so mean." he whines with a blush and a small smile. "I love you too."

OMG SWEETHEARTTT 😭 😭 I LOVE YOU SM. You don't know how much this means to me. You are sooo sweet, I feel giddy when I read such compliments. Thank you sooo much for your words, genuinely so heart touching. It makes me feel sm better about my works, ILYSM anon, take care of yourself too. 💋 💋 I wrote more of a fluffy smut since I'm suffering from a writers block. 😭

Thanks for reading!

Reblogs would be highly appreciated! 🎀

[hamilton-here]

Heyyyy ! how are you doing? Feeling better? I hope the move went well. 🥺

I know your orders are closed, but I had to ask you before I forgot, lol

Please don't rush or feel obligated to write anything yet 🙏🏻 Get yourself together first, take your time, and feel better. ❤️‍🩹

I was wondering if you could write a story about what Lewis and the reader's first time together would be like. Something like they've just officially started dating and are starting to experiment and discover what they each like in sex, and Lewis unknowingly hurts her.😅 I honestly feel that Lewis is too (too😮‍💨) experienced a man🤭😂. And for that reason he gets a bit carried away.

If you don't feel comfortable going into sexual detail, that's fine, no problem. It's more how Lewis makes the reader feel, always thinking only of her well being and fulfilling what she likes.

Thank you in advance and I hope you make a full recovery very soon. 🫶🏻🫶🏻

𝐹𝒾𝓇𝓈𝓉 𝒯𝒾𝓂𝑒

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Thank you so much for all the kindness. I’m still sick somehow (it’s been rough), but the move went well. Don’t worry at all about sending this request in, I’ve been working on something else but I was more than happy to do this. This is my first ever smut hopefully it’s okay! Lots of love, xx

Summary: A tender, emotionally charged exploration of intimacy and trust unfolds between you and Lewis.

Warnings: sexual content, swearing

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The rain doesn’t just fall it cascades, a silver veil wrapping the city in a liquid hush. From this rooftop vantage, the storm feels alive, each drop a whispered secret against the sharp edges of vents and antennae.

You watch the slick pavement below glisten, neon signs blurring into long, trembling streaks of electric colour. Somewhere beneath this watery curtain, the city breathes: engines roar, muffled cheers rise, but up here, the sound is a distant pulse, a muted heartbeat beneath the storm’s symphony.

Inside the suite, a sanctuary from the storm, the glow is soft and golden. A single amber lamp casts a pool of warmth, spilling honeyed light across the deep grey sofa you sink into. The walls, glass and steel, reflect the lightning’s dance each flash setting the rain-dotted windows aglow like tiny stars caught in a prism.

The low hum of a vintage record player fills the room with cherry-red jazz the breathy wail of a muted trumpet, the sultry scrape of a stand-up bass like a lover’s heartbeat just beneath your skin.

The air smells like cedar smoke from the fireplace mingling with the subtle tannins of the Cabernet resting in your glass. It’s rich, dark, and alive - an anchor in your hand, cool with beads of condensation that you trace absentmindedly as you steal a glance at Lewis.

He’s across from you, relaxed but alert, a study in contrasts. His white tee clings damply to muscles you’ve come to know, and his posture - legs stretched out, one elbow resting on the back of the sofa exudes casual confidence.

But his eyes don’t rest. They study you in that quiet, intense way that makes your skin tingle, like he’s memorising the subtle curve of your smile, the way your fingers wrap around the glass, the slight dip of your collarbone when your cardigan slips just enough.

“This is nice,” you say softly, the words almost swallowed by the soft percussion of the cymbals in the jazz track.

He smirks, a slow, knowing tilt of his lips. “Nervous?”

You laugh a sound a little too sharp, breaking the spell. “A little.”

He swirls the wine with a lazy flick of his wrist, watching the liquid catch the light like a small galaxy. “Me too,” he admits, voice low. “Not usually. But this - you, it’s different.”

You blink, surprised by the bare honesty.

“Usually, I’m all control, all calm,” he says, voice dropping further, like a secret meant only for you. “But with you... I want to be honest. I want you to know the real me, not the guy behind the helmet or the headlines.”

The space between you seems to grow, but it’s a good space a breathing space.

You curl your legs under you, your cardigan slipping from one shoulder, exposing warm skin. The wine glass feels heavier, grounded, steady in your hand. “I’ve been thinking about this night. About us. What comes next.”

Lewis nods, inviting you to go on.

“I want it,” you say, voice stronger now. “But I’m scared too. I haven’t…done this before. Not like this. Not with someone I care about.”

He reaches out, his hand brushing the cushion near yours an unspoken offer. You place your glass down, your fingers trembling just slightly before you slide your hand toward his. The space between your hands shrinks, knuckles brushing. His palm is warm, steady, reassuring.

“Let’s be honest,” he says, eyes searching yours. “No pressure. Just truth.”

You draw in a deep breath, letting the words fill you.

“I haven’t been with many people,” you confess, voice barely above the rain’s rhythm. “And when I was, it was always rushed, never real. I want slow, discovery. Connection. I want to feel every moment.”

His gaze softens, the tension easing from his frame.

“I’ve had partners,” he begins carefully, “but it never felt like this. I want to know you. Not just your body, but your mind, your fears, your desires. I want to give, not take.”

His fingers twitch lightly, as if craving the connection.

“I like to lead, but gently,” he continues. “Like steering a dance, not forcing a step. I want to hear your breath catch, see your skin flush, feel your heartbeat quicken. I want trust, the kind that makes you forget everything else except us.”

Your pulse quickens. You tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, cheeks warming. “I like kisses that take time slow and searching. I like being touched like every inch of me matters. And I like hearing what’s happening. Words keep me present.”

He smiles, a tender, knowing smile. “Noted.”

You study the faint scar near his eyebrow, the curve of his jaw dusted with stubble, the veins along his forearm. Your fingers itch to explore, to memorise.

“I don’t want to rush,” you say. “I want to explore. Feel everything, every whisper, every heartbeat.”

His hand moves to yours, fingertips barely grazing skin but setting your nerves alight.

“Me too.”

The silence between you thickens, full and alive.

He asks, voice barely more than a murmur, “Is there anything you don’t want?”

The respect in his question wraps around you like a shield.

You breathe out, steadying. “Nothing too rough. If I’m uncomfortable, I’ll tell you.”

“Promise me you will,” he says, eyes locking with yours.

“I promise.”

“I’ll stop the moment you say,” his voice firm and gentle. “Tonight is about you - your comfort, your pleasure.”

His sincerity breaks something open inside you. You lean in, lips brushing his soft, tentative, tasting of wine and something new. His hand comes up, cradling the back of your head, thumb tracing your hairline.

The kiss deepens, slow and patient, every movement an invitation. You feel the heat of his body draw closer; your knees part, settling on either side of his hips. One arm encircles your waist, pulling you gently against him: the other anchors behind your back, fingers spreading like roots.

Your cardigan slips further, baring your collarbone to his lips. He trails a feather-light kiss there, breath warm against your skin. “Let me take care of you,” he murmurs.

A thrill races through younot fear, but raw, aching anticipation.

“I want you,” you whisper.

He presses his forehead to yours, breaths mingling, unspoken promises passing between.

“Then let’s make this ours.”

Outside, the rain continues its endless dance. Inside, the world contracts to this moment of soft lamplights, jazz notes curling around you, two hearts learning to move as one.

Time stretches, slow and pliant, as you explore every new inch of trust, every whispered yes, every soft boundary met with care.

This was not the kind that crashes over you in a rush or sweeps you away in a wild storm. This was a slow unraveling, deliberate and controlled like he was reading your body’s every secret, peeling you open breath by breath, layer by layer.

You’re still perched on his lap, his weight steady beneath you, your fingers tangling into the tight braids at the back of his neck. His hands rest on your lower back, spreading wide, grounding you, even as your pulse quickens under the weight of his touch.

His lips move over yours with a softness that holds so much promise not frantic or desperate, but deep, filled with intention. The way he kisses you makes your breath hitch, your heart stutter, and every nerve ending scream. He’s here. Right now. And it’s enough.

Your thighs squeeze instinctively around his hips, a silent plea, a signal that you want more - want to feel him fully, close, pressing into every inch of you. He’s hard beneath you, the proof of his own restraint and need.

When he pulls back, the flush on his cheeks is unmistakable. His eyes are heavy-lidded, lips swollen and parted, as if savouring the taste of you still lingering on his tongue.

“Bedroom?” he asks, voice low and rough, a quiet question that doesn’t need answering because you’ve already nodded, your heart pounding so loudly it feels like it might betray you.

He lifts you carefully, wrapping his arms around your waist, and the warmth of his body against yours makes your breath catch again. The door shuts softly behind you, sealing out the rest of the world, leaving only the two of you, suspended in this charged silence.

Once inside, something shifts not in the mood, not in the respect he shows, but in the weight of the moment. He sets you gently on the edge of the bed and stands, looming just in front of you, thumbs hooked into the waistband of his pants, eyes dark with anticipation.

He leans in, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that seems to wrap itself around you like silk and fire all at once.

“Undress for me.”

It’s not an order, not a demand. It’s an invitation soft, intimate and threaded with something raw and magnetic you can’t quite put into words. His gaze holds you captive, burning with quiet reverence and desire.

Your fingers tremble just the slightest bit as you reach up, your pulse thrumming through your veins, a mix of anticipation and shyness tingling across your skin.

You pull the hem of your shirt slowly over your head, savouring the way his eyes follow every movement, tracing the lines of your body as the fabric slips away. You catch the way his breath hitches subtle but unmistakable and it makes you want to pull back and forth between boldness and vulnerability.

His hands hover near your hips but don’t touch. He’s letting you own this moment, this act of revealing yourself to him, piece by piece, in your own time. The power is yours. The control is yours.

You let your bra come next, your fingers deft and gentle as the delicate lace slips down your arms and falls away, exposing the soft swell of your breasts. You catch the almost inaudible intake of his breath, and your skin flushes, warmth blossoming low in your belly.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he breathes, voice low and thick with emotion, a reverence bordering on worship that sends a shiver sliding down your spine.

His lips find yours again this time rougher, hungrier, more insistent. His mouth presses against yours with a fierce need that ignites a wildfire in your chest. His hands slide up your waist, cupping your breasts with care, thumbs brushing over your sensitive skin, sending sparks of heat swirling low and wild.

Your knees weaken, breath hitching, every nerve screaming for more. More touch, more closeness, more of him.

“Lie back,” he says softly, voice a command wrapped in velvet.

You obey without hesitation, sinking into the cool, soft sheets beneath you, every inch of your body alive with anticipation. Your pulse races, heart pounding against your ribs like a wild drumbeat as his body leans over you, the heat radiating from his skin a contrast to the fresh chill of the sheets.

His lips trail a path of fire down your throat, soft and teasing, each kiss a spark that sets your skin ablaze. His fingers find the waistband of your shorts, gentle but purposeful, and he looks up at you, eyes dark and searching.

“May I?” he asks, breath warm against your cheek.

“Yes,” you whisper, voice barely audible, but no less certain.

Slowly, reverently, he pulls your shorts down, following the curve of your hips with his lips. Kissing every inch of skin exposed - the delicate lines of your hipbones, the tender inner curve of your thighs, the sensitive crease where your body already begins to burn with need.

He settles between your legs, his eyes locking with yours, intensity shining like a beacon in the dim light.

“If at any point it’s too much, you stop me. Okay?” he murmurs, voice soft but unwavering.

You nod, voice fragile and small but sure: “Okay.”

His mouth descends on you with a worshipful tenderness that steals your breath away. It’s slow, deliberate with each movement filled with purpose, reverence, and a hunger that’s more than physical.

His lip's part to reveal the warmth of his tongue, which traces delicate, teasing circles along your sensitive skin, mapping out every curve and hollow as if you were the most precious secret in the world.

The first gentle flicks of his tongue send jolts of pleasure rippling through your body, spiralling from your core to your limbs, setting nerves alight with electric fire.

You clutch the sheets beneath you, fingers digging into the fabric as your hips twitch involuntarily, trying to meet the rhythm of his mouth without thinking. Every nerve in your body hums, alive with sensation sharp, soft, urgent and sweet all at once.

His tongue moves with practiced grace, swirling and flicking in patterns that speak of both deep desire and profound reverence. It’s like he’s learning you, memorising your every reaction and teasing out pleasure with a gentle, almost sacred patience. He explores the sensitive ridge of your folds, the slick warmth that welcomes him, lingering on the places that make you shiver and moan softly.

You arch toward him, pressing yourself closer, breath coming in ragged gasps that fill the quiet room. Your heart pounds so loudly in your chest, so wildly, you’re certain he can hear it beating just for him.

The taste of you sweet, salty, utterly intoxicating fills his senses. His mouth deepens its exploration, lips parting to engulf more, tongue flicking faster now, but never losing that careful worshipful attention.

His fingers slip inside you then, slow and gentle, pressing against the soft warmth that welcomes him. A sharp gasp escapes your lips raw and needy, electric and urgent.

The combination of his skilled mouth and tender touch sends waves of pleasure rippling and building inside you, cresting higher and higher until your whole-body trembles with the force of it.

He holds you through it all, lips soft against your skin, eyes half-lidded and glazed with something fierce and tender at once - a mixture of admiration, hunger, and pure devotion. His hand moves in sync with his mouth, curling and stroking inside you, drawing out every moan and shudder.

Each time you think you can’t take any more, he slows down, grounding you with gentle kisses along your inner thighs, a whispered promise lingering in every touch.

Then he starts again slow, teasing, patient coaxing you back from the edge and up again, higher and higher, until you’re trembling in his arms, a shuddering wave crashing through every fibre of your being.

You’re lost in him, in the way he makes you feel seen, worshipped, utterly desired. You realise there’s nowhere else you’d rather be than right here, under the weight of his mouth, his hands, his fierce, tender love.

“You taste so fucking good,” he breathes against your skin, voice thick with desire and awe.

You reach up, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer.

“Come here,” you whisper, voice rough with want.

He climbs onto the bed, his lips claiming yours hard and hungry, hands cradling your face, thumbs tracing lazy circles beneath your jaw in a slow, intoxicating rhythm.

“Still good?” he asks, searching your eyes for any sign, any hesitation.

“So good,” you breathe back, your voice thick with need. “I want you inside me.”

His forehead presses against yours, breath warm and steady as he murmurs, “Let’s take our time. We’ve got all night.”

You watch him undress with deliberate care, and its torture, the sweetest kind. Each motion is slow, unhurried, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. The shirt is the first to go, peeled off in one fluid motion that reveals golden-brown skin stretched over hard-earned muscle, a body carved by years of control and precision.

And you can’t look away.

Your mouth parts slightly without meaning to not in surprise, but in pure, helpless awe. Your lips go dry, eyes fixed, hungry.

There’s a heat low in your belly, coiling tighter with every new inch of skin he reveals. His shoulders roll back as he tosses the shirt aside and the motion sends a ripple through his chest, through the sculpted muscles of his arms.

That lion tattoo on his pec bold, regal, defiant stares back at you like it knows exactly what it's guarding. You’re drawn to it, to the way it rests over his heart, like a mark of pride and strength and something untamed. Your gaze lingers there too long, and he notices. He always notices.

But then your eyes drift lower, and that’s where your breath catches.

The compass tattoo inked in sharp, clean lines sits just low enough on the centre of his chest that your imagination races to fill in what’s hidden just beneath the waistband of his briefs. It draws your attention like a magnet, like a secret map that only you are meant to follow. The ink is stark against his skin, a piece of him etched so close to where you already burn for him.

You swallow hard. Your thighs press together without thinking.

“Jesus,” you whisper, barely audible.

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. He heard you. Of course he did.

He steps toward you slowly, and it’s like watching something inevitable come closer gravity itself bending to him. His hands move to his waistband, and you can’t tear your eyes away. You’re practically drooling now, breath shaky, pupils wide with anticipation.

But it isn’t just lust. It’s reverence.

Because the way he looks at you steady, dark, focused makes your chest ache. Like he sees everything. Like he wants everything. And he’s not in a rush. Not tonight.

He drops his briefs and your breath stutters. He stands before you, unapologetic, bare and beautiful and strong. His skin glows under the soft lamplight golden, warm, like sun-kissed bronze and the sight of him makes something deep inside you clench and flutter.

But still, it’s the way his eyes lock onto yours that undoes you. Steady. Focused. Like your hunger doesn’t scare him like it feeds him.

“I can feel you staring,” he murmurs, stepping closer, his voice like velvet over gravel. “You like what you see?”

You can’t speak. Can only nod. He smiles slow, cock and so achingly warm. He leans in close enough for your breath to hitch against his.

“Good,” he murmurs against your lips. “Because I’m yours.”

He settles between your thighs again, completely bare and slick with heat, every inch of him alive beneath your fingertips. The weight of his body presses down, solid and grounding, yet somehow featherlight in the electric tension that crackles between you.

His lips find yours once more and the taste of him, a little salty with sweat and sweet with longing, floods your senses. When he pulls back just enough to whisper into the quiet space between you, his voice is low, unwavering.

“I’ve got you.”

The promise lands inside you like a steady flame, warm and certain, anchoring you in this moment where everything else falls away.

His arms brace on either side of your head, framing your face like pillars of strength. You can feel the taut muscle beneath his skin, every sinew controlled and ready, yet patient as if his whole being is focused solely on you, on this perfect, fragile moment of union.

His gaze pins you, intense and fierce, but filled with something softer too something that reveres you, worships you, even as desire burns hot in his eyes.

Slowly, reverently, the head of him nudges your entrance, a tentative question without words. The heat of him presses gently against your slick skin, humming through your nerves, waking every inch of your body.

His breath fans across your cheek, warm and intoxicating as he asks quietly, “This, okay?”

Your voice trembles with need and certainty, barely a whisper but full of invitation.

“Yeah…I want you.”

And with infinite care, inch by inch, he presses inside you deliberate, unhurried, the exquisite stretch, memorising the subtle flutter of resistance and welcome beneath him.

The fullness of him inside you is overwhelming, a thick, pulsing heat that steals your breath away and sends an electric current racing through your core.

“Fuuuuck…” he groans, jaw clenched tight, veins pulsing along his neck as he fights to keep himself grounded.

He stops midway, forehead resting gently against yours, eyes squeezed shut as a subtle tremor of restraint ripples through his arms. It’s a raw, aching tension, the kind that screams how badly he wants to lose control but won’t not yet.

He doesn’t want to rush. He wants to give.

The feeling of him filling you is intense and alive warm, pulsing, like you’re both suspended in a private universe where nothing else exists but the breath between you and the press of skin against skin. Your fingers dig lightly into the taut planes of his biceps, nails tracing delicate crescents, grounding yourself as he sinks deeper.

He holds you there, still and utterly connected, every slow breath between you charged with unsaid promises and fierce devotion.

His lip's part against yours again, breath shuddering softly in the space between you, trembling with everything left unspoken.

“I’m okay,” you whisper, voice shaky but sure. Your hand rises to cup his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his beard in a gentle, grounding caress. “You can move, Lew.”

He pulls back just enough, then begins to move slow, steady, deliberate each deep thrust dragging molten heat through every fibre of your being. Every stroke is a slow, relentless pull that coaxes waves of pleasure to ripple and curl inside you, making your back arch instinctively, skin crawling beneath his touch.

His mouth leaves yours to find your neck, lips brushing, sucking softly each kiss a spark that ignites the fire burning low in your belly. The taste of him, the warmth of his breath, the scent of sweat and something more intimate wrap around you, shrinking the world to the space where your bodies collide.

“You feel…” he moans, voice ragged and raw, nearly breathless. “Fucking unreal.”

His words fall like worship against your ear, soft affirmations that make your heart swell with a tenderness you never expected.

“So beautiful.”

“You take me so good.”

“I’ve dreamed about this…”

Heat coils deep inside, spreading outward in slow-burning waves, making you shiver in his arms. You’re caught between vulnerability and desperate need, the tension between needing to be seen and utterly losing yourself in him.

You move with him legs wrapping tighter around his waist, pulling him closer hips rising to meet every slow, sure stroke, every pull and push. Your bodies speak without words, in a silent language of rhythm, trust, and shared surrender.

The pace builds relentless but patient like a tide rising and falling with perfect, inevitable precision. You feel something deeper than mere pleasure, something forged in quiet moments and whispered promises, something raw and true beneath the skin.

His hands find your waist again, thumbs drawing lazy, teasing circles over slick, heated skin, grounding you even as every sense ignites. His lips trail from your neck down to your collarbone and shoulder, leaving a trail of fire and claim in their wake marking you as his in the most intimate way possible.

You catch his gaze again wild, vulnerable, utterly yours. In that fierce look, you see everything: desire, devotion and the quiet certainty that no matter what comes next, you face it together.

And in the shared heat of that moment, the outside world falls away, leaving only the slow, burning rhythm of your bodies moving as one breath mingling with breath, skin sliding against skin, heart beating wild and sure in the timeless dance you share.

It’s perfect.

Until it isn’t.

You feel the shift before it fully settles a subtle change in the angle, almost imperceptible, but enough to turn what had been a slow, delicious fullness into something sharp, twisting unexpectedly inside you. The pleasure flickers and then vanishes, replaced by a sudden, jarring discomfort that coils tightly around your nerves, making your breath catch in your throat.

Your body stiffens, muscles tensing as a rush of sudden pain flares.

His eyes snap open wide, startled, searching your face as if trying to read the shift in your expression. For a moment, panic flashes across his features, raw and unfiltered.

“Shit. Shit did I—? Are you okay?” His voice is urgent, breath ragged.

Before you can say anything, he pulls out quickly, leaving you feeling empty, aching in a way that wasn’t there before. The sudden absence of him only sharpens the ache.

