#a week straight and then disappear for the rest of the year

[liuhsng]

─────⋆˚࿔ ⋆ off the record ( sjy ! ) — part 1

✩ˎˊ˗ enhypen masterlist

⤷ pairing — jake x fem!reader

⤷ part 1 | part 2 ⤷ word count — 18.3k ⤷ based on this request by an anon ⤷ permanent taglist — open !

⤷ a/n — hi loves ! i’m so sorry for disappearing for a whole week, i was super sick and needed the rest, but i’m finally back and bringing you a jake fic to (hopefully) make up for it. i hope you enjoy this one, and yes there will be a part two 🤍

⤷ warnings — mild!smut (minors dni), fingering, thigh-grabbing, praise kink, lots of kissing, idol au, secret relationship, established relationship trope, idol!jake, idol!reader, possessive!jake, clingy!jake, overprotective!jake, a little toxic communication, hurt/comfort, couple fights (mild), skinship, fluff, angst

✩ˎˊ˗ summary — as idols under the same label, dating was never in the plans. but somehow, you and jake made it work—quiet glances behind cameras, shared vans after stage lights dim, promises whispered like secrets, and a love soft enough to survive even the harshest arguments. you’ve been his for two years. jake, yours even longer. and maybe he’s patient, maybe he’s understanding—but jealousy doesn’t care about contracts. not when you’re on screen with someone else. not when he can’t even hold your hand in public. or, where jake sim loves you in the dark but dreams of the day he won’t have to.

The dressing room smelled like setting spray and strawberry hair mist, the air thick with the sounds of curling irons hissing, bracelets clinking, and music softly playing from someone’s phone in the background.

You sat in front of the vanity, elbows resting on the edge of the table, posture straight but nerves bubbling quietly under your skin.

Your bangs were clipped to the sides, little butterfly pins holding them back as your makeup artist leaned in, adding the final touch to your eye look—a fine dusting of silvery glitter that made your eyes shimmer every time you blinked.

“Close for me, love,” the makeup artist murmured gently, her voice warm as she brushed the glitter across your lid. You did as told, letting her work as your hairstylist continued curling the last few strands of your hair behind you, humming along to the instrumental playing in the background.

Your phone buzzed faintly in your lap, and you glanced down at it, thumbing through the short monologue you were supposed to say before the group’s special stage started.

“We’re so honored to welcome you back to Music Bank…” you mouthed quietly, blinking at the words, barely noticing the way your white dress fluttered every time you moved—a doll-like piece with puffed sleeves, cinched waist, and a subtle shimmer that caught the light.

It looked like something from a fairytale. It felt like something out of a dream.

Chaewon appeared in the mirror’s reflection behind you, arms crossed with a soft smile tugging at her lips. “Our (Y/N) is so pretty,” she said proudly, voice filled with genuine affection.

You turned your head slightly, blinking in surprise. “What? Unnie, no—don’t start—”

“I’m serious!” she cut you off, stepping closer to pat your shoulder. “You look like a human perfume ad.”

From the couch, Eunchae gasped through a mouthful of sushi, turning to Yunjin beside her. “Visual unnie behavior,” she declared dramatically. “She’s not even trying!”

Yunjin snorted. “I’ve been saying it! Give her a crown already.”

You rolled your eyes with a soft laugh, trying to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks as the makeup artist chuckled, grabbing a tube of gloss.

“I agree with them,” she said, holding your chin gently. “Now don’t talk for a second, pretty girl.”

She applied the gloss with delicate precision, layering it over your lips until they looked like they were dipped in honey. The soft, glossy sheen caught the light perfectly.

“There,” she said, stepping back with a satisfied smile. “Stage-ready and stunning.”

You smiled shyly, eyes flicking between your reflection and your members behind you, who were all now staring at you like proud older sisters.

“I haven’t even said my lines yet,” you mumbled.

“You don’t need to,” Yunjin grinned. “They’re already gonna fall for you the second the camera pans.”

“I second that,” Eunchae chimed, holding up her chopsticks like a mic. “On god.”

Just then, Sakura stepped into frame beside Chaewon, eyes widening as she looked at you through the mirror.

“Wah,” she gasped, clasping her hands together like she was seeing a fairy come to life. “Our (Y/N) is glowing!”

The door creaked open again—and in walked Kazuha, still pulling off her practice hoodie, a water bottle in hand. Her eyes flicked across the room and landed on you, then widened with a teasing smirk as she pointed your way.

“Oh wow,” she said, dramatically fanning herself. “This is so far from your usual bed hair and oversized hoodie combo at the dorms.”

“Leave me alone,” you laughed, leaning forward on the vanity as the hairstylist curled another piece of hair. “I’m delicate today.”

“I’m just saying,” Kazuha chuckled as she sat on the armrest beside Yunjin. “This right here is idol (Y/N). Dorm (Y/N) wears mismatched socks and drinks banana milk at 2 a.m.”

“Cut the cameras,” you said immediately, turning to the filming staff quietly documenting everything behind you. You pointed at the camcorder and pleaded, “Cut this part out, please. I have a reputation to uphold.”

The PD behind the camera just laughed, offering a thumbs-up but clearly still recording.

You gave them a sheepish look as you turned back to the mirror, just in time for your hairstylist to unclip the last butterfly pin from your bangs.

She gently combed them into place, letting the strands fall to frame your face perfectly—soft and effortless, the kind of look that took three people and an hour to make look ‘natural.’

“There,” she smiled, stepping back and admiring her work. “Gorgeous.”

The makeup artist returned for one last touch, gently brushing the final sweep of highlighter across the high point of your cheekbone. “Okay, (Y/N),” she said with a wink. “You’re good to go.”

You gave them both a grateful nod, voice soft. “Thank you, unnie.”

They smiled and moved on to the next member as the glam team cleared out around you, leaving you alone at the vanity.

The lights lining the mirror still glowed warmly, casting a soft halo around your figure. Your fingers found your script again, thumbing the screen as you read through the line for what felt like the hundredth time.

You exhaled, finger hovering over the power button to finally shut it off.

But before you could press it—Buzz.

A new notification blinked at the top of your screen.

jakey jakey 🐶🤎 [2:05 P.M.]: done getting ready yet, baby? they’re calling us to line up soon for the next round

Your heart stuttered.

The corner of your lips lifted automatically, even as you glanced around to make sure no one was looking over your shoulder. You dimmed your screen brightness a little, thumbs quickly moving over the keyboard.

you [2:05 P.M.]: yeah… just finished 😵‍💫 how’d u know?

The reply came almost immediately, like he’d been waiting for it.

jakey jakey 🐶🤎 [2:06 P.M.]: i just know, that’s how good of a boyfriend i am 😌

You bit down on your smile, feeling it creep up faster than you could stop it.

Even now—after months of hidden calls, late-night snack runs, and quietly stolen glances across music show hallways—it still didn’t feel real. That he was real.

That Jake—Sim Jaeyun, your Jaeyun—was texting you like this. Calling you baby. Checking in like you were the only person that mattered in the world.

How you’d managed to pull one of the top rising boy group members in the industry was still beyond you.

It made no sense.

You weren’t the ‘it girl.’ Or at least, you never felt like one.

People had started calling you that lately—“the next It Girl,” some even comparing you to IVE’s Wonyoung in fan posts and industry articles.

And every time you saw it, your face would flush red as you waved it off, denying it before the words could even sink in.

You were just… you.

Just someone who happened to get picked. Who stumbled through monthly evaluations and somehow got slotted into the final debut lineup, something you still chalked up to pure luck.

Your thoughts were swirling, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your skirt when your phone buzzed again—snapping you back to the present.

jakey jakey 🐶🤎 [2:07 P.M.]: come see me for a bit?

You stared at the screen, your thumb hesitating just above the keyboard.

You had to line up soon. Cameras were already rolling. Stylists were scrambling for last-minute touch-ups. You shouldn’t.

You were just about to type out a soft “maybe after filming” when another message popped up.

jakey jakey 🐶🤎 [2:07 P.M.]: just a few minutes pls 😭 promise i won’t get you in trouble

God, he could be so cute when he wanted to be.

Impossible to say no to.

Infuriatingly charming.

You chewed on your bottom lip before quickly typing back.

you [2:07 P.M.]: fine… where?

jakey jakey 🐶🤎 [2:07 P.M.]: 2nd floor, hallway near the stairs. no one ever comes there

You shut off your screen with a sigh, heart already starting to race as you glanced around the room. Sakura and Chaewon were distracted talking to the coordi-noonas about the next filming sequence, and Eunchae had her head tilted back on the couch, humming along to the music playing softly overhead.

Perfect.

You slipped your phone into your dress pocket and stood, smoothing your skirt and turning to your manager.

“Unnie, I’ll just use the bathroom real quick,” you said casually, flashing a quick smile.

She barely glanced up from her clipboard. “Make it fast, okay?”

“Yup!” You slipped out the door before anyone else could say anything, the soft clack of your heels echoing against the studio hallway floor as the door clicked shut behind you.

Your steps quickened slightly the closer you got to the stairs. You passed a few staff members on the way—some holding clipboards, others pushing racks of outfits for later stages—but no one paid you much attention. Just another idol going about their schedule.

When you reached the second floor, the hallway stretched out quiet and empty, dimmer than the main corridors, the buzz of activity replaced by a soft hum of overhead lights.

You turned the corner near the stairwell, and there—leaning casually against the wall in his white button-up shirt, a soft gray vest layered neatly over it, paired with crisp white pants—stood Jake.

His silver-dyed hair was styled to perfection, not a strand out of place, catching the hallway light just right like he walked straight off a photoshoot.

He looked up the second he heard your footsteps.

And smiled.

“Baby!”

He didn’t wait for you to reach him.

The second your eyes met, Jake pushed off the wall and closed the distance between you in just a few long strides, slipping his arms around your waist like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He pulled you into him without hesitation, swaying you just a little as he buried his face into your hair.

His hand splayed softly across the small of your back, the other curling gently near your ribs as he held you closer—closer than anyone was ever allowed to see.

You felt his chest rise and fall against yours as he let out a quiet breath, the kind that always made your heart flutter.

His nose nudged your temple as he murmured, “God, you smell like strawberries. I missed you.”

You let out a breathy laugh, arms finding their way around his shoulders as you melted into him. “You saw me literally five hours ago.”

“Five too long,” he mumbled, voice low and warm as it vibrated against your cheek.

You pulled back slightly to look at him, but he didn’t let you go far—his hands still snug around your waist, keeping you close like he was scared you’d vanish.

When your eyes finally met, Jake was already looking at you.

He was staring—like you’d hung the stars yourself and forgot to mention it. That boyish, smile spread across his face, eyes sparkling in the soft hallway light.

“Wow,” he whispered, blinking like he couldn’t believe you were real. “You look…”

You raised a brow, playfully. “What?”

“Unreal.” He shook his head slowly, grin widening. “I’m serious, (Y/N). You look like a dream. Like…” He paused, then laughed softly. “I don’t know, like if a doll and a goddess had a baby and it became a K-pop idol.”

You burst out laughing, lightly smacking his arm. “That is such a weird compliment.”

Jake leaned in, the grin on his face softening just a little as he let his forehead gently rest against yours.

The hallway was quiet, the faint hum of distant chatter fading behind closed doors. It was just the two of you—breathing the same space.

You were suddenly so grateful your stylist had given you heels today. For once, you weren’t craning your neck to meet him.

“I mean it,” he whispered, his breath fanning over your lips. “You look breathtaking.”

You flushed, lips twitching. “Stop teasing, Jaeyun.”

That made him smirk. “Oh? I’m Jaeyun now?” he teased, cocking his head slightly. “What happened to Jakey?”

You rolled your eyes, giggling as you playfully tried to shove him back. “Don’t make me block you in front of the cameras.”

He only laughed, catching your wrist gently and leaning in—pressing a soft, quick kiss to your lips. Barely there, but enough to make your stomach twist and your eyes flutter shut for half a second too long.

When you opened them again, he was already watching you with that look again.

The one that made you feel like nothing else in the world existed.

“Want me to show you just how breathtaking you are?” he murmured, voice lower now. Rougher. Dangerous in the way it made your knees feel a little weak.

You blinked, lips parting slightly. “Huh?”

Jake’s smile turned slow, boyish with a flicker of something not-so-innocent underneath. “Come here.”

Before you could react, he gently tugged you by the hand, leading you just a few steps farther down the hallway—toward a small, staff-only restroom tucked near the stairwell.

“Wait, what are you—”

Jake pushed open the door, glanced around once to make sure it was empty, then pulled you in with him, shutting it behind you.

The click of the lock sounded way louder than it should’ve.

You turned to him, breath caught in your throat, eyes wide. “Jake—”

He was already stepping toward you, slow and sure.

“I told you,” he murmured, eyes dragging over every inch of you, that gray vest still perfectly in place as he backed you gently against the cool tile wall. “You’re too pretty for your own good.”

Without warning, Jake crashed his lips to yours.

You barely had time to breathe before he was kissing you like he needed it—like he’d been holding back for too long, and now that he had you alone, there was no reason to pretend.

Your back met the cold wall with a soft thud as he pressed you against it, one arm snaking tightly around your waist, the other sliding up behind your head, fingers curling into your hair to keep you close.

Your lip gloss smeared instantly, not that he cared—if anything, he groaned softly at the taste of it.

You melted into him, your hands finding his neck, then sliding up into his silver-styled hair. Your fingertips brushed against the back of his nape, playing with the soft strands—and Jake smirked into the kiss like it drove him insane.

“Mmhm, baby…” he whispered between kisses, mouth barely parting from yours, “you always do that when you want me to lose it.”

You giggled, but it died in your throat the moment he tilted his head and deepened the kiss, nipping gently at your bottom lip.

He pulled away just enough to breathe, only to drag you in again—lips moving slower this time, more deliberate, more hungry.

Then his tongue traced your lower lip, slick and teasing.

You gasped softly.

Jake murmured low, voice dipped in heat, “Can I…?”

You barely nodded before parting your lips slightly, just enough—giving him access.

And the moment he had it, he kissed you deeper.

Tongue sliding against yours, slow and hot, your body flush against his as his hand traveled from your waist to your lower back, guiding you closer, keeping you there like he couldn’t get enough.

You whimpered into his mouth, fingers tightening in his hair as your knees weakened beneath you.

Jake broke away just slightly, panting softly against your lips, forehead resting against yours. “God, I missed this,” he whispered, his breath shaky. “Missed you.”

Your eyes fluttered open—barely.

“Jake…” you breathed, not knowing what you were asking for, but knowing you wanted.

But your voice broke slightly as you tried to pull yourself back to reality. “Jake—we can’t. We need to be on stage in a few minutes.”

He stilled for a beat, then leaned his forehead against yours again, eyes fluttering shut with a sigh. “I know,” he muttered, lips brushing yours, disappointed. “I know, baby.”

But then—he tilted his head and pressed a kiss to the curve of your jaw.

Then another. Just below your ear.

And another—down the slope of your neck, slow and hot.

You whimpered, your back arching slightly against the wall. “J-Jake…”

“Shh,” he whispered, mouth against your throat, his breath making your skin feel too hot, “Just a few more. Let me be annoying.”

“Don’t leave marks,” you warned between shaky breaths, already knowing how easily his lips could turn soft pinks into deep purples.

Jake chuckled against your skin, a deep, knowing sound. “You’re no fun, baby.”

Still, he listened.

His kisses stayed soft. Gentle. Featherlight brushes of affection along your pulse point, down to the dip of your collarbone, like he was memorizing every inch of you all over again—even with so little time.

One of his hands stayed planted firmly around your waist as the other wandered.

His fingers slid slowly down your side, finding the ruffled hem of your short white dress—the one that made him look at you like you were something from another world.

He played with the edge of it, toying at the frilly fabric. Then, dangerously slow, his hand traced along the hem of your safety shorts, knuckles brushing the soft skin of your thigh.

You gasped quietly, your hand flying up to grip his wrist.

“Jake—”

He looked up, his eyes hooded, lips swollen and glistening from your gloss, voice low and wrecked. “Tell me to stop.”

You couldn’t.

Instead, you pressed your forehead to his again, eyes closed, breath shaky.

“I hate you,” you mumbled breathlessly.

Jake smiled against your lips. “No you don’t.”

You barely had time to breathe before his hand drifted again—fingers grazing the hem of your safety shorts, teasing the edge with that same maddening slowness. You sucked in a breath, your hand gripping his arm.

“Jake,” you warned, voice barely a whisper, “you can’t start this if you’re not going to finish it.”

His lips ghosted over your cheek, nose brushing your jaw as he murmured, “Yeah? Try me.”

And then—with that cocky, devastating smile on his lips—his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts.

You gasped softly as he tugged them down just enough, letting them settle mid-thigh, leaving you exposed in the soft light. His touch was featherlight, dragging along the top of your thighs, then up—

Until his fingers traced the delicate band of your lacy underwear.

Jake paused and smirked.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours, half-lidded and dark with amusement. “Who are you wearing this for, huh?”

Your breath hitched.

You tried to play it off, but your cheeks were already warm. “We… we do have a date after this, don’t we?”

Jake huffed a quiet laugh, dipping his head closer. “Oh,” he said, voice low and teasing, “so you were expecting something.”

You buried your face in his shoulder, hiding the way your body jolted at the heat in his tone. “Jake,” you gasped when his palm pressed gently against your core, “stop teasing…”

His hand stilled—just enough pressure to make your knees threaten to buckle. He exhaled through his nose, lips brushing your temple.

“I’m not teasing, baby,” he whispered, fingers curling slightly against you. “I’m getting you ready.”

You gasped, head falling back lightly against the tile wall, your fingers fisting in the fabric of his vest as his hand moved lower—confident, deliberate.

His touch slipped past the delicate lace, and when his fingers found your clit, he paused, humming low in his throat.

“So wet already?” he murmured, pressing a kiss just below your ear, his voice full of pride and want. “You’re really not gonna survive our date tonight, huh?”

You bit your lip, trying to hold back the whimper that bubbled in your throat as he began to move—his touch gliding slowly, maddeningly, up and down, with the kind of rhythm that made your legs tremble.

“J-Jake,” you breathed, clutching his shirt tighter, burying your face into his shoulder as your knees buckled just slightly.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, hand on your waist steadying you, lips brushing along your cheekbone between each breath. “Always got you.”

His fingers kept working, unrelenting, and just as your breathing hitched again, his other hand tilted your chin so he could see your face—so he could watch the way your lashes fluttered and your lips parted, soundless but pleading.

“Look at me,” he whispered. “I wanna see what I do to you.”

Your lashes fluttered open, eyes glazed with need, lips parted in a shaky breath as your gaze met his—and Jake swore, soft and low, like the sight of you completely undone was too much and not enough all at once.

His touch deepened, hand still steady at your waist as he leaned in, pressing his forehead gently to yours, trying to keep you grounded while your body trembled beneath his.

“You feel that?” he murmured, breath hitching as his fingers moved with devastating slowness. “That’s all you, baby. Just you falling apart for me.”

You let out a soft whimper, your hands tightening in his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric near his chest as your knees nearly gave out.

Jake’s free hand held you closer, thumb brushing tenderly along your cheek. “You’re perfect,” he whispered. “So good for me. Always so good.”

You gasped his name again—barely a whisper on your lips.

He shushed you gently, kissing the corner of your mouth, his voice now low and urgent. “I know. I know. But you’ve got to keep quiet for me, yeah?”

You nodded desperately, lip caught between your teeth as your whole body burned in his arms.

Jake leaned in closer, lips brushing against your ear as he breathed, “I can’t wait to get you alone tonight. Really show you how much I missed you.”

And then—his hand moved again.

You sucked in a sharp breath, body jolting as his fingers found that spot deep inside you that made your thighs tremble. That made your breath catch and your vision blur. He knew it was there. Knew how to find it like second nature.

“Right there,” he whispered, voice thick with heat as he watched you unravel. “There it is, baby.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t think.

All you could do was cling to him—hands gripping the front of his vest, forehead pressed to his shoulder, trying so hard to stay quiet even though your body screamed.

Jake pressed his lips to your temple, curling his fingers again—slow, precise, relentless.

Your knees buckled.

“Breathe for me,” he whispered, kissing just below your ear. “That’s it. Let go.”

You melted against him, gasping softly into the crook of his neck, your whole body trembling in his arms as he held you close, steady, protected.

For a moment, the world stopped. Just you, clinging to him, heart pounding, skin flushed, lungs searching for air.

Jake didn’t move right away.

He pressed soft kisses to your cheek, to your jaw, to your temple—fingers slipping away gently, carefully, as he helped you stand, your legs still weak.

He brought those same fingers to his mouth, lips parting as he slowly dragged his tongue across the tips, eyes never leaving yours.

“Sweet,” he murmured, voice all smoke and mischief. “Just like I remembered.”

You stared at him, still dazed, still catching your breath.

“Jake,” you whispered, eyes wide. “You’re insane.”

He grinned, fixing your dress back in place like nothing had happened. “Only for you.”

Before you could even fully recover, he leaned in and pressed one last kiss to your lips—slow and indulgent, like a reward. Your eyes fluttered shut for a second, but they flew open again the moment you tasted yourself on his mouth.

Your face flushed all over again.

“Jake—” you breathed, voice half-scandalized, half-melting.

He pulled away with that same infuriating smile, licking the corner of his lips just to mess with you. “What?” he teased, fixing the strand of your hair he’d messed up earlier. “Just making sure you remember how good you taste.”

You stared at him, mouth open, half-ready to fight him and kiss him again.

But he was already glancing toward the door, stepping back with a lazy stretch. “Come on, baby,” he said, voice low and playful.

“We need to go. You still have to interview our group in a few minutes, yeah?”

You groaned, letting your head fall dramatically against his chest. “I hate you.”

He laughed, arms wrapping around you for a second, like he wasn’t quite ready to let go. “No, you don’t.”

You pouted, pulling away just enough to give him a playful punch to the chest. “I can’t look at you on camera after this.”

“You’re gonna have to,” Jake grinned. “I’ll be on my best behavior. Maybe.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t test me.”

He winked as he unlocked the door. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

But as he stepped out into the hallway first, head down, hand casually brushing against yours for a split second, you knew one thing for sure:

This boy was going to drive you insane today.

There were only a few seconds left before the red light on the camera blinked to life.

You stood beside Jungwon, fidgeting slightly with the cue card in your hand, your mind half-focused on the line you were supposed to read, and half still floating somewhere in that hallway where Jake had—

“(Y/N)-noona,” Jungwon said softly, nudging your elbow, “don’t be so nervous.”

You blinked, snapped back to the present, looking down at the young leader beside you.

He smiled up at you earnestly, shifting a little in his crisp white outfit. “Can I call you noona?” he asked, wide-eyed and sweet.

You laughed—grateful for the distraction. “Of course you can, Jungwon. You’re too cute not to.”

His grin widened as he straightened up beside you, clearly pleased.

Across the small, softly lit interview space, you heard someone burst into laughter. Your head turned just in time to see Jisung from NCT—your co-MC for today—pointing at a wild strand of Heeseung’s hair that stuck up despite all the hairspray in the world.

“Bro, how are you one of the the visuals and still end up looking like a coconut?” Jisung teased.

Heeseung swatted at him with a smile, adjusting his mic pack as the crew giggled behind the cameras.

Your eyes drifted slightly to the left.

Jake was leaning casually against the wall with his hands in his pockets, face glowing under the soft studio lights—his silver hair still styled to perfection, though his lips twitched upward the second your gazes met.

You gave him the smallest smile back, heart doing somersaults inside your chest, cheeks still slightly warm from earlier.

Beside you, Jungwon glanced between the two of you, raising a brow. “Is it just me,” he said under his breath, “or does hyung look like he knows something I don’t?”

You gave him the smallest smile back, heart doing somersaults inside your chest, cheeks still slightly warm from earlier.

The red light on the camera blinked on.

“Three,” the PD whispered from behind the lens, “two… one…”

The red light blinked on.

You and Jungwon straightened at once, microphones lifted, smiles flashing effortlessly into place.

“This is Live Broadcasting Music Bank,” you both said in sync, your voices clear and bright.

You turned slightly toward the boys in front of you, your cue card still trembling just a little in your hands.

“With Jisung and me, (Y/N),” you continued smoothly, “yes! Congratulations on your comeback, ENHYPEN!”

Behind the camera, staff clapped along as the seven boys bowed slightly, clapping and smiling as cheers erupted from them.

“Thank you!” they chimed in together.

Jisung, beside you, laughed. “Look at them—they’re glowing. Seriously. Like, did you all eat fairy dust before coming here?”

That earned a few chuckles, especially from Sunghoon and Ni-ki who immediately started whispering something to each other off-mic.

Jungwon stepped up confidently, smile wide as he lifted his mic again. “Allow us to say hi,” he said with the poise of someone born for it. “One, two—”

The members immediately followed his lead.

“Connect! Annyeonghaseyo, ENHYPEN-imnida!” they chorused, bowing in unison with practiced energy.

You nodded with a grin, trying very hard not to let your eyes drift back to Jake—who, for the record, still had that soft smile on his lips. The one that made your stomach twist far too warmly for a live broadcast.

Before the moment could linger any longer, Jisung cleared his throat loudly and stepped into frame, dramatically walking over to where you and Jungwon were standing.

“Knock knock,” he said, knocking his knuckles on the air beside your shoulder. “Excuse me, but it looks like you guys are having fun without me.”

The crew laughed behind the cameras, and a few of the ENHYPEN members chuckled too—Sunoo even letting out a dramatic gasp like Jisung had just uncovered a betrayal.

You turned with an apologetic smile, falling easily into the teasing banter. “Ah, I’m sorry, Jisung-ssi,” you said sweetly, bowing slightly. “It seems I forgot about my very handsome partner.”

The crowd oohed playfully.

Jisung tilted his head, feigning deep consideration before letting out a theatrical sigh. “It’s okay, (Y/N)-ssi. I’ll let you off the hook for your behavior—just this once. I mean, everyone is excited about ENHYPEN’s comeback.”

Then he grinned, cheeky and playful as ever. “Plus, it’s a good thing you’re cute.”

The room burst into another wave of laughter—crew members chuckling behind the camera, Sunoo letting out a soft “Yah,” while Ni-ki whistled dramatically.

Jisung gave you a playful nudge to the ribs with his elbow, causing you to giggle into the mic, momentarily hiding your face with the cue card.

“Jisung-ssi, you’re so unserious,” you laughed, voice light but a little breathless.

Somewhere behind the bright lights and staged smiles, Jake’s jaw flexed.

He kept the curve on his lips, nodding along to the banter like the good-natured idol he was supposed to be—but his eyes? His eyes flicked toward the script in your hands a little too sharply. He raised a brow, glancing at the cue card as if it had personally offended him.

Was it hot in here? Or was it just the slow boil of jealousy he was trying so hard to choke down?

‘She’s yours’, he told himself.

But logic was a lot less convincing when you were laughing like that because of someone else—even if it was innocent. Even if it was scripted.

You cleared your throat softly and turned back to the group, shifting your cue card into view. “Well then!” you said brightly, eyes sweeping toward ENHYPEN’s line.

“Let’s talk about your latest release. Could you tell us a little bit about your album?”

There was a half-beat of silence before Jake stepped forward, the mic already in hand, perfectly timed and poised.

“Our new album, ‘MANIFESTO: DAY 1’,” he began smoothly, “is kind of our declaration. It expresses our thoughts and how we want to move forward, break free from expectations, and really tell the world who we are.”

His voice was steady. His eyes were locked onto the camera.

But you knew Jake.