“I’m okay,” you manage to say, voice shaky but steady. “It just…hit the wrong spot. It didn’t feel good.”

He backs up slightly on his knees, hands hovering uncertainly over you as if afraid to touch, eyes wide and searching like he’s trying to make sure you’re really alright.

“Baby…fuck, I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise. I thought fuck - I thought you were still okay.” His voice cracks under the weight of regret, thick with frustration at himself.

You reach up, placing your hand gently on his cheek, grounding both of you. “I was,” you say softly, voice tender but firm. “Until I wasn’t. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just didn’t say anything soon enough.”

He lowers his gaze, voice dropping to a hoarse whisper, thick with sorrow and self-reproach.

“No. I should’ve known. I should’ve felt it.”

You lean into his warmth, thumb brushing softly along his jawline, soothing the tension etched into his face.

“Hey. You stopped. The second I said something. That’s what matters.”

His whole body seems to sag with relief and remorse mingled together, the intensity in his eyes softening as he leans down slowly to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, then your cheek, and finally the hollow between your collarbones each touch featherlight, as if trying to erase the sting of that moment.

“I never want to hurt you,” he murmurs against your skin, voice thick with emotion. “I never want you to feel like you have to push through something for me. That’s not what this is. Not ever.”

You close your eyes briefly, tasting the sincerity in his words, the steady beat of his heart against your skin. “I know,” you whisper back. “I trust you. I still trust you.”

When you open your eyes again, his gaze meets yours dark, shimmering with unspoken promises and raw, aching tenderness.

You shift beneath the sheets, reaching out to trail your fingers along his collarbone, then whisper, “Maybe we try something else?”

His brow furrows for a brief moment, hesitant, searching. “Are you sure?”

You nod, thumb brushing his jaw once more in a slow, deliberate gesture of reassurance. “Let me ride you. I’ll control the depth.”

The change in him is subtle but profound. The tension that had gripped his body loosens, replaced by a softness that melts into reverence and complete surrender.

He reclines back against the pillows, arms opening wide like a silent invitation, eyes full of nothing but adoration and trust.

“Come here, baby,” he says gently. “We go at your pace.”

You straddle him slowly, your hands resting lightly on his chest as you guide him inside this time with a careful, deliberate tenderness. The moment he fills you again, the sensation is full and encompassing, a contrast to before.

There’s no rush, no jagged edges just a warm, satisfying stretch that settles deep inside you. His breath hitches, a low, guttural groan vibrating through his chest as you lower yourself fully onto him, inch by slow inch.

You feel every inch, every contour, every subtle movement of his body beneath you. It’s intimate, sacred almost, the way your flesh molds to his.

You’re stretched, sensitive, but this time it’s a good kind of full better than good, like the ache of a perfect muscle burn after a long run. The kind of ache that speaks of effort and reward.

His hands slide up your thighs, fingers spreading wide to grip you gently. There’s heat in his touch, but no pressure. No urgent need to take over. Instead, he holds you close, his palms firm but patient, steadying you without a word.

“Take what you need,” he whispers, voice low and rough, thick with desire and trust.

You start to move, rocking your hips in small, slow circles a shallow grind that builds heat without pushing, coaxing pleasure in soft waves instead of crashing tides.

The friction between your skin, the slick warmth of your bodies pressed together, sends sparks of fire trailing along your nerves. The scent of his skin, faintly musky and intimate, fills your senses, grounding you in the moment.

You catch the tension etched in his face the tight line of his jaw, the twitch of his fingers that want to claim control but don’t. He resists, letting you lead, and in that surrender, his desire burns even fiercer.

“That’s it that’s my girl,” he breathes, voice raw and reverent. “Just like that. You’re perfect.”

You lean down, pressing your lips to his in a slow, lingering kiss. Your hands settle on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palms. The rhythm of your bodies aligns entirely your own. Every movement, every breath, every shared sigh becomes a silent language spoken only by the two of you.

His hands slide to your ass, cupping and squeezing gently, guiding you with a tender insistence. They never force, never rush; instead, they invite you to explore the space between pleasure and patience.

Your second orgasm builds gradually, a deep, pulsing heat blossoming from your core like a slow-burning flame. It gathers strength, radiating outward until your thighs tremble with the tension, your breath catching and spilling into a moan pressed against his mouth.

He holds you through it all steady, unwavering. His lips trace a soft path along your jaw, then your neck, as you come down from the wave, shivering in his arms. When your body stills, he brushes your damp hair back, eyes shining with something fierce and tender all at once. Then, with deliberate care, he flips you beneath him, hands never hurried, every touch sacred.

“I need to come,” he says, voice rough and aching with need. “I need you.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, your fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck. You nod, breathless but sure.

“I’m ready,” you whisper.

This time is different.

His thrusts are deep but gentle measured with a tenderness that makes every motion feel like a vow. His forehead rests against yours, eyes locked onto your face, watching every flicker of pleasure, every subtle smile, every breathless gasp. There’s an unspoken conversation in those dark, searching eyes a promise that he’s here for you, completely and utterly.

You feel the smooth slide of his skin against yours, the slick warmth of your combined heat, the subtle tension in his muscles as he moves with a slow, aching rhythm. The taste of salt and desire lingers on his lips when you kiss, a reminder of how close you are how much you belong to each other in this moment.

When he finally groans your name, raw and trembling, and comes deep inside you, his whole body shudders with the release. It’s not just physical; it feels sacred, as though you’ve woven your souls tighter with every movement, every shared breath.

He collapses beside you, arms wrapping around your trembling frame, holding you like the most precious thing in the world. And you rest your head against his chest, heart pounding in sync with his, knowing that this moment raw, tender, vulnerable is exactly where you belong.

It’s not just sex, it’s something more. Something true.

The afterglow wraps around you both like a warm, protective cocoon. His body presses against yours, steady and grounding, like an anchor in a swirling world. His arms come around you slowly, gently, pulling you close as if to make sure you’re really there, really safe. Your legs tangle naturally around his waist, the fit so familiar it feels like coming home.

He moves with deliberate care, his hands steady and tender as he cleans you both a soft touch here, a careful wipe there. It’s not hurried or clinical; it’s intimate, sacred even, a quiet ritual that speaks volumes without words. Every stroke of his fingers against your skin feels like a vow, a silent promise that he’ll always cherish and protect this space you share.

When he finally folds you into his arms, cradling you close to his chest, you feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear. It’s a rhythm that seeps into your bones, making every breath easier, every worry quieter.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs softly into your hair, his voice thick with sincerity and something deeper a kind of fierce devotion. “I’ll learn you. Every inch. Every sound. Every want. Everything that hurts. I’ll never stop listening.”

His words curl around you like a warm breeze, soothing and exhilarating all at once. You tilt your head up, eyes shining with unshed tears and fierce trust. “I know.”

Outside, the storm has faded. The rain’s last heavy drops tap softly against the windowpane, a gentle rhythm that blends with the quiet sighs and murmurs between you. But inside, the warmth doesn’t fade. It lingers soft and fierce, a quiet blaze that fills the room with light and promise.

You trace lazy circles on his chest, fingertips lingering where your skin brushes against his. He shivers slightly under your touch, as if your presence alone sets him alight.

“This,” he says, voice low and sure, “this is only the beginning.”

You press your forehead against his, breath mingling, hearts beating a steady duet. In this silence, in this perfect closeness, you both know it’s true — something rare and precious is unfolding between you. Something that goes far beyond the physical, beyond the fleeting.

It’s trust. It’s hope. It’s a promise whispered in the stillness; a vow carried on the softest breath.

And as the first hints of dawn begin to lighten the edges of the night sky, you hold onto that promise tightly, knowing it will guide you both through whatever comes next.

morning light broke slowly across the room, brushing in like a whisper rather than a shout. It didn’t rush or demand attention. Instead, it seeped gently through the sheer curtains, folding itself around the edges of the furniture, pooling softly on the polished floorboards, and tracing delicate honey-gold patterns that danced with the quiet rhythm of the waking world.

The bed was a tangle of linen and warmth, the sheets twisted and half-forgotten kicked down to the foot, clinging lazily to a leg here, slipping off a hip there.

They smelled of heat and something intimately yours, the scent of skin meeting skin in that sacred place where barriers dissolve. Sweat mixed with the faint trace of his cologne, musky and comforting, weaving with the residual traces of passion and whispered promises that had filled the night.

There was something else beyond the physical. Something less tangible but no less profound.

Closeness.

You were the first to stir. Not because of a sound, not because the sun’s touch was harsh or urgent. You stirred because of the warmth pressed against your back a steady heat that felt like a tether to the world, a heartbeat just beneath your skin. His warmth.

Lewis was curled behind you, one long arm wrapping protectively around your waist, the palm resting just beneath your ribs. His body was steady, grounding, the slow rise and fall of his chest pressed intimately to yours like the ocean’s tide keeping time with the moon.

His breath ghosted over your neck in slow, even pulses warm and faintly damp with sleep and every so often, almost unconsciously, his thumb twitched, rubbing soft, half-forgotten circles along your side. It was a small gesture, but it said everything: you were his. You were here. You were safe.

You didn’t move right away. You let yourself feel the lingering ache deep in your muscle -thighs, lower back, and hips that whispered reminders of the night before. It wasn’t pain. Not really. More a soft echo, a carved memory, a testament to what had been given and taken, shared and held.

Eventually, you turned toward him, moving slowly so as not to disturb the fragile bubble between you. You shifted onto your other side, your eyes locking with his before your bodies fully settled. His eyes fluttered open almost instantly, heavy-lidded, those dark pools still swimming in the haze of sleep.

“Morning,” he murmured, his voice low and roughened by hours spent speaking in sighs and gasps. That scratchy rasp should have sounded raw, maybe even gruff but on him, it was something intimate, something that slid under your skin and made your heart catch. Like the remnants of every moan, every whispered name, still echoed in the gravel of his throat.

You smiled softly, the corners of your lips lifting without hesitation because just looking at him felt like a balm. “Hey.”

Lewis blinked slowly, as if seeing you again was both expected and impossible all at once. His gaze searched your face - your eyes, still heavy with sleep but bright with something tender, the flushed bloom on your cheeks, the soft curve of your lips and for a flicker of a moment, something unspoken crossed his features. Worry. The silent check-in of a man who carries more than just himself.

You reached out without thinking, brushing your thumb over the edge of his beard, feeling the rough stubble beneath your skin. “I’m okay, Lewis,” you whispered.

His shoulders visibly eased, the invisible knot of tension loosening in his chest like it had just been unwound. He leaned forward, pressing a slow, reverent kiss to your lips.

It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t urgent it was deliberate, a silent thank you spoken through soft pressure and the warm slide of his mouth. When he pulled back, his thumb traced the line of your jaw with infinite care.

“You’re sore?” His voice was low, a careful question.

You hesitated a moment before nodding, cheeks warming with a shy, small laugh. “A little. But not in a bad way.”

Lewis’s brows furrowed, concern knitting into his expression instantly. His hand slid down from your jaw to rest on your hip, fingers spreading like he wanted to feel for any hidden hurt himself. “I can run you a bath. Warm water, Epsom salts. I’ll even sit right here, on the floor, while you soak.”

You laughed quietly, curling your hand around the thin gold chain that hung from his neck, tugging gently until he stilled and looked down at you. “I don’t want to move yet. I just want to lie here. With you.”

That soft smile the one that cracked open something guarded and deep behind his eyes spread slowly across his face. “Yeah. Okay.”

He pulled you closer, wrapping you tighter into his chest and tucking you beneath his chin. His hand moved slowly across your back, tracing lazy, intimate circles on your shoulder blade. There was no rush. No noise but the faint hum of the city below and the air conditioning whispering softly through the suite’s vents.

Silence held you both for a long time, wrapping around your bodies like a protective cloak.

Then his voice came, low and hesitant, as if he was not sure if he dared speak the truth out loud.

“Thank you for telling me to stop.”

You lifted your head, searching his face.

He wasn’t looking at you. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, jaw working silently, the quiet battle of something unsaid twisting behind his eyes.

“I would’ve hated myself,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper, “if I’d kept going and you got hurt.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” you said softly. “You listened. That mattered more than getting it perfect.”

His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “I’ve had partners,” he said after a pause, “plenty. But this is different. I’ve never cared like this before. Not just about how it feels but how you feel. If I’m making you feel safe. If you’re enjoying it, not just putting up with it. I used to think I was good at this. Sex. Being attentive. But that was just rhythm. Technique. This—” He exhaled slowly, “—this is something else.”

You reached up, cupping his face gently, coaxing his eyes back to yours. “You got it right,” you whispered. “Even when it wasn’t perfect, you got it right. Because you heard me. Because you stopped.”

His lips parted, as if to say more but swallowing the words. You could see the weight of what you said settling inside him, softening the tightness in his chest.

“Tell me again what felt good,” he asked, voice husky, eyes flickering down to your lips.

You blushed, but you nodded.

“When you didn’t rush me. When you kissed me after. When I was on topI felt so in control, and you were just watching me like I was…” You trailed off, heart pounding.

“Like you were mine,” he breathed.

You swallowed hard.

“And when you called me your girl.”

His smile broke slowly, warmth spreading like sunrise across his face. “You are.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you leaned in, your nose brushing his, legs slipping between his under the sheets. When you pulled back, your voice was quiet, vulnerable.

“We’re not done figuring it out, are we?”

“Not even close,” he said softly. “But we’ve got time. No pressure. No rush.”

Then more seriously: “Before we ever do anything again, we talk. What you like. What you’re curious about. What’s off limits. I don’t care how good it feels if it’s not good for you.”

Your heart thudded not from lust, but from something more profound. Love, or maybe something inching toward it.

“Can we keep asking each other stuff?” you whispered. “Even weird things?”

He nodded, eyes bright with quiet joy. “That’s how we get good at it. Us. That’s how we build this right.”

A pause.

“Do you want to know what I want next time?” His voice dropped lower, the teasing edge making your skin prickle with anticipation.

You lifted an eyebrow, curiosity flickering in your gaze. “Do I?”

He met your eyes, blunt and raw and utterly unfiltered. “I want you to ride my face.”

The words hit you like a sudden burst of heat, your breath catching in your throat. His honesty was disarming, vulnerable in its directness.

“Take your time,” he continued, voice thick with desire and something tender beneath it. “Grind down until you come. I want to see how you look when you’re the one in control again.” His eyes darkened with longing. “I want to be under you. Helpless.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the intensity and openness the sheer weight of how much he wanted you.

“That��s…a lot,” you whispered, heart pounding, voice barely audible.

He leaned in, kissing you slowly. His lips were warm, certain, asking permission in every inch of that kiss. It was an unspoken promise that this desire wasn’t just physical it was about trust, about connection, about being seen.

“That’s how much I want you,” he said softly, breath warm against your skin.

You wrapped your arms around him instinctively, burying your face in the nape of his neck, feeling the steady beat of his pulse beneath your fingertips. “Then maybe…next time.”

His voice was steady, sure, a quiet vow you felt deep in your bones. “Next time.”

Later, you let him run the bath, but it was anything but rushed. He moved with deliberate care filling the tub with steaming water, the scent of lavender oil drifting through the air like a soft caress. He added Epsom salts, watching as they dissolved slowly, the surface rippling gently.

He rolled a plush, oversized towel and nestled it behind your neck, offering you a sanctuary of softness the moment you settled into the warm water. Then, with a gentle smile, he handed you a glass of water, a thin slice of lemon resting on the rim. “For hydration,” he said with a playful wink that made your cheeks warm.

But he didn’t leave you alone. Instead, he sat beside the tub on the cool tiled floor, one knee bent, his fingers trailing lightly along your shin.

His touch wasn’t hurried or lustful it was a steady presence, a quiet reassurance. Watching you relax, breathing in the warm, scented air, he seemed to find something healing in your peacefulness, as if your ease soothed some unseen ache inside him.

The water lapped softly against your skin, steam curling around you like a protective veil. Outside, the city hummed faintly, the distant sounds of life fading into the background as the two of you existed in this small bubble of calm.

When you finally slipped from the bath, chilled slightly as the warm water drained away, he was waiting with his oversized T-shirt, soft and worn, the fabric falling loosely around your body. He wrapped it gently around your shoulders, his hands steady and warm.

Then, taking the hotel towel, he dried your damp hair with an unhurried tenderness finger carefully combing through curls, mumbling something about heat damage and how beautiful you looked just like this.

You caught the softness in his eyes, the way he saw you in that moment bare-faced, hair tousled and damp, cheeks still flushed from sleep and the traces of last night’s closeness.

Without a word, he led you back to bed. The room was dim, the rain tapping a soothing rhythm against the windows. The city lights beyond the thick glass were muted, distant.

No distractions. No noise. Just the two of you.

He pulled you close beneath the covers, limbs tangling naturally, your skin warm against his. His fingers found yours beneath the sheets, their gentle squeeze grounding and familiar.

You breathed in the quiet, the comfort of the moment the steady cadence of his breath, the soft warmth of his body, the shared space between your hearts learning to beat in sync.

“Warmth,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

“Learning,” he answered softly.

“Love,” you breathed.

And in the hush of the room, wrapped in the quiet intimacy that only came from being truly known, you dared to believe in something more.

Forever.

[papayainsectorone]

You Only Want To Kiss By The Pool

summary: a sultry, aching summer entanglement unfolds between two people tangled in history, habit, and hurt.

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, angst, emotionally unavailable!charles, p in v, protected and unprotected sex, dry humping, more angst, emotional vulnerability, toxic intimacy, unresolved tension, messy feelings, blood/injury mention, longing, self-loathing, summer heartbreak, EVEN MORE ANGST, my personal vendetta against the cicadas in this story turning into a stylised thing lol word count: 10k

pairing: charles leclerc x fem!reader a thought: soooo 10k words huh 😭 I swear this wasn’t on purpose… or maybe it was, who knows at this point. I’m not even sure if this turned out how I originally imagined it, but I really hope you enjoy it!! i uploaded a bit eralier then usual bc of the race today a´s masterlist

You arrive right at golden hour, when everything looks like it’s been dipped in honey, too soft, too golden, too damn familiar. 

The light slants through the cypress trees lining the gravel driveway, casting long, flickering shadows across the hood of the car like fingers you don’t want to name. 

The air smells like rosemary and sunscreen residue, like heat baked into old stones and that same vanilla-sweet cigarette someone always smokes down the hill, burning slow, never gone. 

The wheels of your suitcase stutter against the gravel in a rhythm your body remembers even if your brain tries not to. It’s the same sound every summer since you were eight: uneven, jarring, too loud in the stillness. It sounds like memory. It sounds like a warning you never listen to. 

Laughter rises from behind the house, bright, breathless, edged with wine and the kind of joy that makes you feel at home before you’ve even walked in. You stop at the gate. Not ready to see everyone. Not him. Not yet or not again. You breathe in sharp, like maybe oxygen will smooth out the tremor in your hands. It doesn’t. 

The house is exactly the same. Of course it is. That’s the part that knocks you off balance. The terracotta tiles still dip unevenly toward the front steps, like they might collapse if you step too hard. The shutters still creak, lazy with age. The olive trees are overgrown, thick with shadows that look too much like last year. You already know the cicadas will start screaming right before dusk like they always do. You already know the kitchen door sticks unless you lift it gently. You already know this place too well.  You already know how the next weeks will go.

Inside, the floor is cool beneath your sandals, a sudden relief against skin too warm from the drive. You don’t call out. Don’t let anyone know you’ve arrived. Instead, you slip up the stairs without a sound, like the house might swallow you whole if you move gently enough. 

The door to your usual room opens with the same soft resistance. It still smells faintly of the linen detergent his mother always used, dried lavender and something older, something dustier. Nostalgia, maybe. Or the ache of something that never was. 

The closet door creaks like it remembers you. You shove your suitcase inside without even pretending you’ll unpack it tonight. The zip catches on the edge of the frame and you yank harder than you mean to. The thud echoes. Too loud for a room this quiet. 

It smells the same in here. Wood polish and sun-warmed fabric, the ghost of old perfume clinging to the curtains. You feel it settle around you, this too-familiar hush. As if the walls remember every version of you that’s ever stood here. Eight, twelve, seventeen. Laughing, crying, pretending. There are layers of you folded into the linens. Some you’ve outgrown. Some that still fit a little too well. You don't look in the mirror. 

You pull off your shoes and cross to the balcony, bare feet whispering across cool tile. The small iron door sticks before it gives, then opens wide to the same view you’ve looked at a hundred times before, maybe more. And still, it stuns. 

The hills roll out in ribbons of gold and green, draped over each other like sleep-warmed limbs. Light bleeds across them in waves, hazy with heat and distance. It’s a landscape built for remembering: soft-edged, sun-split, too beautiful to feel safe. Below, the pool lies still, catching the last of the sun like it’s trying to bottle the moment. Its surface trembles in the breeze, glinting and nervous. Like a mirror about to crack. Like it knows things. Like it sees you. 

And then—just like that—the silence breaks. 

Laughter rides the wind, faint at first, then clearer. Voices carry up from the patio, sun-drenched and wine-loose. You recognize them even before you parse the words: your mother’s high, bright tone; Charles’ mother, always elegant even when she’s too loud; the boys, deep-voiced and jostling each other as they pass around olives or wine or stories no one’s finished telling. It’s a soundscape of summer, unchanged and unbothered by time. 

Your mother sees you first. Of course she does. She stands and waves both arms overhead, graceless and joyful, like a child who’s been given a second dessert. “There you are!” she calls, as if you’ve been lost for days, not delayed for hours. “You’re so late! Come down—we’ve started without you!” 