You knew every version of him—the way his dimples were deeper when the smile was real, the way his tone got a little softer when he was truly proud of something. The way he’d glance at you mid-sentence when he was feeling playful or confident.

But he wasn’t doing any of those things.

You stared a second too long. Long enough to wonder if maybe he was upset. Maybe because of Jisung? No—Jake wasn’t the petty type.

But you had seen that look before. Reserved. Slightly colder than usual. The type he gave when he was trying to bury something that was bubbling too close to the surface.

You were so caught in your thoughts you didn’t notice the shift until Sunoo, ever cheerful and poised, stepped slightly forward with his mic raised and a dazzling smile on his face.

“Among many tracks in the album,” he began, his voice light and confident, “there is our title song called ‘Future-Perfect (Pass the MIC).’”

The other members straightened slightly, nodding as Sunoo continued. “This song has a story that’s really meaningful to us. It’s about choosing our own path—keeping to our way and finding happiness in this chaotic world.”

He turned to the camera as he spoke, his smile full and genuine, expression bright. “We hope it gives strength to everyone listening. That it reminds you to take back your voice.”

A soft wave of cheers and approving nods followed from both the staff and the crew. Sunghoon even clapped once behind the mic, proud of how well Sunoo delivered it.

You smiled gently, eyes flicking to Sunoo with warmth—he always had such a natural way with words.

“Beautifully said, Sunoo-ssi,” you replied, voice as steady as you could manage, though your mind was still tugging at Jake’s unusual stillness. “It’s definitely a song that hits hard. I think a lot of people will find comfort in it.”

Jisung chimed in with a thumbs up, “No, seriously. I listened to it this morning and almost cried.”

That earned more laughter.

Sunghoon smiled as the laughter faded, stepping forward with that calm, composed tone of his. “Well said, Sunoo,” he nodded.

“Additionally, our powerful performance of this song is the main point to pay attention to,” he added, gaze steady on the camera. “We worked really hard on it. Please look forward to it.”

Then he turned to his left with a teasing smile. “Isn’t that right, Ni-ki?”

Ni-ki blinked, caught slightly off-guard. “Huh—oh!” He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yes, yes! Definitely. Please don’t miss out on our visuals,” he added with a cheeky grin, “which, I believe, have only become better and nicer.”

“Ah yes!” Jisung cut in dramatically, stepping a little closer to you. “Just like my partner here—who looks as radiant as a fairy today!”

You nearly choked on your laugh, quickly covering your mouth with the cue card as the staff giggled and someone behind the camera shouted, “Facts!”

You turned to Jisung with playful eyes, raising a brow. “What about you?” you teased. “You look like an absolute prince today.”

The boys from both groups chuckled, Ni-ki and Sunghoon even letting out exaggerated sighs.

“Please stop flirting on camera,” Sunoo joked, fanning himself with his hand. “Some of us are still single.”

The room erupted again, a wave of laughter bouncing off the walls as even the PD behind the camera chuckled.

Jake only smiled as he tilted his head ever so slightly, eyes flickering to Jisung, then to you, then back to the camera—as if he wasn’t very much thinking about the way Jisung leaned a little too close or how your laugh was a little too flustered.

You cleared your throat, trying to play it cool, eyes flicking briefly toward the cue card you could barely focus on.

“Alright,” you said with a soft laugh, eyes back on the camera, “I’ll try not to forget you guys’ visuals on stage.”

Another round of light chuckles.

You lifted your mic again, flashing a bright smile. “Now, tell us about the next stage!”

Heeseung stepped forward, mic already in hand, posture easy and confident. “Enhypen’s stage, composed of a refreshing summer season song—‘TFW (That Feeling When)’—will be coming up soon.”

Then Jay followed up without missing a beat. “But before that,” he added smoothly, “let’s check out a fresh and cool comeback stage by Park Hyunseo.”

You and Jisung took two synchronized steps forward, standing center once again under the bright studio lights.

“This has been your pretty fairy, (Y/N),” you chirped sweetly, giving a small curtsy toward the camera.

“And your handsome fairy prince, Jisung,” he added with a playful bow, making the crew giggle again.

You both pointed to the camera and said in sync, “Music—cue!”

The studio lights dipped, and the camera panned smoothly away as the stage direction changed.

The second the red ‘LIVE’ light on the camera blinked off, signaling a cut—you could feel Jake’s stare land on you like a heatwave.

Almost immediately, the room shifted. The pressure of live broadcasting lifted, replaced with soft sighs of relief and congratulatory pats on the back.

Behind you, the boys cheered among themselves, voices overlapping.

“We survived!” Sunghoon grinned.

“Hyunseo’s up next, right?” Jay asked, already walking toward the back exit with a stylist trailing him.

You turned slightly, cue cards still in hand, just in time to catch Sunoo flashing you a bright thumbs up. “Good job, noona!” he beamed. “You looked really nice today!”

Your heart softened at his energy. You smiled back, bowing your head a little. “Thanks, Sunoo. You were amazing up there.”

Then came another voice—quieter, lower.

“Yeah,” Jake said. “Good job.”

You turned.

His voice was calm. But not warm.

He wasn’t looking at you like the others were—he wasn’t smiling with his eyes like he usually did. Instead, he was adjusting the mic pack clipped to the back of his vest, jaw tight as he looked at you just a moment too long.

Your smile faltered the tiniest bit.

“…Thanks,” you said slowly, eyes searching his face.

He didn’t say anything else.

Just turned to follow the others, giving a quiet nod to one of the stylists as they waved him toward the backstage hallway.

The other members began to trail behind, Ni-ki throwing his arm around Jungwon while Sunghoon laughed at something Jay said. It was noisy and light—except for Jake.

He walked slower.

Back straighter.

Like something was still buzzing under his skin.

You bit the inside of your cheek, cue cards still in your hand, heart thumping a little harder than before.

The night air hit different after hours under studio lights.

You sat on the edge of one of the cold metal benches near the building’s back exit, the area dimly lit by a single flickering lamp overhead.

Your legs, still bare from the knee down, pressed tightly together as you tried to conserve warmth. The white fluttery dress you wore for the broadcast looked like a dream under stage lighting—but out here, it clung to your skin like ice.

You curled in on yourself, rubbing your arms as you muttered under your breath, “God, why didn’t I bring a coat…”

Just minutes ago, your group’s manager and a few members had asked you, “Are you sure you’re not riding back with us?”

You shook your head with a smile, keeping your voice even. “It’s okay—I have someone from high school picking me up. Just a friend.”

Chaewon had raised a brow. “From high school?”

Eunchae tilted her head like a confused puppy. “Like… someone we know?”

You shook your head again, trying to sound breezy. “Nah, you guys wouldn’t know him. Just—he offered to drop me home, that’s all.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Yunjin squinted at you suspiciously. “You sure it’s not, like… your boy plus friend?”

You laughed, a little too quickly. “If it was, I’d be bragging. Swear.”

That made them laugh, eventually letting it go after your manager double-checked your drop-off point. “Text us when you get home,” she said firmly. “And take care. Seriously.”

“I will,” you promised. “Thanks, unnie.”

Now here you were—just waiting.

You let out a breath, watching it fog briefly in the cold air. The bench beneath you creaked softly as you moved, tugging your dress down even though it barely helped. You sat there, hugging your arms, debating whether to finally pull out your phone and text him when—

A sudden weight landed across your shoulders.

You turned, startled.

Jake stood right behind you, both hands gently adjusting the coat now draped over you—his coat. It smelled like him. Faint cologne, traces of mint, and the soft warmth of his skin embedded in the fabric.

His expression was unreadable. Not cold, but not his usual sunshine either. Tight-lipped, composed. “Let’s go,” he said quietly.

You blinked up at him, caught off guard by the softness in his touch and the tension in his voice, but nodded anyway.

He didn’t say anything more. Just slipped one hand to the small of your back and gently guided you across the parking lot, toward one of the many identical black HYBE vans waiting along the curb.

His hand didn’t leave your back—not even once. Even when a few lingering staff passed by with cameras around their necks, he kept walking with you calmly, his pace steady and protective.

When you reached the van, Jake opened the door for you himself, greeting his manager with a simple, “Hyung.”

The older man looked up from his phone and gave you both a small smile. “Good job today, you two.”

You bowed your head politely as you climbed inside, brushing the hem of your dress down as best as you could before settling into the plush leather seats.

“Where to?” his manager asked, glancing at Jake.

Jake climbed in beside you, hand resting briefly on the door handle. “To our dorms,” he said shortly—his voice calm, but cold, leaving no room for negotiation.

Then, he pulled the door shut immediately, instinctively—like muscle memory after years of avoiding scandals and blurred camera flashes.

Just like that, the world outside disappeared.

The street noise, the freezing wind, the weight of being someone else’s image—all gone the moment the door sealed.

You leaned back into the seat with a quiet sigh, pulling Jake’s coat tighter around yourself as the heater hummed to life.

The leather seats were warm beneath your bare thighs, finally giving you a moment of comfort after hours under stage lights and cold air.

Jake sat beside you silently, one hand braced against the side panel as he looked out the darkened window. His jaw was clenched just slightly. You didn’t have to look to know.

You could feel it.

Still, despite the stiffness in the air, his other hand reached across your lap—not saying a word—and adjusted the seatbelt over your body gently before clicking it in place.

Then he sat back, both hands resting on his thighs. Silent.

You looked down at your lap, then back at him. “Jaeyun…”

He didn’t look at you.

Just knocked twice on the partition glass between you and the driver. “Hyung, can you raise it?”

His manager hummed in acknowledgment. “Mhm.”

The soft mechanical whir began, the glass slowly sliding up and sealing you both in the quietest, most private part of the van.

Once it clicked shut, you turned to face him again.

His expression was calm—but you knew him too well.

“…You’re upset,” you whispered.

Jake finally turned to you, his silver hair slightly tousled, that same tight-lipped smile still in place.

“Define upset,” he muttered.

Your brows furrowed at the coolness in his tone, your heart tugging just a little. But you didn’t push. Not now. Not when everything still felt this fragile.

You leaned back into the seat quietly, tucking yourself deeper into his coat, eyes focused on the dark blur of buildings passing through the tinted windows.

The silence was heavy. Louder than any words either of you could say.

Until Jake sighed—deep, long, from the chest.

His hand found your thigh, warm and grounding even through the layers of fabric, fingers splayed across your skin like he didn’t even realize he needed to touch you to breathe right.

His other hand dragged back through his hair, pushing it out of his face as he turned toward you fully.

“Look,” he started, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “I’m not mad at you, okay?”

You turned your head just slightly, eyes flickering to him without fully meeting his gaze.

“I’m upset at myself.” His jaw clenched as he looked away again. “And probably Jisung. And maybe the damn scriptwriters.”

That pulled the corner of your lip up—just barely.

He laughed under his breath, tired and half-defeated. “God, I sound stupid.”

You shook your head, whispering, “No, you don’t.”

Jake looked at you again, and this time, his eyes softened. The frustration behind them melted into something quieter—regret, maybe. Longing. Love.

“I watched you laugh with him,” he admitted, fingers tightening slightly against your thigh. “And I know it’s a job. I know. But I couldn’t stop thinking—why wasn’t it me standing next to you?”

You blinked, stunned by how small his voice had gotten.

He smiled again, softer this time. “You’re wearing my coat, but I still feel like I don’t have enough of you.”

That’s when your heart cracked wide open.

You shifted in your seat, reaching up to brush your fingers lightly across his jaw. “Jaeyun, you already have all of me.”

Jake didn’t say anything right away, just leaned into your palm like it was the only thing keeping him sane in that moment. His hand came up, gently wrapping around yours as he held it between both of his.

“Sometimes…” he murmured, eyes locked on your fingers, “I wish other people knew.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t even bitter. Just quietly aching.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Wish I could hold your hand after a show. Pull you in after interviews. Take dumb pictures with you at the beach and not have to hide your face with a damn emoji.”

Your heart clenched.

Then—softly, sweetly—he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Then another. And another.

You didn’t speak, just leaned into his warmth as he scooted closer to you on the leather seat, closing what little space had remained between you.

He rested a hand on your thigh again, familiar and gentle, then leaned down to press a lingering kiss to your forehead.

You sighed, eyes fluttering shut. “I know.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was full. Quiet. Safe.

His chin rested against the top of your head, the rhythm of his breathing slowly syncing with yours. One of your hands played with his fingers, tracing the lines in his palm, the subtle scar near his knuckle, the calluses he always pretended weren’t from dancing.

Then—your voice broke the stillness.

“So…” you said, lips quirking up just slightly. “How much did you pay your manager to not say anything about us?”

Jake laughed, the sound vibrating against your back as he pulled you even closer into his side. “What makes you think I had to pay him?”

You tilted your head up. “You didn’t?”

“Nah.” He grinned. “He trusts me not to mess up.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Big risk, honestly.”

Jake gasped dramatically. “Wow. Is that how low you think of me?”

You snorted, leaning into his chest. “Just honesty, baby.”

He chuckled, then went quiet for a moment. His hand moved again—this time to your waist, fingers curling just enough to make your heart skip a beat.

Then, with his cheek resting against your temple, he whispered,

“Stay for the night.”

You blinked.

“What?”

“I said,” he repeated, quieter, “stay tonight. At the dorms.”

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. “Jake—”

He reached up to tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, voice soft but sure.

“They won’t be home until eleven,” he said. “They’re celebrating our win tonight—probably stuffing themselves with fried chicken and tteokbokki somewhere downtown.”

You blinked, brows raising. “And you’re not with them… why, exactly, Sim Jaeyun?”

Jake grinned sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Because,” he said, scooting even closer, “I have to make it up to my girlfriend. Who I know misses me.”

You tried to stay annoyed—tried—but the smile broke through before you could stop it.

“Misses you?” you teased. “You’re that confident, huh?”

Jake leaned forward until your noses almost touched, his hand curling around your waist again.

“Baby,” he murmured, lips brushing yours. “You always miss me.”

You laughed, hand coming up to shove lightly at his chest. “Shut up.”

He caught your hand and kissed your knuckles. “So is that a yes?”

You gave him a mock-suspicious look. “You better not make me climb in through the window.”

Jake gasped. “What do you take me for? A criminal?”

“A very determined one,” you muttered under your breath, earning a snort from him.

You paused for a second, then nodded.

“Okay,” you whispered. “I’ll stay.”

Jake lit up like someone had just handed him a win bigger than any trophy. “Really?”

You smiled, brushing your fingers through his silver hair.

“Yeah,” you said. “Just promise you won’t let me get caught. Or killed.”

“No promises on the second part,” he joked, helping you buckle your seatbelt again. “But the first? Swear on my next win.”

You rolled your eyes affectionately. “You’re so dramatic.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder as the van started moving again, whispering into the warm fabric of his shirt,

“Unfortunately.”

He grinned down at you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“Fortunately,” he corrected.

Jake was the first to unbuckle his seatbelt, already moving to slide the van door open before the car had even fully stopped.

“Come on, baby,” he said, holding a hand out for you.

You took it with a smile, hopping down carefully onto the pavement. “Thank you.”

He grinned, helping you steady yourself as you adjusted your short white dress and heels, his hand firm but warm in yours. You turned to bow slightly toward the driver’s seat.

“Thanks for today, manager-nim!”

Jake added, “Drive safe, hyung!”

The van rolled off the driveway and disappeared around the bend just as the two of you made your way up the steps of the dorm building.

The moment the door clicked open, you both instinctively slipped off your shoes, trying to make as little noise as possible.

You cradled your heels in one hand, Jake’s fingers still loosely linked with yours as he nudged the door closed behind him with his foot.

“Ugh,” you sighed in relief, flexing your toes once your feet touched the cool wooden floor. “I swear those heels are from the devil.”

Jake laughed quietly, reaching out to take them from you.

“Give me those, princess. You’ll twist an ankle just walking to my room.”

“Wow,” you blinked, lips twitching. “I didn’t know I was dating someone who cared so deeply about foot health.”

“You’re dating someone who wants you in one piece,” he quipped, and carefully set your heels near the door before shrugging off his coat and yours—hanging it neatly on the rack.

“Also,” he turned back to you with a cheeky glint in his eye, “who wants you to last long enough to go for round two later.”

“Jaeyun!” you hissed, smacking his arm playfully.

He laughed, that dimpled grin so blinding it made your heart lurch.

“What?” he said innocently, following you into the hallway. “Just saying.”

You didn’t reply—just threw him a look over your shoulder as you both passed the dimly lit living room, quiet except for the hum of the fridge.

“So?” Jake asked, nudging you lightly with his elbow. “What do you want for dinner, my lady?”

“I want,” you replied, pushing his arm playfully, “us to change first before we even think about dinner.”

Jake clicked his tongue but nodded. “Fair.”

He reached for the doorknob of his room, opening it for you like always, and you were immediately greeted by the faint hum of the air conditioner and a familiar, calming scent that drifted out with it—fresh linen, hints of vanilla, and something uniquely Jake.

You stepped in, letting your shoulders sag a little in relief, smiling when the cold air hit your skin. Jake walked over to the remote and clicked the aircon a notch higher.

“Better?” he asked, glancing back at you.

“Much.” You flopped down onto the edge of his bed, dress fanning out around your thighs. The mattress dipped beneath you as you leaned back on your hands, watching as he walked over to his closet.

“Have you been using those candles I gave you?” you asked casually, nose crinkling as you inhaled. “Smells like the linen one.”

Jake grinned. “Of course I’ve been using them.”

He pulled out a pair of white sweatpants and a black oversized shirt from the shelf—familiar pieces that smelled like home, and walked over, placing them gently on your lap. The shirt was soft and worn, the kind you always stole after practice or filming.

“Here. These should fit my fairy,” he teased, before holding up a separate set in his other hand for himself.

You looked down at the clothes with a soft smile. “Still using the lavender vanilla one too?”

Jake rolled his eyes affectionately as he turned toward his dresser. “Yeah. And Sunghoon keeps asking where I got them.”

You laughed. “Let me guess—you’re gatekeeping it?”

“Absolutely.” He pulled off his vest and tossed it into the laundry bin. “Told him I bought it at some random underground boutique in France.”

You snorted. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m the best,” he corrected smugly, tugging his shirt off and tossing it over the desk chair. “At keeping you to myself.”

Your heart stuttered at that—but the way he said it was so casual, so sure, like it wasn’t a confession but a truth carved in stone.

You bit your lip, clutching the soft shirt he gave you a little tighter.

“…Then I guess I’ll let you keep being the best,” you whispered.

Jake turned to look at you then—bare-chested, smile crooked, silver hair messy from undressing—and his gaze softened even more.

“Yeah?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You nodded.

He crossed the room to press a kiss to your temple, eyes closing for a second longer than usual.

“Then let me keep you for a long, long time,” he whispered.

You hummed lazily, lips brushing against the slope of his shoulder. “Mmm, you’re so cheesy.”

Jake laughed—soft and low—and pulled away just enough to finish changing, shrugging off his dress pants and swapping them out for a familiar pair of gray sweatpants that hung loose on his hips.

You watched him for a second, dazed and full of quiet admiration, before unzipping your own dress and letting the fabric slide down your frame.

You pulled his oversized black shirt over your head, its scent already calming you, and stepped into the white sweatpants he gave earlier—cool, soft, and warm all at once.

You sighed contentedly, fingers tugging the waistband up as you padded across the floor toward where Jake was now placing his rings gently back into a clear Tiffany & Co. display case near his dresser.

Without saying anything, you wrapped your arms around his waist from behind, cheek resting against the bare skin of his back.

Jake paused, a small smile forming on his lips.

“Stealing my warmth already?” he teased.

“Mhm,” you mumbled. “And your rings.”

Jake let out a quiet chuckle, reaching for your hand as he gently slid the rings off your fingers one by one.

“These belong to me,” he said playfully, placing them into a small black velvet pouch and tying it shut with care.

“You do know I was just borrowing them,” you joked, watching as he turned around slowly, fingers reaching up to the heavy silver chain still clasped around your neck.

“Too heavy,” he murmured, his voice gentle, as he unhooked it and let it drop into his palm. “You’ll get a line.”

He reached next for your earrings, carefully removing each one before placing them on the tray near his nightstand.

“All done,” he said quietly.

You looked up at him and leaned in to press a soft, thankful kiss to his cheek.

Jake smiled. His eyes softened.

Then he grabbed your hand and gave it a gentle tug. “C’mon, pretty. Let’s wash up first before we even think about eating.”

He peeked out of the room like a spy in a movie, checking both sides of the hallway with unnecessary caution. You couldn’t help but burst out laughing.

“Jaeyun,” you giggled, tugging at his arm, “we literally have the place to ourselves. Calm down, Jakey.”

He snorted. “You never know. Heeseung-hyung has this weird habit of forgetting his wallet and coming back at the worst times.”

You rolled your eyes fondly as he led you to the bathroom, flicking the light on with one hand while still keeping the other loosely laced with yours.

The familiar space was already warm and a little foggy from earlier showers—soft light bouncing off the white tiles and mirror.

You opened one of the lower drawers to grab your wipes, while Jake reached for the cleanser and the matching bottle of serum you both liked to share—one he originally gatekept until you caught him using it behind your back.

“I still can’t believe you let me use this now,” you teased, tugging out a wipe and gently starting on your eye makeup.

Jake raised a brow. “Let you? I only let you because you caught me and guilted me into it with that cute pout.”

You grinned. “You love the pout.”

“…Unfortunately,” he muttered with a fake grumble, though the curve of his lips betrayed him.

After both of you finished wiping your makeup off, you leaned over the sink, pumping the cleanser into your hands and working it into a soft foam.

The cold water hit your skin as you washed in slow circles, only for you to suddenly pull back with a sharp, annoyed sigh.

Jake turned mid-serum application, worry flickering across his face. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I forgot to bring a hair tie,” you grumbled, blinking as a bit of foam ran dangerously close to your eyes.

Without missing a beat, Jake gently stepped behind you, lifting your hair and holding it back with one hand while his other rested lightly on your shoulder.

“There,” he murmured. “Pretty face, clear and safe.”

You peeked at him through the mirror, cheeks flushing. “Thanks, Jakey.”

“I accept tips,” he whispered cheekily, leaning down to press a kiss just behind your ear.

When you were both done—skin fresh, damp, and glowing—you padded out of the bathroom with matching oversized shirts and sweats, your hair in a lazy towel wrap and Jake’s slightly damp from rinsing.

You flopped down onto the plush couch in the living room, letting your limbs melt into the cushions as he turned on the TV.

Jake joined you a second later, slumping beside you with a soft groan.

“You act like we ran a marathon,” you said, giggling.

���We basically did,” he mumbled. “Hours of performing, pretending not to be jealous on live television, and acting like I’m not obsessed with my girlfriend? That’s a full-time job.”

You laughed, curling into his side as he grabbed the remote and scrolled through Netflix. “You’re dramatic.”

“And you love it,” he replied, draping an arm over your shoulder and pulling you closer.

You rested your head on his chest, smiling softly as the sound of your favorite show’s intro filled the room. Your legs tangled together without a second thought, his fingers lazily tracing shapes on your arm.

Then Jake shifted a little and pulled his phone from the pocket of his gray sweats, wordlessly offering it to you.

His eyes never left the TV screen as he scrolled through Netflix with the remote, looking for something the both of you could watch—something with minimal heartbreak and lots of food scenes, per your usual shared preference.

You took his phone with a tiny smile, unlocking it easily with your birthday—something he never changed, even when you teased him about how predictable it was.

Your smile widened at the homescreen.

It was a candid photo of you, holding Layla in your lap at his parents’ house back in Korea. Your hair was tied messily, and you were mid-laugh, Layla’s head tilted up as if smiling with you.

“You and Layla are tied for the love of my life,” and you’d almost dropped her from laughing too hard.

Your chest warmed as you opened the food delivery app and tapped in your usual go-tos: tteokbokki, kimchi jeon, kimbap, and some japchae. All comfort food, all your favorites. You placed the order with practiced ease before glancing over at him.

“Do you want me to cook some ramyeon, too?” you asked, thumb hovering over the app to cancel the last item if needed.

Jake looked over at you with a lazy, tired smile, still slouched on the couch. “If it’s not too much, yeah. Your ramen always tastes better than mine.”

You rolled your eyes fondly and leaned in to press a quick kiss to his jaw. “It’s never too much for you.”

He exhaled softly, watching you with a look in his eyes that felt like warm sunbeams filtering through sheer curtains.

His gaze followed you as you stood up and padded toward the kitchen in his oversized shirt and sweats, the towel from your hair now resting on your shoulders.

Jake shook his head slightly, that soft, smitten smile creeping up on his lips again as he muttered to himself, “I’m really lucky.”

He didn’t even realize he’d said it out loud.

From the kitchen, your voice floated back playfully, “I heard that, Jakey.”

He grinned, sinking deeper into the couch with a chuckle. “Yeah? Good.”

Heeseung sighed as he slipped his key into the dorm door, brows furrowing at the already unlocked knob.

“Seriously, Jaeyun…” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head. “One day you’re gonna get us all robbed.”

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, the soft hum of the TV greeting him like background noise. A low-volume English movie was playing, the kind you’d only keep on if you weren’t really paying attention—comfort noise, more than anything. The apartment was dim, bathed in the glow of the television.

Behind him, the rest of the members began piling out of the black van, voices low and tired but still carrying the hum of post-performance energy.

“Thanks, hyung!” Sunoo chirped to their manager.

“We’ll wash up and crash soon,” Jungwon added with a nod, stretching his arms over his head.

“Finally,” Ni-ki groaned. “My feet are legally dead.”

Heeseung waved them in without looking. “Door’s already open. Guess someone forgot again.”

“Jake,” Jay muttered immediately. “Definitely Jake.”

The boys shuffled down the short hallway one by one as Heeseung veered off into the living room. His steps were slow, calm—until he caught sight of something that made him stop in his tracks.

The first thing he noticed were the empty plates. Neatly stacked and pushed aside on the coffee table. Two bowls—two—with traces of spicy ramen clinging to the sides. A small dipping tray with leftover tteokbokki sauce. And a blanket crumpled up near the floor.

That in itself wasn’t suspicious. Until—Heeseung did a double take.

There, curled up on the couch, was Jake. Nothing unusual, except the unmistakable figure curled up against him. Long hair splayed against his chest, smaller frame tucked into his side, legs tangled under the blanket.

Your figure.

Heeseung’s jaw dropped open. “Oh my god.”

“What?” Sunghoon yawned, stepping in behind him. “Hyung, why are you—”

“Shhh!” Heeseung threw an arm out to block him, still staring like he was witnessing a crime scene.

“What the hell?” Jay whispered, peering over his shoulder. “No way.”

Footsteps shuffled behind them as Jungwon finally caught up, Ni-ki at his side. The leader leaned in to see and froze.

“…I don’t know if I should be happy,” Jungwon whispered slowly, “or angry.”

Ni-ki blinked once, then twice. “What the f—”

“Language,” Jay muttered automatically, slapping a hand across Ni-ki’s chest.

Ni-ki raised both hands in surrender, lips pressed in a thin line. “Sorry. But seriously. What the hell.”

“Jesus,” Jungwon mumbled, clearly rethinking every single interaction he’d seen between the two of you over the past few months.

Sunoo peeked from behind the cluster of members, voice hushed and scandalized. “Is that really (Y/N)-noona?”

Sungoon rolled his eyes. “Do you know any other (Y/N)’s?”

“…Point made,” Sunoo muttered.

Heeseung, still standing stiffly near the couch, finally exhaled and bent down, motioning for Jay to help. “Come on. Let’s at least clean this mess before one of them wakes up and dies from embarrassment.”

Jay stepped forward wordlessly, carefully stacking the empty bowls while glancing nervously at Jake—who, despite the movement, didn’t budge.

Sunghoon led the others toward the kitchen, everyone walking on the balls of their feet like they were performing.

Jungwon clutched the fridge door like a lifeline, staring back toward the couch every few seconds with wide eyes.

He let out a long, almost silent sigh. “Well… there goes the no dating policy.”

Jay and Heeseung—now quietly rinsing the dishes in the sink, shared a glance.

Heeseung scoffed under his breath and mumbled, “Can’t believe Jake got a girlfriend before me.”

Jay snorted softly. “You? I’m more shocked he didn’t fumble it.”

Heeseung gave him a look.

Sungoon, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen counter beside Sunoo, chuckled into the back of his hand. “So,” he whispered to Jungwon, “what are we gonna do about this?”

Ni-ki popped his head over from where he was crouched behind the kitchen island. “Pray,” he deadpanned, “that Jungwon-hyung doesn’t kill Jake-hyung in the morning.”

Jungwon finally opened the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water just for something to hold. “In addition to that,” he muttered, eyes narrowed, “interrogate the two of them. Thoroughly.”

Heeseung let out a quiet breath, drying his hands on a nearby towel as he leaned against the counter. “Well… whatever happens tomorrow, they’re both adults,” he said simply, his voice calm but firm.

“And whatever happens, happens. We’re still one group either way.”

The room fell silent for a beat—quiet acceptance settling like dust in the air—as the others nodded.

Jay, now finished rinsing the last bowl, placed it gently into the drying rack and closed the dishwasher with a soft click. “He’s right,” he muttered. “We’d be idiots to make this a bigger deal than it is.”

Sunoo, standing beside him, hummed in agreement. “Still… I can’t believe it.” He rested his elbows on the counter, chin in his hand. “(Y/N)-noona’s so nice and pretty and cool—how the hell did Jake-hyung pull her?”

Sunghoon snorted from where he sat swinging his feet from the counter. “He probably whined his way into her heart.”

Jay laughed under his breath. “No, seriously, he must’ve begged.”

Ni-ki raised a brow. “Didn’t he used to say he wasn’t gonna date till his thirties?”

“Exactly,” Sunoo added, incredulous. “Now look at him. Cuddled up like a human-sized golden retriever.”

Jungwon, still holding his water bottle, glanced over his shoulder toward the living room again. His lips pressed together before he sighed for what felt like the tenth time that night.

“Alright,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Come on. Let’s clean ourselves up too.”

He made one last glance toward the couch—his leader instincts kicking in even now—watching Jake’s chest rise and fall in sync with yours.

The blanket had slipped a little, and your cheek was pressed against his collarbone, his arm protectively wrapped around you like he’d never learned how to let go.

Jungwon blinked, then turned away without a word and disappeared into the hallway toward the shared bathroom.

Jake stirred under the blanket with a low groan, his arms instinctively wrapping tighter around your waist as if to keep you glued to him. “Mmm… five more minutes,” he murmured sleepily, face nuzzling into your neck.

You blinked once—twice.

Sunlight was already pouring into the room from the slightly parted curtains, casting golden streaks over the wooden floors and across Jake’s bare arm.

The soft sizzle of something on a pan echoed in the quiet, paired with the sound of light humming and—

“—I’m just saying! I saw this clip last night of (Y/N)-noona saying she loves strawberries on pancakes, so I brought these!” Sunoo’s voice, cheerful and light, rang through the dorm as he held up a bowl full of washed strawberries.

You froze.

You lifted your head just slightly and—right there in the kitchen, plain as day, stood Jay flipping pancakes like a pro, while Sunoo babbled beside him like a happy fox with a mission.

You panicked internally, turning to Jake and whispering urgently, “Jake. Jake, wake up.”

“Mmf,” came the lazy reply.

You poked his side. “Jake, wake up. Now.”

He groaned again, brows furrowing in protest as he slowly opened his eyes. “Huh…? Wha—”

And then it hit him.

He blinked once—twice.

His eyes widened. “Wait. Morning?”

You nodded grimly.

He sat up so fast the blanket slipped from his shoulders, revealing his messy bed hair and oversized shirt. “Holy shit—”

“Language!” Jay called out from the kitchen, not even looking.

Jake whipped his head around. “They’re here?!”

“Have been,” you muttered, quickly fixing your hair and glancing down at your slightly wrinkled sweatpants. “We’re dead.”

Jay finally turned around from the stove, flipping another perfect pancake onto a plate, a smirk curling on his lips. “Nice of you two to finally wake up.”

Sunoo beamed as he placed the strawberries on the counter. “Good morning, lovebirds!”

Jake groaned and covered his face. “Kill me now.”

You elbowed him gently, cheeks red. “You promised to avoid scandals. This is not how you do it.”

Ni-ki popped out of his room at the exact worst time, a controller in each hand and bed hair still flattened on one side. “Yo, hyung, rematch now or you’re—”

He trailed off the second he saw you and Jake on the couch, eyes slowly widening in comedic horror. “Oh, hey.”

Behind him, Heeseung strolled out casually with a yawn, only to stop dead in his tracks, blinking at the sight in front of him. “…So it wasn’t a dream.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Sunghoon muttered, stepping out of the bathroom with a towel slung over his shoulder. He gave the two a deadpan glare. “Put the controllers down. We have a guest. Have some shame.”

Your face burned hotter than ever as you buried half your face into the couch pillow, praying for the leather cushions to open up and swallow you whole. The embarrassment was suffocating.

Jake sighed beside you, wiping a hand over his face and trying to contain his own grin. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” the rest of the guys chorused back—way too casual, way too smug.

Heeseung leaned against the hallway wall, arms crossed, sending Jake a pointed, knowing look like the older brother who knew exactly what went down. “Hope the ramen was worth it.”

Jake clicked his tongue. “Hyung,” he muttered under his breath, but he was already standing, fingers slipping around yours as he gently tugged you up from the couch. “C’mon. Let’s get you freshened up.”

You followed reluctantly, clutching the sleeves of your borrowed black shirt, whispering, “They all saw me. Oh my god, I’m never going to live this down.”

Jake let out a soft laugh, spinning to face you halfway down the hall, his hand still around yours. “Hey,” he said gently, “you look really cute in my clothes, for the record.”

You pouted, eyes still wide from humiliation. “Sim Jaeyun. I am suffering.”

He only grinned wider before tugging you into his arms, his chin resting atop your head. “You’ll survive, baby. Promise.”

“Are you sure?” you mumbled into his chest.

“Positive.” He kissed the crown of your head. “And if not… I’ll bribe Sunoo with skincare to never mention it again.”

You giggled despite yourself as he finally pulled you down the hall again, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “Now hurry,” he teased. “Before they start asking graphic questions.”

You gasped. “They wouldn’t.”

Jake snorted. “Oh, they would.”

And unfortunately, you knew he was absolutely right.

After a quick but cozy skincare session—him washing the foam off your cheeks with a towel while mumbling, “you missed a spot, baby,” and you dabbing toner on his face while he scrunched his nose—you finally took a deep breath and opened the bathroom door, bracing yourself.

As you stepped into the hallway together, Jake right at your side, the sound of chatter and the smell of pancakes still filled the dorm.

You barely made it three steps into the kitchen when you were immediately ambushed.

“Noona!”

Sunoo popped right in front of you, face lit up like a puppy that just saw a treat. “Good morning! I made extra strawberries because I heard you like them,” he beamed, holding up a plate already sliced perfectly into little hearts.

“Also—does that mud mask Jake hyung uses actually work? Because your skin is glowing right now and I need answers.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, heart melting at his sweet energy. “Sunoo, you’re seriously the cutest,” you giggled, letting him gently tug you toward the dining table like a proud little brother showing off. “And yes, it does work. I’ll make you a list later, okay?”

“Yes!” he cheered, pulling out a chair for you right beside him like a gentleman. “I’m gonna be flawless by next comeback.”

Jake watched from across the table, resting his chin on his palm, a fond smile tugging at his lips.

His eyes never left you—especially not as you teased Sunoo about the heart-shaped strawberries or pointed out a bit of whipped cream on the corner of his mouth.

“Someone’s soft,” Jay muttered from beside him, but Jake didn’t even deny it.

You glanced up for a second and met Jake’s gaze. He gave you a tiny wink.

“Alright,” Jungwon finally spoke, sitting at the table with his arms crossed and a suspicious smile tugging at his lips. “So… (Y/N)-noona, huh?”

Jake paused mid-chew.

The table went quiet, everyone turning to look at him like they were waiting for a big reveal on a drama show.

You felt your palms begin to sweat under the table as your gaze flickered toward Jungwon—the second youngest but also the most responsible. He sighed, running a hand through his slightly messy red hair, the weight of the silence pressing down on his shoulders.

“…Since when?” he finally asked, tone calm but serious.

You bit your lip, glancing at Jake who only gave you a small nod of reassurance before you turned back to Jungwon and quietly said,

“Almost seven months.”

The collective reaction was immediate.

“Seven months?!” Sunoo turned to you with wide eyes, nearly dropping his chopsticks. “That long?!”

“Wow,” Heeseung muttered from the counter, crossing his arms over his chest as a teasing grin tugged at his lips. “It’s that serious, huh?”

Jake didn’t hesitate.

“Well… yeah,” he said, setting down his fork as he leaned forward a bit, voice more sincere than ever. “She’s my first girlfriend and everything.”

You blinked at the weight of those words.

“Actually,” Jake added with a small, shy smile, “she’s already met my family.”

Ni-ki, who had been stuffing a strawberry into his mouth, paused mid-bite and turned. “Even Layla?”

You grinned, placing your chin in your palm. “Yeah. Even Layla.”

Jake beamed at the memory, clearly fond. “Layla liked her more than she likes me now. Traitor.”

The table laughed again, lighter this time, the tension slowly lifting.

“Well,” you added with a soft shrug, “he also met mine. So… fair game.”

Jay raised a brow. “Met the parents on both sides? Damn.”

Jake shrugged, a sheepish but genuine smile tugging at his lips. “Well… it was getting serious after the promos for the Dimension album,” he said, fiddling with the fork on his plate, eyes flicking up to yours for a second. “And I guess we just… decided to really commit from there.”

You looked at him, heart tugging a little at how sincere he still managed to sound—even surrounded by teasing members and leftover pancake crumbs. You gave him a small, knowing smile before turning your gaze back to the boys.

“And now I’m here,” you said lightly, gesturing to the dorm with an exaggerated flair. “In my sunbaenim’s dorm. How romantic.”

That made Jungwon actually laugh—like, full-on, head-thrown-back laugh that caught even him off guard. He set his drink down and wiped at his eyes.

“Oh, come on,” he chuckled, voice a little higher from amusement. “We bump into each other at HYBE all the time.”

You raised a brow, smirking. “That’s different than seeing me asleep next to your member in pajama pants, leader-nim.”

The table burst into laughter again.

“She got you there,” Sunghoon muttered, smirking behind his cup.

“Yeah,” Ni-ki added with a cackle, pointing between you and Jake. “Waking up to your hyung spooning a girl is wild.”

Jake groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay, okay—can everyone stop visualizing it now?”

Sunoo burst out laughing, his eyes crinkling into crescents as he placed a gentle hand on your arm. “Well, no more secrets from you, hyung. You need to share Noona now.”

Before you could even respond, the sunshine boy flung his arms around you in a warm hug.

You laughed, surprised but happy, returning the hug just as tightly. “Sunoo-yah, you’re such a baby,” you giggled.

Jake rolled his eyes with a groan, pointing his fork toward the two of you. “That—that right there—is exactly what I was afraid of.”

Ni-ki snorted mid-chew. “Better get used to it, hyung.”

“You all are so dramatic,” you laughed, ruffling Sunoo’s hair before he settled back down, still beaming. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Heeseung raised a mug toward you, smirking over the rim. “Well, welcome to the family, (Y/N). Officially.”

Jake muttered under his breath, “This was not how I planned the soft launch.”

Jay raised a brow. “Soft launch? Bro, we caught you two asleep on the couch like a married couple.”

Jungwon, now finally relaxed, let out a real laugh. “Well, at least you both look happy.”

You glanced at Jake, who was still playing with his fork but met your eyes with a soft, genuine smile—the kind that said you were worth the risk.

You smiled right back, heart full. “We are.”

The waiting room was buzzing with staff, idols, and camera crews, but you were barely focused on any of it.

Your stylist clipped a small mic to the neckline of your basketball jersey—matching Eunchae’s, except instead of shorts, you had a pleated tennis skirt hugging your hips. Your hair was pulled back with soft clips, giving you that preppy-athletic vibe.

You fiddled with the hem of your skirt and turned to Eunchae. “Is it really okay for me to be here? Like… co-hosting?”

“Yes, unnie!” Eunchae beamed, tugging lightly at your hand like an excited puppy. “You’re my member and my unofficial emotional support girlie. Now make it official!”

You couldn’t help but laugh. “I guess that makes me your co-host for the day?”

“Exactly.” Eunchae turned the handheld camera toward the two of you. “Hello everyone! Welcome to Eunchae’s Star Diary!” she said brightly, waving into the lens.

“Today is super special because—” she paused dramatically and pointed to you, “I’m with one of my unnies from Le Sserafim! A co-host, perhaps.”

You smiled and waved, voice light. “Hi everyone! I was dragged into this but I’m actually really excited. I’ve never done something like this before.”

“You’re going to be amazing,” Eunchae encouraged, slinging an arm around your shoulder as the two of you began walking through the Music Bank hallway.

“And for the first time, we’re going to be interviewing seniors from our very own company.”

“Oh no,” you laughed, already sensing where this was going. “I already have a feeling I know who…”

You didn’t even finish the thought when a blur of white streaked past the corner of your vision.

All brown hair, soft puppy eyes, and that unmistakable white stage outfit with silver trimming—Jake.

He zoomed right past you and Eunchae like a cartoon character, nearly colliding with a passing staff member before yanking open a door just a few feet ahead.

‘ENHYPEN’s Waiting Room,’ the label on the placard read clearly.

The door slammed shut behind him with a thud.

You and Eunchae both stood there blinking for a second, eyes wide. Then slowly—almost in sync—you turned to look at each other and burst out laughing.

“Did… did he just—” Eunchae started, breathless from laughing.

“Run for his life?” you finished, still wheezing. “Yes. Yes, he did.”

Eunchae reached out and gently placed her palm under the little hanging nameplate stuck to the dressing room door.

“Yes, our esteemed guests for today… are none other than ENHYPEN-sunbaenim,” she declared in her best announcer voice, even pointing toward their printed group photo that was taped just under the sign.

You stepped beside her, brushing invisible lint off your skirt like a proper MC. “They seem a little… unprepared.”

“That’s our cue!” Eunchae laughed, raising her fist and knocking twice.

A loud, scrambling noise came from inside the room—chairs scooting, someone knocking over what sounded like a bag of chips, someone else hissing “Get your jacket on, now—”

And then, a voice rang out—loud and unmistakably dramatic.

“WAIT—WAIT—WAIT!”

You slapped a hand over your mouth to stop yourself from laughing. Eunchae doubled over beside you.

“That was Sunghoon, right?” she whispered.

“Definitely Sunghoon,” you replied, biting back a grin.

Another voice chimed in from inside, this one suspiciously Jake-sounding: “Hyung, it’s just them!”

“No, no—give me like ten more seconds, I swear I can fix my hair!”

You and Eunchae looked at the camera, fully breaking the fourth wall.

“Yeah… they’re our stars for today,” you announced with a playful sigh, gesturing grandly to the now panic-filled room behind the door.

You knocked again, this time more gently. “Can we come in now…?” you called through the door.

A beat of silence. Then Jungwon’s voice came through, a bit too composed.

“Yes! You can come in now.”

You opened the door.

And immediately closed it again.

They were all staring at you—you turned to Eunchae, wide-eyed. “Wait. I’m nervous.”

Eunchae gave you a shove toward the door. “You literally know all of them!”

You hissed, “Yeah, that’s the problem!”

Still, you opened it again with a sheepish smile as the cameras followed you two in. “Hello!” you both chorused, bowing politely. “We’re from Le Sserafim—thank you for having us today.”

The boys all bowed back, slightly out of sync, still recovering from the earlier chaos.

Eunchae brightened up, turning to them. “What were you guys doing before we barged in?”

Heeseung scratched the back of his neck and smiled. “We were about to eat, actually.”

You gasped softly. “Ah, we’re so sorry—did we come too early?”

Sunoo waved a hand. “It’s okay! We weren’t really eating yet.”

“Only planning to,” Jay added with a soft chuckle.

Sunghoon, Heeseung, and Jake stood up from the couch then, brushing themselves off as you and Eunchae gently motioned for them to follow toward the set for the interview.

The walk to the next room was filled with a strange tension—one part professional courtesy, one part trying to ignore the very real fact that you had three ENHYPEN members you’d been close with for two years, walking beside you like you were strangers on camera. You fiddled with your mic pack to distract yourself.

It was Sunghoon who finally broke the silence. “We’re usually not this quiet,” he said, glancing at you and Eunchae with a crooked smile.

You snorted before you could stop yourself. “Really? I couldn’t tell.”

Jake gave a breathy laugh beside him and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sorry for the awkward vibes… We’re just not used to being interviewed by someone we—uh, we’re familiar with.”

You all chuckled at that as you entered the interview room. It was cozy, almost sleepover-like—blankets, pillows, fairy lights on the walls, and small cushions set up on the floor around a low table.

“Oooh, this is cute,” Eunchae said, making her way to one of the cushions.

You took your place beside her, the designated MCs for today, as the members began settling down on the opposite side—Jake sitting directly across from you with the smallest smile, like he was trying not to break into a full grin.

Eunchae, ever the bubbly host, clapped her hands once. “Okay! Let’s start with introductions! We have three very handsome guests today, so… one by one, please?”

Heeseung leaned forward, voice smooth. “Hello everyone, I’m Heeseung from ENHYPEN.”

Sunghoon followed right after. “Hi, I’m Sunghoon. It’s nice to be here!”

Jake smiled with his eyes. “And I’m Jake. Thanks for having us today.”

You nodded along, doing your best to stay composed despite the fact that your boyfriend was sitting across from you looking far too boyfriend-coded.

“It’s honestly fun having guests on the show,” Eunchae chimed. “Especially today—because I’m not alone in the waiting room for once. Usually I just film solo with a tripod and a camera.”

You giggled, nodding. “Yeah, I’ve seen those. You really hold it down on your own.”

Sunghoon grinned. “I get it, though. I used to be an MC here before you, (Y/N). There were days I’d just sit alone waiting for filming to start. Felt like I was talking to myself half the time.”

“Exactly!” you said, laughing. “There are days I miss my members a lot—when it’s just you and your thoughts before cameras roll.”

Eunchae let out a dramatic sigh and scooted closer to your side, plopping her head gently on your shoulder. “That’s why I’m so happy you’re here today, unnie.”

“Aww,” you whispered with a soft smile, nudging her affectionately.

But before you could say more, a voice from behind the camera called out—one of the PDs, teasing and half-laughing.

“But (Y/N)’s not alone anymore, right?”

You blinked, confused. “Huh?”

Another staff member added, “Don’t you share a waiting room with Jisung from NCT now?”

The entire room changed in atmosphere.

You let out a nervous laugh, scratching the back of your neck as you glanced toward the camera. “Ah… well, technically, yes. I mean—we’re just co-MCs.”

Heeseung tried to chuckle along with you, but it came out more awkward than anything. “Yeah, yeah… they’re, uh, a funny duo.”

Sunghoon raised a brow and tilted his head slightly, eyes flickering between you and Jake.

Jake didn’t laugh.

He didn’t speak either—his expression unreadable for a split second before he dipped his head down, pretending to fiddle with the mic clipped to his shirt.

Eunchae, ever the angel, picked up on the shift and quickly added, “Well, either way—it’s more fun having all of you here now! Especially since we get to interview sunbaes from the same company!”

Jake cleared his throat, voice low as he shifted in his seat. “So… what are we doing today?” he asked, looking straight at you, eyes unreadable despite the slight upward tug of his lips.

You matched his expression with a tight smile of your own, schooling your features before glancing at the cue card in your hand.

“Well,” you began, keeping your tone light, “it’s finally here. You had your comeback after what—ten months, right?”

All three boys nodded, and Sunghoon added with a laugh, “Yeah, it feels like it’s been forever.”

“It really has,” Heeseung said. “We’ve been preparing for months. We’re so happy to finally show everyone what we’ve worked on.”

You nodded, stealing a side glance at Jake. He was quiet, fingers laced together in his lap, gaze trained on you but not quite meeting your eyes.

“So tell us about the album,” you continued, tapping the cue card with your finger. “Dark Blood—sounds intense.”

“It is,” Jake finally answered, voice more even now. “It’s our third mini album, and probably one of our most emotionally driven ones. It dives into sacrifice, longing, and… a bit of darkness.”

He gave the camera a practiced smile. “The concept really pushed us, and we’re proud of it.”

Eunchae clapped lightly. “Ooooh! What are your favorite tracks from it?”

“I really love ‘Bills,’” Heeseung answered immediately. “It was the first track we recorded for this album, and I think it set the tone.”

Sunghoon followed right after. “Same here. ‘Bills’ just… hits. The melody’s addictive and it’s fun to perform on stage.”

Eunchae beamed. “Ooh, I like that one too!”

Jake, seated between them, shifted slightly, then leaned forward just enough for his voice to carry with a smoother tone. “I’d say my favorite is ‘Sacrifice (Eat Me Up).’”

He didn’t look at the camera.

He looked at you.

And he kept looking at you as he added, “It’s about giving every part of yourself—body, soul, emotions—until there’s nothing left. It’s intense, a little dangerous.”

He smiled, almost too casually, fingers clasped together in his lap. “It shows what devotion really means.”

The air shifted.

Your hand twitched over your cue card.

Eunchae nodded enthusiastically, completely missing the way your back stiffened. “That one’s my favorite too! Especially the chorus—so catchy!”

You cleared your throat, gripping your cue cards tighter. “Well,” you began, casting a brief glance Jake’s way before quickly looking down again, “I have to agree with Jake. ‘Sacrifice’ really stood out to me too.”

Eunchae turned to you and clapped her hands excitedly. “See? Great minds think alike!”

Your lips curved into a smile, even as your heart stuttered in your chest. Jake’s expression didn’t change—still calm, still composed—but his eyes held something deeper. Something territorial.

Was he still hung up on Jisung? Or was he just reminding everyone who knew you were his?

You weren’t sure whether to feel flattered or worried.

You stood near the side of the waiting room, arms crossed as you watched Jake quietly sling his bag over his shoulder.

Not a word was said, but you could feel it—the subtle shift in his energy. Polite, detached, not cold exactly, just a little too quiet for Jake.

“Hyung, see you later!” Ni-ki called while tying the laces of his sneakers.

“Bye, Jake-hyung! Bye, (Y/N)-noona!” Sunoo added, waving at you with both hands from the makeup chair, eyes crinkling as the stylist gently wiped off the remainder of his eyeliner.

You smiled and waved back, offering a soft, “Bye, Sunoo.”

Heeseung gave you a small nod and a knowing look—like he already sensed the storm brewing.

Jake only muttered, “Bye, guys,” under his breath before reaching for your hand and leading you out the door.

His grip was firm. Not rough, not rushed. But definitely, deliberate.

You said nothing as the two of you walked through the quieter halls of the building, only the soft thuds of your footsteps filling the space.

When you reached the back exit, your van was already waiting—your manager at the wheel, scrolling through her phone with one hand on the steering wheel.

She gave Jake a polite smile. “Evening, Jake.”

“Evening, noona,” he replied, opening the heavy side door for you.

You climbed in without a word, the plush leather seats greeting you with too much silence. Jake followed right after and closed the door behind him—shutting out the world with one solid thud.

The partition was already up.

And still, neither of you spoke.

Jake slid into the seat next to you, his thigh brushing against yours for a second too long before he leaned back and finally said, “So… we’re doing this again, huh?”

You turned to him slowly. “Doing what again?”

He looked at you now, properly, his expression unreadable. “Pretending everything’s fine until we’re alone.”

You blinked. “I wasn’t pretending.”

He scoffed under his breath, shaking his head. “Right. So the tight smile wasn’t pretending. Or dodging every glance I threw at you.”

“Jake—” you started, your voice sharper than you intended.

He snapped.

“I know, okay?” he said, a little louder than before. “I know! How long do I have to pretend like everything’s fine? Like I’m just… okay with it?”

You stared at him, chest rising and falling. “You think I like this too?” you fired back, the words slipping out in English before you could stop yourself.

Jake blinked. His jaw tightened as the shift in language pulled a cord in him, like you had just lit the match.

“Oh, we’re doing this in English now?” he said with a breathy laugh—cold, incredulous. “Fine.”

He turned fully to face you, fire sparking in his eyes. “At least I act like some concerned jealous boyfriend and not like—like some co-worker trying to keep it professional with their own girlfriend.”

“That’s the problem, Jake!” you hissed, fingers clenched into fists in your lap.

“You are my boyfriend. And I can’t have you risk your entire career just because you’re jealous!”

He scoffed. “This isn’t about my career—this is about you! You don’t even look at me when the cameras are on. Like I’m… some stranger you just happen to be standing next to.”

“That’s not fair—”

“No, what’s not fair is me having to sit across from you pretending like I’m not completely in love with someone who’s acting like I don’t even exist!”

Your breath caught.

The van was too quiet now—your hearts beating louder than the hum of the tires on the road.

“I want to show people,” Jake said, his voice cracking just slightly at the edges. “But I want you to want that too. Not because I’m insecure, or jealous, or whatever—but because this?” He pointed between you two. “This matters to me. You matter to me.”

You swallowed hard, voice trembling. “Do you think I don’t want that? That I don’t want to scream that you’re mine?”

“Then why don’t you?”

“Because I’m scared!” you blurted. “I’m scared, Jake! Of the backlash. Of the fans. Of you losing everything because of me.”

He stared at you, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes.

And then, softer, “I’d rather lose everything than keep pretending I don’t love you.”

His words hung in the air like a loaded confession, too heavy to move past.

Jake let out a cold, bitter laugh, dragging his hands through his dark locks, elbows resting on his knees as he leaned forward, the tension crackling between you both like static.

“It’s been two years, (Y/N),” he muttered, voice laced with exhaustion and disbelief. “Two years of sneaking around, pretending like we’re strangers just because we’re bound by a contract.”

You exhaled shakily, leaning your head back against the leather headrest as your gaze drifted to the tinted window. The soft thrum of the tires against asphalt was the only thing grounding you in that moment.

You glanced at him from your peripheral, voice barely a murmur. “Yeah… two years.”

Two years of midnight meetups. Of erased call logs. Of longing glances across crowded hallways. Of holding back every instinct to reach for him in public.

Jake turned to you, eyes rimmed with something more vulnerable now—less anger, more ache. “I know why we did it. I know why you’re still scared. But at some point, I just—I need to live, (Y/N). I need us to breathe.”

Your lips parted like you wanted to say something—anything—but you swallowed the words, throat too tight.

“Don’t you want that too?” he asked, softer now, like he was begging you. “To stop pretending every second we’re out in the world?”

You looked at him fully now, finally, eyes glassy but steady.

“I do,” you whispered. “More than anything.”

He nodded slowly, lips pressing into a line. “Then why does it feel like I’m the only one willing to fight for it?”

You blinked, stung by the quiet truth in his tone.