They act like nothing’s changed. Like you’ve never left. Like you’re not bracing yourself in a doorway two floors above them, body gone still. 

You scan the crowd, breath held tight. He’s not there. 

For a flicker of a moment—so quick you almost miss it—you let yourself hope. Maybe he’s not here this year. Maybe he’s in Monaco, like he would usually be. Or Spain, or Italy, or anywhere other than this sliver of hillside where everything feels one second away from breaking open. The thought slides in cold and fast: maybe you won’t see him at all. 

Relief blooms. Clean. Bright. A burst of something dangerously close to joy. You hold onto it like a secret. You let yourself believe it. 

But then you open your bedroom door again. 

And the house, ancient and alive in the ways that matter most, seems to punish you for the thought. 

Because he’s right there. 

You don’t hear him until he’s too close, until it’s too late to step aside, too late to pull the door shut and breathe. You turn and collide, your chest hitting bare skin, solid and warm and real in a way that steals your breath more than the impact. You gasp. His hands are already on your arms, firm but unhurried, grounding you before you stumble. 

His grip is confident, muscle and memory and the cruel exactness of someone who still remembers the shape of you. It’s the way he always used to touch you: like you were his, like you’d never been anything else. 

And of course he’s not wearing a shirt. 

The hallway is narrow and the air between you shrinks until it feels nonexistent. You can smell him: salt and sun, a trace of cologne he never wears in the city and something else, maybe the ghost of last summer or the one before. He leans in just slightly, not enough to threaten, just enough to take up all your space. 

“Bonjour, chérie,” he says, voice wrapped in silk and sunshine, rough at the edges from sleep or wine or both. The words slip out like they belong here, like you still belong to each other. His smile is slow and sharp, all teeth and nostalgia. “Seems like you missed me.” 

The sound of him is a whole summer unto itself. Familiar in a way that hurts. The vowels curl lazy in his throat, lower than you remember, but not strange. Never strange. 

Then his face tilts, just slightly, and he presses a kiss to your cheek. 

It’s too soft. Too slow. Like the kind of thing that should come after everything else, not before it. It lingers longer than it should, like punctuation that doesn’t quite fit the sentence. 

You don’t move. You don’t return it. You just pull back a fraction, barely enough to register, and meet his gaze without offering much of anything. “Yeah. Hi.” 

The moment breaks like glass underfoot. 

You walk down toward the backyard together. Side by side. Not touching, but too close not to feel it. The air has thickened, the late heat curling under your collar, sweat at the nape of your neck now tinged with the weight of memory. You can feel it building around you, this ache you didn’t plan to carry. 

You step through the open patio doors just as someone uncorks another bottle of wine. The pop cuts through the twilight like a held breath finally let go. 

Your mother sees you first—again—and claps her hands together like she’s been waiting days instead of hours. “There she is!” she says, already half out of her chair. “I thought we’d have to send Charles up with a search party.” 

Someone laughs, Arthur, that same easy snort he’s had since he was thirteen. His mother is already pouring you a glass of white, humming something tuneless as she gestures you toward the table. 

The scent of grilled peaches and rosemary chicken curls through the warm air. The citronella candles flicker. There’s a stack of mismatched plates on the table, a bowl of cherries passed around like currency, laughter rising in messy waves between bites. 

They pull you into it easily, like you never left, like nothing cracked or shifted or nearly unraveled. Your father ruffles your hair like you're still the same girl who wore bandaids on her knees and sulked through dinners. One of the Leclercs tells you you look different, then immediately backpedals with a compliment that feels rehearsed but sweet. 

You smile at all the right moments. Sip your wine. Let the warmth of their welcome soak through your skin. 

But even as you laugh, even as you settle into your old seat and pass the salad bowl like muscle memory, you feel him across the table, his gaze, the orbit of his presence, quiet and magnetic. 

You don’t look at him again. At least you try.

Later, the sun is long gone. The last streaks of lavender have faded from the sky. The pool lights blink on one by one, casting the water in a pale blue glow that ripples against the stone like soft electricity. It looks otherworldly now, like a portal instead of a pool. 

You sit at the deep end, feet in the water, your drink sweating onto the flagstone beside you. The chill of the pool creeps up your calves, grounding, but it’s not enough to cool the fire crawling under your skin. 

Then Charles is there. 

He doesn’t speak. Just slides down beside you, as easy as anything, his thigh brushing yours in a way that feels accidental and entirely intentional. You don’t move away. You don’t lean in. The closeness settles, thick and quiet. 

“I missed this,” he murmurs, gaze out over the water. The words land soft, but they burn anyway. 

You don’t ask him what he means. You already know. You’ve always known. He means this, this moment, this version of you, this curated slice of late summer nostalgia. Not you in your real life. Not you with complications and context. Just here. Just now. Just like this. 

You turn toward him. His face is turned slightly down, lit from beneath by the water’s shimmer. Half-shadow, half-memory. His mouth is parted. His expression open, soft. That look he only ever wears after too much wine and too little caution.

He leans in. 

Of course he does. It’s written in his bones, the way he moves toward you. Like there’s only one ending this scene has ever had. 

His mouth hovers, inches from yours. The space between you hums. 

But you don’t close it. 

You turn your head, slow and deliberate. His breath skims your cheek instead of your lips. 

You look ahead, toward the water, and say, quiet but steady, “Yeah. You missed this.” 

Silence folds around you like thick night air, humid, clinging, full of everything unsaid. It presses in where words should go, settling between your collarbones, behind your ribs, in the hollows of your throat. 

He doesn’t speak. Just lingers there, breath still shallow from the space you didn’t close. His face is close enough that you can see the shift in his eyes, the flicker of something wounded, or worse, surprised. As if he’d forgotten you had the power to say no. The will to say no.

He pulls back, slowly, like he doesn’t want to spook the moment entirely. Like he’s still hoping it might rewind if he moves carefully enough. But you’re already somewhere else. 

You slide your feet out of the pool, water dripping off your calves, leaving small dark prints across the stone. You don’t glance back. You just rise, smooth your dress down with damp fingers, and walk away—deliberate, quiet, unhurried. The echo of what almost happened follows you. It stays with him, hovering in the charged space where your lips didn’t meet, suspended between the low hum of the pool filter and the ache curling just under the sound of summer. 

You didn’t always hate the sound of the cicadas. 

But now, you hear them for what they are: a warning, not a song. 

Every July, someone herded you into this house like clockwork, since you were seven. Like tradition was a story you could rehearse. “Let the kids bond,” the adults always said, raising glasses full of ice and wine. As if summer could be assigned. As if affection could be grown like tomatoes in clay pots.

But it worked. At least in the way those things sometimes do. Not because anyone forced it, but because the days were long and the rules were soft and kids will always find each other in the absence of supervision.

Within hours of arrival, all kids would be side-by-side again, running barefoot through the dusty village streets, staging makeshift pool parties with chipped speakers and melting popsicles, choreographing elaborate games that never needed to be explained, only remembered.

They’d pile into one bedroom for sleepovers that turned into late-night whisper wars, the kind that made your cheeks ache from laughing. They shared bikes and towels and secrets that only made sense under July skies. Together they discovered the hidden parts of the town, abandoned stone barns at the edge of the vineyard, an old cemetery you all swore was haunted, a bakery that gave free pastries if Charles asked in his charming Monegasque way.

No one really missed their parents. The adults were background noise: clinking glasses, sun hats, lazy arguments about where to buy the best olives. They lived on the terrace, in the wine-soaked air of adult summers, while you lived in the dirt and chlorine and wonder of your own little kingdom.

The friendships were real in the way summer friendships are. Bright. Uncomplicated. Built on nothing but shared time.

Every year, you slipped into it like a costume that still fit. Every year, you tried not to notice how it didn’t quite feel the same as it did the year before.

Every year, you and Charles always found your way back to each other, too—but that was a different kind of bond.

That night, the grown-ups were inside, already drunk on rosé and charred sea bass and the weightlessness of the season. Laughter leaked out through the open windows, mingling with the too loud cicadas and the low hum of the pool filter. Someone had lit the fire pit too early. It sputtered in the wind, more smoke than flame. 

You were sitting cross-legged near the edge of the glow, arms wrapped around your knees, half-listening to the night. And then he sat beside you. 

He smelled like chlorine and something expensive. A trace of bonfire clung to him, warm and sharp. 

He leaned in close, eyes gleaming with something just on the edge of mischief. 

“T’as encore peur de moi, hein?” he asked, teasing. Still scared of me, huh? 

You shook your head, but the word no barely made it out, more breath than voice. 

He watched your face like it was something he could easily figure out how to read. His thumb brushed your cheek, a slow, deliberate touch, like he was waiting for permission you didn’t know how to give. 

Then: “Have you ever kissed someone?” 

You didn’t answer. He didn’t wait. 

The kiss was soft. Clumsy. Your teeth knocked once. He laughed, low, unbothered and leaned in again. This time it was smoother, warmer, his hand slipping behind your neck. You felt it all the way down your spine. 

Behind you, the fire cracked like punctuation. 

That was the first kiss. But not the last. 

That summer unfolded in stolen moments and shared towels, too-long glances and too-short goodnights. Kisses in the shade. Fingers brushed beneath the table. A closeness that grew like ivy—tender, quiet, climbing fast. 

Then it was the next summer and the same house. The same pool, shimmering. The same voices floated from the kitchen, wine-loose and full of soft arguments about apricot jam and whether anyone remembered to buy more cheese. 

But the quiet between you had changed. 

You were older. Not by much, but enough. Enough to know what you wanted, or at least to want wanting. And enough to notice that he looked at you differently now, less like a childhood friend, more like a secret. 

You were by the pool again. Of course you were. That’s where it always started. 

You sat beside him, legs dangling in the warm water, the tiles still hot against your palms. The sun had just slipped behind the hills, leaving the sky dusted with gold. Your skin buzzed with heat and the residual hum of too many hours in the sun. 

He leaned back on his elbows, shirt tossed somewhere behind him, hair still wet from the pool. He didn’t say much. Neither did you. The silence between you was thick with memory and something newer, something heavier. 

Eventually, you ended up stretched out on one of the lounge chairs, side by side, barely touching. 

You turned onto your side to face him, chin propped on your hand. He was watching the stars begin to appear, like he could read something in their flicker. You watched him instead. The lines of his jaw. The soft rise and fall of his chest. The curve of his mouth, parted like he was about to speak but hadn’t yet decided how. 

His fingers found your stomach—light at first. A single brush. Then again, slower. He was tracing the edge of your bikini bottoms like he was learning it. 

“Tu veux que je continue?”  You want me to keep going?

You didn’t know what yes looked like yet. But you didn’t say no. 

He pulled you into his lap, tentative at first, but then firmer, like he knew what he was doing and wanted you to know it too. His hands settled on your hips, guiding. Grounding. 

You were grinding into him in soft, uncertain rolls, your breath catching every time you felt the friction hit just right. His mouth dropped open. A low groan escaped him, half-swallowed by the night. 

You didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The pressure built, slowly at first, then all at once. And even though you were both still dressed—your bikini clinging wetly to you, his swim trunks low on his hips—it didn’t matter. 

You came like that. Both of you. Quietly. Urgently. In the dark, with the stars blinking overhead and the pool lights flickering like underwater fireflies. 

It wasn’t the last time that summer. 

You did it again. And again. In the shallow end, half-hidden behind the pool float. In your bed with the shutters open. In his, early in the morning when no one else was awake. On the sun-warmed couch the afternoon the parents went grocery shopping and left you behind “just to relax.” 

That summer was a secret, pressed between kisses and the hush of wet skin, held like breath, never spoken aloud. You never talked about what it meant. 

You just kept doing it. 

Another year passed. And again, it was the same house, the same pool, the same slant of light across the water like time didn’t matter at all. But this time, it did. This time, you noticed how the air felt heavier, slower, like it was dragging you toward something inevitable. 

He was already in the water when you came out, doing lazy laps in the deep end. The surface broke around his shoulders as he swam, broad now, stronger. You could see it immediately. The difference. His chest was fuller. His jaw more carved. There was a shadow of stubble across his cheek and it caught the late light like it was meant to be there. 

He’d changed. Not in a way that made you uncertain, no, in a way that made your stomach flip. Grown into himself. Grown into the way he watched you now, more direct, more aware of the way your body had changed too. It wasn’t subtle. Nothing about it was. 

The others were inside again, predictably tipsy—someone had made sangria this evening and you could hear the sound of glass clinking, soft laughter echoing through the windows. 

And again, it was just the two of you. 

You sat at the edge of the pool, again, feet in the water, again, arms wrapped loosely around your knees, again. You didn’t say much. You didn’t have to. 

He pulled himself out of the pool, water dripping off him in steady rivulets. He didn’t towel off. Just came over and stood behind you for a second, close enough to make you shiver even in the heat. 

When he leaned down, his voice was rough in your ear. “Come with me.” 

You didn’t ask where. 

You followed him to the pool house, one hand brushing against his, pretending it was an accident. 

Inside, the air was thick. He kissed you against the door. No buildup. No hesitation. His mouth was hungry and open and wet with want. 

You let him push your swimsuit straps down slowly, almost reverently, like he was unwrapping something delicate. Like he knew exactly what he was doing and wanted you to believe he cared. His fingers brushed your shoulder, then lower, tracing your skin in a line so feather-light it made you hold your breath. 

He kissed you again, this time slower, deeper, like he was trying to anchor the moment in your chest. Like it meant something. 

You wanted to believe it did. 

You didn’t say anything when he lay you down on the old chaise lounge in the pool house. It groaned under your weight, too narrow and too soft in all the wrong places, but it didn’t matter. Nothing did except the way he looked at you—eyes half-lidded, lips parted, gaze dragging down your body like it held some secret he wanted to memorize. Like you were something rare. 

And maybe you were. For a second, you let yourself believe you were. 

His hand traced the edge of your ribs, slow and deliberate, before slipping down to your waist. He stopped there—fingers hovering at the dip of your skin like a question. Not forceful, not impatient. Just waiting. For breath. For permission. Or maybe just to make the moment stretch—so it would feel like more than it was.

“Cha—Charles, I’ve never…”

“Je sais,” I know he said softly, then, switching to English, “I’ll show you.”

He didn’t smile. But there was a quiet curve to his mouth, something settled and self-assured, like he already knew you’d say yes. Like he’d been waiting for this moment—not because it meant something, but because he wanted to feel it. To feel you.

He kissed you again, slower this time. Not rushed. Not greedy. His lips dragged over your cheek, your jaw, your neck, like he was mapping you for his own satisfaction. He whispered something into your skin—your name maybe, or just breath. You nodded anyway, body already giving in.

He slipped your swimsuit bottoms down, inch by inch, his knuckles brushing your thighs. You tried not to squirm, not to notice how awkward it felt—your skin damp and sticky, your legs trembling. But his touch didn’t waver. He wasn’t embarrassed. If anything, he liked it. The unraveling of you. The way you softened under him.

The condom came out of his pocket with practiced ease. He tore the wrapper open with his teeth, grinning faintly like it was a joke he’d told before. His hands were steady, his breath even. When he rolled it on, you could feel the heat of him against your leg—solid, certain.

And then he looked at you. Just for a second.

“Ready?” he murmured, more serious now. Almost soft.

You nodded.

When he pushed in, it hurt—a sharp, blooming stretch that made you gasp. He paused, exhaled against your throat, one hand gripping your hip. Not possessive. Not protective. Just...grounding. Measured. His other hand skimmed your ribs, coaxing your body open like he wanted you to feel it, really feel it, and remember that it was him.

“Just breathe,” he said, low and calm. And you did. You let him move.

It wasn’t rushed. Every stroke was deliberate, built for tension, for pleasure. He was focused—not on himself, but on you. The way your back arched. The way your breath caught. He studied you like it mattered. Like your pleasure was the goal, not the side effect. And somehow, that made it worse. Because it was good. He was good. And you knew that’s all he ever intended to be.

It didn’t last long, but it felt long enough. He stayed with you the whole time, hands steady, pace unhurried. He kissed you through it—not your mouth, but everywhere else. The curve of your collarbone. The place just below your ear. Your shoulder.

And when it was over, he didn’t roll away immediately. He hovered, catching his breath, his palm resting flat on your stomach like he was claiming something. Or just appreciating it.

He kissed your shoulder again, soft and absentminded.

And still, you pretended it meant something. That maybe he felt something too.

But his body was already cooling. Sliding away from yours like tide pulling back from sand. And you were left aching, not from the stretch, not from the sex, but from the quiet understanding settling in your chest.

He was never going to stay.

That should’ve been your first or last lesson:  Summer isn’t about what you remember.  It’s about what you let yourself forget. 

Every summer after that, it was just the same again. 

It didn’t matter how much time passed, how many months crawled by in between. When you returned to the house, the pool, everything clicked back into place like muscle memory. Like a scene you both knew too well to forget. 

It always started at the pool. 

You’d be lying out on one of the sun-warmed loungers, a book forgotten on your lap, the heat humming under your skin. He’d appear like he always did, barefoot, tanned, hair longer or shorter depending on the year, but always smug with familiarity. He’d grin like no time had passed and sit beside you like he’d never left. 

“Missed me?”  Always that. Or something like it. A joke. A flirt. An echo. 

And just like that, the rhythm began again. 

He knew your body by then. Where to touch. How to kiss you soft at first, then deeper, just rough enough to make you forget how temporary it all was. You always let him. You always wanted him to. 

Each year, he found new ways to make you feel like you mattered, at least here, at least now. He’d rest his head on your stomach while you played with his hair. He’d trace shapes along your thigh with fingers gone lazy from sun and sex. He’d steal your sunglasses and lie in the shade with his head in your lap, talking nonsense while your heart thudded like it still didn’t know better. 

Once, the summer you turned nineteen, you both swam out to the middle of the pool just before midnight. The water was warm, moonlit. He held your waist beneath the surface and whispered something soft and slurred into your ear. You didn’t catch it all, just the word “belle” and the breathy way he said your name like it hurt him to say it. He kissed your collarbone underwater. You held your breath until it ached. 

That night, you fell asleep in his bed, tangled in sheets that smelled like summer and him. When you woke up, he was already outside, playing cards with your siblings like nothing had changed. He didn’t look at you until you passed behind his chair and even then it was just a wink. Like the night didn’t live inside you now. Like it wasn’t something you’d carry. 

By your twenty-first summer, it was almost funny, how predictable it all was. The pool. The silence after. The space between what you hoped for and what he gave. You started to expect it: the way he’d vanish for whole afternoons without explanation, then reappear at sunset with wet hair and some joke about paddleboarding. The way he always kissed you like it was the last time, but never said goodbye. 

Then months of nothing. 

Until the next year. Until the next return. Until the next version of the same old story. 

You learned to live for the moments and to let go of the rest. 

You told yourself it was okay. That it didn’t mean anything if you didn’t let it. That summer was just summer, and he was just a boy you knew how to miss. 

But some nights, back in your apartment, deep in the middle of winter, you’d dream of him. Of chlorine and starlight and the way he once held your wrist like it was something precious. You’d wake up breathless, your mouth still shaped around his name. 

And every summer, you’d go back. 

Back in the present, you lie awake in the same bed you’ve had him in almost every night. For years. 

Different sheets now, soft hotel-cotton ones your mother picked up in some end-of-season sale, but the same creaky mattress, the same half-stuck window that never quite lets in enough air. The same fan above you, still clicking faintly with every lazy rotation like it’s keeping time for a memory you can’t outrun. 

You stare at the ceiling and imagine him still outside. Poolside. Beer bottle sweating in his hand, gaze fixed on the horizon like it holds answers. Maybe he’s wondering why you didn’t let him kiss you. He propably isn’t. You never know how deep his thoughts go when you’re not in the room. And you’re not sure which version hurts more. 

You close your eyes. Try not to think about the answer. 

You wake up to too much light. The kind of light that doesn’t soften—it sharpens. It cuts. It pours through the shutters like judgment, golden and brutal. You hate how the sun here always feels like it’s watching you. Like it knows. 

You make it downstairs still half-asleep, barefoot, wearing a too-big T-shirt that isn’t his but might as well be. Faded navy, soft with years of wash. You wore it in the summers before. He once said it made you look like summer personified. You pretended it didn’t make your stomach twist when he said things like that. 

At the breakfast table, your mother presses a mug into your hand. “Drink, ma chérie. You look pale.” 

You mumble a merci, too tired to fake much warmth. The smell of coffee is grounding, almost. Until someone laughs and makes a joke about the playlist. Something about how it's still full of the same French indie tracks from five years ago. Still Charles’s. Still yours in ways you try not to think about. 

You chew your toast slowly. You laugh when you’re supposed to. You answer questions about work, about London, about whether or not you’re seeing anyone. You lie easily. You’ve had practice. Everyone’s too sun-drunk to notice the cracks. 

But the weight of past summers clings to you like wet linen, heavy, clinging, impossible to shake. It’s in the way your skin prickles under his name, even when you don’t hear it. In the way you keep checking the patio door without meaning to. 

And for a second, for just a blink, you let yourself wonder if maybe this year will be different. Maybe he won’t behave the same way. Maybe, just maybe, this is the summer where the pattern finally breaks. 

But of course he does. 

He shows up just past noon, towel slung low around his neck like it’s a movie prop, sunglasses in his hair, his skin bronzed from the early sun. His grin is all practiced ease, sun-warmed confidence. He walks like the lawn belongs to him. Like you do. 

Your stomach twists. Not in hate. Not in longing. Something murkier. Something like resignation. 

He looks right at you. 

“What you looking at, chérie?” he says, the lilt of his voice just teasing enough to make it sting. 

Your eyes meet. Just for a second too long. 

Then he drops into the chair across from you, legs spread, posture loose and open like you’re already in his lap. He sips from a drink someone handed him and then slides his foot under the table. It nudges yours once. Then again. Then trails just a bit higher up your shin. 

You shift your leg away like it burns. 

He notices. His eyebrows pull in slightly, almost imperceptible, but you catch it. He doesn’t say anything. 

Later, it’s just the two of you again. The house is quiet, naps and errands, people scattered. You’re in the kitchen refilling water bottles, sleeves rolled, hair still damp from a swim you took alone. 

He walks in like he owns the walls. Leans back against the counter, arms crossed, watching you. 

“Pourquoi tu m’évites?”  Why are you avoiding me?

You screw the cap on too tightly. You feel the twist in your wrist. “I’m not.” 

His smile doesn’t falter, but there’s something colder beneath it now. “Didn’t say goodnight. Didn’t kiss me. Didn’t even look at me.” 

You raise your gaze to the window. “You didn’t say anything worth replying to.” 

He blinks, once. A slow reaction, like he’s recalibrating. You can feel the moment his confidence falters, but just slightly. 

“You mad at me?” he asks, softer now. 

You finally look at him, and it lands heavy. Your voice is steady. “No.” 

He pushes off the counter. Takes a slow step forward. Then another. He’s close now. Closer than he should be. 

You take a step back. Barely. Reflex. 

And that’s when the smile falls. 

“You didn’t used to do that,” he says. His voice is quieter. Not a whisper, but something near it. 

You shrug. “I didn’t used to think about things too much.” 

The silence between you feels electric. Not like desire, like static. Like the storm that builds just before something snaps. 

He stares at you for a beat. Then two. 

And for the first time, maybe ever, he doesn’t have something slick to say back. 

You end up by the pool again that evening. Of course you do. 

It’s muscle memory by now, the tug in your chest when the sun dips low and the damn cicadas start up again, loud and constant like they’ve never stopped screaming since the first time. The water shimmers in the half-light, dappled gold giving way to deeper blue. It smells like chlorine and dusk and the faint curl of someone’s forgotten cologne in the air. 

The others are gone, upstairs, passed out in the humid lull of too much rosé, or maybe out driving to the village for dessert or cigarettes or something else that doesn’t matter. The point is: it’s just the two of you. 

Like always. 

You’re sitting on the edge of the pool, feet skimming the surface, arms wrapped loosely around your knees. Again. Just as always. Again and again and again. The concrete is still warm beneath your thighs, and the silence buzzes, close and thick and unspoken. 

He joins you without asking. Drops into the space beside you like he belongs there, like there was never a version of this where he didn’t. His thigh brushes yours. He doesn’t move it. 

You feel the tension gather in your chest like a fist. It wraps around your ribs, slow and quiet and cruel. You breathe carefully, like exhaling too loudly might shatter the delicate balance of pretending you’re unaffected. 

For a while, he doesn’t say anything. Just lets the silence stretch, the way he always does when he wants you to come to him. When he’s too sure you will. 

Then: “You remember that storm summer?”  His voice is soft, nostalgic. Easy. That tone he uses when he wants you to forget what he’s done, what he hasn’t said. 

You nod. Slowly. 

He smiles, crooked and fond. “You were so scared, you crawled into my bed in the middle of the night.” 

You remember. 

You weren’t scared. Not really. You just wanted an excuse. You needed a reason to cross the hallway. Something you could say later that made it sound innocent. 

You say, “I wasn’t scared.” 

He chuckles, low in his throat. “Sure you weren’t.” 

And then he reaches for you. 

It’s not rushed. Not aggressive. Just smooth, confident, the way it always is with him. Like he knows what your body wants even when your mouth says nothing. Like he’s done this before. Because he has. 

His hand finds your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. His mouth hovers, breath warm against your skin. He doesn’t kiss you yet. He doesn’t have to. 

“You want this,” he murmurs, eyes on your mouth.  It´s not a question.

And maybe, maybe, a part of you does. 

But not like this. 

Not again. Not in this cycle of silence and sunburn and pretending. Not when you know how it ends. Not when he never stays. 

Because what you want—really want—is for it to mean something. To be more than a summer reflex. More than a postcard memory you both abandon when September comes. 

And this—his hand, his grin, his whisper—it isn’t more. 

Not to him. 

You pull back. 

Just slightly. But enough. 

His fingers fall away like he’s been burned. He blinks, slow, like the moment broke too fast for him to catch it. 

“What?” he says, like it genuinely baffles him. 

You swallow, throat dry. You keep your voice even. “I don´t want this. I don’t want to be your vacation habit anymore.” 

His brows draw together. He leans back a little, his weight shifting. “It’s not like that.” 

You laugh. But there’s no humor in it. Just sharpness. Just air escaping through something cracked. 

“Of course it is,” you say. And then you stand. 

You leave him there, pool lights flickering across his skin, hand still half-curled in the air like he doesn’t understand how this didn’t go the way it always does. 

You don’t look back. 

That night, even in sleep, it’s him. 

Of course it is. 

Your dreams pull you under like warm water, heavy, thick, familiar. And in them, it’s always Charles. Always that night, that specific summer, like your brain’s built a shrine to it in the back of your mind. A flickering reel of skin and salt and him, always him, undoing you in soft shadows. 

You’d had sex before. Lots of it, if you’re being honest. Familiar, habitual, sometimes even fun. You knew each other’s rhythms, the little cues, a hand at the base of your spine meant he wanted it slow, a kiss to your jaw meant he wanted it now. You could read each other in darkness better than most people could in daylight. 

But that night was different. 

It was slower. Hungrier. Like you both knew the clock was ticking on the end of summer and neither of you could afford to waste what was left. He touched you like you were something rare. Something that might vanish if he moved too fast. 

You remember the way he found you, on the balcony, legs tucked beneath you, curled in a sweatshirt that wasn’t yours. It was hisYou remember the feel of it: oversized, sun-warmed, smelling faintly of detergent.

He leaned against the balcony door, watching you for a long time before he said anything. Eyes heavy, hair a little damp, arms crossed casually like he didn’t know he was already in your bloodstream. 

“Tu penses à moi?”  Are you thinking about me?

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to. 

Because then he crossed the space and kissed you like it was the first time all over again. Like he hadn’t already had you a dozen different ways in every spare corner of this house. His mouth was warm, coaxing, so slow it hurt. His hands gripped your thighs, tugged you closer, and you didn’t resist. You never did. 

He didn’t say much. Charles never needed to. His hands said enough, sliding under his shirt on your body, over your ribs, up to your chest. He palmed you gently, thumbs grazing over skin until your breath hitched. You melted into him, easy, too easy. 

Because that was the problem, wasn’t it? 

You always wanted him. Even when you shouldn’t. 

Inside, the house was empty. Or quiet enough to pretend it was. The others were gone, out late or asleep or too drunk to notice. The air buzzed with possibility. With risk. With heat. 

He laid you down on the mattress like he was offering you to the night. Peeled your clothes off piece by piece. He looked at you like he wanted to memorize everything—every curve, every mark, the way your stomach fluttered when his fingers ghosted across your skin. 

And then his mouth was on you. 

You’d made a sound, sharp, startled, like something broken. He looked up at you, lips wet, hair falling into his eyes. Smirked like the devil himself. 

“Tu l’aimes comme ça, hein?”  You like it like that, huh?

You nodded. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. 

He reached toward the nightstand, already moving for the drawer. But your hand caught his wrist.

You shook your head.

Soft. Certain.

His eyes flicked to yours, caught something there he hadn’t expected. Surprise bloomed into something darker, sharper.

He swore under his breath in French. “Putain…” Then louder, brow furrowed: “You serious ?”

You nodded, just once, barely.

He swore again, rougher this time, almost frustrated, but not with you. With himself. With the weight of what this meant.

And when he finally pushed into you—bare, careful, deep—you gasped, and he stilled. For one suspended second, you both just breathed, your bodies locked together like an answer to a question neither of you had been ready to ask.

You wrapped your legs around him—not from reflex, but from want. From something deeper. Like if you could just hold him close enough, if you stayed joined like this long enough, maybe something would shift. Maybe he’d stay.

And for a moment, it felt like he might.

Because this time, it wasn’t rushed. Wasn’t distant. He moved slowly, deliberately, each thrust thick with heat and something that almost felt like care. He kissed you between breaths—your shoulder, your jaw, your mouth—and each one felt less like routine, more like instinct. More like he needed you.

He moaned your name, more than once. Said it like a truth he couldn’t swallow. Like it meant something now.

And you let yourself answer—soft noises, whispered pleas, arms wrapped tight around him as if to keep him from unraveling out of your life.

When it was over, he didn’t pull away right away. He stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, breath tangled with yours. Then his hand slipped behind your neck, fingers warm and tender, and he kissed you.

Really kissed you.

Like it mattered.

And the worst part?

You let yourself believe it did.

Again.

You told yourself this time was different. That maybe all the years of almost could turn into something solid. That maybe the ache in your chest meant he felt it too.

But even as he held you, even as his mouth lingered on yours—your heart knew better.

Because even care, when it isn’t followed by clarity, still ends in confusion.

And when he fell asleep, arm wrapped around you, heavy and warm, like something that belonged, you didn’t move.

He was pressed so close you could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back, his breath soft and steady on the curve of your neck. It should not have been comforting. Should not have made you feel wanted.

But the worst part? It was.

So you lay there, still and wide awake, your heart thudding against the silence, your body sore in places you wanted to pretend meant something. And all you could hear, through the window, through the ache, were the fucking cicadas.

You wake up drenched in sweat. The kind that feels cold even in the heat. Your shirt sticks to your back, your shorts twisted around your waist, limbs tangled in the sheets like you fought something in your sleep and lost. 

Your heart pounds. 

Hard. Too hard. Like he never left your body. Like he’s still in you, mouth on your skin, hands between your legs, voice in your ear. Your thighs clench involuntarily. You hate the way it makes your stomach twist. 

It disgusts you. 

Not the memory. Not exactly. It’s the clarity of it. The precision. The way your body betrays you with perfect recall. The way the ghost of him still clings, under your nails, behind your knees, at the hollow of your throat. 

You roll over too fast, kicking the sheets away. The pillow slips, flops off the side of the bed and knocks over the half-empty glass of water. You hear it before you see it. 

The shatter. 

Loud in the quiet. 

“Fuck,” you mutter, louder than you meant. The word sticks in the humid air like smoke. 

You sit up too quickly, swing your legs over the edge and try to stand. A jagged sting slices through your heel. A hot, immediate pain. 

You hiss, sharper this time, “Fuck—” 

You freeze mid-step, breathing through your teeth. Blood pools beneath your arch, ruby-red on white tile. It drips from you steadily, and you don’t move. Just glare at the floor like it offended you. 

Then: a knock at the door. 

“Chérie?” 

Of course. 

Charles. 

“You okay?” 

His voice is soft, concerned, but not panicked. You know that tone. It’s his gentle act. His default charm. You almost say “go away,” but the words never make it out. 

He steps in like it’s still his place to. Like this is still routine. Like he didn’t unravel you in your sleep and leave the seams exposed. 

“I heard something brea—” He stops mid-sentence. Eyes drop to your foot. To the blood. “Oh. Did you hurt yourself?” 

You don’t answer right away. Your jaw is too tight. “I stepped on glass,” you say finally. “Be careful—it’s everywhere.” 

He glances down. “I’m wearing shoes,” he says with a small shrug. “Don’t worry.” 

You want to snap at him for it, for the casualness, the ease. But then he’s moving. Crunching glass underfoot like it’s nothing. And then suddenly he’s close—too close—and before you can protest, he’s lifting you. 

Strong arms under your knees, a hand steady at your back. He carries you a few steps and sets you down gently, away from the mess, onto the other side of the bed.

“Wait here,” he says, already turning away. 

And for some reason, you do. 

He disappears into the bathroom without another word. You hear the familiar creak of the cabinet door, the rattle of the first-aid kit as he digs through it, the splash of water in the sink. He moves like someone who’s done this before—like someone who’s been taught to fix what he breaks, but not to stop breaking it. 

When he returns, his sleeves are rolled up, and he’s carrying a damp towel, the antiseptic, tweezers, and gauze. He kneels in front of you without asking. He doesn’t sit. He kneels. And it’s stupid, but something about that posture makes your throat catch. Like penance. Like prayer. 

He sets everything carefully on the edge of the bed beside your thigh, glancing up once. His eyes are unreadable. Not soft, exactly, but focused. Present. 

His fingers hover over your foot. 

“Don’t move,” he says, barely above a whisper. 

You try not to. 

But when he touches the first shard, you jolt, sharp and involuntary. Pain flares, quick and bright. You suck in a breath through your teeth. Tears burn before you can stop them. One escapes, streaking hot down your cheek. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, trembling. 

His hands still. “Sorry,” he says, this time with real quiet behind it. “Just a little longer.” 

You nod, eyes shut tight. 

He goes back in, slow now, precise. The tweezers move delicately, and his other hand steadies your ankle. His thumb rubs absent circles on your skin, maybe without realizing it. Maybe on purpose. You don’t know which would be worse. 

You need something to hold onto. Anything. Your hand finds his shoulder, fingers curling into the warm fabric of his shirt, gripping harder than you mean to. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t comment. 

The last shard comes free, and you feel the pressure ease. He presses the towel to your foot, then tapes the gauze gently in place, wrapping it secure, snug—but not tight. 

Then, just when you think it’s over, he does something unexpected. 

He leans down. 

And kisses your ankle. 

Light. Warm. Unforgivable. 

Your breath catches. You stare at him, but he doesn’t look up right away. He brushes his fingers once more along your calf, and finally speaks, voice low, coaxing: 

“You’re good now.” 

But he doesn’t move away. 

He lingers, still holding your leg, thumb brushing slow arcs against your skin. 

“I can make you forget the pain,” he murmurs, as his lips press higher, just a little. A kiss to the curve of your calf. Then another, slow, deliberate, just below your knee. 

“Charles…” It’s barely a breath. A warning with no teeth. 

But he keeps going. 

His mouth moves up your leg with agonizing care, each kiss another spark in the dark. Your hand stays on his shoulder, palm flat now, a soft push. Not enough to stop him. Just enough to ask. 

He pauses. 

Lifts his head. His breath skims your thigh. His eyes find yours—dark, wide, a flicker of something earnest or maybe just expertly disguised want. 

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks. 

The question is simple. The silence that follows is not. 

You look at him. His hair is a mess, sticking out in soft, familiar directions. His expression is almost boyish. Expectant. You hate that you can’t tell if it’s real. If any of this is. 

You should say yes. 

You should scream it. 

But you don’t. 

You say nothing. 

And he smirks—small, knowing. That same smirk from every summer before. 

You lie there wondering how the hell you got here again. 

Wondering when wanting stopped being a choice, and just became something your body did, on cue, on instinct, like muscle memory carved too deep to unlearn. 

Because it isn’t supposed to feel like this. 

Not like guilt twisted up in your gut. Not like shame blooming in your chest before he’s even touched you properly. 

But he does. Touch you, that is. Slowly. With precision, with purpose. His mouth drags higher along the inside of your thigh, teasing you, coaxing you open. Your breath stutters. Your legs part like a reflex, and that’s when it happens, he slips a hand under your shorts and pushes your panties aside with a confidence that makes your stomach curl. 

You should stop him. You’re thinking it, you know you are. 

But then his mouth is on you. 

Hot. Open. Patient. 

He licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, and your hips twitch helplessly toward him. His hand presses gently to your stomach, grounding you like he knows what you need even before you do. You feel the press of his palm, firm and familiar, the faint scrape of his stubble against the inside of your thigh. It makes you shiver. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. 

What are you doing? 

But then he moans softly into you, like the taste of you is something he's missed, like it's the only thing that matters. And your thoughts splinter, because the thing about Charles is, he doesn’t need much to undo you. One sound, one breath, one flick of his tongue, and you’re unraveling like you never learned how to hold yourself together. 

His mouth moves with a purpose now—slow but relentless, teasing you open, licking you soft and wet and dizzy until your hands scramble for something—anything—to hold onto. The sheets. His shoulders. The edge of the mattress. 

You feel yourself slipping under, pulled into the tide of him again. You gasp, his name breaks from your lips unbidden, and you hate how natural it feels, how familiar. 

He doesn’t stop. 

He never does. 

He keeps going like he wants to wring every shiver from your bones, every gasp from your lungs. And when you come, sharp and loud and trembling, he hums like he’s satisfied, like he owns it. 

When he finally pulls away, his mouth glistens and his eyes are blown wide, dark with want. He wipes his lips with the back of his hand and climbs over you without a word, sliding into the space between your thighs like it was carved out for him. 

Your body reaches for him before you can stop it. Your fingers find his jaw, your mouth parts for his kiss. You want to push him away, but you’re already pulling him closer. 

He kisses you slow, like he’s trying to make you forget the ache, the history, the truth. His hand finds your chest, warm and heavy, palm pressing into your skin until you gasp into his mouth. He drinks it down greedily. 

“Want you,” he murmurs into your throat. “Right now.” 

You close your eyes. It’s too late. You’re already here. 

“You already have me,” you say. And it’s the most honest thing you’ve said all summer. 

He exhales, shaky. You feel his body stutter for a second, like your words land somewhere deep in him, a hit he didn’t expect. You don’t know if it’s guilt or triumph that flashes across his face. 

Then everything unravels. 

He pushes his pants down, yours follow, and it happens in a blur, like your bodies are moving faster than your minds can keep up. You’re already wet, already open, and when he pushes into you, slow and full and unbearably deep, both of you make a sound like it hurts. 

Maybe it does. 

You wrap around him without thinking. Like instinct. Like gravity. He fucks you slow at first, deliberate, like he’s trying to savor it. And for a moment, it almost feels real.

Almost tender. But there's a wall there, always has been something unreachable behind his eyes.

Still, your hand finds his. Fingers lace tight. Foreheads press together.

Your name breaks from his lips again, softer this time—like a question, like a prayer. His pace falters. His jaw tightens. And then something in him gives. He pushes deeper, harder, with that desperate edge—like he’s trying to reach the parts of you he never could. Like he wants to leave something behind in you, something only he can claim.

You come again, your body wrung out, face turned into the pillow to muffle the sound. You bite down so hard you taste copper. This one is different. It burns. It's grief threaded through pleasure—like mourning disguised as release. A goodbye, dressed up in want.

He finishes seconds later, his face pressed into your neck, breath short and uneven. He doesn't say your name this time.

He just breathes, still buried in you.

Then, quietly, he says, “That’s what I missed.”

You feel it like a blade. The tears sting instantly, blurring the edges of the room. He kisses your shoulder—soft, almost reverent—and asks, “Do you want me to stay?”

You don’t answer right away. Can’t.

When you do, it’s a whisper: “No.”

He’s still for a second. Then he kisses your cheek, almost like a thank-you, and stands.

"See you tomorrow, chérie."

Just like that.

No apology. No fight. No closing of the space he just carved open.

You hear the rustle of fabric, the zipper. He doesn’t look back. He’s already halfway dressed before you even sit up.

Your skin is sticky with sweat, with him. The sheets twisted around your legs. The silence.

Except it isn’t silent.

The goddamn cicadas are screaming outside.

You wake with the taste of him still lingering on your tongue—salt and sweat and the bitter afterburn of regret. You haven’t even opened your eyes yet and already you feel it, clawing up your throat: the self-loathing, the ache, the heavy hush of shame that no shower can scrub away. 

You feel hollow. Stupid. Bruised in places no one can see. 

You don’t cry. You’re past crying. Past pleading. There’s nothing left in your chest but the slow, dull throb of disappointment. 

Mostly at yourself. 

By the time the sun finds its angle across the pool deck, you’ve already been sitting out there for hours. Skin hot, eyes dry, limbs leaden with the weight of what you’re about to say. You've gone over it a hundred times, every word, every beat, every possible way to get through it without shaking. 

You hear him before you see him. Flip-flops against tile. A yawn, too casual. Then the creak of the lounge chair as he lowers himself beside you, like nothing’s changed. Like you didn't break open under him last night and wake up full of splinters. 

He stretches, scratches the back of his neck. Glances at you sideways. 

“Sleep okay?” 

His voice is easy. Too easy. Like you’re strangers playing house. Like he didn’t kiss you with shaking hands. Like he didn’t leave without saying a word. 

You don’t answer the question. You just say it. 

“I meant what I said yesterday.” 

He pauses. “What?” 

“That I don’t want to be your summer vacation habit.” 

“Didn’t feel like that last night.”

And there it is.

You turn to him, slow. Eyes burning. Voice steady.

“You only wanna kiss by the pool,” you say, the words landing heavier than you expected. “When you’re in the mood. When the sky’s pink and the water’s warm and no one else is looking.”

He shifts but doesn’t speak. The silence between you buzzes — thick with the motherfucking cicadas, thick with every version of you that said yes when she should’ve said nothing.

“You want me to talk like your maman in French,” you go on, “soft and sweet and half-wrapped in fantasy. Like I’m something you can visit, not someone you choose.”

His jaw clenches.

“And you just wanna vibe—sometimes. Not all the time. God forbid you actually have to keep me in your mind when I’m not right in front of you.”

The hurt flashes across his face this time. Brief, but real. But you’re already past it.

His voice comes soft, defensive: “C’est pas vrai…” It’s not true

But it is. God, it is.

“You were calling me to your room,” you say. “I always answered right away.”

You pause, then say it plain:

“But you never made me stay.”

He reaches for your name like it’s a solution. Like if he says it soft enough, it’ll stitch something back together.

But you shake your head.

“Don’t.”

And this time, he listens.

You stand. Not with hope. Not with heartbreak. But with the aching stillness of someone finally done romanticizing their own loneliness.