“I’m not asking you to shout it from rooftops,” he said. “I’m just asking you to stand with me.”

Silence again—thick, trembling.

“…And if I do?” you finally said. “If I stand with you?”

Jake’s eyes softened completely, a flicker of hope cutting through his frustration.

“Then we figure it out together,” he murmured, fingers brushing over yours like a silent plea, and then—finally—grasping your hand tightly, like he couldn’t bear to let go again.

But for a second, he did.

Just long enough to reach into his bag, pulling out something wrapped in velvet blue, that signature Tiffany & Co. teal peeking from beneath his palm.

You blinked. “Jake…?”

He didn’t look at you at first. He was too busy fiddling with the box, thumb brushing the edges, jaw tight like he wasn’t sure if he should be doing this. But then he looked up—really looked up—and your heart stuttered at the storm in his eyes.

When he opened the lid, your breath caught in your throat.

Two silver bands.

One was simple, sleek, polished to a soft gleam. The other had a small diamond in the center—nothing flashy, but delicate, elegant. Like it was made for you.

“…Is this you proposing?” you asked, trying to break the moment with a shaky laugh. “You know I prefer gold.”

Jake let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head. “I know. But I also know you’ll love it either way.” He plucked the smaller ring from the box carefully and reached for your hand again.

“This isn’t a proposal, not yet,” he whispered. “It’s a promise. That I’m yours, no matter what. That when the timing is right—when the world stops getting in the way—I’ll ask for forever the right way. The real way.”

You blinked furiously, tears threatening to spill. Jake just smiled—soft, shaky—and slid the ring onto your finger like he’d rehearsed this a hundred times in his head.

“I don’t care if fans notice. If people connect the dots,” he murmured. “Let them. I just need you to know—I need to know—that we’re still choosing each other.”

You stared down at the silver band, the tiny diamond catching the dim van light. Your lip quivered as you reached for the other ring and slipped it onto his finger without a word.

Jake exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for years. Then he brought your hand to his lips, kissing the promise he’d just made permanent.

“I don’t need the world to understand,” he said against your knuckles. “I just need you to believe me.”

“I do,” you whispered, your voice barely audible as tears finally slid down your cheeks. “I always have.”

He didn’t speak after that. Just leaned forward, his breath warm against your skin as he pressed a soft, slow kiss to your lips—one that wasn’t rushed, one that said everything he couldn’t anymore.

When he pulled away, your eyes were still closed, your fingers still gently curled around his. You opened them slowly, just in time for the soft mechanical whir of the partition being lowered.

“We’re here,” your manager said from the driver’s seat, not turning around. “You two better fix whatever was going on before, hmm?”

You blinked, surprised.

“Thank you, unnie,” you said sheepishly, cheeks burning as you fiddled with your fingers, trying to hide the glint of the new ring.

She sighed, and you could practically hear the smirk in her voice. “It’s not any of my business… but you two look cute together. Fix it. Or I’ll have to deal with moping Jaeyun again.”

Jake burst into quiet laughter beside you, rubbing the back of his neck as he reached for the door handle. “No promises,” he teased. “But thanks, hyung-nim.”

“Noona,” your manager corrected, deadpan.

Jake gave her a small salute. “Thanks, noona.”

You both stepped out into the private parking garage, the crisp air biting at your skin as Jake immediately held out your coat from earlier. You slipped into it gratefully, your cheeks still warm from the kiss and the conversation.

“I’ll grab both our bags,” Jake said before you could protest, already slinging yours over his shoulder with his own. “Don’t fight me on this. Promise ring perks, remember?”

You laughed quietly. “What, like a built-in porter?”

“Exactly,” he grinned, nudging you playfully as you walked side by side.

The click of your boots echoed through the quiet hall as you both made your way toward the private elevator.

The metal doors slid open with a soft ding, and Jake waited until you were inside before stepping in and pressing the button to your floor.

The elevator ride was quiet—but not tense this time. Just calm. Like everything unsaid had finally found its voice.

The soft hum of the lift filled the silence as you leaned slightly into Jake’s shoulder, fingers brushing against his as the floor count ticked up.

Ding.

Jake reached out to stop the doors from closing again and gestured like a gentleman. “After you, milady.”

You smiled, pulling out your card key from your bag as you led the way to your unit. The hallway was dimly lit with soft yellow lighting, familiar and comforting. You slid the card into the slot, the beep echoing softly as the green light blinked.

Jake held out his arm, and you instinctively held onto it for balance as you leaned down to take off your shoes, laughing softly as your heel got stuck on the rug. “Ugh. Why do I always struggle with this?”

“Because you’re stubborn,” Jake chuckled, easily slipping out of his sneakers without using his hands, smug. “No hands, see?”

“You’re so annoying,” you muttered playfully, finally stepping out of your heels and standing upright, twisting the knob to open the door fully—

Only to be met with two pairs of unimpressed eyes.

Standing just inside the entryway, arms crossed and glasses perched threateningly on their noses like two strict moms, were Yunjin and Sakura.

They didn’t say a word.

Not at first.

Just stared. Especially at Jake.

You blinked. Froze.

Jake straightened up immediately beside you, like a student caught sneaking into class late.

“…Hi,” you said nervously, offering a sheepish wave. “How are you two doing tonight…?”

Sakura didn’t even blink. She raised a perfectly shaped brow, arms still crossed, expression cool. “Just fine. Until we realized you said you’d be back in an hour, little missy.”

You gulped. Oh no.

Yunjin sighed dramatically. “I told you she was acting weird this morning. Didn’t I say she took extra long getting ready? That’s always the sign.”

“I thought she was just going through one of her Pinterest-girl phases again,” Sakura muttered. “But no. It’s boyfriend time.”

Jake coughed awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “…Hi. I’m, uh, Jake.”

“We know,” both girls deadpanned in unison.

You looked between them, then at Jake, then back at them. “Okay. Okay. Let’s all breathe.”

Yunjin took a deep breath.

Sakura didn’t.

“…Is this the part where you interrogate us?” Jake asked hesitantly.

“No,” Yunjin said. “This is the part where we ask if you’re staying for dinner.”

Jake blinked. “Wait—what?”

You gawked. “Wait what?!”

Sakura shrugged, walking past you both toward the kitchen. “He’s here. You clearly love him. The least he can do is help us chop garlic.”

Yunjin was already pulling her hair back into a ponytail, heading toward the fridge. “We were going to cook anyway. Might as well feed the mystery boyfriend who’s apparently been around for two years.”

Jake looked at you, eyes wide with disbelief—and relief.

You just laughed. A little too high-pitched. A little too stunned.

“Welcome to my life,” you whispered to him.

Jake leaned down, grinning as he brushed a kiss to your temple. “I like it here already.”

“Hey!” Yunjin’s voice rang out from the kitchen. “Stop kissing my daughter, Sim! Get changed and help us here.”

You snorted, hand slapping over your mouth to stifle the laugh. “I’m her daughter now?”

Jake laughed too, already being dragged by the wrist down the hallway toward your room. “Should I be honored or terrified?”

The both of you had barely made it to your bedroom door when Kazuha poked her head out from the kitchen, a mixing bowl in her hands and her hair in a messy bun. “Wait… is that Jake-sunbaenim?!”

You gave her a sheepish grin, not even trying to defend yourself anymore. “He’s real, Zuha. In the flesh.”

“Oh my god,” she muttered, eyes widening, disappearing back into the kitchen like she’d just seen a ghost.

You both burst into laughter as you finally made it into your room, the familiar scent of your linen spray and vanilla candles comforting as ever.

Jake shut the door behind him and immediately made a beeline for your dresser. “Let me guess,” he said as he tugged open the second drawer, “this is your ‘stolen boyfriend item’ storage?”

You said nothing. Just watched as he pulled out a very familiar gray hoodie.

His eyes narrowed playfully. “So this is where my sweatshirt’s been hiding.”

You shrugged with faux innocence, perching on the edge of your bed. “Finders, keepers.”

He huffed out a laugh, already tugging his shirt off over his head—his toned chest flashing for a brief moment before he slipped the hoodie over his head. It was baggy and worn, the fabric clearly well-loved. “I was wondering why my laundry pile’s been suspiciously light.”

You giggled. “You gave me that one to sleep in when I got sick after your birthday, remember?”

Jake paused. “Yeah, you were shivering even under three blankets.”

His voice was fond. Soft. Almost too much to handle.

He reached into your bottom drawer next, pulling out the navy sweatpants he’d once told you to “just keep.” He held them up and raised a brow. “These too?”

You grinned. “Never know when I might need it.”

He chuckled under his breath, slipping into them quickly and ruffling his damp bangs out of his eyes. “Well, I guess I should’ve known you’d turn into a serial hoodie thief.”

You stood up and walked over, resting your hands on his shoulders as you looked him up and down. “To be fair… you wear oversized really well.”

Jake leaned in, hands brushing your waist. “And you wear stolen boyfriend clothes even better.”

Before he could kiss you again, Yunjin’s voice rang from down the hall: “Sim Jaeyun, if you don’t get in here and start slicing strawberries, I’m feeding your girl dinner myself!”

Jake groaned, dropping his head against your shoulder. “God, she’s scary.”

You giggled. “She’s just being protective.”

“She’s doing a great job,” he muttered.

You snorted and tugged him gently by the wrist. “C’mon,” you said, pulling him back out into the hallway. “Time to earn your dinner.”

As you both entered the kitchen, Eunchae perked up immediately, grabbing a plastic container from the counter and placing it in Jake’s hands, along with a cutting board and a knife.

“I literally just interviewed you like two hours ago,” she said dramatically, staring at him in disbelief. “And now you’re cutting strawberries in our dorm kitchen? This is wild.”

Jake gave her a sheepish grin. “Surreal for me too.”

Kazuha, who was already perched on one of the stools by the counter, let out a loud laugh, nearly dropping her phone in the process. “This is insane. Do you just teleport from music shows to our house now?”

You giggled and plopped onto the stool beside her, reaching for a slice of mango from the tray in the center. “He’s an all-rounder, what can I say?”

Jake rolled his eyes fondly as he started slicing the strawberries with surprising focus, the sleeves of his hoodie tugged up to his elbows. “Your kitchen… is very pink,” he muttered, glancing around.

“We like our color coordination,” Sakura replied dryly from the other side of the kitchen island, sipping water from her glass.

She turned to Yunjin, who was standing at the stove whisking something. “So, what’s the plan? Crepes later?”

“Yeah,” Yunjin said without looking away from the pan. “I’ve got a few more strawberries in the fridge. Might as well make it a treat—Chaewon-unnie and (Y/N) would love it. Though, Chaewon-unnie’s knocked out cold right now.”.”

Jake, still cutting with a level of concentration that made everyone a little amused, added casually, “(Y/N) likes snacking on strawberries before dinner. Like… religiously.”

You blinked and turned to him slowly. “You make me sound like I survive solely off berries.”

Sakura didn’t miss a beat. “And she wonders why her appetite’s always ruined.”

Kazuha let out a very loud, “Exactly,” while pointing her spoon at you accusingly.

You gasped with mock offense. “Why is everyone attacking me?!”

Jake chuckled softly, looking over his shoulder at you as he placed another neatly sliced strawberry on the growing pile. “They’re not wrong, babe. You eat them like popcorn.”

“That’s rich coming from someone who steals all the dried mangoes and thinks I don’t notice,” you fired back, arms crossed.

Jake only smirked as he grabbed one of the small ceramic bowls from the rack, neatly dividing the freshly sliced strawberries. He slid one half over to you across the counter with practiced ease. “For my berry thief,” he teased.

“Thanks,” you murmured with a small smile, taking a bite just as Yunjin set down a steaming dish on the dining table behind you.

She wiped her hands on a towel tucked into her waistband, eyeing the two of you with an unreadable expression before heading back to the stove and grabbing a ladle. She poured broth into a pan with calculated calm, then turned slightly over her shoulder.

“Jake,” she called, tone almost too light. “What do you want with (Y/N)?”

You nearly choked on your strawberry.

“Unnie,” you protested, voice cracking as your eyes darted between your members. “Really?”

Jake, unbothered, leaned his elbows on the counter and met Yunjin’s gaze head-on. “What do I want with her?” he repeated, almost playfully. “Let’s see…”

He turned to you with a quick wink before looking back at Yunjin. “I’ve known her for three years,” he said smoothly. “Dated her for two.”

Jake chuckled nervously. “Yeah… we started seeing each other around the Dimension era. Kept it under wraps, obviously.”

You stared at your hands, cheeks flushing as the kitchen filled with stunned silence.

⤷ read part 2 here !

⤷ permanent tagllist — @m1kkso

© 2025 liuhsng — reblogs are highly appreciated and please don’t hesitate to request some fics here if you want me to write anything !

[axonthegoat]

Vio! A wonderful piece of art @spadeprincesss did of my harem Au Vio that I then rendered! I still can't get over not only the fact that someone made fanart of an au I made, but also how well my own rendering turned out, haven't done it in a long ass time tbh

[sixeyesonathiel]

satoru gojo and the five-second rule: a tragic, fluffy tale of one man’s unwavering hunger and your poor, poor spine (which, honestly, just wants peace).

it starts simple. you drop something—your keys, your phone, a sock—and bend over like any person would. just minding your own business.

but satoru? satoru’s business is you.

he’s there before you even make it halfway down. like your movement sends a bat-signal straight to his brain. like your hips whisper his name through dimensions.

“you do this on purpose,” he mutters, practically molding into your back. “bending like that... cruel.”

“satoru, it’s a spoon. i dropped a spoon.”

“mm. and yet here i am. rock hard over cutlery.”

you try to shove him off with an elbow, but his arms snake around your waist with dramatic flair, resting his chin on your shoulder like he’s never been more in love. “you’re so mean to me,” he sighs.

“you stalk my ass around the house like a ghost with a fetish.”

“correction: like a devoted ghost. i’d haunt this ass respectfully.”

it doesn’t matter where you are. the kitchen, the garden, the middle of a damn earthquake drill—he’s there. hovering. watching. vibrating with the urge backshot you into next week.

once, you dropped a receipt at the gas station and satoru materialized so fast a teenager screamed. “sorry,” he grinned, not sorry at all. “her spine called me. i answer when she calls.”

you fought back once. dropped a pencil in front of him real slow, exaggerated your arch, gave him a wink. satoru, god among men, stared like he’d seen the face of god. made a high-pitched sound. then disappeared for ten minutes. when he came back, he couldn’t look you in the eye.

he did, however, grab you by the waist that night, toss you on the bed, and absolutely devour you like he hadn’t eaten in years. he whispered something about karma and torment and “you don’t get to tease me like that, baby, not without consequences.”

you swore you were just trying to be funny. satoru swore you had five seconds to apologize before he made good on every single fake thrust he’d ever teased you with.

safe to say, you never dropped anything around him without consequences again. not without bracing yourself. not without knowing what came next—flushed cheeks, needy eyes, his hands warm on your waist as he pretended to be a menace… until he wasn’t pretending anymore.

it’s become routine now. a weird kind of love language. you drop something. he’s behind you. you groan. he grins. you complain. he kisses your shoulder and says “sorry, reflex.”

but then later, when he pulls you close and presses his forehead to yours, when his voice drops low and serious and he’d mumble against your cheek, “was just teasing, swear. but then you—fuck.”—you melt. every single time.

moral of the story: nothing stays on the floor for longer than five seconds. not with satoru around.

unless it’s you.

or your phone.

or whatever it was you dropped—because chances are, it’s staying there until he’s done rearranging your spine.

[sillyswriting]

: ̗̀➛ husband john price - 03

cw : angst, miscarriage, reader is on the chubby side

ㅤㅤ     ㅤ  ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤcollection - prev ⋆ next

as john sat in the middle of his living room, his head in his hands, he thought about everything that had turned to shit in the last few weeks. he was tired, his body exhausted from the deployment, the stress… the heartache. he couldn't go to bed—not when you wouldn’t let him comfort you as you cried. it was too much.

when he arrived on base, he went straight to his superior's office and told them he wanted to accept the desk job. no more deployments for him. he explained that, subconsciously, he had been training simon to take his place—he knew his lieutenant was ready. after hours of negotiations, they had finally accepted. now, he had to tell his team.

over the years together, task force 141 had developed a deep bond. john loved his boys, but he had other little boys waiting for him at home. he knew they wouldn’t be thrilled with his decision, but they’d understand.

to say they had been shocked would be an understatement. they knew john was getting old, but this was sudden. he had never really expressed any desire to leave the field. simon even went as far as asking if his wife had put him up to this, to which john just laughed, telling them you didn’t even know. it was going to be his little surprise when he came home. he also told them about the new baby. they had been excited about the news.

"tryin’ tae build a whole fitba team there, captain? poor missus cannae catch a break wi’ a bear like you," johnny had said, hugging his captain over the good news. john had received a pat on the back from simon and another embrace from kyle. he was going to miss them.

"let's go out with a bang then, captain, yeah?" kyle had said. one last assignment, then he’d be home for good, right?

how could he have thought it would be this easy?

their intel had been a setup, leading them straight into a trap. chaos ensued—the team was split up, communications were cut, and they were deep in enemy territory. they were being hunted. what should've been a quick extraction turned into three weeks of survival. john had been on his own. he'd seen simon dragging an injured kyle, and that gave him hope they were still alive. he'd prayed johnny had made it out too.

what john hadn’t known was that the rest of his team had made it back within days. no word from their captain for weeks, and the higher-ups had been forced to declare him missing in action. mia. three words that sent a chill through every soldier's spine. sometimes, being dead was easier. after the shitshow that went down, command had strictly prohibited any attempts to mount a rescue.

that was why you had opened the door to three men one morning. you had never met them, but you knew. they didn’t need to say a word. if it hadn’t been for simon’s reflexes, you would’ve dropped to the floor, hard. small pattering feet made their way to the front door, drawn by their mom’s sobs. johnny had rushed to them, telling them he was a friend of their father. pulling them outside to play, he reassured them everything was okay. they were too small to notice the tears in his eyes as he gently guided them out.

simon had dropped to the floor, you still in his arms. he wasn’t one for physical touch, but after john’s disappearance, he had needed comfort too. he had never been more grateful for his balaclava than that day. kyle stood in the entryway, quietly letting the tears fall down his cheeks. he had been the one to notice.

blood, running down your thighs.

everything had been a blur to you. one moment, you were happy at home with your children, and the next, your life had completely fallen apart. alone in the room, you had barely listened when the doctor explained that your baby was gone. you had had a "spontaneous abortion, induced by a significant physiological or emotional stress event."

at least your baby was with their father.

at the same time, your husband had returned from the dead. after long weeks of running and hiding, he had found an old radio and fixed it up. he had cried upon hearing laura's voice from communications. a few hours later, he was back on base.

he had been rushed to the med bay—tired, malnourished, with some wounds still healing—but he was home. he asked about his team.

"yeah, they made it home, captain. we were all waiting for you," the sweet nurse had told him before he closed his eyes.

when he opened his eyes again, he was still in the med bay, but kyle was there. the sergeant had a small smile on his face, and john could see tears filling his eyes—just as there were surely tears in his own. he asked about the others, and kyle reassured him that they were all okay. after years together, john knew there was something else. kyle took a deep breath, and then he spoke.

"it's your wife, captain."

that's how he ended up here. on his couch, in the middle of the night. aside from your heartbreaking sobs, the house was quiet. your children were with their grandparents; john hadn’t seen them yet. he had been told that they didn’t know their dad was missing—they just thought their mum was sick and needed to be left alone.

sighing, john made his way toward his bedroom when he could no longer hear your crying. maybe you had fallen asleep. you both had come home today. you’d been told john was alive and well while you stayed in the hospital for a few days. you knew your anger was unjustified, but you just couldn’t move past it. your mind was playing tricks on you: if john hadn’t been away, your baby would still be safe and warm in your belly. deep down, you knew it was wrong to think like that, but you were heartbroken and didn’t know any better.

you stilled when you heard the bedroom door open. the last time he tried to comfort you, you had screamed terrible things at him—things you regretted, but it was too late. as he got closer to the bed, you realized you were longing for his embrace. just to feel him close, his arms around you. so when he got into bed and reached for you, you let him.

you let him pull you toward his body, even though it wasn’t your husband’s body. not the one you knew. he had lost so much weight; it had been years since he’d been this skinny. you hated it. it reminded you of all the things that had happened, all the things he had been through to come back home. you started crying again. the feeling of his arms tightening around you only fueled your sadness. you had been so cruel to him, but yet, here he was.

"shh, my love," john whispered softly, tears of his own running silently down his cheeks. "i promise everything is gonna be alright." if you hadn't been with him for so long, you would have missed the hurt in his voice. more tears streamed down your face.

you had both lost so much, but you trusted him with your entire body and soul. he promised everything was going to be alright, and you believed him.

[goldfades]

Joe and reader taking Hayes to the beach for the first time

hope you enjoy, love!

The trip had been a long time coming.

For months, you and Joe had talked about taking Hayes to the beach, but between his football schedule, your own packed days, and the unpredictable chaos of parenting a toddler, it kept getting pushed back. There was always something—a game, a meeting, a stubborn cold Hayes had picked up from his cousins that left him sniffling and clinging to your hip for a week straight. And then, of course, there was the hesitation.

It wasn’t that you didn’t want to take him. If anything, you ached to—imagining him wide-eyed at the endless stretch of ocean, tiny hands gripping fistfuls of warm sand, the giddy shrieks that would no doubt burst from him when the waves kissed his feet. But the reality of it? Taking a barely-three-year-old to the beach was a task. The kind that required strategy, backup plans, and an ungodly amount of snacks.

But then Joe’s offseason finally rolled around, bringing with it the kind of slow, golden days that made you feel like you could breathe again. And when Hayes pointed at the TV one morning—at some cartoon crab dancing across a bright blue ocean—and asked, Can we go there, Mama? with those big, round eyes of his, you and Joe just looked at each other and knew.

It was time.

So now, after a flurry of packing (too many snacks, not enough patience) and a drive filled with excited little kicks against the back of Joe’s seat, you were here.

The ocean stretched before you, vast and shimmering under the afternoon sun. A salty breeze wrapped around you, tangling your hair, teasing the fabric of Joe’s t-shirt as he shifted Hayes higher on his hip. Your son, ever-curious, stared out at the water like it was something out of a dream, tiny fingers flexing against Joe’s shoulder.

And just like that, all the stress, all the second-guessing—none of it mattered anymore.

Because Hayes was about to see the ocean for the first time. And you? You were about to watch him fall in love with it.

Joe adjusted Hayes on his hip, the little boy still staring out at the waves like he couldn’t quite believe they were real. His small fingers dug into the fabric of Joe’s t-shirt, gripping tight, as if afraid the whole scene might disappear if he let go.

You reached over, brushing a few messy curls away from Hayes’ forehead. “Pretty cool, huh, baby?”

Hayes didn’t even look at you. His lips parted slightly, eyes big and round as he watched the water roll forward, then pull back, like it was playing some secret game only it understood. You had never seen him this quiet ever.

Joe chuckled, the sound low and warm. “Think he’s in shock.”

You smiled, watching the way the wind ruffled through Joe’s hair, how the sun caught on the sharp cut of his jaw. “Give him a second,” you murmured. “He’s taking it all in.”

Hayes finally blinked, shifting slightly against Joe’s chest. “It moves,” he whispered, like he couldn’t quite believe it.

You and Joe exchanged a look, amusement flickering between you.

“Yeah, bud,” Joe said, voice laced with laughter. “That’s kinda what the ocean does.”

Hayes’ little brows knitted together. “Why?”

You bit back a laugh. Of course that was his first real reaction—confusion over why the water wouldn’t just stay still.

“That’s how the waves work, baby,” you explained, resting a hand on his small back. “The water moves because of the wind, and the way the moon—” You stopped yourself, shaking your head. “It just does, sweetheart.”

Hayes seemed to consider this for a long moment before finally nodding, like he’d decided to accept it for now. His attention drifted back to the waves, his tiny fingers flexing against Joe’s shoulder. Then, suddenly, he turned his head, pressing his face against Joe’s shirt. “Don’t wanna go in.”

Joe raised a brow, tilting his head down to look at him. “What do you mean, don’t wanna go in?”

Hayes shook his head furiously, curls bouncing. “Too big.”

You exhaled softly, reaching over to rub slow circles on his back. The ocean was a lot—endless and loud, stretching farther than he could probably comprehend. It made sense that he’d be overwhelmed.

“We don’t have to go in, baby,” you reassured him. “Not until you’re ready.”

Joe nodded in agreement, shifting his grip on Hayes. “Yeah, bud. We can just sit in the sand for a bit, okay?”

That seemed to satisfy him. Hayes peeked up, considering the two of you for a moment before nodding. “Okay.”

You shot Joe a knowing look as you bent down to grab the beach bag. See? The key to handling a hesitant toddler was patience. You had to let them take things at their own pace.

Joe, to his credit, seemed to understand that too—at least when it came to Hayes.

The three of you made your way down toward the sand, and you took a deep breath, letting the salty air fill your lungs. There was something about the ocean—how it smelled, how the sound of the waves crashing against the shore seemed to wrap around you like a song. It had been too long since you’d been here.

You spread out a towel, and Joe crouched down, setting Hayes carefully in the center of it before plopping down beside him. You sat down as well, kicking off your sandals and stretching your legs out. The sand was warm beneath your fingers as you dug your hand into it, letting the grains slip between them.

Hayes watched you for a moment, then hesitantly copied you, pressing his palm against the sand. His little fingers curled, squeezing a handful, and he giggled as it slipped through his grip.

“Tickles,” he announced.

You smiled. “Yeah? Feels funny, huh?”

Hayes nodded, already grabbing another handful. He let it fall again, watching with fascination as the wind carried some of the finer grains away.

Joe leaned back on his hands, watching him with a small, amused smile. “Think he likes it.”

“I think so, too,” you murmured.

For a while, that was enough. Hayes sat between the two of you, utterly mesmerized by the sand, grabbing fistfuls of it and watching it slip through his fingers over and over again.

Then, slowly, his attention drifted back to the water. He glanced up at you, then at Joe. “Mama?”

You ran a hand over his curls. “Yeah, baby?”

“Maybe…” He hesitated, looking back toward the waves. “…Maybe touch it.”

Your heart squeezed at how cautious he was being about it, how he wasn’t scared necessarily, just careful.

Joe grinned, sitting up straight. “Oh yeah? You wanna put your toes in?”

Hayes nodded, a little more sure this time.

“Alright,” you said gently, standing up and holding out your hand. “Come on, lovebug.”

Hayes reached for you immediately, gripping your fingers in his tiny hand as you helped him up. Joe followed, standing to his full height, watching carefully as Hayes took small, deliberate steps toward the shore.

You could feel the slight tension in his grip as the waves inched closer, but he didn’t stop. He just squeezed your hand a little tighter.

Joe, walking beside him, reached out and placed a steadying hand on his back. “I got you, bud.”

Hayes looked up at him, then at you, and something about your presence—about the fact that he was between you, held steady and safe—seemed to reassure him.

The first wave rushed forward, just barely skimming his toes. Hayes inhaled sharply, eyes going huge, and for a split second, you braced for him to bolt.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he laughed.

A full, delighted, belly-deep giggle that made your heart swell and your chest ache with love.

He turned toward Joe, tugging at his fingers. “Again!”

Joe grinned. “You gotta wait for it, buddy.”

Hayes turned back toward the water, practically bouncing on his feet as he waited.

And as the next wave rushed forward—just enough to wet his feet and send a spray of water up his legs—he laughed again, the sound carrying over the beach, over the waves, over everything.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, meeting Joe’s gaze over Hayes’ head.