You leave him there. In the blue-glow hush of a memory too fragile to carry. In a summer you won’t write poems about anymore. With the soft chirps of cicadas arround him.

general tag list

@mara1999 @random-movie

[pupyuj]

let's switch it up a bit 😋😋 could you pls do soft dom! Yujin with puppy!reader 🥲

(this is something random that popped in my head while I was trying (I failed) to avoid going on my phone.. cause I recently got back into photocard collecting and the amount I have been spending is concerning ❗❗ anyways hope you've been doing well Ena, love u !!

omg careful on the spending anon don't get broke just yet we need sales for the next comeback!! jkjk 😭😭 but thanks for checking up on me anon, love u too 🥺💕

[cw: dubcon, somnophilia (kinda? just a little bit!).]

anybody else think yujin would handle puppy!reader like glass?? bcs she totally would!! and that’s not even bcs she’s a soft dom, yujinnie just genuinely thinks you’re too precious 🥰 every time she sees you, it's almost like instinct for her to just touch you but fortunately for her, you welcome her affection with open arms 💘💘 you don't always know that there were dirty things making rounds inside yujin's pretty head though.. how could she not think of you in that light anyway?! you were too carefree for your own good, always approaching everything with a positive and optimistic mindset with that lovely smile of yours... yujin just can't help but want to take advantage of it.

she would never have the courage to do all that, however! not unless she didn't care and just needed to get off, and if you were somehow not exactly 'aware'. and would you look at that—you just so happened to be asleep on the couch just as yujin got home from work! normally, she would wake you up and pepper your face with kisses and that's exactly what she did, but then you were too drowsy to wake up completely... and god, did that silky, flowy dress always look so damn good on you? were your little puppy ears always so cute?

she's definitely laying you back down, her hands at a complete stand-still on your thighs while she stared at you with hunger... well, the situation ticked all of the checkboxes, why would she turn away now? 🫣 yujinnie would start at feeling you up... one shaky hand slithering in between your legs and stopping at your wet panties... well that made her feel slightly less bad since it looked like you were anticipating this anyway 😋 you'd stir a bit feeling her fingers inside you, and you'd even see what exactly was being done to you once you finally get a hold of yourself but ah you were just too tired to say or do anything about it! :((

"that's right... stay down, baby. i'll take care of you." yujinnie would say, now right up against your ear bcs she knew kissing your face and head would make you all drowsy again :(( feeling every inch of her fingers move in and out of you bcs yujinnie did it so slowly and gently that it almost put you back to sleep?? 🫢 and it didn't help that yujin's little praises and compliments sounded so soft in your ears! you felt right at home, even tho you definitely felt like this was wrong in some way.. 🤭

none of that mattered much to you when yujin was making you feel so so so good 🥰 ykw that little freak probably likes it a lot when you have to bite on her hand to keep your noises down, or when you whine as you cum on her fingers, and she's addicted to seeing your ears (the normal ones!) and cheeks go red when she sucks your juices off her fingers... praises the way you taste just to embarrass you 😭

but the icing on the cake would be when you were fully awake and recovered from your high and seeing your tail wag when yujin finally tells you that you can return her the favor, like a good dog.. 🤭🥰

[certaimromance]

𝜗𝜚 Maroon.

Spencer Reid x Ex gf!reader

1k party masterlist

Summary: Years ago, your touch left crimson echoes on Spencer’s skin with lipstick on collars and a memory he never managed to wash away. Now he’s back, and he wants you to mark him all over again.

Words: 3,4k.

Warnings & Tags: +18 (for suggestive content). reader's mentioned wearing a dress and makeup. kissing, bitting. bittersweet?. he YEARNS for her. i don't know what else, so i’m sorry if i forgot anything. english isn't my first language (sorry for my mistakes, be kind please).

Note: Okay, I don't usually write things like this and I'm nervous, so please be nice to me, I'm just a girl celebrating 1k and ovulating at the same damn time.

Spencer Reid had never considered himself a nostalgic man. Nostalgia, after all, was sentimentality softened by time, and his past had never held much warmth to romanticize. If anything, it was jagged, sharpened by loss, trauma, and the ghosts of choices he couldn’t take back. Generally, the past only served to remind him how far he’d come by surviving it. There was rarely anything to miss.

Except when it came to you.

With you, time seemed to blur into something gentler. All times past became golden, touched by a softness his memories rarely allowed. It was psychological; he knew that. A textbook cognitive distortion. He’d lectured on it, written about it, and tried to train his mind away from it. Spencer had spent most of his adult life trying to remain firmly rooted in the present, unchained by the emotional manipulations of what was already gone.

But all of that resolve slipped the moment his eyes landed on it, that old button-down shirt, tucked into the back corner of his closet like a secret. The one stained faintly with red wine. The one you had insisted he wear the night he got the official call from the FBI. You’d brought over a bottle of expensive wine with a smirk, claiming it was far too good for a government job but that he deserved to taste something rich and full-bodied. You’d poured two glasses and dragged him out onto your tiny balcony, your legs tucked beneath you, the city lights catching in your hair.

He remembered how your laughter sounded above the noise of the cars passing on the avenue across the street, how you tried to be discreet enough not to wake your roommate. How your lips, painted the same dark burgundy as the wine, had curved around the rim of your plastic cup, then met his mouth with that quiet confidence you always wore when you were a little tipsy and completely in love while an old vinyl sounded in the background. As the shirt still retained the echo of that night, the stain of the wine you had inadvertently spilled on her stomach and a barely perceptible imprint of your lips on the top.

Damn, he remembered it all.

Maybe that was why he found himself standing here now, hesitating just outside your door, feeling like a stranger intruding into a world that wasn’t his anymore. Almost two years had slipped past since you’d closed the chapter on the relationship you’d tried so hard to salvage. Eight months of desperate phone calls, missed flights, and fragile promises to make it work across the miles—none of it enough to hold together what once felt unbreakable. What had been perfect, whole, and effortless between you both had frayed in the silence and distance, leaving behind nothing but memories heavier than either of you were prepared to carry.

Spencer's hand hovered for an instant before landing on your door with a soft but deliberate thump. The sound echoed faintly in the silent hallway, with all the weight of doubt and hope, and he felt like a fool.

The seconds stretched, each one heavy with uncertainty.

Maybe this wasn’t your address after all. Maybe Garcia had been wrong, just this once, and had searched for you in the wrong place. Maybe you weren’t home. Maybe you’d moved on, changed your name, gotten married, and become someone new. Or maybe…maybe you simply didn’t want to open the door for him.

But oh.

The door swung open.

And there, framed by the soft amber glow spilling from your apartment, was a quiet halo of warmth and life in the stillness of the hallway. And you looked different. Undeniably different. Your hair was swept back in a style that spoke of elegance and intention, each strand pinned with such care that it revealed the delicate, familiar curve of your neck, the very place he used to kiss until you laughed and gently pushed him away. The dress you wore, even now without shoes, clung to your figure with effortless grace, the deep, rich fabric catching the light like liquid shadow, flowing in slow, molten waves. It was the kind of look meant for gala evenings and whispered conversations beneath chandeliers, worlds apart from the slow, sleepy mornings you once shared, tangled in each other and the soft cotton of well-worn sheets, whispering dreams between sips of coffee and lazy kisses.

His breath caught.

He wasn't prepared for this version of you, the one that looked like it had not only survived the last two years but had grown into something even more. And yet, your eyes...your eyes were exactly the same. Deep, searching, so achingly familiar with makeup that highlighted them and knocked the air out of your lungs.

“Spencer,” you said, his name falling from your lips like something sacred and half-forgotten.

It was only a single word, but it cracked open something in him he thought he’d buried for good.

He tried to speak, but for a second, his throat tightened. He had rehearsed so many things on the walk here—explanations, apologies, all the tidy phrases that might make this less painful—but now, looking at you under the warm light spilling out from your apartment, nothing felt sufficient.

“Hey,” he said finally, quietly. His voice cracked a little at the edge. “I…I wasn’t sure if you’d be home.”

You tilted your head slightly. “I almost wasn’t.”

You said it with a softness that carried too much weight. Like fate had left a door half open, and neither of you had noticed until now.

The silence stretched, thick with everything unsaid.

“I didn’t mean to show up like this,” he said, eyes darting down for a moment. “I just…I was nearby on a case, and I thought—”

“Spencer.” Your voice cut gently through his nervous ramble. Not unkind.

When he looked up again, your gaze had softened, but there was something guarded behind it. Something that had learned how to live without him.

But not forget.

“Do you want to come in?” you asked, after a pause. Your hand was still on the door, not quite pulling it open, not quite closing it either.

He hesitated, but only for a moment.

There you were, treating him like he was your closest friend. Like nothing had changed.

“Yes,” he said. “If that’s okay.”

You nodded once, stepped aside, and let him in.

The door clicked shut behind him with a softness that felt far more intimate than it should have. You walked ahead of him, leading the way into the apartment, and for a moment Spencer just stood in the entryway, taking it in.

The space was different. Warmer, maybe. The furniture looked newer and more expensive, with clean lines and subtle colors that spoke of quiet refinement rather than haste. He spotted a sleek leather armchair where there had once been a worn recliner and a polished wooden coffee table adorned with fresh magazines and a delicate vase of wildflowers. The bookshelves bore a few new volumes, titles he didn’t recognize, likely discoveries from years spent wandering bookstores or quiet afternoons lost in thought. But scattered among them were familiar favorites, dog-eared and worn, bearing the marks of pages you had loved and revisited. On the far wall hung the framed photograph of that tiny Montauk bookstore, its faded colors preserved like a snapshot of a simpler time. He noticed the soft throw blanket draped casually over a couch much like the one he used to curl up on when you’d made him watch those late-night shows he pretended to hate but secretly adored.

You disappeared into the kitchen, the soft shuffle of your movements just audible beyond the doorway. Your voice drifted back to him, warm and familiar, teasing yet gentle. “Tea? Or are you still riding that espresso high, too wired for anything that isn’t the dark, bitter stuff?”

He smiled faintly, a flicker of ease breaking through the weight of the moment as he stepped further into the apartment. “Tea sounds good,” he replied softly. “Caffeine after midnight is a habit I’ve long since retired.”

You disappeared into the kitchen, the soft click of cabinets opening and closing the only sound breaking the quiet. After a minute, you returned carrying two mugs, perfectly matched, delicate porcelain with a subtle floral pattern that caught the light just right. They were beautiful, the kind you’d save for special occasions or moments that felt rare and important. Without a word, you handed him one, your fingers brushing briefly against his as if this small exchange was something effortless and familiar, like it had always been this way.

He settled down carefully on the edge of the couch, the mug cradled between his hands but untouched, as if the warmth wasn’t enough to thaw the tension sitting between you. His gaze flickered toward the steam curling up from the tea but didn’t quite meet your eyes.

You sank down beside him, folding your legs beneath you, the fabric of your dress shifting as you moved. It was softer than it looked—silky, weightless—and the hem rode up a little higher than expected. You noticed, but didn’t bother adjusting it. There was something too tired, too exposed in the moment for modesty. And besides, he wasn’t really looking. Or maybe he was trying not to.

“So,” you said softly. “New York.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. The case brought the team here. We’re working with local PD on a series of abductions. Pattern points to an organized trafficking ring.” He said it with the same clinical detachment you remembered, like he’d switched something off inside just to get the words out.

“That’s…” You blinked, your expression tightening. “That’s intense for my city.”

“We’ve had worse in this city,” he replied, almost offhand. “Crazier ones too.” Then, realizing how that sounded, his tone softened. “Sorry. I know you don’t like the details…I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You offered a small shrug, lips curving but not quite into a smile. “It’s okay. I asked.”

He nodded, like he didn’t quite believe that but didn’t want to argue. His eyes dropped to his mug again.

“And I know how crazy this city can be.” You added, sipping your own tea. “Two years here aren’t in vain.”

Two years. Exactly the same time since you two broke up. The thought made his heart ache.

“And…you?” You suddenly asked, quieter now. “How are you?”

The question shouldn’t have startled him, but it did. No one ever really asked that part, not without ulterior motives or surface politeness. Not like you just had.

He took a breath. “I’m okay. I think.” He glanced down at his tea. “Tired. Constantly without sleeping…but I started teaching a few seminars at a university. Profiling, behavioral analysis.”

“That sounds good,” you said, your voice a touch wistful. “You’re good at teaching.”

He smiled faintly, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. I guess. But sometimes it just…feels like I’m the student.”

You laughed quietly, and it was soft but real. It eased something in him.

“I don’t think they get my references,” he added, glancing sideways at you. “I made a joke about Schrödinger’s cat and got blank stares. I think I might’ve aged out of relatability.”

“Maybe,” you said, tilting your head. “Or maybe you just need better timing. You’ve always been funny, Spencer. Just…in a very specific way.”

His lips quirked, almost bashful. “That’s a generous interpretation.”

You smiled. “It’s a true one.”

He looked at you then, really looked, and for a moment, he didn’t move. His gaze traced the line of your jaw, the softness in your eyes, and then paused, stopped dead.

Your lips.

That color.

A deep, sultry burgundy, rich and velvety like aged wine, like the crisp burn of autumn air wrapped in shadow and fire. The very same shade you’d worn countless nights before, when you’d curl up beside him on the couch, a book resting on your lap, your legs tangled effortlessly over his. The lipstick that left smoldering marks on his neck, that stained his coffee mugs with the memory of you, that had once seeped into the fibers of his favorite scarf, branding it with your presence.

“You’re still wearing that lipstick,” he breathed, the words slipping out before he could stop them, raw and unguarded.

Your lips parted slightly, surprised. You blinked, and something shifted in the air between you, like memory brushing against skin.

“You remember the shade?” Your voice dropped to a husky whisper, daring him to admit it.

He nodded, slow and deliberate. “Yeah. I remember. Spent an entire afternoon scrubbing it out of a white dress shirt.” His lips quirked with a faint, nostalgic smile. “The molecular structure of most long-lasting lipsticks involves silicone polymers. Designed to be almost impossible to remove.”

You smirked, teasing. “Quoting chemistry to avoid telling me it looks good.”

He blinked, the blood coloring his cheeks. “I…well, I wasn’t avoiding it exactly. It—it does look good on you,” he admitted quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “It always has.”

At that moment you knew why he was there and why you had let him in.

Nostalgia.

Your breath hitched softly, warm and uneven, as a flush bloomed low in your belly, curling like molten silk and spreading through your chest. The soft rustle of your dress sliding up your thighs whispered against your skin, a delicate friction, cool where the fabric fell away and bare skin was suddenly exposed to the warm air. The smooth satin caught the light, shimmering faintly as it pooled around your hips. The faint scent of your perfume swirled between you, mingling with the subtle, natural musk of his skin, salty and alive.

Without hesitation, you shifted forward, slowly, deliberately, until you straddled his lap. His breath hitched, a short, sharp intake that echoed softly in the quiet room, the sound intimate and raw. His hands found your waist, the pads of his fingers pressing firmly against the warmth of your skin through the thin fabric of your dress, grounding him in the realness of your body pressed close. The slight scrape of his shirt fabric against your thighs was a tender contrast, crisp cotton against delicate skin.

“God…” His voice was low, rough with a mixture of disbelief and hunger.

You leaned in, brushing your nose gently against his cheek, feeling the rough texture of his stubble tickle your skin, a delicious contrast to the softness of your lips poised near his ear. Your breath, warm and scented with the faint sweetness of peppermint toothpaste, brushed over his skin as you whispered, “Is this okay?” The question floated between you, delicate but charged, though your body already knew the answer.

His breath hitched again, lips parting slightly to swallow hard. Then, with an almost desperate tenderness, his mouth found yours. The kiss started soft, tentative, like a question, but soon deepened into a slow, aching exploration filled with the weight of unspoken longing. His lips were warm, a little rough, carrying the faint bitterness of the tea he’d been sipping, mingled with that fresh, crisp hint of peppermint…and all the memories that came with it.

Your fingers tangled gently in the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging softly. He gasped, a breathy, ragged sound that sent an electric thrill racing down your spine, as his hands traced the familiar curve of your back, fingertips relearning the map they thought they’d memorized long ago. The heat between you flared, sharp and urgent, pulsing with a rhythm that was both achingly new and achingly familiar.

“I missed you,” he breathed, breaking the kiss, his voice raw and barely more than a whisper. “God, I missed you. Every day…every second.”

You responded by kissing him deeper, tasting the ache and need in his words, letting him pour everything he’d been holding inside into you like it was sacred.

Spencer kissed like a man trying to reclaim stolen time, each touch, each movement, desperate to rewrite the years lost.

After a long moment, you pulled back just enough for your lips to brush his with a slow, teasing glide. “I think I’m marking you,” you murmured, fingers lightly tracing the faint smudges of burgundy across his jawline.

His eyes widened, pupils dark and shimmering with desire. “It’s…it’s okay,” he breathed, his voice trembling slightly.

You laughed softly, the sound breathless and warm. “Maybe it was cute when we were younger,” you said, wiping at the lipstick smeared at the corner of his mouth with your thumb. “But now? Your coworkers are definitely going to notice.”

He exhaled a shaky laugh, but there was nothing casual in the way his hands gripped your waist or the way his eyes darkened with something hungry. “I don’t care,” he said, his voice low and rough. “If you want to keep going…please, don’t stop.”

Your mouth met his again, this time deeper, firmer. His hands cupped the back of your thighs, your dress riding higher as you shifted against him, chasing friction. The kiss was no longer gentle. It was claiming, hungry, dizzy with the ache of all the lost time between.

Your fingers moved to the buttons of his shirt, undoing the first with a slow, deliberate pop that echoed softly in the hush of the room. His breath hitched at the sound. You moved to the next, then the next, savoring each one. The cool fabric parted beneath your hands, giving way to smooth, pale skin just beginning to flush pink under your touch.

One by one, you unbuttoned him, revealing the pale planes of his chest, the fine dusting of hair along his sternum, and the subtle rise and fall of muscles beneath your lips. Your fingertips traced the outline of his collarbone, leaving a trail of warmth as the air kissed the newly exposed skin.

With the last button undone, the shirt slipped from his shoulders with a soft rustle. His skin was warm and alive, tinged with the faintest scent of his cologne, a rich blend of sandalwood, leather, and spice that made your pulse quicken.

You lowered your lips to his chest, just under the collarbone, pressing a soft, open-mouthed kiss there. His skin was warm, slightly damp with heat. You tasted salt and skin and something deeply human. Your lipstick left behind a bloom of deep, rich, velvety scarlet.

He shuddered beneath your touch, a low, ragged breath escaping him—half moan, half sigh—vibrating through his chest and into your lips. His hands slid up your thighs, tentative at first, the rough pads of his fingers warm and steady, then bolder, splaying wide as he memorized your skin.

Your lips trailed downward, kissing and nipping lightly along the curve of his ribs. His heartbeat thundered beneath your mouth, fast and steady like a wild drum, the sound muted but palpable against your lips and fingertips. You heard the faint scrape of his breath catching, the wet sound of his tongue sliding over his lips, and soft moans blending with the subtle creak of the couch beneath you.

You pulled back, just enough to admire your work.

His skin was stained with your kisses, soft crimson prints over pale flesh, each one placed like a poem written in desire. Your lipstick bloomed across his body like crushed petals.

“Now that one’s staying,” you murmured, fingers tracing the deep bourbon mark just above his heart, right where the beat thudded loudest.

He swallowed hard, his voice little more than breath. “Good.”

Your smile was slow, knowing. Your mouth descended again, lower this time, lips brushing over the dip just below his ribs. You felt the hitch in his breath, the way his hands gripped your thighs tighter, grounding himself in the electric rush your touch left in its wake.

You smiled against his lips, lips now stained with traces of yours, deep red and unmistakable. You pulled back just enough to take in the sight of him: flushed, tousled, breathless. He looked wrecked in the most beautiful way, and the realization sent a flush of heat down your spine.

You paused, lips just above his heart, breath hot and trembling against his skin. “Still think it was just the silicone polymers that made it impossible to remove?” You whispered, your voice low and thick with desire.

He exhaled hard, a quiet smile ghosting across his lips as he tipped his head back, ruined and reverent. “No,” he rasped. “It was you. It’s always been you.”

And as your kisses turned his skin to crimson poetry, the marks were bourbon that night, soft, warm, and intoxicating.

But by morning, they’d turn to maroon. Always maroon.

Because it all was just nostalgia. Just a textbook cognitive distortion.

[revelboo]

I miss my hot bastard Prowl 😔🥀💔 hes a grumpy menace just like me fr. Hope ur doing well btw <3 don't forget to take care of urself u crank these out so fast its crazy

Prowl’s just struggling a bit right now. 🔞 Mass displaced mech 🌶️

Stand Too Close Pt 21

Prowl x Reader

• Sliding the end of a servo from the tip of your nose up between your eyes, he smoothes out the crease that appears when you frown up at him. “I don’t know what to do with you when you’re nice,” you’d whispered to him before and he can’t get those vulnerable, hurt sounding words out of his processor. Right now you’re lying with your head in his lap, eyes looking everywhere but at him to avoid meeting his optics. Making him realize how awful he is at this. You’d both made it a joke when he’d said he loved you, both so uncomfortable with anything real, that you’d played it off. And he can’t stand it.

• Glancing up at him as he frowns down at you like you’re a puzzle he needs to solve, it’s almost funny. In a wanting to also cry about it kind of way, but still. Both of you so awful at this. The real stuff. Feelings and emotions and all that stuff you try to avoid like the plague. “I like it better when we’re fighting,” you mutter, because it’s easier. You know how to react and don’t feel like you’re being cornered. Like the ground under you is going to give way any second and you have no idea how deep that void beneath you is. “I like it when you’re an asshole.”

• And you roll over on your side, staring at the wall. Door wings flicking as he sits leaning forward slightly, he combs your damp hair with his servos. Wondering how much of this is his fault and how much is just you. Little teeth bared and defensive at the world. So unlike most of the other humans in the Ark. Angry all the time. “Then I’ll be awful,” he mutters, a servo ghosting against your cheek. What made you this way? “Torment you mercilessly.”

• Hate that when he teases like that it shivers through you with heat and need. That you want to shove him down and straddle him. Fuck that fake niceness out of him until he goes back to normal. And you’re rolling, hands on his chassis. Hating that smile when he lets you push him and eases back, because you both know you’re not budging him unless he allows it. Still naked and damp from the shower, you straddle him. Move against his modesty plating and he grabs your hips, shifting you. Arching when he releases his spike under you, feeling it pressurize inside you to stretch you. “Don’t touch me,” you whisper and something flickers from his face so fast you nearly miss it. Was that anger or pain? His hands slowly lift away from you, though. Because this is what you understand. Taking care of yourself, taking what you want or need, not trusting kindness.

• Watching you ride him, it’s so hard to not touch you when he wants to. Hurts to. You’re all slick heat wrapped around his spike, lifting and dropping to take him deep, hips rolling. You’re beautiful riding him. Defiant and angry as your lips part and you move faster on him. Using his body. But not wanting anything more. And maybe he doesn’t deserve more. Maybe this is the culmination of all of his sins, to be in love with someone who wants nothing to with his love. Just after the interfacing, chasing pleasure. And it’s not nearly enough for him. Not anymore. Sitting up under you, he hooks an arm around you trapping you against him with his spike buried deep. “For what it’s worth, I do love you,” he growls and he shifts his plating. Hears your startled cry when the connection is made and you fist his spike as he overloads hard inside you. Shuddering as he feels your light tangle in his spark. And needing it, needing all of you.

Previous

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

Hard Times

Masterlist + Soundtrack

❥Kim Hongjoong x fem reader

18+ MDNI. fun fact; minors will explode if they touch my blog

♡'･ᴗ･'♡genre: yandere, ANGST, smut

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: DEAD DOVE. DARK FICTION. listed more specifically on each chapter: step-dad hongjoong, featuring uncle bumjoong doing his best + best friend hiyyih being an angel, reader calls hj dad on accident / jokingly + he likes it a little too much, age gap (reader young adult, hong in his late 30s), serious daddy issues, soul crushing grief + survivors guilt (reader survives a crash that takes her parents), flashbacks give a glimpse of them before the accident, depictions of deep depression, medication, emotional manipulation (lowkey going both ways), unhealthy attachments + extreme taboo relationship, hardcore daddy / ddlg kink (wow shockerrrr), hongjoong is a freak with a corruption kink and likes making virgin reader: squirm / cry / call him daddy / suck on his fingers, honestly dubcon (she shouldn't be making these decisions in her headspace to begin with + hong blurs the lines of consent)

➯a/n: siiiigh when will i learn to keep things as simple one shots— IIIIN MY DEFENSE... eeeh i got nothin lmao just daddy hongjoong stuck on the mind 😪

taglist ? ➾ open !

♡masterlist + navigation !♡

────୨ৎ────

"I can't help you if you don't tell me what you need."

"I need you to hold me."

────୨ৎ────

Teaser

────୨ৎ────

Chapter One

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: brief hospitalization, attempted suicide, emetophobia, non sexual nudity, no smut

In Which: After the untimely death of your family, your step-father steps up and takes care of you.

────୨ৎ────

Chapter Two

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: alcohol, possessive behavior / jealousy, there's nowhere hongjoong's tongue doesn't go: making out + cunnilingus + hickeys, body worship, fingering, pussy + thigh job

In Which: Navigating your day-to-day becomes increasingly less difficult with your step-dad proving, time and time again, he always has your back.

────୨ৎ────

Chapter Three

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: virginity loss, kim "just the tip" hongjoong, epilogue included

In Which: You've finally reached some level of stability, and life isn't so bad with Hongjoong by your side.

────୨ৎ────

Hard Times

⇆ㅤ ㅤ◁ㅤ ❚❚ ㅤ▷ ㅤㅤ↻

ılıılıılıılıılıılılıılıı

♫Hard Times - Ethel Cain♫

1:43 ━━━━●───── 5:03

"A little girl who needs her Daddy real bad."

"In the corner, on my birthday, you watched me. Dancing right there in the grass."

"Too tired to move. Too tired to leave."

♫Now this house ain't a home - ATEEZ♫

0:58 ━━━━●───── 3:44

"You never know what's around the bend."

"The world is cold to me, so cold. The world is dizzying to me, so dizzying."

"I endure one day, then one more — hoping someday I'll reach that place."

♫Home - Daughter♫

2:10 ━━━━●───── 4:18

"Keep the nightmares out, give me mouth-to-mouth — I can't live without you."

"I don't stand a chance in these four walls."

"Now he's moving close; my heart in my throat."

♫Devil On My Back - Chrissy♫

0:35 ━━━━●───── 3:13

"And when you're crying, are you lying about who you're crying for?"

"While I'm not getting better, you're waiting patiently. You're being strong for me."

"He used to touch himself to photographs of me..."

♫Skin - Marika Hackman♫

2:10 ━━━━●───── 4:18

"I'm jealous of your neck — that narrow porcelain plinth of flesh... It gets to hold your head, and I'd rather preform the task instead."

"I am too naive."

"To shed some light, the fire must get in."

♫Watch You Sleeping - Blue Foundation ♫

2:25 ━━━━●───── 6:33

"In which decay is followed by bloom."

"What a plenty of rays and beamin' light, surely it does me good."

"I want to carry you, but you won't get up. It's really killing me, you know it's killing me."

♫Jupiter - Flower Face♫

0:24 ━━━━●───── 4:31

"I can't wait another day; to touch your face, to hold you. I just need you by my side tonight."

" 'Til my body overflows in the summer afterglow. I love you more than you will ever know."

"Nothing left between us but light and sound — I am yours forever, and I'll always be at home with you."

♫Work Song - Hozier♫

2:31 ━━━━●───── 3:49

"If the Lord don't forgive me; I'd still have my baby and my babe would have me."

"In the low lamp light I was free — heaven and hell were words to me."

"No grave can hold my body down, I'll crawl home to her."

♫Daddy Issues - The Neighborhood♫

1:18 ━━━━●───── 4:19

"And if you were my little girl, I'd do whatever I could do. I'd run away and hide with you."

"I know how much it matters to you."

"I didn't cry when you left at first — but now that you're dead it hurts."

────୨ৎ────

[just-some-random-blogger]

Tormented Spirit | 25

Part 1 [...] 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 6k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, DD:DNE, emotional constipation, pregnancy/birth, miscarriage, panic/anxiety attacks, suicidal ideation, attempted suicide, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: ok one final chapter after this fr. the smut on p23 got way out of hand thus the adjustment lol. Also mitker is literally Kermit backwards HAHHAAHHA| cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching

Aegon had his mother's voice tuned out as she chastised him over the latest prank he pulled on the servants. He had poured so much gravy on his plate, it now looked like he had soup and vegetables.

Aemond watches him haphazardly mix his gravy and turns to his own plate. He pours a bit of gravy on his meat, mimicking his brother.

"Aegon," Alicent furrows her brows, "Aegon are you listening?!"

Aegon does not look up at her.

The Queen bristles from her seat, "do not wait for me to punish you before you listen."

Aegon whines and leans back.

She sighs, expression softening slightly now that her first born has reacted to her. She turns to her side when she hears Helaena singing the song her sister had taught her, "all the birds sing sweetly for you, so come rest ye darling wee head."

The Queen wipes her face. How badly she wishes that you were here with her. She never did know how to properly discipline Aegon. She always fears she was either too cruel or too lenient, considering her father knew only the former and she did not want to mirror him. "You will apologize to those servant women, do you understand me?"

Aegon crosses his arms, slumping in his seat. He mutters under his breath, "I don't want to."

Alicent narrows her eyes, "what did you say?"

Aegon looks at her mother in defiance, "I don't want to!"

"Well, it doesn't matter," she seethes, "you will!" then slams he fists on the table, making Aemond drop his spoon in shock. She notices and sighs, "apologies, love."

Aemond leans into his mother's touch when she brushes his head.

Aegon grits his teeth, heaving in anger.

Helaena continues singing, "the apples grow up the trees, and flowers rise up from the ground—"

"My son," Alicent says a notch softer, "your actions are a reflection of the Crown," she speaks in a low voice, hoping it would calm them both, "you are the first born son of the king. You will be measured against him as–"

"What of my first born son?" Viserys walks into the solar, weight shifting from his feet to his cane.

She comes to an abrupt stand and immediately helps him walk towards the table.

Viserys gratefully leans into his wife as he goes to the head of the table. His eyes are fixed on Aegon the entire time, "skoro syt se laehurlion?" Why the face?

Aegon refuses to answer. He has grown to detest the sound of High Valyrian.

The king sighs, "iksan sure skoros mirre issa, aōha muña iksis paktot." I'm sure what ever it is, your mother is right.

Alicent steals a glance at Aegon before helping the king sit. After,, Viserys notices Aegon's gravy laden plate. He furrows his brows, "are you awfully fond of gravy?"

Aemond turns to Aegon's plate then his father, answering for him, "ziry iksos sȳz, kepa." It's good, father.

Viserys turns to Aemond.

Aegon groans and rolls his eyes, annoyed at his brother, annoyed at his father, annoyed at his mother, annoyed at his sister, who should really just- "SHUT IT!"

Helaena stops singing. She turns to older brother.

"Aegon!" Alicent snaps, pointing a finger.

"She's fucking annoying!" he sneers.

"LANGUAGE, BOY!" the queen hisses in frustration as she scoops some peas and meat for the king.

"Let him be," Viserys waves her off, "you cannot blame him," he takes his spoon and begins eating, "he probably learned that from his uncle."

Aegon hardens at the mention. Alicent grits her teeth.

"When is uncle coming back?" Aemond mutters in between bites.

"Don't be fucking stupid-"

"Aegon!" Alicent can't help but chide.

"- they're clearly never coming back," Aegon snaps, heart thumping loudly behind his ribcage. He stares at the brown goop that has overtaken his plate and grunts the instant he sees a tear drop from the bridge of his nose.

"But they can visit for my nameday, can't they?" Aemond asks his father softly.

Viserys does not even look up from his plate.

Aegon roughly scratches his face, "they didn't come for my nameday," he glares at the imbecile.

Aemond catches the redness of Aegon's eyes.

"They didn't come for Helaena's or mother's," the eldest slams his hand on the table as he comes to a stand, "why would they come for a dragonless moron like you?"

"AEGON, GO TO YOUR ROOM!" Alicent snaps, heaving in anger at the boy.

"With pleasure," he snaps, flipping his plate over, making the gravy splatter all over the table and to Heleana who was sat across Aegon.

Viserys hears his daughter's gasp and watches his son walk away, "stop!"

Aegon ignores him.

"Come back here and apologize to Rhaenyr- Jaecy- Heleana!"

Alicent turns to king as he stammers. Her eyes water as Aegon storm out the room.

"DAEMON!" Viserys screams, immediately regretting it as his head begins to hammer.

Aemond watches as his father leans his head into his hand. He vaguely hears him mutter, 'what's that fucking boy's name?' in High Valyrian. He turns back to his plate as Alicent takes Helaena away to change.

Aegon bolts his door and drags a chair beneath the knob, more than certainly locking himself in his chambers. He runs to his bed and grabs a pillow. He hacks it against the sheets repeatedly while screaming in frustration.

Once he was tired, he jumps into bed and flails his limbs. Once he was tired of that, he sighs and lets the tears fall. He cries and stares at the ceiling as he thinks of you.

He slowly sits up and walks towards his desk. He gets a vial of scented oil and uncorks it. Citrus. Lavender. You.

More tears fall.

He leans on his desk, continuing to take in the smell as he sobbed until his mouth went dry. He grabs the ewer of wine beside him and drinks directly from it until it was empty.

Aegon is immediately tipsy.

His vision is blurry and he finds it difficult to cork the vial of fragrance, still, he manages. He opens his drawer and pulls out parchment and a quill.

𝔄𝔲𝔫𝔱. ℑ 𝔪𝔦𝔰𝔰 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔰𝔬 𝔪𝔲𝔠𝔥. ℑ 𝔞𝔪 𝔳𝔢𝔯𝔶 𝔲𝔫𝔨𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔴𝔥𝔢𝔫 𝔶𝔬𝔲 𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔴𝔞𝔶. 𝒴𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝓀𝑒𝑒𝓅𝓈 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝑒… 𝐼 𝓈𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝒶𝓉 𝓂𝓎 𝓈𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓉𝓊𝓅𝒾𝒹 𝓈𝑜𝓃𝑔 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔. 𝐼 𝐻𝒜𝒯𝐸 𝒴𝒪𝒰. 𝒟𝒪𝒩'𝒯 𝒴𝒪𝒰 ᎠȺ𝖱Ɛ 𝖢ටⱮƐ βȺ𝖢Ҡ Ƒටའ ȺƐⱮටហᎠ'Ϛ ហȺⱮƐᎠȺӋ į చįꝈꝈ ҠįꝈꝈ ǶįⱮ!

Aegon slashes his quill across the paper. He screams, crumples it, and chucks it out his window before throwing himself back onto his bed.

The balled message thumps upon the head of a prince.

Laenor looks up after feeling the hit. Upon seeing nothing but a clear sky, he examines the floor, looking for whatever it was that hit him. He slowly begins to walk off upon finding nothing out of the ordinary, but just as he resumes in his usual gait, the wind blows the crumpled letter towards his boots. He picks it up before it is blown off again.

Lines weigh his face immediately when he reads it, "my poor boy."

It takes two days for that letter to come to you, or rather your place of current residence.

You weren't accepting letters anytime soon, not if your husband had anything to say about it.

"D-Dae-" you could barely manage to bring his name past your lips, not when his own were lapping your weeping womanhood like a man starved.

Your legs tighten around his head and he chuckles as he pulls out yet another peak from your aching cunt. You begin to sob when he doesn't let up and try to kick him away.

He only stops because the knock and grating call of his name from the door kills the mood. Daemon slowly pulls away from your thighs, licking his lips. His nose, chin and neck were glimmering with your sticky arousal.

You were helplessly sprawled on your back, arms by your head, chest heaving. You were teary eyed and flush. Your night gown stuck to you from how sweaty you were. You closed your eyes, thinking a nap would do you well, but you couldn't help but look at your husband as he placed a hand on your swollen belly.

Daemon is terribly proud of his work. His wife was panting from blissful exhaustion and won't be going anywhere anytime soon. Well done, man.

His head snaps to the door when the knock and the voice grows louder. He groans and rises from where he knelt at the edge of the bed. He sits at the foot of the cushions, fastening your legs around his bare torso, "what is it?!"

A servant with terrible skill of Westerosi mumbles something unintelligible from the door.

Daemon groans, set on merely ignore her.

That is, until you stir and try to prop yourself on your elbows. It's a challenge, considering you were incredibly top heavy, with your round belly and your heavy teats, not to mention your husband incessantly wedged between your thighs. He makes a face, "don't move."

You whine, "no... I really can't."

Daemon huffs, pulling away from you just to grab your shoulders and push you down.

You whine louder in protest.

Your slick dribbles down his throat, "I did not make you peak four times just for you to get off bed and answer the call of a wench."

You take a much needed deep breath and wipe his chin, "you are in no condition to speak to anyone."

He watches you rub your stickiness between your fingers. He smirks and grabs your wrist, licking them and making you squeal when he bites a knuckle. "You think so little of me."

You try to grab him when he pulls away.

Daemon chuckles and waves a hand when the bang of the door persists, "yes, yes, a moment."

"Daemon!" you call in horror, "at least wipe your face!"

He turns around merely to smile at you and opens the door anyway.

You cover your face with your arms as you hear conversation happen. Horrifically, it becomes quite long.

You cannot even relax after hearing the door close.

Daemon sees your form, the line that formed between his brows dissipates. He quietly walks over to the unlit fireplace as he opens the letter that was handed to him, "you needn't hide anymore, dearest, the girl is gone."

"You're terrible—"

He pops the waxen seahorse seal and chucks it into the fireplace.

"- uncouth, and ill-mannered."

Daemon's furrow returns when finds two papers, one uncreased and one crumpled. He skims the former, finding it was penned by your beloved Laenor, as he expected, then the latter. His brows raise when he realizes it's from Aegon.

His silence makes you pull your arms away from your face. You slightly lift your head, finding his back turned from you, "v'you nothing to say to me after such embarrassment?"

Daemon laughs loudly to mask the sound of him crumpling all the papers into a ball.

You watch him turn to you, hands behind his back, shit eating grin on his face, and groan, covering your face with your arms again.

To your unwitting detriment.

Daemon chucks the paper into the fireplace and quickly finds something to light the fireplace with, "only that I am utterly offended my slick covered skin brings you embarrassment and not pure, unadulterated pride."

You watch him crouch down to light the fireplace. You slowly roll on the bed and sit yourself up, "I'm not cold, duck."

He watches the letters burn, "I have never quacked once in my life."

You rub your belly as you giggle.

Daemon looks over his shoulder. The sight and sound of your mirth makes his lips curl into an adoring smile, "I like it when you're dumb-fucked."

You watch him stand and saunter over, chest and feet bare, trousers low enough to show the beginnings of his pubic hair. He brushes the hair that stuck to your forehead behind your ear. You lean into his touch.

"You say the oddest things."

You hum, "I still wouldn't walk around filthy, dear."

Daemon chuckles, kneeling down in front of you again.

You whimper and try to push him off before he can push himself between your thighs, "I'm tired."

"Mmm, well I was hoping you'd be exhausted," he makes a stupid face as he places his hands on your knees, "I suppose I should— aw!"

He laughs as he clutches the cheek you just slapped. You point a finger, "I'm serious. I will die if you make me peak one more time."

He leans onto your lap, rubbing the sides of your thighs, "well, you spoil sport, not only do you offend me by being embarrassed by my sincere love for you, but you doubly offend me by thinking the worst of-"

"Stop speaking," you grab his jaw, smushing his lips, "I am too hot for this conversation. You shouldn't have lit the fireplace."

Daemon growls playfully as he tries to bite your hand.

You sigh and push him away again, "enough, cow."

The prince loses his balance and falls on his bum, "rude," he watches you get to your feet, "how would you like it if I called you cow?"

You sigh, gripping your swollen breasts, "halfway there, methinks."

Daemon rises as you head to the bathroom. He opens the door for you and helps you get out of your nightgown before guiding you into the tub. You hiss at the water.

His brows furrow, "cold? I can ge-"

"It's fine," you shake your head and slowly sink down, "someone kept me from bathing for far too long."

Daemon removes his pants and comes in with you. He hisses, "fucking hell, it is cold."

"Daemon! No! Out! Now!"

He happily ignores you, even as you punch his arm to prove your point. He turns to avoid your assault but then takes some soap and begins to wash the arm you used to hit him.

You glare, "get out."

"I don't know why you're complaining," he says, focusing on your arm, "I'm literally helpi— aw!"

"You're helping to get your cock wet."

Daemon looks at you, "well, obviously— AW!"

"Get out!"

"I was going to say obviously I'm helping because I love yo-" he clamps his mouth and eyes shut when you splash water onto his face. Just as he opens his eyes, you splash him again.

You giggle as you hear him groan.

"Ao tymagon lēda perzys, riña." You play with fire girl.

You tilt your head, "funny," you splash him again, "kostan emagon kivigon bisa iksin iēdar." I could have sworn this was water.

Daemon gives you a look, as if daring you to splash him again.

So, you do.

You squeal, as soon, he grabs you and seals you in his arms. He pulls you on his lap and bites your neck.

"You think I won't fight back?" he bites your shoulder next, "I'll make you peak on my knee, don't test me."

"Alright!" you wrangle against him, "I'll stop! Please, don't make me peak again."

He makes a face, "that doesn't sound right."

You take the soap from him and rub your arms, leaning into his chest, "it is right if you don't want me to die."

He pauses then brushes your hair aside, "I don't want you to die."

"Good," you raise a brow at him, "I should like to grow old with my child after I give birth."

All of Daemon's smugness is completely washed away as you wash the stickiness on your thighs. He takes a breath and adjusts you on his lap, arms coming around to clutch your belly. He nuzzles his head into the crook of your neck, kissing you there, "you will. I swear it."

You lean into him, "you cannot swear it anymore than I can, pup."

"I can," he mutters, rubbing your bump, "their maesters will burn if harm befalls my wife—"

"They do not call them maesters here, darling."

"— or my heir."

"..."

"..."

You look at him.

He looks back at you.

"I thought you said you've no need of heirs?"

There is an irritation upon him, "I don't."

"I cannot guarantee you a boy, m-"

"I know," he raises a hand, "I don't need a boy. A girl can happily inherit nothing from me."

You press your lips into a line and look down when you feel the babe kick. You take his hand and place it there.

Daemon looks at his hand, silently awaiting movement with gentle rubs. His hand stops when he feels his baby move.

You smile softly, "do not be so disappointed in us if the babe is a princess."

He furrows his brows, "I would not."

You smile wider as he brushes your hair. You hun, "you needn't pretend you don't prefer a son."

He says nothing.

"For both of our sakes, I prefer that it be a boy as well."

He calls your name.

"That I would have completed my duty."

"Your duty is to live with me until my last breath," he speaks with conviction, hands on your bicep, "do not speak as though our child's beginning is your end."

You smile again.