He loves it.

Joe’s eyes were soft, full of something warm and unspoken. Of course he does.

And standing there, your feet in the water, your son laughing between you, the ocean stretching wide and endless before you—

You knew.

This was a memory that would last forever.

[abysful]

Tread carefully

Contains: Plot, Friends to Fuck buddies, Mentions of Masturbation, Smut (not-so-dry humping, blow job, p in v)

Summary: You love summer more than most, yet swimming has never been your strong suit beyond a survival doggy paddle. But one quiet summer night, your friend Chris teaches you a few tricks, in and out of the water.

Word count: 5k

There was nothing that riled you up more than when your three best friends claimed to “hate” summer. You reminded them time and time again how amazing it was to be surrounded by bright green grass and beautiful flowers, and how all it takes when you feel the heat bundle you up a bit too tight, is a carefree dip in a cooling chlorine filled pool. The complaints of how sticky and humid the air gets during summer seem to quiet down to silence when summer finally arrives and everyone’s skin is sun kissed and warm, when music and laughter accompanies a bonfire, and when all of your friends are happier and lighter.

“T’s sweaty and fucking gross” Nick starts, reminded of his hatred for the season when a headline of summers first day being a week away, pops up on his Instagram feed.

You look at Matt and Chris waiting for either of them to swoop in and defend your favourite time of year but you quickly realize you’re on your own.

“Let’s not get disrespectful” you play around, trying to stop yourself from getting in a unserious but low-key serious debate with Nick.

Nick looks at you unamused “I literally don’t fucking believe you when you say summers your favourite season… you aren’t even from LA. There’s mosquitoes and allergies and fucking sunburn.” he exclaims.

The friendly banter goes on through the night, regardless of the activity, only stopping when you’re all asleep on their couches after an evening filled with jokes, games, and stupid stories.

At some odd hour in the night, the dry cotton-mouth that left the walls of your mouth feeling like sandpaper, had rudely yanked you from your disorganized and frankly confusing dreams.

There was no possibility that you were going to ignore the now hydrophobic texture taking place within your jaws, the only option was to get up as silently as possible and find something to remedy your dehydration.

In hopes you wouldn’t disturb your peacefully sleeping friends, you sink into the couch as you lay straight, slowly rolling off of the cushion to the floor, using all of your arm strength to softly lower yourself without making a sound.

As you stand, you look over the dormant bodies of the people you care most about, wondering what they’re seeing in their dreams, some on the couch, others on air-mattresses that were in place of the coffee table.

Though the sweet admiration quickly turns into a headcount, you see Madi, Nick, Matt, Madison, but no Chris.

Your mind can barely process your consciousness, so Chris’ whereabouts slip out from your thoughts almost immediately when you regain awareness of the dryness coursing your throat and tongue.

Pivoting on your heels, you B-line for the kitchen, so eager to drink just one glass of water, the ability to stay quiet threatens to disappear. Once the glass is in your grasp, and the slippery condensation cools your clammy palms, you begin to guzzle the liquid in your cup, letting out loud breaths between each gulp.

Feet standing a foot and a half from the sink, you bend over to rest your elbows on the countertop, your body at a near 90 degree angle.

You don’t even hear the sound of a toilet flushing or a door opening, nor did you hear any footsteps approaching, the feeling of the water reviving every vein and artery was clouding your thinking.

Chris walked into the kitchen from the bathroom, heading for the sink to get a drink. His eyes had just been exposed to the bright florescent lights of the washroom just a moment ago so when he flicked the switch off, his eyes were able to see virtually nothing.

Touching and feeling around him, once he understood where the table and cabinets were located in relation to him, he no longer felt the need to extend his arms for guidance.

That was until he was a few steps from the sink. Chris’ walking is abruptly interrupted when his clothed groin slams against your ass as you’re leaning on your forearms, hovering over the basin.

“Shit” he whisper yelled, completely oblivious to who it was he rammed into.

Instinctively he reached out again to feel who was in front of him, it all happened so fast, his hands finding your hips in search of anything identifiable in the blinding darkness.

“Woah” you yelped, now turning as fast as your body physically allowed you to.

Your familiar voice telling Chris all he needed to know, he pulled his grip back as if he’d just touched a scalding hot stovetop.

“Sorry sorry sorry” he slewed out rapidly, his voice now quiet but above a whisper.

“Ts fine, my fault for not paying attention” you apologized soon after, out of curtesy more than honesty.

A thought paralyzing silence blanketed the both of you, embarrassment being the only feeling in the kitchen that now felt 2 feet wide.

“Thirsty?” Chris whispers, very obviously trying to move on and not have that be the last thing that you two remember before going back to sleep.

Your body flinches slightly when you remember you aren’t completely alone in your thoughts.

“A little” You turn your head to meet Chris’ gaze, being in the solid dark long enough for your eyes to adjust, you can probably see Chris better than he can see you.

His shorts are hanging slightly too low, the fault of him trying to ‘keep his tired’ and haphazardly throwing on his bottoms before rushing out of the bathroom just a few moments ago.

Chris had a charm about him that made you find him more attractive than most of the men in your life but you didn’t spend any time figuring out what that even meant to you, so of course you assumed the pulse in your head, heart, and heat that came about whenever he was around, was nothing.

Yet in the dark, having a chance to take a good look at a barely clothed Chris without him being able to tell where your gaze fell, you used the opportunity as any person would, you checked him the fuck out.

Your eyes started at his V-line but his happy trail caught your attention not long after. You could tell by the way it was growing that he had been shaving around it to keep it shaped nice, not overgrown, but still visible. ‘Sort of like a landing strip’ your inner monologue narrated in your head, making you break into a smile that only you knew about.

With every breath inwards he took, all of him moved with it. The room was still too dark to be able to identify much else so you decided to cut your semi pervy staring session short, the places that your mind was going needed to be knocked unconscious.

“I need to hurry up and lay down before I fully wake up” you smiled at Chris, though he definitely couldn’t see well enough to tell. He let out a hum of agreement as you let your tired legs guide you to the large comfy couch.

Ever so quietly, you ascend back into the small indent your body left on the pillowy cushion. Comfort washed over you as your body felt as if it was melting and becoming one with the cloud of a sofa that was underneath you, you didn’t even get to the number four when counting yourself to sleep.

That night was weeks ago, between then and now, things were predominately business as usual except for two things, one slightly more concerning than the other.

On the brighter side, summer was here, your skin was glowier than ever, the skies had never been clearer, and every feeling seemed more intense.

But the time between the mishap and now— it seemed that every single night that you were unable to sleep, like a movie, you replayed the view of Chris that night, over and over in your head.

One night in particular you were engaging in sexual self care, and as much as you fought it with every neuron and vessel in your brain— the only image that got you to cum was that of Chris’ slender figure looming over you in the dark kitchen in the earlier hours before dawn.

Between their meetings and your job, none of you had the chance to spend a full day enjoying the heat of your beloved season quite yet.

“Y/n idc what you gotta do but we’re going swimming tomorrow” Nick texted you out of nowhere, it was 7pm and you were winding down from yet another busy day of working, going to the gym, and just the general tasks of everyday life.

“I’m there” you typed back with one hand while the other stirred your vodka pasta simmering on the stove.

That night your mind struggled to sleep once more, it seemed that only when you needed to rest the most, your bed morphed into a lumpy boulder keeping you from the level of comfort you needed for tomorrow to come quickly.

Thoughts about spending the day with the triplets, spending the day with Chris, more so, getting to see shirtless Chris in broad daylight this time, were wading through your mind. Over an hour of tossing and turning later, you drifted off to dreamland.

Your plans started later than discussed which was nothing but normal for your group of friends, everyone woke up late, got dressed late, and found their way to Madison’s LA home 3 hours late, by the grace of god you all showed up around the same time.

What was once a 1pm hang out, began at 4pm. First going to get ice cream, Madi and Matt got regular flavours while Nick and Chris purchased odd but reasonable mixes. You and Madison on the other hand, decided to get the most nonsensical and unappetizing combinations of ice creams.

“Get that fuckass cup out of my face” Nick retorted to you after you offered him a bite of your Frankenstein fro yo, to which you all belly laughed.

Then thrifting, it seemed Matt had the sharpest eye for that sort of thing, while the rest of you dicked around, mocking the freaky antiques you found, eventually leaving empty handed.

Finally, you were all in Madison’s pool an hour before sun down. There wasn’t much time for staring, Chris went from clothed to wearing nothing but swim trunks and submerged in water within half of a second.

The missed opportunity to bask in his sex appeal didn’t bother you too much, their was a level of guilt that was paired with each dirty thought you had of Chris which you weren’t opposed to not having to experience on your first proper hang out of the summer.

Last summer when you first met everyone, your choice of swimwear was one pieces and basketball shorts— a result of unjustified self critical thoughts, but the year in between was spent building up your self esteem and getting comfortable with letting yourself feel sexy. Now your choice of swimwear was more scantly clad, a black twisted bandeau top that’s half a size too small and tie-side bottoms.

The first 30 minutes in the pool, everyone played chicken fight, taking turns on shoulders— around 20 minutes til sundown, Nick and Madi volunteered to leave the pool to order food and chill in the hammocks. After their departure, lighthearted conversation flowed seamlessly between the four of you, that was until Matt poked fun at you about your swimming.

“Can you do literally anything other than a doggy paddle?” He teased, your face started to feel hot, remembering talks of the triplets laughing about their mom being an adult and not knowing how to swim.

“Matt shut up, she can swim” Chris chimes in, seemingly not to defend you but instead, actually in denial that you lacked the ability keep yourself afloat.

“No seriously, have you seen her leave the shallow end” he points out, his words phrased in a way to make you feel like he’s joking with you not at you, which made you a lot less embarrassed about the whole thing.

“She can swim a bit Matt” Madison inserts, her words prompt you to slowly glide through the water to the deep end.

The issue was never with getting somewhere in the water, it was staying above surface level. Once you reached the other side of her pool, you turned right back around and started swimming to your self assigned place in the shallow end.

“See? I swam” you snapped back playfully, jetting your gaze to Matt. A smile creeps onto your face before you mumble incoherently under your breath for comedic effect.

“What?” Chris prods with a smirk.

“I just can’t keep my head over the water if I’m not moving” you sheepishly confess.

“Y’mean tread water kid?” He asks, sounding unconvinced.

“Mhm” you nod, ironically standing in the kiddie end feeling like a 12 year old.

“D’you need me to teach you?” his words now laced with hints of genuine concern that you’ve gone this long without acquiring such an important skill.

You shrug “You couldn’t teach a dog to bark but I’ll let you try.” the idea of touching Chris’ slippery skin under the privacy of warped water is enough to twist your stomach.

Your mind was only just beginning to wander to unwarranted directions when Nick called out from his hammock.

“FOODS HERE”.

You expected Chris to do the ‘Chris thing’ by jumping out of the pool and running for the patio, but that wasn’t what happened. His eyes stayed planted on you, yours finding his quickly after noticing he didn’t seem to care much about his surroundings.

“Lemme teach you right now” he asserted, his voice was calm, all the while being more serious than it had been all day. The swift shift in mood threw you off to a panic.

“N-No it’s fine we can eat first”, if you had a gun to shoot yourself in the foot right now, you would. You knew yourself better than anyone, and one thing that was certain, was that you didn’t have much self control.

Everyone gathered around the dining room table, and by the time the food was finished, the sun had disappeared, lowering behind the sky high Hollywood hills.

The evening became night, and Chris was off in the washroom doing god knows what. Having read the oven clock, Madi stated she’d be calling it a night and walked over to the guest room with a blanket in one hand and her phone in the other, Matt suggested playing a movie up in Madison’s room, to which you declined from your spot on the couch, and watched as your three friends skipped up the stairs.

Less than ten minutes later, Chris finally joined you in the living room.

“Where’s everybody?” He asked.

“Madi went to bed and the rest are doing a movie night upstairs” you answered not looking up from your phone, mainly from the shame you felt.

The entire dinner, Chris’ eyes remained tethered to yours, it confused you at first but rather than wondering what he was thinking, you allowed your mind to go to places of its own.

Behind your eyes were made up images of Chris, you carried out scenarios of what it would be like to let him have you in any way he wanted, you imaged all while holding eye contact with him. Now you had spent time alone with thoughts and the feelings of satisfaction morphed into disgust with yourself.

“You gonna let me teach you now?” He inquires, you can see in your peripheral vision that his focus never faltered you once.

“What, like now now?” You question.

“Ion know what other now there is” he says.

You shrug, trying to give off the impression that none of this matters much to you, but internally, nearly every organ of yours is turning and tossing. Following his lead, you both find your way out of the sliding glass doors to the back of the house where your swimming attire is hanging to dry.

Chris pulls the corner to dress in a concealed area, on the other side of a picketed fence gate. You shamelessly but speedily put on your bikini and jumped into the pool with a loud splash, non verbally informing Chris you were finished dressing.

He appeared out from around the bend, swim shorts riding lower than they did when there was an extra 4 bodies in the pool with you earlier. Stepping back so he could have a longer running start, Chris cannonballed right over your head, landing in the deep end. A few seconds later he emerged from underwater.

“See how my arms ain’t movin” he nods down to his arms floating in one spot.

“Yeah” you engage.

“Go underwater an open your eyes” he instructs you in a suggesting tone.

Abiding by his wishes and taking a deep breath in, stretching the inner lining of your cheeks as you collect as much air as your mouth will allow, you had dived to watch the correct way to tread water, but you stayed to gawk at his abdomen flex and move with every kick each leg made.

You remained submerged, enjoying the show, until there was no air left in your lungs. Once you come back up for air, he questions you.

“Y’think you can do it?”.

You shrug to which he starts up again “cmere” he orders, less jokey as before. His assertiveness only fuels the fire of desire within you.

You swim slowly to him, once you get close enough, he grabs your hands and places them straight out to the side like a ‘T’.

“M’not gonna let you go, just pedal” he softly guides you as his hands stay clinging to yours.

Both sets of your arms are spread out leaving very little room between your bodies and faces. Every word of encouragement muttered in gentle whispers, the distance between you, or lack there of, ensured that you never needed to exceed quiet breathy volumes.

“That’s good”

“Like this?”

“Yeah you’re doin so good keep goin”.

To an outsider, the exchange sounded erotic, and though neither of you would admit it in that moment, as insiders, it felt erotic.

He eased his fingers out of yours until you were staying up on your own. You felt like you were levitating.

“No shit, I’m actually doing it” you cheered, but the ten minutes of trial and error left your legs exhausted.

Your legs cramped and froze as your hands reach back for Chris, landing firmly on his shoulders.

“Tired?” He rhetorically asked, eyes searching for yours as you stayed looking at the water.

“Y’know you can do it with your arms too” he tried to motivate you.

“Yeah maybe you can but I think I’m good with just the legs” most of your pessimism coming from insecurity.

“No seriously, it’s lowkey easier too” he said in attempt to brighten your outlook.

“Let me just-” his words snuffed out, as his fingers snaked down to your sides.

“Can I hold you here?” his voice drops an octave. You look up at him, nodding, as you feel his touch glide down to the small of your back underneath the water. The nervousness weighing you down, as you lower your hold on his shoulders, trying to move your arms in a circular motion.

The sexual frustration within you intertwines with your actual frustration of not being able to get the hang of things, a look of agitation growing on your face. Your eyebrows furrowed and the near permanent smile that painted your lips, turned sour, now straight.

“You’re doin fine, just relax a bit” he begins, “I gotchu” his grip around the lower half of your torso tightens.

As your mind begins to realign its focus on the physical task you both came for, you feel something graze your lower stomach faintly, just underneath your belly button. Diverging your hyper-fixation to look down, you feel Chris’ arms slowly let you go, initiating a knee jerk response for your arms to fling up to link behind the nape of his neck to support you.

The change in grounding point, brought you closer to his body than before. The thing touched you again, this time much less subtly, and the lack of space between you and Chris, gave you a near certain answer to what that thing was.

Every night you spent unrested you imagined a moment like this, and every orgasm you brought yourself to with the faint thought of Chris in that kitchen, you imagined a moment like this, you knew exactly what you wanted to happen, it was just about how.

“Sorry” Chris lamely excused, he didn’t attempt to string together what other reasons there could possibly have been for his dick to be in the state that it was. But you didn’t comfort his embarrassment, nor did you back away from where you were, instead you chose to seize the moment.

Your legs started off straight, but close to his, then, you began to bend your knees while parting a gap between your thighs. One of your arms stayed around his neck while the other travelled up the back of his head to interlock with his deep brown strands, now black from being soaked in water.

Only seconds later did your lower half complete its journey to be fully draped around his waist. Your faces, once inches apart, now only centimetres away from one another. His eyes broke free from their shackled gaze with yours, as your body language gave him the go-ahead to finally look at your frame the way you had peered at his once before.

The long string of weeks where you could only think of how he would feel on you and in you, was enough foreplay in itself, so you made no haste to bridge your hips up against his pulsing cock under the still water. The warmth that was rushing to every part of your bodies, made the water feel that much colder.

When he had finished eating you with his eyes, his hand jerked up from your back, to clasp your cheek. As he guided your mouth to his, his tongue waited from no invitation. The kiss was wet and messy from the beginning, only picking up heat as you explode each other’s bodies with no hesitation. His hand slipped down from your back to cup your ass before squeezing it and rubbing it repeatedly, the other hand slithering down from your jaw to find hold on your neck.

With the gap between your bodies non existent, his solid cock tented in his shorts was now pressed up against your aching core. Using the strength of your knees around his waist, you began to wine your hips in a circular motion, utilizing the part of his shaft that was against your cunt as friction.

The both of you moaned at the action, him bucking his hips in response. The coolness of the pool sent waves of shock as the cold ripples acted against your throbbing heat, the kisses became sloppy as you and Chris lost the capacity to think, thinness of your swimwear allowing every point of contact between you to feel as if neither of you had clothes on.

After barely 5 minutes of breathlessly making out and grinding over his hungry dick, you pull away from Chris.

“The pool house” was all you could slew out as you tried to catch your breath, you look deep into his eyes, the blue irises now near impossible to see beyond his black dilated pupils. He gulped in excitement, mind numb, all he could do was nod.

Both of you wasted not a second climbing out of the water, and creaking the door open. The pool house didn’t have much inside, but catching a fairly large couch in the corner, you both stumbled over towards it.

Chris immediately sat down, presuming you would assume the same position of straddling him as you did in the pool, but instead you lowered onto your knees. The sight of you so eager to make him feel good prompted Chris to whip his head back and let out a sigh of built up sexual frustration.

As your fingers hooked underneath the hem of his shorts and tugged, his length sprung out, slapping into his stomach. You knew your time in the pool was torture from his irritated tip, the colour of his teased dick making you want to do nothing more than relieve the pressure.

Once his gaze fell back onto you, your hands spread out on his thighs, sliding up to his cock, once you grab hold of it, you look into his eyes before collecting your saliva and slowly letting it run down his pulsing dick. Once his length was wet enough, you used one of your hangs to circle his tip with your palm while the other assisted your mouth in taking all of him from the side, running your lips along his dick. “Fuuuuckkkk don’t stop” he groaned as his fingers trailed through your hair.

Eventually you remove your hand from his now much redder tip, and slide his cock down your throat until your nose hits his skin. You keep him in your throat for a second or two as you look up at him, his eyes getting teary just as yours were. You continued to ram his dick in and out of your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you did so, his moans never stopping once, kept you going.

When you knew he was close, you used both of your hands to stroke him while your tongue lapped around the head of his throbbing cock. It took less than a second for him to cum, you popped his dick out of your mouth and steered his dick to shoot his thick white ropes of cum onto your chest. When he caught his breath he looked into your eyes.

“Didn’t wanna swallow?” He joked.

“You drink Pepsi like its water and eat like a 7 year old with a bank account and free will, I would rather drink bleach than your cum Chris” you shot back.

“Fair” he responded before pausing, then finishing his thought, “I bet your pussy’d soak up my cum with no complaints”.

Rather than a verbal response to the annoying but honest truth, you gave him a physical one. You stood up and pulled the strings of your bikini bottoms in one motion before crawling onto his lap. He looked at you as a cocky smile crept onto his face. You were on your knees hovering over his eager dick, your pussy pumping since the pool.

Waiting for him to enter your needy hole, you look down at his hand finding his length as he guided it to your entrance but rather than placing his dick where you wanted it, he tried teasing you, sliding his tip over your over-aroused clit. You moan, furrowing your eyebrows, eyes still planted on what he was doing.

“Chris… don’t… fuck around” you stammered between your heavy breaths and groans. He sneered and let out a huffy breath of amusement before finally letting his dick find your sopping wet hole, bottoming out immediately, not allowing you to adjust to his impressive size.

“Fuck” you screamed, leaning forward to embrace him, resting your chin over his shoulders and wrapping your arms around him.

“Easyyy easyyy” he hushed. His hands found your ass, softly grabbing hold of it as he lifted you up and down.

“Too much?” he asks, turning his head so his mouth pressed up against your ear as he whispers.

“Mm, keep going” you respond, almost forgetting how to communicate out of pure bliss, your eyes begin to roll to the back of your head and your eyelashes flutter. Chris plants kisses on your shoulder, as your moans get louder you can feel him smile into the kisses.

His slender fingers find your clit, using your slippery wetness to make his digits slide faster in circles. Every one of your limbs begin to numb, your mind soon following. As a blur grows around your vision, your moans turn to screams, the distance from the house your friends were in was large enough for you to let all that you were feeling be heard.

“Chris” you start to which he interrupts.

“I got you, cum for me baby” his thrusts rapid like bullet fire, sending your body into ecstasy. One second the knot is building in your gut, the next, it snaps.

“Fuck fuck fuck” you scream out.

“Mhm I got you” he assures you, as you ride out the feeling of his dick slamming against your g-spot and his fingers caressing your overstimulated clit.

As you come down from your high, you lean back, the sweet sweat that collected between your chests made it all feel so intimate. Chris slips out of you and runs his finger between your folds one last time, raising his hand to show you the white liquid dripping out of you.

He smiled and egotistically smiles “told you”, you grab his fingers and lick the cum off, more for the purpose of shutting him up.

After dressing into your indoor clothes and limping back to the house, you walk upstairs to Madison’s room with Chris by your side. “D’you get the hang of it?” Matt asked, not looking away from the rom-com playing on the TV in front of him. “Yeah, fast as fuck too, had time to teach her other shit too” Chris answered for you.

Authors note: I suck at smut but I feel like this one’s a bit better than the last one, TBHHHH this was basically a self insert cause I can’t swim for shit but I hope y’all liked it, happy Wednesday!!!

I forgot who wanted to be tagged ngl

Taglist: @hjvi @theyluvivi @sturniolosrtewsexy

[captain-huggy-bear]

To Fight a Ten Year Old

Pairing: Quinn Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warnings: N/A

Summary: In which Quinn is prepared to time travel to whoop some ten year old butt because you tell him a story from your childhood and he takes it personally.

Notes: Alas, I did in fact experience this as a child, but I can laugh about it now :) Also writing soccer instead of football actually hurt me.

Very silly + short idea to be honest but hope it brings a smile to some faces!

Totally happy to take requests/ideas/prompts at the moment in my ask box :)

Writing Masterlist

It's a stupid little back and forth the two of you have going as you get ready for bed, silly little questions like 'tell me about your first broken bone' and 'why is your favourite animal your favourite?'. It's something Quinn and you have been doing since you first started dating. It started as a way to get to know each other better and ended up a habit, a ritual of sorts.

Each year the questions get harder to think of as your lives become more intertwined, most of your stories featuring the other, but it still raises interesting moments from your childhoods and silly little stories that explain a lot about you or him. Things you probably wouldn't find out about each other unless you asked these random questions or a family member brought it up at Thanksgiving or Christmas.

Today is no different. You're going through your night routine, taking off your make up and moisturising your skin, while Quinn brushes his teeth in the adjoining bathroom, door open so you can talk.

"Okay..." He's thinking hard, even as he talks around his toothbrush leaning his head out of the bathroom to watch you as you wipe away your eyeliner, "How about first heartbreak?" His voice is muffled around the toothbrush and almost sounds like he's underwater, despite this he never seems to want to wait until he's done.

"Like first heartbreak? Or first proper heartbreak?" You're running a cloth over the rest of your face as you ask, wiping away concealer and blush, an array of colours smearing the fabric. Your skin being revealed bit by bit.

"What's the difference?" He briefly disappears back into the bathroom to spit out his toothpaste and put his toothbrush away, but you know he's still listening as you explain.

"Well, first heartbreak is that time as a little kid that you thought you were in love and got hurt by it but it wasn't serious. You were probably over it by the next week, and first proper heartbreak is when you're older and it actually is heartbreak and you can't get over it for at least 3 months."

He hums as he comes back to lean against the doorframe, shoulders looking delicious without a shirt on, "First heartbreak, probably less depressing for a Monday night."

You take a moment, reaching for your moisturiser as you think back. There are many moments you could think of where you thought you were in love as a litte kid and had your heart broken as a result, but one stands out the most.

"Okay, um...When I was 10 years old I really liked like this boy in class called Cameron but Cameron really liked Emily, a girl 2 years older than us." You can still remember it now, the way he used to sit with her whenever he had the chance, how she clearly did not want a kid 2 years younger than her hanging around, how lovesick he was...how lovesick you were.

"Okay, so Cameron likes a cougar?" You glare over at him as you rub moisturiser into your skin, disapproving as he grins at you, straight teeth peeking out from behind his lips.

"2 years apart at the age of 10 and 12 does not make someone a cougar, Quinn!"

"I don't know, baby, seems pretty cougar-ish to me." You roll your eyes at him as he strolls closer to you, taking your comb in hand and tilting your head forward gently. He's careful as he starts to detangle your hair, careful not to pull too harshly on your scalp, much kinder than your mother used to be when you were a child. Quinn's always careful not to hurt you, apologetic if a tangle pulls too roughly.

"You're ridiculous. Anyway, where was I?" You reach for the detangler handing it back to him as he works, closing your eyes gently.

"You liked a spotty kid called Cameron." There's a hint of dislike riding his voice, even as his fingers are careful as they pull strands of your hair apart, teasing out knots.

Your eyes flash open and meet his in the vanity mirror, lips pursed at the way he insults a ten year old he's never met, "I liked a tall, cute kid called Cameron who was into soccer."

"Yeah, like I said, spotty." The dislike turns to a jealous sort of mumble, matched only by the sour look on his face that has you huffing out a laugh.

"Are you jealous of a ten year old?"

"He's not ten anymore..."

"Do I need to remind you this is a story of heartbreak?"

"Still, should've been me." His hands slide from your hair, comb having been put back on the side, and down to the base of your neck. Long fingers working at the tension there, you lean back into his fingers even as you call him out for his ridiculousness.

"We didn't even know each other! You're absurd, anyway, so I was certain Cameron was my future husband and I decided to be very brave one Valentine's day and get him a card and a gift." You lean a little to the right as Quinn hits a knot on the left side of your shoulder, you sway back into him.

"I'm proud of little you, that's gutsy." He can almost imagine it, little you bravely handing over a glittery red and pink monstrosity, little bows in your hair and chubby cheeks.

"I know, braver than I am now." You're not sure you'd have been brave enough to do something like that now, it had been Quinn after all who'd made the first move, Quinn who'd set the pace of your relationship at the start, "So I get him some chocolates, those stupid cheap heart shaped ones, and I make a stupid card covered in glitter and all sorts. I take my time and I write a heartfelt confession inside and then decided to give it to him in front of the entire class."