His expression crumples at the tears that accompany it.

"It is not," you muster, hoping to convince the both of you.

"It isn't," he kisses your forehead. He begins to soak your shoulders, "now, let's get you clean."

After bathing, you both emerge from your chambers wearing the fine silks your host gifted you. Daemon drones about his dragon ride yesterday and you lean into him as you head to the dining room for an awfully late lunch.

"Ah, my friends!" Mitker calls from the balcony at the end of the hall. He inhales deeply then exhales grey smoke as he speaks, "you finally emerge!"

You smile at him squeezing Daemon's arm tightly.

Your husband doesn't even look at you and raises a finger at the approaching man, "put out your pipe."

You squeeze him again, always anxious by his bluntness. You can already smell the smoke wafting over and it only makes your belly churn further. You smile and rub your bump, "it's just the smell—"

Mitker raises a hand, puts his pipe out, and props it down on one of the outdoor tables. He then takes a prepared lemon slice and sucks on it as he brushes himself off. He sequentially walks over, smelling of smoke and lemon, "my friends."

Daemon raises another finger, "that's close enough."

You mutter his name under your breath, masking it further with a smile.

Mitker laughs, clasping his hands together, "the dragon's fire for his bride never wanes."

Though you could tell he truly found no offense in Daemon's speech, you couldn't help but feel remorse, "forgive me. I am just incredibly—"

"There is nothing to forgive," both men say, one reassuring and one pointed. It's obvious which came from Daemon.

Mitker gestures, "my second wife does not enjoy my smoking habit either. Do not worry your pretty little head."

You smile sheepishly.

A servant passes and her master pulls her aside. After she nods and walks off, Mitker turns back to you, "I've asked food be served. I am sure you are very hungry from coupling all morning."

Your entire body burns while Daemon flourishes with laughter. Mitker walks off, nonchalant, and talks about the food he had the cooks prepare for today.

You glare at Daemon, tugging at his arm.

‎He looks at you, lips still spilling with amusement.

‎"You're being inappropriate," you quip.

‎Your husband chuckles, "twas not I that brought up our marital conduct."

‎You swat his arm, "I meant the way you speak to Magister Mitker."

‎Daemon furrows his brows.

‎"Lest you forget, prince, we are in Lys, and rely on the kindness of our host."

‎His nostrils flare, "if he wasn't already greatly indebted to me for freeing the Triarchy from the Crab Feeder so he can freely deploy his trade boats," he raises his brows, "he should be honored host us," he tilts his head, speaking carefully, "and my dragon."

‎You clench your jaw, "Daemon."

‎"He enjoys my impertinence, you know. I play into the part he expects me to"

‎Your voice comes out as a sharp whisper, "your awareness of your own impertinence is shocking and irritating."

‎Daemon's grin deepens, "do not pretend you don't enjo–"

‎"Silence."

‎

‎"Ah," Mitker turns to you once you reach the dining table, "your midwives and healers have already arrived. If you should like to meet them before giving birth, I would be most glad to introduce you after your meal."

Your lips part as Daemon pulls the chair for you. You smile as you sit, nodding eagerly, "yes. I should very much like to meet them."

"I employed only the best," your host shrugs for effect, "midwives who have overseen the births of my 6 brides and 20 of my children, soon to be 21," he points with a laugh.

You join in his laughter.

Daemon sits next to you, watching your expression closely.

"My hired two healers have come from the famed House of Red Hands itself," Mitker nods, "they are here to help where the midwives might not, and hopefully might even help with your affliction."

The sentiment leaves you different. So much so that you, in fact, have to pull a smile when the magister stares at you a second too long.

Daemon notices. He takes your hand and squeezes it, "that is good."

You turn to his hand then back to Mitker, "it is... I am honored by your intensive care."

The man raises his arms through laughter, thoroughly pleased by the reaction, "the honor is all mine, my friends."

That moment, the servants come to serve your food.

"To have a Targaryen babe who might one day sit on the famed Iron Throne be born in my home is an honor I will have forever."

You smile at the servants as they pour your some water.

"Now," Mitker says, "eat. I must go to my children," he laughs, "I promised to play with them in the garden after smoking."

As your host disappears, Daemon serves himself some food, piling up potatoes and meat on his plate while you idly stare at your empty one.

He begins placing potatoes on your plate, "some beef, dear?"

You shake your head.

"It smells scrumptious," he gives you one despite it, "it will be good for you and the babe."

"I cannot stand the taste," you grimace then finish a cup of water.

Daemon watches. He sighs as you lower your cup then retrieves the meat with a fork, promptly eating it. His eyes remain on you as you heap more vegetables on your plate. After he swallows, he says, "they're apparently very good."

You down some more water.

"The House of Red Hands, I mean."

You turn to Daemon as he silently offers you more food. You let him serve you some stew.

"If you are worried you will be subjected to primitive methods that will yield no results, know that I will personally—"

"Their methods are not primitive, Daemon," you begin to eat.

"Yes, well, I'm saying is if they hurt you, I will whet my sword with their blood," he speaks with a nonchalant sort of seriousness.

You shake your head, "they will not. They are far gentler than most maesters."

Daemon knits his brows at that.

You offer a soft smile, "I have met two in my youth," you bring your fork to your lip, "hired by my father, of course."

He freezes where you begin eating.

A moment passes.

Daemon is no longer interested in his meal though how much his stomach cried for it.

"Your food will get cold."

Your husband cuts up some beef then turns back to you, "will you not tell me about it?"

You shrug, "there is nothing to tell, darling. They came, they looked at me, and left."

Daemon raises his brows and shakes his head.

"I told you my father tried everything," you speak between bites, "I know you find it hard to believe, but you must believe me."

"I believe you," he mutters.

You look at him as he eats some potatoes. You sigh and stroke his hair, "but you cannot believe Otto Hightower tried his best."

Daemon sighs again, leaning into your touch as you rest your hand on his shoulder, "well, he is a fucking cunt, isn't he?"

You stroke his cheek with the back of your hand. You press your lips into a soft smile, "he does love m-"

He groans and rolls his eyes.

"He does," you mutter, rubbing his nape, "just as you."

"You would compare us?!"

You do not respond.

He is thoroughly offended, so much so, he pulls away from you.

You sigh and retrieve your hand, turning back to your plate.

"We are not the same," Daemon bristles, shoulders growing tense, "I would never let you be trampled or besmirched. I would not let your condition worsen."

Though a rebuttal was on the tip of your tongue, when you lift your head, you smile instead and say, "I know."

Daemon, ever so easily placated by your subservience, easily relaxes. He suddenly feels bad that you are inclined to defend your father even in his absence, "you can stop pretending you care for him, you know."

You look at him.

"He cannot touch you here. And even if he could, I will not let him."

As your husband feeds himself, the tears in your eyes grow heavy enough to fall on your lap.

Daemon stops midchew when he notices.

"I don't pretend..." you whisper, lips wobbling, "... I just do."

The prince throat tightens but he brings himself to swallow. He wipes your tears

.

"I thought that-" your voice cracks, "-if I tell myself he hates me," you sniffle, "which he probably does..." you scratch your nose, "now more than ever."

He mutters your name as he shakes his head, "alright, that's enough. I should not have said it."

"I thought I could pretend I never felt his love, and deny it is there at all, but I-" you choke, "I do love him," you shrug and chuckle dryly, "I understand why he does what he does."

Daemon scoffs, "you understand why he casts your heart to the dogs to eat?"

"He doesn't," you shake your head, "he plots and plans, and I am a piece in the mind puzzle he's built decades strong. I must be in place, regardless of my condition."

He shakes his head as he looks away, "and my self-awareness is appalling to you."

"But you are the same."

He whips his head back at you.

You gulp and raise a hand, "similar," you corrects, "you are more similar than you-"

"I have not once intentionally broken your spirit," he snaps.

"... so.... intention determines innocence?"

"Yes."

"Then why does it hurt more to know you didn't think of me at all when you were in the Stepstones?"

He is caught off guard and it shows with his dry laugh, "but I did think of-"

"Not enough to write back," you blurt, "I wasn't even enough to make you sta-"

He comes abruptly to a stand.

You stare up at him, eyes widening, "but I understand!" you take his hand, "I understand that was the course you had to take!"

"You reopen scars from years ago to defend your father."

"I am not defending hi-"

"Then what?!" he snaps, pulling away from your touch, "you do this to get even with me?!" His expression curls, "I spoke to assure you of my protection and you spit at my face -"

You slowly come to a stand.

"- by likening me to a man you know I detest."

You bite your lip to contain your sob. You press your hands on his chest and shake your head, "you know-" you inhale sharply, "you know I do not ever mean to anger you."

"And yet-" he laughs, taking your hands, "here we are, my love."

You try to place your hands on his cheeks, but he does not let you. Though it frustrates you, you force yourself, "Daemon... I only wish that you understand my-" you shake your head, "I mean that I understand. It is the order of things. I understand that I am either with you along the way or I am in your way."

His eyes twitches, "you are my wife."

"I meant my father."

He wipes his face roughly and slowly steps back.

It agitates you, "Daem-"

"Do not call me," he raises a finger.

So you don't. You grit your teeth as he walks off. You chest grows tighter the farther he steps away.

Abruptly, he stops and turns, "I AM NOT LIKE THAT CUNT!"

You only stiffen at his words. You do not flinch. You were used to it. Your father shouted at you often like this.

Daemon turns again and starts walking away.

You no longer try to dampen your cries when when he disappears into the corner. You clutch your belly as you sit back down. Stupid, stupid girl. You promised not to speak back, remember. How could you fucking forget?

Daemon hears your cries and rips at the hair by the sides of his ears. He grits his teeth, pacing back and forth angrily down the hall before heading off.

You gasp when your chair is pulled back. You lift your gaze and try to stand when you see your husband before you. He prevents you from moving and moves your chair until he can kneel before you.

He grips your skirts then bites it through a groan.

Your lips wobble as you frown, "Dae-"

"I told you not to call me," he quips, squeezing your skirts until his knuckles were white, "I cannot bare it right now."

You sniffle and bite your lip. You tentatively try to reach for him. When your hand finally touches the crown of his head, he perks and grabs it, bringing your wrist to his mouth.

Daemon is visibly distraught as he forces your flesh against his lips. A few moments later, he's biting you, teeth digging deeper and deeper.

You gulp as the pain slowly amplifies. Soon, you cannot contain your whimper of discomfort.

He releases you then yanks your chair closer. He brings his hands to the small of your back, then rests his chin on your belly. He looks up at you, not actually putting any weight on your form. His eyes are pink. You smoothen out the messiness of his silver hair.

"I have no appetite," he mumbles.

You shake your head, "neither do I."

"You cannot afford to skip another meal."

"Yes but..." you gulp, "I do not want to eat without you."

"I will not leave," he says, "I spent the whole day pleasuring you so that you would be too tired to go to those orphans you love more than me."

"My heart," you whimper, "I do not love them more-"

"I know," he cuts you off, "but you visit them so often I am jealous anyway."

"They have no one to help them. Teaching them what I can will hel-"

"I know," he cuts you off once more, "yet all the same your generosity makes me jealous."

"D-" you cut yourself off and cover your lips with your fingertips.

He takes your wrist again. He kisses it then bites it again, "call me... and eat. Please."

You nod as he moves your chair again.

He remains sat by your feet as you consume your meal. You wipe your philtrum and realize you were starving after the first bite

Daemon perks when you bring your fork to his lips. He silently eats the beef then rests his head on your lap as he chews.

You both decide to meet the midwives and healers after, and though you could tell your husband's pride was still stinging, he held your hand the entire time, especially when the old men from the House of Red Hands decided they wanted to examine you. Daemon's eyes never leave you as they feel your belly, count your heartbeats, and question you about your affliction.

It was appealing then to be asked to leave when you suddenly went into labor. At first, he was calm enough to decline the midwife who asked him to step out of the room, but when you looked at him with your fearful, beady eyes, all hell broke lose.

What started out as low threats became full on declarations of apparent murder when the midwives insisted Daemon to exit the room. It only added to the pressure on your already tightening chest to watch him terrorize everyone.

It was the senior healer from the House of Red Hands that realizes you were slipping out of consciousness, and it was he that risked his life reeling the wrothful prince out of the room.

Daemon shoves him away upon reaching the door, and, in all his self-importance, readies to slay him where he stood, but the healer's words caught him before he could draw his blade.

"She has lost consciousness."

Daemon's fury is replaced with trepidation.

Before he could approach you, the healer yanks him by the arm and quips under his breath, "her heart is weak! She will not survive if you continue to insist on your way!"

Daemon ripps his arm out of his grasp.

"You must listen to me, boy," mutters the healer harshly, "I have seen greater men succumb to heart pains. You should be grateful your wife had the strength to take your child to term. If you cannot hold your peace and mean to throw another tantrum, get out," he looks walks off, "that is, unless you wish to hammer the final nail on her coffin yourself."

He doesn't get to reply as the healer is already by your your side, trying to help you regain your senses.

It quickly dawns on Daemon, that he, in fact, could not hold his peace. He paces around, restless and worried as he watches the midwives scramble around the room. He eventually decides to leave, but just as he does, he realizes he cannot do that either.

He is stuck walking to and fro from the room to the hall with agitation that could suffocate one even as large as Caraxes.

It worsens when you begin to scream.

More so when you begin to scream his name.

It is the most terrible sound in the world.

He does not come to you.

He cannot.

He is mortified.

He is paralyzed outside the door.

His heart racing.

Time eludes him. He doesn't know how long he just stands there curdling at the sound of his own name.

Suddenly, the fear of this being the last time you call him makes him run to your side. He freezes the moment he gets past the door.

You are sweaty, face is twisted in pain, leaning into the shoulders of two midwives. Daemon, who has run head first into war, hesitates as he walks over to you.

He calls out his love in his mother tongue.

You do not hear.

He raises his voice, "iksan kesīr. Iksan kesīr, ñuha jorrāelagon." I'm here. I'm here, my love.

You manage to look at him and immediately reach out.

Daemon takes the place of the midwives and you lean on him as your contractions persist.

It is a grueling affair. It takes two hours and some for you to crown. Your screams are heart wrenching and brings Daemon to tears. He rubs your back and hushes you, but it does nothing.

The silence that comes when your babe finally does come is equally relieving and worrying. When you close your eyes, it becomes apparent you are not strong enough to stay awake, much less to hold her.

"A girl?" Daemon mutters, tears streaming down his cheeks as the midwife's announcement. His joy battles with his concern as the healers pull you away from him.

He nearly fights them off, but thankfully does not act rashly.

Someone says something to him, but he does not hear, as he is too busy watching you bleed on the bed.

He flinches when someone tugs his arm.

The midwife offers him a smile... and his daughter.

He stares at the tiny thing— she is unbelievably little. He chokes up as she groans and fusses in his arms. She stole his face. Daemon looks up at you, filled with mirth as he calls your name, "she stole my-"

Your pale face and limp body make him go silent.

Had it not been for the midwife still beside him, she might have dropped his daughter. She tries to get him to focus. "What will you name her?"

Daemon turns to her, to his daughter, then back to you, "I- I... I don't know."

The woman rubs his shoulder, "you'll know soon enough."

He doesn't.

He leaves the girl unnamed for days, intent on waiting for you to rouse before deciding on anything.

Guilt grips him after three days of simply calling her babe.

Then soon, a moon passes.

The girl can hold her head up and smile back at him. The healers now tell Daemon if you do not wake soon, you will not wake at all. He refuses to believe it.

He points to you. His child looks. "bisa iksis muña. Iksis ziry daor gevie, Aelina." This is mother. Is she not beautiful, Aelina.

Aelina fusses. She is hungry.

Daemon struggles with himself before deciding to let the babe nurse on your breast instead of her wet-nurse this instance. He was told that it might help you wake, but there was something awful in how your involuntary form continued care for your babe while being unable to care for yourself.

Aelina immediately calms and sleeps against your bossom.

Daemon holds her in place. Aelina does the same with his sanity. He was her burning torch, her light during this time, just as her name meant.

Ever the fickle thing, the babe begins to fuss again and moves atop your chest.

"Shhh," Daemon rubs her back, "it's okay, kepa has you-"

A groan cuts him off.

He freezes, heart racing in anticipation. He calls out your name.

He realizes then that it was not Aelina that was fussing, but you.

Daemon's heart leaps into his throat when your eyes open. He breaks into a full on sob when you manage to reach for his cheek. You are disoriented as he helps you sit up. You soon follow in tears when you see the babe at your breast. Your lips wobble, "is this..."

"Aelina," he mutters, helping you hold the babe. He brushes your hair out of your face the moment you have your hold on her, "I named her Aelina."

You sob some more, unable to see her fully through the tears, "beautiful Aelina."

Daemon kisses your neck, kneeling beside your bed, watching you watch your child in wonder.

You can hardly breathe as you sob, but your joy keeps your grounded. You chuckle when she releases your nipple and you finally see her face, "she looks just like you."

He laughs, heart swelling the the sound of you, "she stole my face."

You lean into him, unable to pry your eyes of your babe as he is unable to pry his eyes off you. You sniffle, snot dribbling down your nose, "she's so beautiful."

"She is," he wipes your nose, "so beautiful."

You finally spare him a glance. You find him smiling through tears.

"I knew you would wake. I knew it," Daemon mutters.

Your lips wobble, "I'm glad I did."

He presses his lips on your temple, "so are we," he kisses you repeatedly, "so are we. Thank you, my love."

[canisalbus]

A nice dinner does sound appropriate! Maybe in the 16th century setting he'd enjoy a leisurely afternoon of horseback riding and/or hunting, or alternatively seeing a play in the city, and then having a banquet at the evening. Maybe he throws a proper dance ball on milestone birthdays, but most of the time he prefers to keep things reasonably casual.

Vasco's birthday is June 13. That's the date I originally posted this little comic on, which was the first time I had drawn Vasco and Machete together in several years. It ended up expanding their relationship and altering the trajectory of their lore significantly. (It turns out June 13 is also International Albinism Awareness day, which I didn't know at the time but it's a funny coincidence. I also think it's kinda fitting that his birthday is in the middle of the Pride month.)

Machete's birthday is September 17. I can't remember the exact date of his creation, but I recall I had recently started a new semester, the weather was mostly warm and sunny but the leaves were already yellowing, so mid September is my best guess.

Ludovica's birthday hasn't been fully cemented before, but I tend to associate her with early spring and she's giving me April vibes. I don't know about Italian seasons but where I live, it's April when you start to really notice the amount of sunlight increasing and weather warming up a little, and after months of snow and darkness and seasonal depression it's like oh, life prevails after all. To me, Ludovica has the same kind of understated but stubborn persistence.

I hope it went well!

Vasco is the kind of person to have his birthday on Friday the 13th and be completely and utterly unaffected. But I wouldn't mind a spooky Vasco if that offer is still on the table!

Finnish pastries below the cut.

My personal favorite is rönttönen:

A palm-sized pie from the region I'm from. Challenging to find outside of a couple of remote towns in eastern Finland, from what I've seen, and I'm under the impression that they're tricky to make too so I haven't had the nerve to try to learn the recipe myself (yet). The crust is made of tough rye dough and the filling is a mix of sweetened lingonberries and potatoes mashed together into a paste. They have this unique mix of sweetness, tartness, berriness and breadiness I really enjoy, you can put a little bit of butter on them if you want. My mom puts cheese on top as well and that's honestly kind of sacrilegeous if you ask me. Usually served as an afternoon snack with coffee.

My go-to baked treat is the classic voisilmäpulla (butter eye bun):

Sweet, cardamom flavored buns with a creamy, slightly grainy butter and sugar filling in the middle. Extremely basic and simple but absolutely unbeatable fresh off the oven. Available everywhere, everyday, at low cost.

By chance, I peeked at Vasco’s TH page and saw that today happens to be his birthday. Happy bday Vasco, wishing you lots of kisses from your crinkled tissue boyfriend

🧡🤍

[absurddino]

Steve doesn't go to Eddie's shows.

He knows he promised, it's just that he'd done so in the moment because Eddie looked so nervous and from the few times he'd seen CC play he knows their music is incredible.

But they play in bars. Steve can't show up at a bar wearing a mask! Cops will be called and Steve doesn't want another interaction with Hopper since that time Dustin made him kidnap his daughter. Story for later.

What matter is, he can't show up at the bar as little old Steve Harrington either! Not only would Eddie find out about who he is immediately, his entire reputation would go to shit. (It's a high school reputation, but a reputation nonetheless).

And so he doesn't go.

Eddie notices. Of fucking course he notices. It's hard not to notice the fact that all the people at their shows are the same drunkards as always. No new faces, or masks.

The guy just hadn't showed up.

At first he clings to the little hope he has left, maybe he's busy! But how busy can a guy really be. His hope quickly dwindles. Anger takes its place.

He storms up to Steve after one of their shows and squares his shoulders before spitting: "You too good to show up, are you? A real fucking king."

"What?" The guy has the audacity to sound apologetic, or maybe it's fear.

"You told me you'd come to a show and I haven't seen you. Meaning, you didn't fucking show up." Eddie scoffs, turning away. "Don't think just cause you've got a couple fans drunk off their asses or high on whatever that you're famous enough to do shit like this."

"I didn't mean-."

"Oh come on. Save it."

And Eddie storms off.

(pt.1)

[midnight-bay-if]

Related to this:

In the case of a MC who romances Taj... would Taj reconsider if they fake being sick because they don't want to bother with these tasks, but then MC spontaneously tells Selby that "don't worry, I'll work in their stead" (meaning in the end, it's MC who takes the extra work upon them haha). Bonus points if MC CLEARLY doesn't do that trying to force Taj to work, but because they are just altruistic and nice and want to help.