"No..." His voice drops, horror filling it as he looks at you through the mirror, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. You nod at him, confirming his worst fears, he knows how this is about to go down.

"Yeah, rookie move. I do it though, I hand it over and then he proceeds to not even read the card and um, rip it up in front of me and the entire class while telling me that he was going to marry Emily."

His fingers still in their massage. In fact, Quinn completely stills, his entire body rigid as he frowns at you through the mirror, there's a silence, long and heavy before he speaks.

"Where does Cameron live?"

"Quinn." You turn in your seat to look up at him, lips pursed together.

"I'm serious where does he live I'm going to go have some words with him," He crosses his arms and there's a brief moment where you're distracted by the strength and definition in his forearms before you really process that he's considering having words with a guy who broke your heart when you were ten.

"About his choices when he was ten?"

"Yeah! Who does that to someone, not only did he reject you, which is an insane decision by the way, he embarrasses my baby in front of the entire class!" Quinn reaches for your hands as he rants, pulling you to your feet, as his fingers twist and twine with yours. You'd think he's just joking but his tone is completely serious and it makes your heart warm, no matter how silly he's being. He's genuinely personally offended on your behalf about something that happened when you were a child, before you knew each other. It's sweet. Silly and absurd, but sweet.

"You can't fight a guy who broke my heart at the age of ten."

"Sure, I can or I can get Millsy to do it." He cracks a smile at that, even though he's serious about wanting words with this Cameron, he's also aware he's being absurd. He tugs you closer by the hands even as you glare up at him like a disappointed parent.

"You are not setting Miller on my childhood crush!"

"Why not?"

"Because it's ridiculous! It was over a decade ago!" Even as you protest you're smiling, arms reaching up to rest over his shoulders and around the back of his neck. Fingers twisting the strands of brunet hair that rest there.

"And, he broke your heart and that's not acceptable, baby, i'm sorry, I have to defend your honour." Quinn palms rest on each of your hips, pulling you in as his fingers curl into your pajama bottoms.

"But, it was a good thing."

"How is that a good thing?"

"Because if he hadn't done that, I might have married him and been stuck in a loveless marriage and then never met you or met you but not been able to be with you." You look at him with a little smirk like you've beat him at his own game, like you've outplayed him in a game of chess.

"So you're saying that I actually should be thanking that spotty kid for breaking your heart?"

"Yes."

There's a moment of silence as he draws you ever closer, leaning down to brush his nose against yours, all soft lidded eyes and warmth. Pliant like a docile house cat.

"I'm not thanking him, I will, however, not get Millsy to fight him." It's mumbled so close to your lips that they're brushing his, an almost kiss that speaks volumes about where his mind is now.

"Good, because I'm not breaking you or Miller out of prison."

"You don't love me enough?" He doesn't even have the decency to pretend to be offended or care as his eyes are heavy, focus on your lips, not your eyes and certainly not on the ten year old he was threatening to set Miller on 5 seconds ago.

"Oh, I love you enough, but I do not have that skill set, honey."

"I don't know, think you could probably charm the officers into letting me out, baby." Quinn brushes the tip of his nose purposefully with yours and you know he's seconds from breaking and just kissing you, he has his tells, his little gestures that have consistently given him away.

"You suggesting I seduce the police now?" You pull back just enough to get his attention, to force a pout from him at the distance, his fingers scrambling at your back to pull you back in.

"...Nawwh, only me."

"You're an idiot." He pulls in you in with enough force that your chests bump with a soft smack, rubbing his cheek against yours just because he knows the stratch of his beard will get a giggle from you as you shy away from the sensation.

"I'm your idiot though."

"Mmm, my idiot." You mumble it against his lips as he finally breaks, self control being ditched in favour of the way you sigh against his mouth. He tastes like spearmint toothpaste, minty and sweet as his lips part beneath yours with a hum.

Maybe heartbreak at ten sucked, but you can't help but be thankful for it when you ended up winning the jackpot when you scored Quinn. So much better than spotty ten year old Cameron.

[lomlhwa]

navillera (x.mh)

pairing: ballerina!reader x ballet teacher!minghao

preview: minghao can see your raw potential. you just need a little... incentive.

tags/warnings: fem reader, age gap (minghao is 35 and reader is 21), lots of flexible positions, kinda mean dom minghao, sir kink, fingering, oral (fem.receiving), degrading, monster cock minghao, dacryphilia, choking, marking, praise, pet names (slut, baby, pretty girl), unprotected penetration (wrap it before you tap it), creampie

trigger warnings: n/a

wc: 1.6k

song rec for this fic: all i got by baekhyun

a/n: sorry for scarce posting mls

training for the nutcracker has been more difficult than you had anticipated. your teacher has been so hard on everyone. his perfectionism was definitely showing. the constant cries of “straighten your leg!” or “point your toes!” have been ingrained in your brain. you’ve honestly become paranoid about messing up in front of him. currently, you’re just trying to perfect small things near the end of the show.

you and your dance partner dance carefully together, making sure your legs are straight and there’s not a flat foot in sight. your spun around and lifted effortlessly and you can almost feel a sense of pride filling your bones. but, as you’re put down, the hard box of your ballet slippers lands right on your dance partner’s foot, causing him to cry out.

suddenly, minghao cuts the music off and gestures for everyone to gather around him. “we have our first show next week, i cannot have this show looking this dogshit. we haven’t had a single run that didn’t have a mistake.” everyone around you looks defeated at his words. not a soul in the room isn’t out of breath from his vigorous training demands. “y/n.” he says your name and your eyes dart up to meet his. “do you even know how to do a pas de bourrée?” you gulp, looking down at the floor. “yes, i do, sir.” he scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “show me.” 

you hesitantly walk to the open space in front of him and get up en pointe. you perform the travelling movement, making sure to keep your legs straight and keep your body lines looking flowy. when you finish, you look over to see the most intimidating scowl on your teacher’s face. “i’m gonna need you to stay after class.” your face flushes bright red as you rush to disappear within the crowd of your classmates. 

the rest of the class is a blur. you can’t focus after your teacher embarrassed you like that in front of the whole class. finally, the class ends and you watch as your classmates rush to leave the studio. you and minghao stand on opposite sides of the room, staring at each other. “how long have you been doing ballet?” he asks, stretching arms over his chest. “um, 4 years.” he laughs, wandering over to you. “that’s like nothing compared to your classmates.” he looms over you, his shadow filling you with darkness.

“show me your pirouette.” he moves away from you, gesturing to the empty room. you lift yourself onto your toes and demonstrate a few spins, more than necessary. you stumble at the end and you can feel minghao’s blazing fury. “come here. put your hand on the bar.” you scurry over and do as instructed, your hand resting gently on the wooden bar attached to the wall. he leans down and grabs your ankle. he lifts it until your foot is above your head, your legs spread in a perfect split. “you’re very flexible and your moves are graceful, you just can’t follow through.” he runs his hand down your leg, his hand pausing to rest on your core. you jump, your legs fighting to hold their position.

minghao presses his palm against your core, electricity surging through your veins. you moan slightly before pressing your lips together in a thin line. he runs his finger over your slit through your tights. the thin fabric gives way to how wet you’re becoming at simple touches. “are these your performance tights?” minghao whispers. you shake your head, your legs beginning to ache. suddenly, the sound of fabric ripping fills the room. you gasp at the sudden cold feeling. your knee bends, your leg begging to be let back onto the floor. “keep your fucking leg up while i please you.” he demands as he pushes your panties to the side. 

you use your free hand to hold your foot, desperately trying to keep your leg up. minghao licks a wet stripe up your core, salivating at how wet you’d become. you shiver as he licks stripe after stripe up your cunt, savoring your taste as if he’d never tasted something so delicious. “if you can be a good girl and keep your leg up, i’ll let you cum,” he instructed. he dove into your core like he may never eat again. the sideways angle having him gripping every expanse of your ass and thighs he could get at. he rips your tights open more so he can feel your bare skin in his hands. 

his tongue jabs at your hole, barely dipping in to feel your dripping walls. his eyes roll back into his head at the way your body jerks whenever he sucks on your clit. your grip the bar on the wall so hard your knuckles turn white. your legs shake as they threaten to close against your will. “p-please sir,” you beg. you don’t even really know what you’re begging for at this point. his fingers find their way to your hole, replacing his tongue. he fingers you with such intensity that you’re worried he might break his hand. your whines and whimpers grow in volume quickly.

he chuckles against you, beginning to eat you with even more intensity. his fingers and his tongue move in sweet tandem. you start to piece together that he doesn’t intend to let you cum, he wants you to let your leg down. your whole body trembles as he licks and sucks on your wet heat until finally; your leg comes down. you stumble backwards and your ballet teacher looks at you with a sinister grin. “so sad, the poor baby doesn’t get to cum on my tongue.“

you look at him, defeated. your legs are so sore you can barely stay standing. minghao seemingly glides over to you before hooking his foot around you to force your knees to bend. you fall backwards and he lays you down on the floor. “can barely follow dance moves, let alone instructions while i’m eating you out. what a disobedient slut.” you whine, writing around on the cold dance practice floor. he slots himself between your legs, pressing his growing erection against your core. your cunt leaves a wet spot on his light colored tights. 

he looks down between your legs and sighs dramatically. “look at the fucking stain you’re leaving on my tights. so fucking pathetic,” he spreads your legs into a split again, grinding against your exposed core. your hands find their way to his forearms, digging your nails into his skin. “you’re so flexible and yet you can’t keep your legs straight when dancing. you’d think with a split like this, it would be effortless to you. do you use your split for sex more than dancing? is that it?” you whine at his disapproval. 

he separates from you to pull his tights down, a much more gentle gesture than the way he had torn yours open. your eyes widen, watching as he frees his cock. he catches your feverish eyes with his sinister ones. “you think you can take it, baby?” you shake your head slowly and he fakes a look of pity. “you can, and you’re going to.” he takes his place between your legs once again, his cock dragging against your slit. “hold your legs open.” you hook your hands around your thighs, doing your best to stay spread.

he guides himself into your desperate hole, the sting of the stretch filling your senses. your nails dig into the skin of the back of your thighs as you shake underneath minghao. he finally bottoms out and his jaw falls slack. he places his palms by your head, trapping you between his arms. he holds eye contact with you as he draws his hips back before thrusting back in slowly. you savor the feeling of every inch dragging along your walls. 

your forearms begin to ache from holding your legs open, your grip slipping. minghao rises to his knees and swats your hands away from your thighs. he replaces them with his own, folding you in half. his thrusts pick up in speed, drilling you full of his cock. “such a good fucking girl, taking my cock. you like when your teacher fills you up, huh?” you nod, your brain not even computing what he’s saying. “words, slut.” you pant desperately, trying to even muster a few words. “y-yes, sir.”

he lands a couple hard slaps to the soft skin of your thighs, leaving bright red hand print marks. you squeal, clenching around him. your senses go into overdrive when he wraps one hand around your throat, applying just enough pressure for your vision to go slightly fuzzy. tears spring to your eyes and flow down the side of your face. he stops holding you down and moves his other hand to your clit, rubbing over it quickly. “fuck, i’m so close, pretty girl. want you to cum for me, can you do that?” you nod to the best of your abilities and he smiles. 

your body spasms as he drives you closer and closer to the edge. you wrap both your hands around his wrist as he tightens his grip just a little more. “c-cumming,” you choke out. minghao lets out an animalistic groan as you clamp down on him. you wrap your legs around him to lock him into place, his last couple thrusts chasing his own orgasm. his hips stutter as his cum fills you to the brim, leaking out of you and onto the floor. he finally releases your throat and you suck in a few labored breaths. 

he pulls out of you and admires your spent body on the floor. “god, i think we should have more after class practices. do you agree?” you’re too tired to even respond but the way you shiver tells him everything he needs to know. he chuckles before reclothing himself. “there’s a pair of extra leggings in the closet. you might wanna put those on before you leave.” he grabs all of his things and walks away to the door. “see you tomorrow, y/n.”

© lomlhwa 2025

[ticifics]

Happy New Year

James Potter x f!reader

Summary: “Okay, your challenge is… to kiss someone before midnight.” Your heart raced. “I… what?” You looked at them. “It’s simple, you just have to pick someone. Anyone.” Anyone. You knew you should pick someone random, but there was no way. The truth was, since the moment you’d entered the hall, there was only one person you’d even consider. James.

Warnings: fluffy, new year challenge, shy!reader, first kiss

A/N: first fic of the year <333 I would like to wish everyone a happy new year, full of things as wonderful as each one of you

The hall where the party was taking place seemed magical in a way no elaborate spell could replicate. The students who stayed at Hogwarts over the Christmas holidays had transformed a space near the Astronomy Tower into a warm celebration, full of twinkling lights, lively music, and laughter echoing from every corner. It was impossible not to feel the joy hanging in the air, but you could hardly focus on what was happening around you.

Your gaze, as always, ended up being drawn to him.

James Potter. With his purposefully messy black hair, the easy smile that seemed to light up any room, and those vibrant blue eyes behind his round glasses, he was a gravitational force for you. There was something about him that made your heart beat a little faster every time he entered the same room. No matter how many times you promised yourself you’d stop looking, it was as if your eyes betrayed your resolve.

You’d known him for years, but he seemed like the kind of person who never stopped surprising you. Always so full of life, so confident, so... him. Even so, nervousness took over every time he spoke to you or smiled in your direction. It wasn’t something you could control; it was like every time he looked at you, the ground disappeared beneath your feet, leaving only an anxious tingling in its place.

Not that there were many interactions between you. Most of the time, James was surrounded by his friends or laughing at one of Sirius’s jokes. But on the rare occasions he spoke to you directly, your mind seemed to completely shut off. You remembered the way he smiled when he asked to borrow the book you were holding in the library weeks ago, his fingers brushing lightly against yours as he took it. Or the time he held the door open for you in Potions class, tossing a casual “Don’t mention it” that left your face burning for the rest of the day. He probably didn’t even think about those moments, but for you, they replayed in your mind like scenes from a film.

And now he was here, in the same hall as you, laughing at something Remus had just said. James’s laugh was unmistakable—loud and contagious—and you couldn’t help but smile, even without knowing why. He looked so at ease, so natural, that it felt like he was a part of everything that made Hogwarts feel like home.

“You’re staring at him again, you know?” The voice of Anne, one of your friends, interrupted your thoughts, and you quickly turned, feeling your face heat up. Miriam was sitting next to you, a mischievous smile on her lips as she watched you.

“I’m not staring,” you mumbled, trying to look away, but Anne’s laughter from across the table made it clear they didn’t believe you.

“Of course not,” Miriam teased. “It’s just that he’s the only thing you’ve looked at for the past thirty minutes.”

You tried to protest but knew it was pointless. They already knew enough about your feelings for James to not be easily convinced.

“Speaking of challenges…” Anne began, a playful glint in her eyes. “You haven’t completed any yet, and midnight’s almost here.”

Your mind was immediately filled with the absurd ideas they’d come up with throughout the night. Earlier, Anne had dared Miriam to steal a piece of pie straight from the teachers’ table. Miriam, in retaliation, made Anne approach a group of friends and hum a ridiculous song. None of you were exempt from the next challenge, and you knew your turn was coming.

“Okay,” Miriam said, leaning closer. “Your challenge is... to kiss someone before midnight.”

Your heart raced.

“I... what?” You looked at them, hoping they were joking, but their mischievous smiles made it clear they were serious.

“It’s simple,” Anne insisted, as if it really were. “You just have to pick someone. Anyone.”

Anyone. The idea made your stomach churn. You knew you should pick someone random, someone who didn’t make your heart race with nervousness, but there was no way. The truth was, since the moment you’d entered the hall, there was only one person you’d even consider. James.

You hesitated for a moment, your heart pounding so hard it felt like it echoed throughout your body. Your feet were glued to the floor, and the idea of approaching James Potter seemed far too daunting to be real. But the challenge echoed in your mind, along with Anne and Miriam’s expectant gazes. Before you could change your mind, you took a deep breath and stepped forward.

James was alone now, a rare sight, considering he almost always had one of the Marauders by his side. He was standing by the table where some drinks and snacks had been laid out, his back to you. He seemed distracted, fiddling with something on the table, and that gave you the push you needed. Even so, every step toward him felt like a test of courage, and your legs trembled so much you feared tripping before you even reached him.

When you were just a few feet away, he turned, and the world around you seemed to stop. James smiled—that easy, unassuming smile that was somehow devastating at the same time. You felt the air leave your lungs, and for a moment, all you could do was stare. He looked beautiful, as always, with his messy black hair falling slightly over his forehead. The round glasses gave him a unique charm, and those blue eyes shone with an intensity that made your heart nearly leap out of your chest.

“Hey,” he said, his voice relaxed but with a warm tone that made you feel strangely safe, even as anxiety swirled inside you. “Want a drink?” He held up a glass of juice you hadn’t even noticed he was holding.

“Oh, no... I mean, yes... no, thanks,” you stammered, feeling your face heat as your words came out completely jumbled. He chuckled, a low, genuine sound that seemed to tickle your stomach.

“Sure? I promise I didn’t put anything weird in here. At least, not much,” he joked, his smile widening as he took a sip of his own drink.

You shook your head, trying to ignore how dry your throat felt. “No, I... I’m fine. I just... thought I’d come talk to you.”

“Oh, yeah? I’m honored,” he said, tilting his head slightly in curiosity. “What did you want to talk about?”

You swallowed hard, trying not to look like a complete idiot. “Nothing important. Just... do you like these parties? I mean, do you actually have fun, or do you just come because all your friends are here?”

The question came out completely nonsensical, and you immediately wished you could disappear. James, however, didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he smiled even more.

“I like them,” he replied, leaning slightly against the table as if to seem closer. “I mean, it’s hard not to have fun when you’ve got Sirius trying to dance and Remus trying to stop him from breaking something. What about you? Are you enjoying it, or did your friends drag you here?”

“Oh, they definitely dragged me,” you admitted, feeling the words flow more easily as he kept the tone light. “They do these things... silly challenges and stuff.”

James raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Challenges, huh? So, have you done any, or are you hiding from them?”

You felt your face grow even warmer and glanced away, focusing on anything but his eyes. “Actually... not yet.”

“So you are hiding,” he concluded with a soft laugh. “Well, at least you had the courage to come over here. That’s a start.”

His words, spoken so lightly, seemed to strike something deep inside you. Courage. That’s exactly what you lacked right now, but you knew you had to try. So, before your mind could sabotage your intentions, you blurted out:

“Would you... if I... would you mind if I kissed you?”

The question escaped so quickly and nervously that you barely registered the words before they were out. When silence followed, the urge to run overtook you—disappear before he could respond. But then James did something you didn’t expect. He blinked, briefly surprised, and then, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he smiled in a way that made your heart stop.

“Please,” he said softly, his voice warm and full of meaning.

And before you could process what that meant, the countdown to midnight began. The voices around you felt distant as James took a step closer, his gaze fixed on you in a way that made your entire body tingle. It felt as though time slowed when he raised a hand, gently cradling your face, his thumb softly brushing against your heated cheek.

“Happy New Year,” he murmured, almost like a promise, before leaning in slowly and pressing his lips to yours.

The world around you seemed to disappear completely, leaving only you and James in that moment that felt infinite. The kiss was as soft as it was at first, but the way he held you revealed something deeper. His arm found its way around your waist, pulling you gently closer, as though even a sliver of distance might shatter the moment. His touch was firm yet tender, and you melted into him, warmth radiating from every point where your bodies met.

His lips moved against yours with a certainty you never imagined experiencing. It was as if he knew exactly how to make you feel safe, desired, and important. The way he tilted his head slightly, adjusting the angle of the kiss, made every second feel new and even sweeter. Without realizing it, your fingers found the edge of his jacket, holding onto it lightly because your knees threatened to give way.

His scent—something fresh, like open air with a hint of wood—filled your senses, and the texture of his lips, soft yet so assured, made it impossible to think of anything else. There was a perfect balance between tenderness and intensity, and you realized, with a flush spreading across your cheeks, that you would never forget this moment. He was there, entirely present, as though nothing outside of this existed—just you.

When he finally began to pull away, it was slow, almost as though he wanted to savor the moment for as long as possible. His thumb traced lightly along the side of your face before he opened his eyes. You barely had time to recover before you saw those bright blue eyes shining, a mixture of admiration and pure happiness.

That’s when he said your name.

You blinked, surprised, a shiver running down your spine at how intimately he spoke it, as if he were holding something precious. Hearing your name from his lips felt strange, but in a way that made your heart race even faster. You hadn’t spoken much before. How did he know?

“How do you know my name?” you asked, your voice so quiet it barely sounded like your own. Your eyes searched his, seeking answers in every small expression that crossed his face.

James smiled—not just any smile, but the one that seemed to light up the entire room. He raised a hand, brushing a strand of hair from your face gently before answering.

“I pay attention,” he said, with a natural ease that only made him more irresistible. “Did you really think I didn’t notice you? How you always look down when you’re talking to someone, or how you get nervous when you think someone’s watching? I notice. And I’ve wanted to talk to you so many times…”

You were speechless, completely captivated by his tone, by the way he seemed so genuine. He continued, as though it was impossible to stop now that he’d begun.

“I just never knew how to approach you. You always seemed so... distant. And I thought maybe you wouldn’t want someone like me to talk to you. But... you’re here now. And I won’t pretend I’m not happy about that.”

Your heart was pounding, and you didn’t know what to say. The way he was looking at you made your knees feel even weaker, but something about his words gave you unexpected courage.

“I… I’ve always wanted to talk to you too,” you admitted, your voice hesitant but sincere. “I just didn’t know how.”

James smiled again, softer this time, more intimate. “Well, I guess we’ve figured it out now, haven’t we?”

You laughed nervously, but he tightened his grip on your waist slightly, as if to reassure you that you weren’t going anywhere. Then, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, he said:

“I was thinking... maybe we could continue this conversation later. Just the two of us. What do you think?”

Your heart leapt, and you could hardly believe what you were hearing. “Are you… asking me out?”

“I am,” he replied without hesitation. “And I’m hoping you’ll say yes because I don’t want to miss the chance to really get to know you.”

Your face burned, but you couldn’t stop the smile spreading across your lips. “Yes,” you said, almost unable to believe your own words. “I’d love to.”

He grinned in a way that made your chest swell with a joy as light as the crisp night air. “Great. Best way to start the year, don’t you think?”

And with that, he gave your waist one last gentle squeeze, as if to confirm that this moment was real. The sound of fireworks began in the distance, but nothing seemed more important than his gaze, still locked on yours, as if he could stay there forever.

[fawnwilde]

Taboo III Ecstasy .𖥔 ݁ ˖

Sean MacGuire x reader

◃◃ [chapters] ▹▹

rating: explicit (18+)

A storm has torn the camp to shreds. The Van Der Linde gang is lucky to have you around to help them pick up the pieces of the camp.

But you're lucky there's a certain Irishman who knows how to lift your spirits, in more ways than one...

content warning: f reader, smut MDNI, cunnilingus, piv smut, arthur has high honor so sean lasts longer, goofy smut bc it's sean macguire, he's a goofy guy

word count: 5.0k

The night before, a storm damn near flooded Clemons Point.

The sun disappeared beyond the horizon, and heavens opened up in retaliation.

You were sitting at the campfire, whittling arrows while listening to Javier idly strum his guitar. A distant rumbling made you sit straight.

Like a bloodhound, you looked around, sniffing the air for the earthy aroma of rain. Years living outdoors gave you a sixth sense, knowing when the weather brought danger to you and your nomad lifestyle.

Lo and behold, the warmth of the early evening sky was being interrupted by blackened clouds. A storm was brewing.

“Not good.” You said to no-one in particular, as you tucked away your knife and arrows.

“What’s wrong, señorita?” Javier had asked, ceasing his music to give you a look.

“A storm.” You responded, looking at the others around camp, “Looks like a bad one. We need to move quickly, find sturdy shelter.”

Within the hour, you and the gang were scurrying through rain, thunder, lightning and harsh winds, trying to protect and save what you could of the makeshift camp..

Dutch listened to your instructions, and together you managed to get people to transport valuables to the safety of the trees nearby. The group huddled together in a large, makeshift shelter created by two wagons and a canopy.

A very rushed solution which did little for the camp, that was bombarded by elements. All you could do was watch the camp flood and disperse, a blanket wrapped around you with Dutch’s chin resting against your shoulder.

You tried to get some sleep, used to the sounds of winds and rain. The effects of the storm would have to be dealt with in the morning, you had said.

In the present, you just sighed dejectedly.

The camp, for lack of a better word, is a disaster.

Tents destroyed by rain, wagons submerged in mud, horse escapees that had to be herded back to base by an exasperated Charles and a rather hysterical Kieran.

The sun above feels like it's taunting you all. Everyone else busies about, following the instructions bellowed out by Grimshaw. No-one has the energy to complain in their various states of exhaustion, lugging around whatever was still intact and grouping together destroyed items.

You’re standing beside Pearson, trying to salvage his supplies, half-listening to him recounting an event in the navy where his ship almost went overboard during a storm.

Another cracked bowl is put into the growing pile of unusables, another bottle of beer is found full of muddy water, and the world keeps turning.

What a dreadful day, you think as you rub a hand over your face.

“Hello, whore.” A female voice greets, and Karen joins your side with a wink.

You smile at her, “Careful. That’s Micah's favourite nickname for me. Don't want him to get jealous.”

Karen scoffs, but smiles at the easy banter between the both of you.

It’s taken you a while to get used to Karen’s way of talking with you, especially now that she knew about your rendezvous’ with the gang’s leader Dutch Van Der Linde and the resident hot mess John Marston.

Two weeks have passed since you began warming both of their beds, and somehow you worked in perfect harmony.

The gang was just happy Dutch seemed to have an outlet, and John was starting to turn his life around.

Speaking of which, Arthur and John walk past, carrying a wagon wheel between them towards Strauss’ worse-for-wear wagon.

When John sees you, he brightens up, sending you a wink. You smile back, putting your hands on your hips.

John realises you’re wearing one of his shirts, and he does a double take, dropping his end of the wheel and making Arthur lose balance. The wheel goes crashing onto the ground below, knocking off two of the wooden spokes. John winces as Arthur exclaims angrily.

“What happened?!” Strauss demands angrily, storming across camp.

“Ah! We broke the goddamn wheel!” Arthur groans, glaring at John.

“John!” Dutch laments, coming between the angered Austrian and his two unruly sons.

Karen bursts out laughing, nodding to you to try to fix the problem you had somehow inadvertently caused.

As Arthur grabs a hammer and takes Strauss over to amend the wheel, Dutch sighs frustratedly. He’s stormy as he passes you, so you gently take his hand, pulling him closer.

Dutch raises an eyebrow at you. You smile, leaning up to press a soft kiss to his lip. His mustache tickles, but he hums into the kiss, his posture relaxing for a moment. As you pull away, a small smile rests on his lips, anger forgotten.

He nods to you and Karen, tipping his hat, “Ladies.”

As he disappears from view, John follows him. You lean into him, kissing his cheek. He chuckles rapidly, nudging his forehead with yours before he wanders off.

Hosea, who was stood waiting for Dutch at his tent, awaiting an argument between the gang’s leader and John, was left surprised when both men just nodded to one another and went on with their day.

Turning back to Karen, you smile at her bewildered looks “Problem solved.” You say, shrugging.

“Witch.” Karen laughs.

“Am I a witch or a slut? You laugh, poking her arm.

“You’re a goddamn miracle of nature, that’s what you are.” Mary-Beth laughs as she joins the two of you, followed by Sean and Tilly as they bring over chairs and crates.