(I figured I would answer this quickly since it relates to the previous ask <3)

“Don’t worry, Selby, I’ll do it.”

Taj, with their head buried deep beneath the covers, withers at these words.

They stayed up late last night, half hanging out of the bedroom window, staring up at the night sky with a book half-forgotten in their lap. They love cloudless nights, and although the stars don’t shine as brightly here as they did back home, it is comforting to know they still share the same sky. It’s easy to let the hours pass that way, but it has never done them any favours by morning. They cling to their covers the moment sunlight bleeds through the curtains, knowing full well the bang on their bedroom door will follow soon after.

Every morning, it’s the same old routine.

Selby sounded particularly impatient that morning, hammering on the door three separate times with fifteen-minute intervals. After the third, Taj did the first thing that came to mind in the hopes of ending it. “I’m sick.”

Taj heard Selby’s sigh through the door, Rain’s worried tittering soon following. Before Selby can try to fight them on it, Taj’s ears prick up at the sound of your voice. You sound calm, with a hint of genuine concern, as you agree to take the extra workload on yourself.

Taj presses their cheek into the pillow, feeling the softness brush against their skin, half-hoping they might melt into the bed instead of confronting the very real knot forming in their stomach. The fact that you don’t sound the least bit suspicious, or regretful, or even slightly annoyed, niggles at the back of their mind. They toss in the bed from one side to another, kicking at the covers, suddenly too hot to be beneath them.

They still hear you whispering with Selby about what needs to be done, working out a schedule so that you might finish what you needed to do first, until finally Taj can no longer bear it. They kick off the covers completely, rolling out of bed with the most unpleasant dark circles and a furrowed brow.

They yank open the bedroom door, their irritation growing when Selby shoots him a pleased smile. Bastard probably planned this.

“Taj, if you are truly sick, you should probably—”

Taj cuts you off. “Stop it. You even make pretending to be sick unbearable.”

“What—”

They pull you into a tight embrace, tucking their nose into your neck, allowing the scent they have grown so accustomed to to soothe the raging beat of their heart. “You shouldn’t be so nice, Koel; there are far too many people willing to take advantage.”

[levanterhaze]

── spring into summer, bangchan

♡ 󠀬󠀬dad!bangchan x actress!reader: just a lot of drama & angst for this one.

♡ synopsis ― You left him behind to chase your dreams, your best friend, your first love. Now you're back, and everything's changed. He's a father. You're a star. But some flames never die. Maybe it waits.

♡ [4,1k] & notes ― This will be a series, and I haven't decided yet how many chapters it will have. If you want, I can make a playlist with all the songs that inspired me, just like I did with Gameboy! I hope you enjoy this new story. Know that I wrote it with an open heart and with Bangchan's essence in mind. Don't confuse it with his real personality, as this is fiction. Anyway, enjoy the read!

CHAPTER ONE

Eight years. That’s how long it took you to come back.

Not because you didn’t miss it. You did. More than you let yourself admit. But every time you thought about setting foot here again, something tightened in your chest. Maybe it was fear. Maybe shame. Or maybe just the quiet knowing that nothing would feel quite the same anymore.

Life across the ocean had been loud and golden, premieres, lights, your name in places you once only dreamed of. But the further you went, the more you realized that nothing, not even the high of success, could really replace the comfort of home. You only learned that when it was already too late to say it out loud.

The cab rolled away, leaving behind the faint scent of cheap leather and air freshener. You dragged your suitcase down the cracked sidewalk, wheels bumping until one caught hard on a groove. You tugged harder, and the suitcase lurched free, nearly toppling you along with it.

And then there it was. The house.

Creamy-white walls, the garden neatly trimmed, like someone had tried to keep the years at bay. You paused. Let it wash over you. The stillness, the ache, the sense that your teenage ghost might step out from the porch at any second.

Before your knuckles could reach the door, a curtain shifted. Your father’s face peeked through the window. Then the door swung open like it had been waiting all this time.

“My girl,” he breathed, already stepping forward with open arms. “Look at you.”

You were pulled into a hug before you could say anything. His arms were warm, a little stronger than you remembered. He held you like he meant to make up for all the missed years in one go. Then your mother.

“Oh, my baby!” she gasped, cupping your cheeks with both hands like you were still ten years old. “You’ve grown into such a stunning woman, but you’ll always be my little girl.”

“Mom, ouch,” you laughed, wriggling as she pinched your face. “You’re going to rip my cheeks off.”

“Let me hold you,” she whispered, and then you were wrapped in her again. Her perfume, the feel of home in her arms, the sound of her heartbeat thudding against your ear.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of bamboo and garlic, your mother must’ve started lunch. The air was warm, a little too still, but familiar. You blinked slowly, taking it in.

The living room was both different and exactly the same. Softer tones. New furniture. But the walls were crowded with photos: Ara at her graduation, your parents on a boat somewhere, a few baby pictures of you tucked between them. And then there were the posters.

Every film you’d ever done. Framed. Glossy. Hung up like some kind of shrine.

They’d sent you a picture when they first put them up. You remembered smiling at the time, flattered, touched. But standing here, in person, it felt strange. Like some version of you had moved in while you were gone. A version who smiled on cue, said lines written by strangers, and lived a life that no longer fit in this house. You didn’t say anything about the posters. You just looked at them, your heart caught somewhere between pride and discomfort.

“How was your flight? Bet you’re tired.” Your dad grabbed your suitcase before you could protest and started up the stairs with it.

“Smooth, actually. But I’m starving.”

“Then you’re in luck. Your mom’s cooking at least five different dishes.” You both laughed. She always went overboard in the kitchen when she had the chance and she never forgot your favorite meals or Ara’s. “We missed you, kiddo.”

He dropped your suitcase at the bedroom door and pulled your head in for a kiss on top.

“I missed you too, dad.”

“Ara switched rooms with you, but we left everything just the way you liked it. Just in case you ever come back.”

That simple gesture… it hit you right in the chest. After almost a decade, they had kept your space untouched. You turned the knob slowly, and opening that door felt like unlocking a time capsule.

Your bed was still there, same light-colored sheets, fairy lights still hanging by the window, a little crooked now. The shelves were a mix of old things and a few newer ones. Everything looked smaller. And yet, exactly the same.

Your dad gave you space to unpack. You pulled the zipper open carefully, but the scent of the room, a mix of lavender and something that was just you, caught you off guard. You couldn’t explain how, but the smell had survived the years.

And then the memories came flooding in. This was the room where you spent countless late nights on the phone with Chan, laughing until you passed out. The same bed where you had your first time after prom. The air in here was thick with memories, and you didn’t know what to do with them.

“Unnie?” Ara’s voice pulled you back. You turned around, letting a shirt fall onto the bed. Her eyes widened and, before you could say anything, she ran across the room and hugged you tight. “I can’t believe you’re really here!”

You wrapped your arms around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. Your little sister. The one you held in your arms when she was just a newborn. She is so grown up now.

“I wanted to surprise you.” You smiled, brushing her hair out of her face. Ara was beautiful, nearly an adult now. “And I wouldn’t miss your birthday for anything.”

Ara squealed when you pulled a big, heavy box out of your suitcase. Inside, she found brand-new headphones, a set of Korean skincare, and some makeup, all carefully picked out just for her.

“Unnie! Thank you so much!” Her eyes sparkled with excitement.

“Make good use of it. When I was your age, Mom gave me a padded bra. I figured you deserve something better.”

You both burst out laughing, and Ara hugged you again, whispering her thanks. She ran out of the room with her arms full, leaving you alone with your luxury clothes sprawled across the bed, so out of place in a room frozen in time.

Dressed in something more comfortable now, you pulled your phone out of your pocket and noticed a missed call from your team. You already knew what it was about. In a month, the first table read would begin for your next big project. A romance series. A new co-star everyone was excited about.

You called them back. They picked up almost immediately.

They asked you to return early. There were prep meetings and chemistry tests, and the timeline was getting tighter than expected.

“I understand, but I can’t come back right now. I’m in town for family business.”

Your words trailed off with a sigh. Before you could say anything else, a small figure came sprinting toward you. A little girl, no older than five or six, was running like the wind, laughing with a kind of joy that made the air feel lighter. Her tiny feet hit the sidewalk hard and fast, and just as she caught her toe on one of the cracks, she stumbled.

You dropped your phone without thinking and caught her before she hit the ground.

“Hey, hey. Careful there,” you said gently, crouching down and steadying her by the arms.

The little girl stopped giggling for a second but kept smiling. Her eyes sparkled. “I’m okay,” she said, brushing her hand across her face.

You looked her over just to be sure, then smiled back. Her dark hair was tied in two ponytails, each held up with colorful flower clips. She looked like something out of a storybook. Then she tilted her head, squinting at you as if trying to place you. You laughed under your breath.

“You’re really pretty,” she said, eyes wide. “I saw you on TV.” Her hands flew to her cheeks like she had just spotted a princess.

“Guilty,” you replied with a soft smile. Only then did you notice the pink stuffed bunny tucked in her arms, worn but well-loved. “Where are your parents, sweetheart?”

“I was chasing a kitten. Daddy was behind me. He’s a little slow.”

“Is it okay if I wait here with you until he gets here?”

She nodded, completely trusting, completely at ease beside you.

Of course, you couldn’t just leave her. She was alone, and no matter how confident she seemed, you wouldn’t trust a child to wait on a sidewalk by herself. She looked like she was about to say something, but then you heard footsteps. Fast ones.

Your eyes lifted. And just like that, the air disappeared from your lungs.

You weren’t ready to see him. Not now. Not like this. Maybe not ever.

But there he was, rushing toward you, real and impossibly close. Taller than you remembered. Broader. Time had carved him into someone new, but the boy you loved was still there, hidden under years and distance. Buried beneath everything left unsaid.

Your breath caught before the words could form, heart pounding in a rhythm that felt all wrong. Too fast. Too loud.

“Yuna. Come here, baby.” His voice. That voice. Soft and familiar in a way that makes your whole body tense. You felt it everywhere.

Yuna. She ran into his arms without hesitation. He scooped her up, holding her like the world might try to take her away. Whispering to her, his hand cradling the back of her head like he’d done it a thousand times.

“...Hi.” You stood up slowly, trying to straighten yourself out. To steady the shaking.

It was barely more than a whisper. Just one word, but it was all you could manage without falling apart. Chan looked at you. He didn’t smile. Didn’t speak. He just stared. Like he wasn’t sure if you were real.

And maybe, for a second, you weren’t. Maybe you were the ghost. The one who left. The one who broke his heart.

“Daddy look, a real princess!” Yuna pointed at you, her eyes sparkling as her smile stretched wide, revealing tiny, crooked teeth.

You blinked, unsure if you’d heard her right. A real princess? You? Your gaze shifted back to Chan. A child. He had a child. A beautiful little girl.

“I didn’t know you were in town,” he said. His tone was flat, like he was just stating a fact, not speaking to someone who once knew his heart.

“It’s Ara’s birthday.” You wished you could say something more. Ask how he’d been or tell him how surreal this was. But what right did you have? After what you did, after how you left?

“Is she yours?”

Chan glanced at Yuna. The smile he gave her was quiet and fleeting, as if it wasn’t meant for you to see. He nodded once.

“She’s beautiful,” you said. Your voice barely made it out. It felt like your lungs had forgotten how to work. But you meant it. She really was.

He adjusted her in his arms and replied, “She gets that from her mom.”

The words hung in the air. They were simple, maybe even kind, but they carried something heavier. Something that settled in your chest like a stone.

“It was good to see you... I guess.” You tried to smile, hoping it didn’t look as uncertain as it felt. A part of you had dreamed about this moment for so long. But nothing about it felt like a dream.

Chan didn’t answer. He just turned with Yuna held close to him. She looped her arms around his neck and looked back at you, beaming.

“Bye-bye, princess!”

You raised your hand slowly, your fingers trembling just a little. You weren’t even sure who you were waving to anymore.

Then it hit you. All at once. Not the career, the fame, the city, what it cost. The things you left behind weren't just things. They were people.

When you got home, your hands were still shaking.

You walked past the leftover decorations, past the sound of conversation and plates clinking in the kitchen, and disappeared into the guest room without a word. Your mother called your name softly from the hallway, but you didn’t respond. What would you even say?

No one knew what really happened between you and Chan. No one knew what it cost you to leave. What it cost him.

So you cried alone. Quiet at first, like you didn’t deserve to cry out loud. And then it broke loose, sobs you couldn’t hold back, curling into the pillow like it could swallow you whole. You cried until the ache in your chest dulled into exhaustion and sleep found you in pieces.

When you woke up, the house was dead silent. You assumed everyone was asleep. On your phone, it read almost 11 p.m. You slid out of bed and took a shower, putting on a comfortable hoodie.

Outside, there was a cool, almost icy breeze. You stepped into the night, hoping the quiet would help settle your mind. All you could think about was Yuna and Christopher. The way he looked at you as if you were something that could physically hurt him. The way he treated you, so distant and cold. And deep down, you were sure you deserved it. You deserved for him to despise you.

But seeing him again was like flipping your entire world upside down. What did you expect, anyway? That he'd be waiting for you after eight years? That kind of thing doesn’t happen in real life. Of course he moved on. Of course he met someone. Of course he started the family he always dreamed of. And even knowing that, even preparing yourself for that reality, it still hurt in a place you couldn’t reach.

Your feet wandered on their own, taking you to the old park where the two of you had once shared so many memories. The swing still creaked the same way. The slide stood there, rusted and forgotten. Everything looked just as it did back then, except for you. You felt like a stranger in the place you used to call home.

The stars above watched silently, flickering in the sky like distant witnesses. They didn’t comfort you. They mocked you. As if they were whispering that you had been warned. That they told you so.

The swing creaked beneath you as you sat, shifting slowly side to side like it could collapse at any second. You curled your fingers around the cold chains, the metal biting into your palms as you took a deep breath and looked around.

The tree near the edge of the park was still there, tall and steady, roots digging deep into the earth like nothing had changed. It was under that tree that Chan kissed you for the first time. Right there, where he held your face with both hands and told you he loved you. You had told him you felt the same. And you had meant it.

He had held your face with such affection. You were so young, just kids playing at love. When he kissed you, it was as if you had a glimpse of the future, realizing that he, that both of you, were meant to be forever. 

Now there was a knot tightening in your throat, like your body was resisting the memories, resisting the weight of it all. You blinked fast, willing the tears away, but even when your eyes shut, all you could see was him.

Then the swing next to you creaked. You told yourself it was probably the wind. But something in you stirred, something deeper. That same part of you that used to feel him before he walked into a room. You straightened your spine before you even looked.

He was there.

Chan sat beside you, hands clasped between his knees, his head lowered. His profile looked exactly like you remembered, only sharper, like the years had carved him out of stone. His jaw was stronger now, shoulders broader beneath his black shirt. His hair, once a lighter brown you used to run your fingers through, was darker now, almost black, onyx.

And there it was. That tug in your chest. The one you had spent years trying to silence.

“You shouldn't be here.” His voice, earnest and icy, hit you hard.

“I thought it was a public park,” you answered with the ghost of a smile, trying stupidly to chip away at the cold between you. But he didn’t even flinch. He kept his eyes down, shoulders tense. “It’s my sister’s birthday,” you added, softer now.

He let out a quiet scoff, barely audible over the breeze. “Right. Convenient.”

The words struck harder than they should have. Maybe because they weren’t just words. They were the truth, or at least the version of the truth he lived with. And you had no right to take that from him.

“I’m not here to cause anything, Chan.”

“I mean you don’t belong here.” That broke something. Something small, but loud. Not with the crack of glass but with the quiet ache of something that was already halfway gone.

He was right. This place meant everything to him. It was sacred ground, the kind of place that held echoes of promises made in the quiet naivety of youth. Here, beneath the trees and rusted metal, he had once sworn his heart to you. Promised a life built with roots that would never leave this town. And you had been part of that plan. Until you weren’t.

“I won't be staying long, don't worry.” You rested your chin in the palm of your hand, pretending it hadn't hit you straight in the heart. Pretending that his words didn't matter. 

“That's what I thought.”

Silence settled between you again, except for the low groan of the swings swaying gently in the night air. It was easier not to speak, easier not to ruin whatever was left of this ghost of a moment.

“I know you probably won’t believe me…” you started, voice small.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he cut in, bitter and sharp, not even looking at you. “It’s not like lying ever came naturally to you.”

You inhaled slowly, trying to steady the heat behind your eyes, the sting in your throat. You didn’t want to fight. You didn’t even know what you wanted anymore.

“I’m happy for you,” you said quietly. “Yuna… she’s beautiful. She’s full of life. Just like you.”

You watched as he swallowed hard, his jaw tight, throat bobbing with the effort to keep it all in. There was so much he could say. So many things he’d rehearsed in his head over the years, words full of rage, grief, heartbreak. But they stayed there, buried beneath the version of himself he was now. Older. Wiser. Angrier in quieter ways.

And still, God, you made his chest ache. You hadn’t just grown more beautiful. You glowed. Like something untouchable. Like the kind of dream that only shows up when it’s too late.

“She’s my world,” he said, voice low but steady.

As it should be. You couldn’t imagine what it felt like to be a parent, but you never doubted he’d be a good one. He had always been made for that kind of love, fierce, unconditional, protective. It didn’t surprise you that Yuna reflected back. That she had his warmth, his spark, his heart.

“You got everything you wished for…” The words left you before you could filter them, soft and reverent. But he heard. Of course he did. Chan turned to you, his eyes narrowing, not in anger, but in disbelief. And maybe pain. “That’s really good,” you added, quieter still.

He let out a short, dry laugh, humorless and cold. “Don’t say shit you don’t mean.”

Your eyes widened, breath catching. What was he saying?

“Do you really think... that I’m lying? Chan, I mean it. I’m genuinely happy that you got the life you wanted and—”

He cut you off before you could even finish. The words collapsed in your throat, swallowed by the look on his face.

“I think you’ve always known how to make yourself the priority.” His voice was sharp, hollowed out by something deeper than anger. “Just look at you. Untouchable. A name in lights. A face on magazine covers. You’re exactly where you want to be, aren’t you?”

“Why are you saying this?” The words barely made it past your lips. Your head shook slowly, disbelieving. “Everything I did… I did it to protect you.”

“That doesn’t make you noble,” he snapped, his voice cracking from the weight it carried. “Don’t paint yourself as some kind of martyr. You don’t get to play that role after everything.”

You opened your mouth, searching for something, anything to make it right. To explain what you’d never had the courage to say before.

But Chan stood abruptly, the swing creaking in protest beneath him. He didn’t look back. He didn’t have to. The silence he left behind said more than any words could. You stayed there, alone with the imprint of his absence and the ache of everything left unsaid.

You woke to the scent of breakfast lingering through the house. After getting ready, putting on a dress over a long-sleeved blouse, you headed downstairs to join your family.

“Good morning, sweetheart,” your father greeted you softly, his hand brushing your arm.

“Sit down, the coffee’s getting cold,” your mother said, motioning toward the chair across from her.

Being home really did feel good. The table was filled with homemade dishes, familiar and warm. You’d missed this, not just the food, but the comfort of it all. No fancy restaurant could compare to the smell of your mother’s bacon and her strong black coffee.

As you spread strawberry jam on your toast, your father asked, “Have you been able to catch up with your friends yet? Felix? Chan?”

The sound of his name was enough to erase whatever appetite you had left. It settled like a weight in your stomach, dragging everything else down with it.

“I’ll try today, Dad. And… I saw Chan yesterday.”

A hush fell over the table. Your parents exchanged a glance you knew too well. You rolled your eyes and let your knife fall onto the plate, the clatter louder than necessary.

“Please. You can talk about my ex-boyfriend. I’m not made of glass, you know?”

“Sorry, sweetheart. We just didn’t know how you’d feel,” your mother said carefully. “How was it, seeing him again?”

You let out a breath, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Not how I pictured it. I found out he has a daughter. She’s adorable, actually.”

“Oh, that little girl,” your mother said, her voice softening. “Such a sweet thing. She has his eyes, but I think her smile comes from her mother.”

The toast grew cold on your plate, untouched. You didn't have the courage to look up, afraid of what your parents might find.

“He brings her by sometimes, when he can,” your father added casually. “Helps me around the yard, fixes things. He’s a good man. Always has been.”

Your mother nodded, her tone almost wistful. “It’s a shame things didn’t work out between you two, darling.”

You let out a quiet laugh, one without humor.

“Well, he hates me now, so I guess it doesn’t matter.” You finally bit into the toast. It was cold, dry, and left a bitter aftertaste you couldn’t ignore.

“Why would you say that? That’s nonsense!” your mother asked, frowning. “That boy doesn’t hate you.”

“I don’t think he does either, kiddo” your father chimed in. “Every time he was here, he asked about you.”

You nearly choked. The toast stuck to your throat and you reached for your glass of orange juice, taking a long sip to clear the lump forming there.

“He… asked about me?”

“Of course,” your mother replied, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “We even gave him your address once. Didn’t we, love?”

“Yes, we did,” your father confirmed. “We thought you were still keeping in touch.”

Your thoughts spun. Chan had asked about you. He had cared enough to ask where you lived. That single detail opened a flood of questions you weren’t prepared for. Had he planned to see you? Did he change his mind? Did he still care, or had that care turned to quiet resentment?

You didn’t say anything after that. You just finished breakfast in silence, the fog in your chest thickening with each bite. When the last of the meal was cleared away, your mother spoke again.

“Honey, I don’t want to bother you, but could you pick up a few things we still need for the party?”

“Sure, Mom.”

She handed you a list. It was longer than you expected, enough to keep you busy in town for a while and maybe that was exactly what you needed.

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