“At least someone can control those two.” Tilly laughs, “When you’re fully healed, I reckon you’re a real force of nature.”

You’re reminded of your wound, looking down at the bandage that peaks out from the sleeve of your dress. It had been healing well over the past couple of weeks, but there had been a scare a few days ago where you had a fever, and Grimshaw realised it had gotten infected.

Another reason to stay with the gang for a little longer. If you had left when you originally wanted to, the infection would have killed you.

“Aw, yer poor arm.” Sean coos, poking your forearm.

You shrug, “It ain't too bad.”

“Ain't too bad? If ye were a horse, ye woulda been shot ‘fore ya went lame.”

“Oh, that's not…” Mary-Beth sighs.

“Sean, why are you like this?” Tilly slaps his shoulder. The Irishman just stares at the women, shrugging without a care in the world.

“See, this is why we ain't together no more.” Karen says with a roll of her eyes.

Sean scoffs, “Please, like that wasn't my decision.”

“It wasn't.” The girls say in unison.

You join in their laughter, and Sean catches your eye.

His eyes twinkle with life, making a small blush appear in your eyes. Sean is undeniably handsome, in an unkempt, boyish way.

“If I hav'ta be the butt of the joke to hear tha' lovely laugh, then I’ll gladly take the blow to m'pride.”

“You always are the butt of the joke, Sean.” Lenny laughs as he walks past the small group.

“Everyone, hurry up! We’ll be moving closer to the lake until this area has solidified again.” Dutch calls out, walking through camp with Hosea at his side.

You smile at the thought of being on the waters edge, having confided in the Van Der Linde gang leader about your affinity for water.

Dutch winks at you as he passes.

“Sean! I told you to move the firewood an hour ago!” Hosea yells at him, storming towards the younger man looking ready to reconstruct his bone structure.

Stuttering out excuses, Sean heads off, Hosea on his trail, sending the girls back into hysterics.

Sean MacGuire always knows how to lighten the mood… even when he doesn't realise it.

You’re stood on the outskirts of camp, trying to salvage the girls’ lean-to cover, which got torn pretty awfully by the torrential rain.

“Ah, come on now.” An exasperated voice whines.

Looking up, you spot Kieran across the way, trying to lead the horses away from their old spot to the new one across camp. The grass at the hitching posts has turned to sludge against the mud below, yet the horses seem content to stay there.

And poor Kieran has the bad luck to try to move them all to their new home.

Which they are clearly unhappy about, if their whinnying and motionlessness is anything to go by. Kieran tries feebly to lead Boaz away by his reins, but the horse shakes his head and stomps his hooves at him.

“Please, just listen to me.” Kieran sighs, “You’ll be happier over there, I promise!”

“Having some trouble, Kieran?” You call, folding up the canvas as you come to his side.

“You have no idea.” He sighs, looking dejectedly at Boaz who huffs at him and stays in place. If he had arms, they would be crossed in unimpressed protest.

Bo stands a few feet away, happily grazing on a lump of soggy hay. Definitely not a picky eater, you laugh to yourself.

“Bo.” You call, whistling.

He looks up, nickering happily when he sees you. He trots over, nudging at your head, and you press a kiss to his nose.

“Take him over, Kieran.” You nod.

Kieran sighs, taking Bo’s reins limply, already prepared for another embarrassing defeat.

But Bo just sniffs, leading Kieran away as if he were the horse instead. Kieran sighs in relief, “Thank you, Bo.”

As Bo and Kieran meander off, you nudge Boaz to follow, who seems to get the hint and trudges over, followed by Old Boy and Brown Jack.

Slowly but surely, the horses trickle over to the new space, and Kieran grows more and more at ease as more of the horses take your lead.

With only two horses remaining, you tie your skirt up at the hem, grabbing the Count’s reins in one hand and Taima’s in the other. They hesitate for a moment, before following you forwards.

“And I thought I was good with horses!” Kieran beams, giving you an appreciative nod, “Thank you for helping, miss.”

“Of course-”

“Bollocks!”

You and Kieran jump at the sudden, Irish outburst.

Sean seems to have drawn the short straw, or is currently being punished by Hosea, because he is attempting to independently push one of the wagons out of the mud.

And looking positively pathetic as he huffs and heaves while trying to shove the wagon.

You lose the battle against laughing, trying to hold it in but a chuckle escapes your pressed lips. Sean looks up, and his eyes widen when he notices you’re watching.

Clearing his throat, Sean nods at you, “Lass.”

“Mr MacGuire.”

He presses his lips together, rolling up his sleeves dramatically. He takes a big breath, before throwing his body against the wagon.

It doesn't budge.

It’s strange to see Kieran looking at someone pityingly, “Do you need some help?”

“Shaddup, O’driscoll!”

“Not an O’driscoll.” You and Kieran say. He smiles at you, avoiding your eyes as you chuckle.

The horses notice the lack of human supervision, and Baylock tries to make a break for the old land, with Boaz on his tail.

“No, come on guys!” Kieran yells as he runs back to them, herding them back to their new home.

Turning back to Sean, you put your hands on your hips, “I don't think that's moving.”

“It-’s almost- there- woah!”

A slippery patch of mud sends the wagon sliding forwards, much too quickly for Sean to regain his balance. He falls into a heap into the floor, making a loud squelch against the mud.

“Sean!” You shout, a laugh escaping you as you rush forward to help him.

Pulling him from the mud, he looks up at you with a somber face, half covered in mud. He spits out a mouthful, mumbling words that you don't understand.

You wipe off the mud from his nose, looking at him and bursting out in hysterics.

“Aw, you look like Bill Williamson.” You point to the mud surrounding his mouth.

“How absolutely dare you- ow…” Sean winces, rolling his wrist with a grimace, “Definitely fell on that wrong.”

“Here, let me look.” Laughs stifled, you extend your hand to his.

He shows you his wrist, a grimace on his face. Looking it over, you carefully run your fingers over the sharp bones and wiry muscle. Sean hisses when you out pressure to his joints.

“Think you might have sprained it.” You sigh, “It's not broken, but it'll hurt for a while."

“Gah, ain't too bad then.” Sean shrugs, though he fails to hide his scrunched up look.

“If you were a horse, you would be shot before you go lame.” You smirked.

“Hardy har, she's a comedian.”

You just giggle, rolling up your sleeves, “Let’s get this thing out of the mud, then we can swap jokes.”

Sean rolls his eyes playfully, wiping off some mud on his face before coming to your side at the back of the wagon.

“I’ll push it, it isn't too big.” And you’re not lying when you say this. It’s the cart used for simple journeys taking supplies, a donkey could pull it.

But Sean doubts your abilities, huffing out a laugh while he wipes mud off his hat.

“Just warning you, it's heavier than it looks.” He says, “Don't say I didn't warn you.”

You brace your hands beside his, giving it a sturdy shove and sending it forward.

It moves easily, the strength you have gained from hunting, riding and running coming in useful once again. Looking over your shoulder victoriously, you’ve earned a look of pure astonishment from the Irishman, before his face falls and he gives you a playful pout.

“...show off.” Sean grumbles, traipsing after you as you push the wagon further into camp.

Lenny whistles as he passes the both of you. He’s covered in muck, clearly also fighting a losing battle against sorting out the camp.

“You sure are helpful, miss.” He muses, before rolling his eyes at Sean moping behind you, “And stronger than this buffoon, clearly. Bet you could push that thing with me on it.”

“Hop on if you want.” You joke.

He chuckles, prodding at Sean’s wounded arm. The two squabble behind you, indignant defences from Sean and quips from his friend.

Trying to look over the top, directing the wagon towards the shore of the lake, most people avoid your path respectfully.

But Micah Bell nearly walks right into you, a sneer on his face and his hands full of weapons. He huffs out a laugh at Sean's expense, “Need a woman to do your job for you, Irishman?”

“Notice how no-one's offering to help you?” You say as you pass, noting the gun that has fallen out of his arms.

Sean gives Micah a goofy, self satisfied grin, “She's entranced by my Irish charm.”

He clicks his heels, making you and Lenny laugh.

Before long, you're depositing the wagon by the horses. You and Lenny share a smile and a wave before he returns to helping with rebuilding tents.

Sean goes to the water's edge, squatting to cup water and wash it over his face. It’s ineffective with only one hand, but every time he lifts the other, he winces. Dramatically, you know. Sprains ache but you’ve had enough to know he's exaggerating.

With a pout, he looks up at you “Help a poor, injured fella out?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but relent to his puppy dog eyes. Pulling a rag from the laundry pile, you join his side, dunking the rag to wet it before bringing it to his mug.

Sean watches you as you drag the cold fabric over his chin, cleaning the mud off before washing it out in the waves of the lake.

“Big baby.” You chide.

He gives you another frown, batting his eyes at you, and you splash water at him. He guffaws, shaking his head like a dog when the water gets in his hair.

“Mean.” He says, but smiles when you resume washing the last bit of dirt off his cheek.

Once he's clean, you look over his face, taking a moment to admire his tiny freckles and crooked nose.

“There’s that handsome face.”

Sean blushes redder than his hair, clearing his throat. You stand and ring out the rag, tossing it back the laundry pile and leaving the bright red Irishman without another word.

He watches you leave, you pretend not to notice.

The camp has settled in for the night, newly constructed tents on the bank, and a campfire on the shore of Flat Iron Lake.

Home sweet home, for now.

Uncle had already fallen asleep face down in the sand, and people have started betting on whether or not the tide will sweep him out before dawn.

The gang is in high spirits despite all of the chaos.

Javier plays a light hearted song and the remaining alcohol is distributed. Even Charles has had a good few, laughing along to one of Hosea’s stories.

You’re quietly enjoying the atmosphere, sitting with John as the both of you listen to the sound of music and laughter.

You don't even realise he's dozing until his head begins resting on your shoulder.

Deciding he should better go to sleep, you rise and take his hand, leading him to the lean-to he's been sharing with Javier.

Once he’s down, snug as a bug in the salvaged blankets you wrap him in, you walk over to one of the only surviving tables, taking a moment to yourself with a borrowed cigarette from Mary-Beth.

Smoking is new to you, and it's entirely unpleasant. But it calms your mind as you bask in a moment of solitude.

It’s like you summoned the mouthy Irishman by asking the universe for peace and quiet.

Lo and behold, Sean strolls past you, carrying a crate of bottles towards the main campfire while whistling a tune.

You narrow your eyes looking at his supposedly mortally injured wrist being used to carry a heavy looking crate without any fuss from him. He looks almost cartoonish with his bouncing stride and smirking face.

Fucker just wanted princess treatment, huh? You think to yourself.

A turn of his head and Sean sees you.

Eyes widening, he drops the crate with a racket of rattling glass, dramatically grasping his wrist like a soldier fresh from the battlefield.

“Oh, my wrist!” He winces, leaning against your table, “Oh, it's pure agony, I’m telling ya.”

You huff out a laugh, blowing smoke at him, “Is that so?"

“Oh aye, aye. Thought I could carry that crate, out on a brace face. But lordie am I in pain, you’ve never known the likes of it.”

“Right.” You chuckle, “And what am I supposed to do about that?”

“Ah, I don't know.” He makes a show of thinking, rubbing his ‘sprained' wrist, “Haven't ya got any special healing powers or nothing? Karen mentioned yer a spooky witch or something of the like.”

You snort, “If I did, I wouldn't have needed to be saved by Dutch after getting shot saving you outlaws.”

Sean joins in your laughter, before he stops, looking you up and down appreciatively, “Oh… well, maybe there's something you can do…”

He’s shameless.

Narrowing your eyes, you finish your cigarette and give him a scrutinising look, “Oh? And what's that, Mr MacGuire?”

“Maybe you could kiss it better?” Sean suggests, voice low with obvious flirtation.

“That's all?” You ask, leaning forward, “You could have just said.”

Sean’s smirk drops, taken aback, “Wait, really?”

“Sure.” You shrug, standing, “It's just a kiss.”

He stares at you, and you can practically see the cogs turning.

Taking your hand, he leads you away from the rest of the camp, away from prying eyes, “A special healing kiss demands privacy.”

He pulls you into a tent, shrouded by darkness away from the campfire’s warm glow.

You raise your eyebrows when you realise whose it is, “This is Hosea’s tent-”

You're silenced by Sean’s lips.

Taken aback, you freeze. He stops, looking at you worriedly.

You stare at him, before shaking your head, “Fuck it.” This time, you kiss him.

Sean kisses like he does everything else, unmeasurable amounts of energy, little skill. But it's good, in a messy way.

You lean into it, arms wrapping around his neck to grasp onto his scruffy hair, knocking his hat off in the process.

“I thought-” kiss, “You wanted-” kiss, “Me to-” kiss, “kiss your wrist-” You say in between kisses.

“Nah my wrists fine, it's my lips that hurt.” Sean pouts against you, “Need you to kiss em better.”

His tongue seeks entry, and who are you to deny him?

It’s heated, your hands gripping onto his hair, his hands gripping onto your waist. You mesh together greedily, seeking the warmth of each other's bodies.

Sean nips at your bottom lip; and you frown against him. You can feel him harden against your hip.

“Fuck, get that skirt up.” He groans, gripping the fabric of your dress, “If I don't have my face between yer legs in the next five seconds, I think I’ll die.”

You giggle breathlessly, letting him push up your skirts to the tops of your thighs as he drops to his knees.

With nothing to balance on, you almost topple over when he begins biting your inner thighs, teeth scraping against soft flesh. Sean tugs at your ankle to push your thigh over his shoulder, steadying you while also opening you up to him.

“No underthings?”

“The ones I borrowed got wet.”

He groans, “Yer bloody spectacular.”

You barely have a second to brace yourself before he’s burying his face against your cunt.

Gasping, you grab onto his head, finger nails stretching against his scalp. Your other hand comes up to your mouth, teeth sinking down onto your knuckles as Sean begins devouring you.

Kitten-licks to your clit, digging his tongue into your hole, groans coming from his mouth sending vibrations against you. His hand leaves your ankle to plunge two fingers into you.

It’s too much too quick, your orgasm begins riding close to the surface with startling speed and urgency.

Sean shakes his head like a dog, mouthing at your cunt like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

Biting on your knuckles, you mewl out as you cum against his mouth, shaking and gasping out, murmurs of Sean's name on your lips.

He doesn't let up, sucking on your clit with possibly even more vigour. You whine, trying to move away, but he locks his hands around your thighs, pulling you back.

“Sean- too much.”

He groans, saying something against your pussy, sounding suspiciously like “Nuh uh.”

“Sean…” You laugh breathlessly, squirming.

Reluctantly, he pulls his head back, looking up at you with blown out pupils and mess all over his face.

“Haven't eaten something this good in years.” Sean sighs against you, mouthing at your inner thigh as he catches his own breath, “It’s just mean to take it from me.”

You roll your eyes, but run your fingers through his hair affectionately, “Fine, just… gentler.”

“Whatever the lady wishes.”

He returns to his ministrations, though making an effort to take more care. His tongue runs along your cunt gently, drinking up everything he can find, kissing your clit with his own moans.

Another, smaller orgasm runs through you, making you clench your thighs against his head. He breathes out a quiet, “fuck yes”, as if he wishes you would keep him locked in place forever.

You’re tempted to do just that.

After a moment, he rises to his feet. His hands grasp your hips, kissing your face, “Let me fuck you? Please?”

“Well… seeing as you asked so politely.” You chuckle, nudging your nose against his stubbly cheek.

Sean smiles giddily, like the cat who got the cream. A flash of fear crosses his face, eyebrows furrowing, “Dutch won’t kill me, will he?”

“Nah. He hasn't killed John yet.”

Sean whistles, “You naughty, naughty girl.”

Separating, the both of you begin hastily tearing off your clothes. Your skirt and shirt are in a pile across the room, and you get comfy on the bedroll, hot skin shivering against the cold blankets.

“Knew you were a minx when I saw you in the woods.” Sean says, pulling his shirt off.

“Oh?”

“You’ve got the look.” He smirks, “A siren, you are, luring us sailors in.”

“I hadn't done anything before Dutch.” You laugh, shredding the last of your garments and stretching out on the bedroll.

“No way.”

“Way.” Leaning forward, you tug Sean close by his belt, “I guess something's been awoken in me.”

“And aren't we a bunch of lucky fuckers for gaining your affections.” Sean groans, cupping your cheeks and kissing you deeply.

You lie back as Sean removes his belt, busying your hands by playing with the blanket below.

Sean steps out of his trousers, and clears his throat for your attention, a shit-eating grin on his face.

Your eyes land on his cock. Both Dutch and John had been impressive, and Sean was… less than. Smaller than them both, nestled amongst wiry red curls.

But Sean stands proudly, gesturing to his hard member with a flourish, “Meet MacGuire junior!”

You laugh despite yourself, shaking your head at him while you cover your face. You’re starting to really like this silly guy.

“Don’t laugh at him, he’ll get shy!” Sean fake pouts.

“I’m sorry.” You apologise, not at all genuinely.

“It ain’t much, but trust me I know how to use it.” He smirks, confidently sauntering over to where you recline.

He climbs on top of you, settling between your thighs with a satisfied sigh. You press your knees to his sides, bringing him close while he nuzzles against your cheek.

“Perfect, just where I’m supposed to be.” He murmurs as he begins peppering kisses along your bare chest.

Sean reaches down, one hand gripping your thigh while the other lines himself up with your entrance. It takes a few seconds of fumbling, while you press your lips together to avoid laughing again.

You feel him press against you, before Sean thrusts forward until he’s buried to the hilt. The both of you let out groans, relief filling you at being filled.

Sean sighs, shutting his eyes as he begins fucking into you, humming to himself as he increases the pace, wasting no time before he begins pounding into you.

“Oh… oh, yes…” Sean moans, “That’s the ticket.”

He’s about to start monologging, you sigh internally.

You silence him with a kiss, which he hungrily receives. Wrapping your legs around his hips, you urge him to keep going.

Sean is greedy as he takes you, hands running over every inch of skin he can find, hips slamming against yours, desperate for the warmth and pleasure of your cunt.

His pace is quick, hard, and uneven. He clearly had less experience than he likes to lead on, and he’s working with less equipment than most men.

Given all of those facts, you would have thought sex with Sean would be sorely disappointing

You’re pleasantly surprised.

Something about the feral way he fucks you hits perfectly, and you have to separate from the kiss to moan out. His hand travels down to your clit, running it vigorously and making you cry out and clench down on him.

Nothing about this is slow, it’s fast like the steam trains you watched from a safe distance.

Sean chokes out a high pitched moan, shuddering on top of you. He only gets louder with every pump of his cock within you, and he tries to silence himself by sucking on your chest.

You keen, arching against him as he sucks on one of your pebbled nipples, teeth nipping and sending jolts of electricity through your spine.

Sean adjusts his position. He sits back on his haunches and grabs your hips, pulling you up and down his cock. Sean’s pelvis catches your clit, and you arch against him, letting him use you as he desires.

You’re surrounded by a cacophony of moans and slick sounds, the tent echoing all the delicious noises produced by your writhing bodies.

It’s filthy, it’s messy, it’s ravenous, like you’re both animals in the wild.

Sean damn near sounds like an animal, in any case. His volume increases as he gets closer, crying out and moaning.

“Oh god, oh yes- almost there-!” Sean whines, body shaking as he jackhammers into you, head thrown back.

Another jolting thrust hits your clit just right, and you shake as your third orgasm erupts through you.

Sean grins when he feels it, prideful of making you peak again. His face twists into an ecstatic grimace as he twitches and begins cumming.

“Oh, oh, oh!” He howls out, his hips flush against yours, warmth spreading through your insides.

He collapses on top of you, keeping himself nestled deep within you as he huffs out warm breath against your neck.

Something about the situation, and what just happened, makes you begin giggling, cackling like a mad woman while Sean huffs.

“Can’t believe- you're laughing again.” Sean groans between taking panting breaths, “Like I didn't just fuck the shit outta you.”

You huff, “Don't know about all that.”

He lifts himself up to rest his chin on your sternum, adjusting his hips to get into a comfortable position while keeping his softening cock inside of you.

“How’s MacGuire junior feelin’ now, love?” Sean asks teasingly.

“Shut up.” You scoff, tucking a piece of his hair behind his ear, “How’s that wrist feeling?”

“Better.” He sighs, “Still need that magic kiss, though.”

You laugh, shaking your head. Taking his hand in yours, you press your lips to his inner wrist, nuzzling against the skin.

He gives you a sleepy smile, kissing your cheek. For a moment, it's just you and Silly MacGuire, and the world outside has ceased to exist-

The moment is cut short when someone dangerously close to the tent yells out, “Who left this crate here?!”

It’s Hosea.

Sean’s eyes widen, panicked as he looks out into the horizon, visualising his own imminent demise. You press your face to his chest to muffle the laugh threatening to escape you.

“...Oh he’s gonna kill me.” Sean sighs.

AN/ i don't care about canon, MY sean macguire would eat pussy until he suffocated. he'd literally get lost in the sauce. literally those videos of those cats who shove their whole face into their food until their owner has to pull them back by the scruff of their necks.

wrote the smut on my break while listening to chase icon and smoking a cheeky fag hope it hits xoxo

fic taglist: @warmsideofthepillow03 @sammymcsamerson @m1stea @iamaunknownsecret @love-you-louise @vanpan8 @6esi @idcmannn @pumpkin-toffee @littlebirdgot @ripvanwinkleee @straows @bixjan

[sitepathos]

From Gold to Mold

Chapter 4: The Deal (Warning: this chapter will feature violence. Read at your own risk)

A/N: had free time this week to produce this. Next week is chock full of tests and midterms, so this’ll probably be the last chapter for some time. Enjoy! Also, I’m sorry to those who asked to be added to the tag list and weren’t. I tried to add many of you, but Tumblr wasn’t able to find your blog for whatever reason.

When you open your eyes, darkness goes on forever in all directions, the only thing you can see is yourself. Where are you and how did you get here?

“Hello,” you call out, hoping someone is nearby to hear you, not caring who hears you just as long as someone comes to you. “Is there anyone here?”

Nothing, which you expected, but you had hoped against reality that someone was here… wherever here is. The cold air surges through your body and you shiver, your teeth chattering, echoing in the void.

“What happened,” you ask yourself. “How’d I get here?”

Just then, your memory kicks in and images and words assault your mind all at once: walking through the East End, the three thugs, the dirty shack in the middle of the woods you had been dragged to, and—

“Oh my god,” you say as the final memory flashes before your eyes. “They killed me.”

That’s right, the flash of the muzzle and the sound of the gunshot still rattling in your head. And if you think hard enough, you can vaguely remember falling to the floor after the bullet entered your head.

“Wait,” you say, realizing something very important. “If they shot me, then why am I here?”

Sure, you aren’t religious (all beliefs in a just and loving god died after you lost your Momma and was forced to live in an abusive and neglectful household for thirteen years), but this dark and neverending void is a far cry from the bright and golden imagery that’s always been associated with heaven. And this sure isn’t the fire and brimstone that comes to mind when you think of hell. So, is this purgatory? Or limbo? You never could keep the two straight.

Is this your fate? To spend the rest of your afterlife alone in this abyss? Why couldn’t you just cease altogether? Was it too much to ask that you just close your eyes and never wake from your eternal slumber?

You realize you’re crying and you’re amazed that after crying so much throughout your life, you still have plenty of tears to shed, even in the afterlife. But that’s been your lot in life since you lost Momma: to be the world’s punching bag.

“Such powerful emotions,” a familiar voice says.

You look up in shock and see your Momma, looking exactly the same as the day she was taken from you.

“Momma,” you exclaim, rushing to her and embracing her, squeezing her as hard as your arms will allow, afraid that if you let go, she’ll disappear.

“This form brings out such joy, sadness, and loss in you,” she says. “Feelings from someone alive are far more vibrant than from someone deceased.”

“What,” you asks, looking up at her in confusion, but when you do, it’s not your Momma you see looking down at you, but Bruce. You let go of the man as quick as you can and put a bit of distance between the two of you.

“What did you do to my Momma, you son of a bitch,” you shout in disgust.

“This form brings out such anger, pain, and hatred in you,” Bruce says, looking you up and down as if dissecting you like a damn lab experiment. “How interesting.”

“What the hell are you talking about? How’d you get here and what did you do to Momma?”

“And it’s not just this form.” You see movement all around you and in perfect unison, the other members of the Wayne Family appear from the void. “You hold these forms in equal amounts of hatred and contempt.”

“You deem this one a failure,” Bruce says.

“This one a hypocrite,” Dick says.

“This one a brute,” Jason says.

“This one a know-it-all,” Tim says.

“This one a stranger,” Barbara says.

“This one annoying,” Stephanie says, before turning to Cassandra. “And while you’ve never heard that one speak, you deem her a freak.”

“And you deem this one a monster,” Damian says. He gestures to Bruce. “You hate this form and that one in equal measure, far surpassing the others.”

You see another figure step out of the void and when you make out the face, it’s Alfred. You feel relief surge through your body, happy to see the butler; if there’s anyone who you can depend on, it’s him.

“While this one serves the others, you hold great respect for this form,” Alfred says. “Although, you hold a not insignificant amount of resentment towards him.”

Your heart skips a little at the accusation. No, you love the man, who took the place of a father when Bruce failed to fill the void left by your Momma’s death; sure, you’ve had the occasional thought that if the man was given a choice between you and them, he’d choose them over you since he’s always helping them, but he’s always been there for you since day one!

“No,” you say, pleading with the man. “Alfred, I don’t!”

“But you do,” the butler responds. “According to you, he is the true master of your prison, but instead of using his power to make them acknowledge your existence, he allows them to continue parading through Gotham, fighting criminals.”

“You also believe all these forms belong in Arkham,” Bruce adds. “And that you wish to be the one to subject them to electroshock therapy.”

You finally realize that something’s wrong here. All of them have never been in your presence long enough for you to say how you feel about them (not that they’d care, anyway) and you’ve never told Alfred how you often daydream of locking them away in Gotham, strapping them to metal chairs, and flipping the switch to send hundreds of volts through their skulls, hoping to shock them into being decent human beings. All this has been kept in your head for well over a decade.

So, how the hell did they know all this?

“You’re not them, are you?”

“No,” Not-Bruce answers. “We only took the forms of those you see before you.”

“Then who the fuck are you,” you growl. “And where the fuck am I?”

“We have no name,” Not-Alfred says.

“We are one, and yet we are many,” Not-Damian finishes.

“It is impossible to define a being such as us,” Not-Jason chimes in.

“Alright, that doesn’t answer my question,” you mutter to yourself, but say it loud enough for them to hear. “Then answer me this: where am I? The last thing I remember was being shot by three thugs.”

“Yes, we know of your attack,” Not-Stephanie says.

“As for your question, we are appearing to you in your mind,” Not-Bruce says.

“My mind,” you exclaim. “How?”

“When you appeared to us, we reached out and established a link with you,” Not-Tim explains. “It is from there that we were able to peer into your mind and see your memories.”

“My memories,” you ask, dumbfounded.

“Yes,” Not-Damian responds. “Through your memories, we saw these forms and assumed them. We thought it would be more preferable for you to speak to us if we took the appearance of the people who have the most influence on your life.”

“If you looked through my memories, then you should know I want nothing to do with any of them,” you snap at them.

“We know now that we were in error,” Not-Bruce responds, a ghost of a smile gracing his face. “We owe you many thanks. Never before have we been put into a situation where have known the sensation of being incorrect. We will ponder this experience for years to come.”

“So, what do you really look like.”

All of them look at one another, unsure how to answer your question.

“We are not sure if you wish to see our true form,” Not-Alfred responds.

“While you are the first sentient being we’ve interacted with in our entire existence, we know that our true form is something many of your kind would consider… terrifying,” Not-Stephanie adds.

“I don’t care,” you snap. “I’m not talking to any of you while you look like this and I sure as hell don’t want you taking Momma’s form! And if we’re going to talk, we’re gonna do it face to face!”

“Very well,” Not-Bruce acquiesces.

And with that, everything fades to black and for a moment, you’re scared you’ll be left here in the dark by yourself again. Maybe you should’ve let them stay like that.

Just then, above you, you see an odd red glow. You look up and you feel your blood freeze, your heart stop, and the air catches in your lungs. Above you is a giant mass of red, bioluminescent flesh hanging from a cave ceiling, thick black tendrils extruding from it and digging deep into the surrounding rock, allowing it to remain suspended in the cavern. And if that didn’t freak you out enough, you can see the flesh obviously resembles the shape of a fetus in the fetal position. This thing looks like something out of an H.P. Lovecraft novel.

“Holy shit,” is all you can say.

“We told you you would not approve of our true form,” it says, its voice beaming directly into your mind.

“What are you,” you ask, still awestruck at the sight before you.

“We are have no name,” it responds. “But, with the knowledge we have accumulated over the centuries, we suppose you can call us the Megamycete.”

“Megamycete?”

“Yes, we are a supercolony of sentient fungus that has existed for over four-hundred years.”

“Four-hundred years? That’s as long as Gotham’s been around.”

“We have existed as the city above. When its founders first arrived, we were nothing more than a collection of small, independent and unaware colonies of mold. Not long after the first buildings were built, an earthquake shook the area and revealed something we now know as a ‘Lazarus Pit,’ a pool of green, luminescent liquid that possesses remarkable restorative properties, and the colonies that would become us were plunged into it.”

“And this pit made you the way that you are?”

“The pit made us aware, but it did not give us our intelligence. With our enhanced capabilities, we were able to spread out our roots beyond the mountain. Not long after, we discovered the corpses of the first of Gotham’s citizens, buried after they drew their last breath; when our roots came into contact with their bodies, we found we had the ability to archive the knowledge, memories, and even DNA of the deceased. We became obsessed with growing our archive, so as Gotham grew over the years, so did our roots; overtime, we archived hundreds of its deceased, increasing our intelligence and knowledge of the outside world. Now, our roots touch every part of this city, becoming one with it, not only archiving the remains of its living, but seeing and hearing everything that goes on within its boundaries.”

“So,” you say, your mouth becoming dry at your newfound knowledge. “You’re like some fungal god?”

“While we know many of your kind may consider a being such as us god, we hold no illusion of being a divine entity. We think of ourselves as an immortal observer.”

As you attempt to process this information, your mind brings something to your attention and you feel your heart stop when you realize it. You really don’t want to know the answer, but there’s that damn stubborn part of you that has… no, it needs to know.

“So,” you begin, trying to summon the courage to ask your question. “Earlier, you said all of this is going on in my head, right?”

“Yes, our roots were able to establish a link with you and allow us to convene with you in your mind.”

“So, if we’re in my head right now, where’s me? I mean, my body?”

Although the Megamycete doesn’t have eyes, nor does it turn anything that resembles a head, you can feel it shift its awareness to the side, as if looking at something. You feel yourself break into a cold sweat as you slowly turn your head to the left, wondering what exactly you’re going to find.

And when you do, your greeted by a sight that makes you feel as if the world around you had crumbled away and you’ve been left behind to float in the void left behind: you, lying in a mess of tendrils composed of mold, broken, battered, and bloody; your limbs lying in directions they’re definitely not supposed to be in, your eyes glazed over, and a gaping bullet hole in your left temple.

“Oh my god,” you shout, utterly horrified at the sight before you. “Oh my god!”

“We saw the torture those three criminals subjected you to. Their leader was quite thorough in inflicting damage.”

“So that’s it, huh?” While this is all just some projection in your head, you feel like you’re hyperventilating. “This is how it ends: being eaten by some sentient mushroom and becoming a part of it? Doomed to spend the rest of eternity tethered to this damn city? I survive in a place where you’re likely to be killed by some trigger-happy murder clown and his psycho-ass whore while getting your mail and some two-bit thug is what does me in?”

“If you look closer, you will find that you are still alive.”

You practically snap your head to look back at your body and sure enough, you can see your chest moving up and down. It may not be much, but it’s there.

“I’m alive,” you ask, shocked at the sight of you breathing.

“You still live,” it answers back. “Your life force is low, but still there.”

“But how? He shot me in the head and then threw me down here! People don’t live after something like that!”

“While a gunshot to the head is normally fatal, our archive shows us two revelations: that the bullet did not go through your brain, but graze it and that the bullet used was of a lower caliber. While the wound was grievous, you still had a chance of surviving it. As for the fall into our chamber, your body was caught onto our roots as it fell, slowing it down and allowing it to land with diminished force.”

“But I’m still going to die, right?”

“Yes,” it answers, seemingly sympathetic. “If you were in a proper hospital, you could recover, but right now, your body is slowly shutting down. By the time anyone found you, you would long be deceased.”

So, you survive attempted murder, but you’ll still die in the end.

“Fuck,” you mutter. “Wasn’t the end I had in mind.”

“What did you have in mind for your death,” the Megamycete asks.

“Shouldn’t you know what i had in mind for my death?”

“We do, but our knowledge shows us talking to the dying brings a form of comfort to them. Plus, this is the first time we have had the chance to interact with a living mortal. We wish to prolong the experience as much as possible.”

You chuckle at that. “I thought I would spend my final days back home in Goodsprings, sitting in the big recliner Momma bought for me. I use to spend Saturday mornings in it, eating cereal and watching cartoons.” You smile at the memory of the chair. “It was a damn good chair.”

“We see it, a brown cushioned seat, perfect for watching television or reading books.”

“Yeah, that’s the one. Would’ve been perfect to spend my last days in.”

“Perhaps you still can.”

You look up at the Megamycete. “What?”

“We offer you a deal: we will repair your body and give you the strength to leave this chamber and rejoin the outside world.”

“And you’ll get what?”

“You become our host.”

“What,” you balk. “Host?”

“Yes, we will entangle ourselves with your very being, becoming as one.”

“And why the hell would I agree to that,” you exclaim. “You fix my body just to take it over? No deal!”

“You misunderstand. We will not override your control over your body. We will be nothing more than a spectator in your life, seeing but being powerless to intervene. In addition to being restored to your former glory, you will gain access not only to our vast archive of knowledge, but gain abilities many of your kind would consider supernatural.”

That certainly cools your temper. “So, you fix me up and give me superpowers, but all you get in return is front row seats to my life. Sounds like I’m the only one benefitting from this deal.”

“On the contrary, we stand to gain just as much as you do. For over four-hundred years, we could see the outside world, but not join it. With each new corpse we archived, we began to desire a way to interact with the world firsthand and not by mere memories. You are our solution to this dilemma. Through you, we will know what it means to feel the sun on our face, or to taste the finest meals, or to hear a symphony.”

The Megamycete’s words shock you to your core. You guess if you were stuck in this cavern for four centuries and only knew of a world beyond it through memories, you’d do anything to experience it, too.

“Please, Y/N, we beg you to accept our deal. We promise everything we are, from our archive to our longevity, will be at your disposal. You will be stronger, smarter, and better than those who thought less of you. In comparison to you, they will be nothing more than mere ants.”

You’ve thought about showing the Waynes up for years, to be able to pay Jason back for that black eye, to make Tim feel like a complete idiot, and especially to make Damian feel inferior in every way possible.

“We can do that for you. With us at your side, you’ll attain a level of perfection they could never dream of. All we want is to be able to witness this firsthand.”

“Alright,” you relent. “If all you want is to go outside in exchange for making me better than them, you have a deal.”

“We thank you, Y/N,” it says, sounding incredibly happy. Relieved, even.

And with that, your world fades to black once again and when you open your eyes, you find that you’re back in your body, feelings of pain overwhelming your senses, making it hard to concentrate on the Megamycete pressing its tendrils into you. You watch in total awe as the giant, fetus-like mass that is the Megamycete begin to shrink and when you look down where the tendrils are embedded in your skin, you can see a black substance being injected into under your skin. The more of the substance being pumped into your body, the smaller the Megamycete gets.

That’s when you feel weird all over, like every cell in your body is transforming into something else. While not painful, per se, it’s an incredibly odd sensation.

(Your body is becoming one with our mold,) you hear the Megamycete explain in your head. (Not only will it repair the damage that was done to you, you will find that you are far more durable than any mere mortal and have the ability to change your form into any that is stored in our archive, both man or beast.)

“Wait, you’re saying I can shapeshift?”

(If that is what you wish to call our mimetic abilities, then yes, you may “shapeshift.”)

When the last of the mold was transferred to you, you find your body stitching itself up and the incredible pain you were in fading fast, like it was never there. You see a puddle of water lying nearby and when you look in it, you see that all your injuries are gone, even the scar on your left check that Damian gave you three years ago. If you didn’t know any better, you’d say it never happened at all.

And not only do you look better, you feel better! You wouldn’t say you were the healthiest person ever, but you tried to stay somewhere in between active and sedentary; sure you weren’t going to be running any marathons, but you were able to climb the many stairwells at school when the elevator took too long. Now, however, you felt like you could run and win a marathon, or climb up a mountain without climbing gear, or swim the English Channel during a hurricane! And you didn’t feel better physically, but intellectually as well! Gotham, for all it many flaws, has attracted the best artists, architects, doctors, engineers, musicians, scientists, and more; you feel your mind being rushed with the knowledge and memories of countless people throughout the ages, ranging from the city’s early days to now. Hell, you even have access to the memories and knowledge of some of Bruce’s greatest employees, giving you knowledge on much on Wayne Enterprises’ tech and projects that he’s spared no expense in keeping under wraps. Maybe you can get a pretty penny from Lex Corp in exchange for this information since everyone knows Bruce and Lex are bitter rivals and are constantly trying to one-up each other, with Bruce, unfortunately, often being the winner in their battles to develop the next technological development.

“I feel like I could run circles around Einstein,” you laugh, completely blown away with your newfound intellect. Right now, you feel like you could write a symphony that would make Beethoven feel inadequate while at the same time painting a masterpiece that would eclipse the Mona Lisa and designing a fusion reactor capable of powering the entire country. You look around the cavern, looking and not seeing a way out. “Now how do I get out of here?”

(There is a passage directly above you.) You look up to see a big hole in the chamber’s ceiling. (That is how you ended up here when those three threw you in here. Our archives have absorbed many of Gotham’s birds. Any one of them should give you the power to fly out of the chamber.)

The mention of the three thugs remind you of your stolen pen and Game Boy, which then fills you with rage. You’ve never liked thieves and the thought of your Momma’s treasured pen and your gift from your thoughtful boss in the hands of such lowlifes gives you even more of a reason to hate them. By now, they could be anywhere, maybe even outside of the city for fear of your disappearance being reported (mostly by Alfred, the only person left in Gotham who would give a damn).

(Remember our roots span all of Gotham,) the Megamycete says. (Through them, we have seen and heard all that occurs in this city. As our host, you now have access to them. All you have to do is reach out and think of who you wish to find.)

Following its advice, you reach out and feel the roots that entangle Gotham like a spider web. As soon as you do, you’re overwhelmed with sights and sounds from every corner of the city.

(Focus on the three,) it advises you. (If you concentrate on who exactly you want, the roots will do the rest.)

It takes some doing, but you manage to push aside the multitude of people that are in your mind’s eye and focus on the three kidnappers. You’re taken across the city, rushing past the many buildings and stopping at some seedy building in Coventry. Your newfound knowledge of Gotham tells you this is the My Alibi bar, a place for Gotham’s criminals to get together to eat, trade gossip, and find work.

With your destination known, you search through the Megamycete’s archives and something to get you out of here and find something that should do the job: crows. Your body manifests into a murder of crows and takes off in perfect unison, keeping in formation. It’s extremely weird to be a bunch of birds; you know that what was once your body is now numerous birds, but while you’re multiple birds, you’re still one person. You can see through all their eyes all at once and change their flight path and they actually do it like it’s nothing. In a matter of seconds, you’re on the surface, flying above the forest and looking down at the twinkling lights of Gotham’s buildings.

“You know, from above, that cesspit actually looks kinda pretty.”

(We thank you, Y/N. We never thought we would be able to experience such a sight firsthand, but here we are. Now, shall we retrieve your stolen property?)

The crows fly through the city, zipping past the buildings and as you do, you realize that you’ve just fulfilled a dream you’ve had since you were ten-years-old: to fly like a bird. When you realized that the Waynes were awful and all you wanted was to go back to Goodsprings— to take flight like a bird and leave this city and the Waynes behind. Now, you can turn into a flock of birds, or even grow a pair of wings, and fly all the way to Nevada!

Eventually, you reach the My Alibi club, which looks even worse in person than through the Megamycete’s roots. You land on a nearby building’s rooftop and see the only security for the entire building is a single bouncer. You command the birds to land near the bouncer and when they do, they come together and reform your body, but instead of revealing you, you command hardened black mold to cover your body, not wanting your face to be seen by anyone.

What’s going to happen here needs to not get back to you.

“What,” the bouncer stutters. “What the hell?”

“Leave,” is all you say.

The bouncer says nothing before he runs away.

(Are you ready,) the Megamycete asks as you near the door. (We highly doubt your three would-be murderers will take your return likely. Nor will they likely be in a hurry to return your property. You may have to resort to violence.)

“Good,” is all you say as you enter.

The noise coming from patrons’ conversations, drinking, and arguing comes to an end when you walk inside. A quick look around and you can tell this place lives up to its reputation of being for Gotham’s criminal element; everyone here looks like they’ve done time and will probably spend their last days in prison.

And in the back corner sit your targets, looking at you with their table filled with glasses and plates of food. The sight fills you with rage; they shot you in the head and threw you in a ditch and here they are, eating and drinking like they just got off work and wanted something to take the edge off. And what really pisses you off is seeing the one called Butch holding your Game Boy like it was his right!

“I’m here for them,” you say, pointing to your quarry. “The rest of you are free to go.”

“Up yours, freak,” some shithead shouts back, pulling out a revolver and fires it three times. The bullets hit the hardened mold and fall to the floor, looking like crushed tin cans rather than deadly projectiles. “What the hell?”

He goes to fire it again, but you raise your hand and a tendril emerges from it, piercing the man’s heart; he drops his gun and lets out a disgusting gurgle, blood dripping from it and pooling on the floor, before falling silent, dead.

While most of your mind is disturbed at the sight; you’ve just killed a man, his blood literally on your hands, but you can’t deny there’s a part of you that’s not saddened by your actions. After all, he did try to kill you and if he was in a place like this, chances are he was a piece of shit and Gotham’s a slightly better place for his passing.

For a moment, everyone is paralyzed at what just happened. The place is so quiet, a pin could drop and it would deafen everyone. Then, everyone breaks out of their stupor, practically all of them pulling out their guns and begin shooting at you, but just like their friend here found out, their bullets are useless against you. Numerous tendrils emerge from all over your body and rush at them; some of them empaling them, others wrap around their throats and crush them, while the rest just whip them with enough force to break them in two. One by one, they fall until it’s just you and your prey.

“Look, man,” you killer whimpers as you draw closer to him. “I don’t know what you want, but you can take what we have. Tom, hand him the bag.”

The other one throws a bag, which lands at your feet; you look down to see it’s your book bag. You pick it up and open it to find everything still inside, from your binder and notebooks to your phone and the gift box Mr. Chen gave you. You’re relieved to know that you’re not missing any of your school stuff and don’t have to go looking for anything or replace it. You are, however, missing all the money from your wallet, but a look on the table shows where it went to. But, you’re still missing the most important thing: your Momma’s pen.

“Here, take this, too.” The leader takes the Game boy from Butch and holds it out to you, which you snatch from him, reveling in the fear in his eyes as you did, and carefully place it inside.

That just leaves one last order of business. You extend two tendrils and wrap them around the leaders throat and hold him up from the floor, his legs kicking around, trying and failing to get him back on the ground; his arms pathetically wrap around the tendrils, trying to crate some room for him to breath, and his mouth is gaping like a fish out of water, trying to get any sort of air. His cohorts go to say something, but a quick glare from you shuts them up. You bring the man close to you until you can see your reflection in his eyes, which are wide and full of terror, and open your mold mask, revealing your identity to them and based off their expressions, all three men could probably crush coal into diamonds with their sphincters.

“Holy shit,” Butch whispers, his face showing his complete disbelief.

“It’s that kid,” Tom adds, his face mirroring his partner. “But, we killed him, right?”

“My pen,” you say, looking at this piece of human filth with complete contempt. “Where is it?”

You loosen your grip to allow him to speak.

“My pocket,” he says. “It’s in my pocket. All the pawn shops were closed, so I wasn’t able to sell it.”

While you’re happy that your beloved pen is not is some sleazy pawn shop’s display window, you’re utterly disgusted at the thought of this man’s audacity to think he had the right to sell your most treasured possession like its some worthless trinket. A small tendril emerges form your shoulder and searches the man’s pocket and pulls out that beautiful gold ink pen. You have it deliver it to your left hand, which is empty as your right hand is being used to hold the man in front of you, and hold onto it with a vice-like grip.

(Not even death could separate you from your Mother’s memento,) the Megamycete states. (We are impressed at your dedication to it.)

“Look, we’re sorry for what we did to you,” the man pathetically whimpers. “Really, we are.”

“Did you know this was my Momma’s pen,” you ask as if the man had not just said something. “I lost her on my sixth birthday and was forced to leave my home in Goodsprings to live here. This pen is the only thing of hers I was able to bring with me. And you had felt like you had the right to take something I treasure more than anything else in the world and pawn it off for some petty cash.”

“We didn’t know, man,” Butch responds, now realizing the depth of his mistakes. “We’re sorry.”

“We promise we won’t tell anyone about this,” Tom adds. “Just let us go and you’ll never see or hear from us ever again.”

“You’re right, we won’t see each other again, but wouldn’t you like to know who I was forced to live with?” The three of them pathetically nod in unison and you have to fight the urge to laugh. A few hours ago, these men were looking down at you, sure they could do anything they wanted, but now, here you are, far above them in the food chain. “I was forced to live with my father, Bruce Wayne.”

“But he said—“ the leader starts to say, but you cut him off.

“That bastard has ignored me since I moved in with him,” you shout, shutting him up. “I was his first biological son, but he’s completely forgotten about me!” You take a deep breath. Just the mention of him brings out the worst in you. “But it doesn’t matter. I don’t need him. Just like you don’t need your lives.”

And with that, you rip the man’s head clean off his shoulders, not even giving him the chance to realize his fate before killing him. You release the body and both it and his head crumple to the floor in a heap of lifeless meat and to further invoke fear in them, you stomp on the head while looking at them, the thing making a wet splat sound. The other two shout, but you cut them down with ease, tendrils emerging from your back and wrapping around their heads and crush them with ease, showering the floor in their blood and grey matter. Their bodies fall to the floor and flail around for a while before finally stopping.

(Well done,) the Megamycete praises. (You cut down these criminals and made Gotham safer faster than any police officer we have known. Perhaps the local police should seek out your services?)

“Not gonna happen,” you laugh as you walk out of the bar with your backpack in hand. “I have no intention of staying in this place. Once I graduate, I’m going back home.”

(Yes, Goodsprings. A small town located in Nevada. We look forward to experiencing your return to your point of origin.)

And with that, you manifest a pair of black wings on your back and take flight, flying far above the city’s skyscrapers, so hopefully you’re safe from detection. In just a few minutes, you’ve flown from Burnley Island to Bristol, something that should’ve taken almost an hour by car. Thanks to the Megamycete’s roots, you can see the Bats still out and about throughout Gotham, so you don’t have to worry about running into any of them while hurrying into your room.

You land down the street to avoid being picked up by the security cameras (Bruce’s picture is the definition of paranoid based on the amount of cameras in both the estate and in the house itself) and walk the rest of the way there. Normally, walking down the marathon-length driveway to the manor when coming home from work, but his time, you cross the distance like it’s nothing; in fact, you feel like you can do this another dozen times and still feel energized.

But, while you’re physically invigorated, you’re mentally drained and all you want to do is curl up and bed and pass out; you enter Wayne Manor and hurry to your room, never more thankful for being far from the rest of the household than you are now. While you’ve been flying under the radar of Gotham’s vigilantes for years now, you’ll afraid that even they won’t be able to ignore you when they found out about your newly gained powers. During your stay here, you’ve listened to their conversations when they thought you weren’t around and you know that while they distrust everyone (even each other based on the fact that no one seems to be allowed to have secrets), they distrust those with superpowers the most. Two years you listened in on a conversation between Bruce and Superman, who offered to help him during a time when many of Arkham’s most dangerous patients escaped all at once, and Bruce said in a tone that felt like sandpaper being dragged across your face: “Gotham’s off limits to metas. You step one foot in my city and you’ll regret it.”

Honestly, you’re confident that Bruce is only on this planet to be the biggest asshole who ever lived. He treats his first biological son like shit, he raises his “true children” to be as paranoid and pessimistic as him, and he threatens anyone who offers his sorry ass any kind of help. It seems to you that the only one who should’ve died that night in Crime Alley is Bruce.

You shove the man’s image in your head aside. Before tonight, he wasn’t important to you, but now, he’s irrelevant. You never needed him before, but now, you really don’t. With the Megamycete, you have everything you need.

Just then, your phone rings, bringing you out of your thoughts. You fish out your phone and look on the screen to see Alfred’s caller ID staring back at you.

“Hello,” you answer.

“Master Y/N, are you alright?”

“Yeah, of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because it’s over an hour since you should’ve called me since getting off work.” You wince when you peek at your phone and see you’re overdue your nightly call with the butler. “So, I ask again: are you alright?” Based off his tone, he’s not going to accept “I’m fine” as an answer.

“Yeah, I am.” You quickly think of anything that could explain your tardiness and realize something: the best lie is an obvious truth. You just need to modify it a bit. “I just stayed behind to tell Mr. Chen goodbye. Today was the last day for the store because his daughter said Gotham was too dangerous for him to stay by himself, so she brought him to her home today.”

“Oh, Master Y/N, I’m sorry.” His tone says he’s bought it and you actually feel bad lying to the man you’ve come to see as a father figure. “I know how much you loved working there. Are you alright?”

“Yeah, I will be. I’m gonna miss him.”

“Of course you will, he was a good man and you were the best employee he could ask for. Can I do anything for you? I’m halfway through with my vacation, perhaps I should—“

“No,” you cut the man off. “You don’t have to come back early, Alfred.” With everything that’s happened today, you need some time to prepare yourself before facing Alfred in person again. It would be a disaster for you to expose yourself as some form of metahuman in front of him. Plus, he deserves to have all his allotted vacation time. “I’ll be fine, really.”

“If you’re sure,” he says, obviously wanting to say more, but doesn’t press the issue. “I’ll let you go, I’m sure you’re tired and you need your rest. Please make sure you catch up on your sleep I’m sure you’ve missed this week during your spring break.”

“I will, Alfred, don’t worry. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Very good, Master Y/N. Good night, my boy.”

“Good night.”

You hang up and let out a sigh of relief, glad he bought it.

(You say you trust the butler with your life, but keep the events of tonight a secret from him. Why?)

“Because Alfred’s highly protective and would most likely steal a boat and sail back to Gotham within an hour if I told him I was kidnapped. And if he knew about you, he’d probably drag me to a hospital and have every last trace of mold surgically removed.”

(We do not wish for that to happen.)

“Me neither, bud. You know, after tonight, I think we’re gonna do great things together.”

(We agree. Now, heed the words of your butler and rest. Tonight was very eventful for you. It would not do well for our host to shirk in his bodily needs.)

You chuckle and strip down to your boxers before climbing into bed. Not long after you get comfy, you feel yourself drift off to sleep. For the first time ever, you’re actually looking forward to waking up in Gotham.

Bruce hears Jason whistle at the sight, but says nothing in favor of studying the carnage inside the My Alibi bar. Bodies are scattered everywhere around the establishment, some are relatively intact while others look like they were ripped in half.

“Looks like someone had fun here,” Jim says as he approaches him, Jason, and Damian. “What do you think?”

“Looks like someone had a score to settle,” he responds to the police commissioner. He motions to the remains of three men crowded together in a corner of the bar with their heads missing; two of the heads are near the rest of their bodies while the third has been reduced to a fine red paste. “Especially these three. Based on how they were killed, I’d guess whoever did this was after them.”

“Doesn’t look like Joker’s handiwork,” Jim adds. “No one here’s smiling and the place is devoid of murderous gag toys.”

No, this is definitely not the clown’s MO. Neither does it match the MO of anyone currently missing from Arkham. The only one he could think of that could rip apart and crush some of the victims is Bane, but that doesn’t explain why the remaining victims are impaled; plus, the giant is still locked up in Arkham’s high-security ward. So, this can only mean one thing.

“This is definitely the work of someone new,” he says, bending down to study the squashed head. “And with this being the only scene we know of, this was their first time killing.”

Whoever did this is highly dangerous and needs to be stopped and fast before even more people get hurt. Looks like he and his family are going to have their hands full for the foreseeable future.

Tag List: @space1crow @bat1212 @minkyungseokie @nosyrobin @bunbunboysworld @kitty-from-daaaa-voidddd @feral-childs-word @phoenixgurl030 @soriansick @hellcatsworld @prettyboys247 @marsmabe @paolexsstuff @c0l1fl0r @starryperson @lunaluz432 @orbitingtraveler @roseytheteacup @bundlofcigars @kore-of-the-underworld @kiarst @vanessa-boo @moxiemy @greatwhisperspaper

[thyme-in-a-bubble]

the croissants

buttercup, chapter one

a/n: i was actually working on something else, but then one night i got the desperate need to rewatch daredevil yet again and then this just kinda accidentally tumbled out. oopsi i guess.

summary: he offered you a polite smile that sent a swarm of butterflies soaring within your belly, a sensation that you hadn’t felt in ages, “welcome to the building,” he added as he tugged his door open.

warnings: matt murdock x baker!reader, neighbours to lovers, rape recovery, ptsd, moving, lowkey love at first sight (for reader)

word count: 2415

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“Do you wanna make the call or would you like me to do it?” 

Turning to look at the robust and inked visage of your uncle, your face crinkled up slightly as you asked in a hesitant tone, “…would you mind doing it? Please?”

“Sure, hon,” Howard nodded before blinking down at his phone and dialling the number, “what kind? Margherita?”

“Yeah, and with some arugula on top, please,” you spoke as you squeezed by a tower of messy moving boxes to enter the open kitchen of your new apartment, “thank you!”

Hearing his footsteps carry him deeper into the new home, his voice soon rumbled, muffled behind your bedroom door. Opening up the cardboard box that half blocked off your empty fridge, you dug through it till you found a glass, swiftly straightening back up and filling it up with water.

“How are you doing, cupcake?” you heard the soft voice of Walter, your uncle’s husband, as you turned off the tab, “you gonna be okay tonight? Because if you don’t want to be alone, we can stay.”

“No, it’s alright, I think I’m okay,” you took a tiny sip before placing the tall glass down on the counter, “you both gotta get up early tomorrow to open the bakery anyways.” 

“It’s never stopped us before. Do you remember when you were 11 and you watched that terrifying movie at some slumber party?” a smile twitched at the bald man’s lip from the memory, “I don’t think any of us slept for a whole week straight and the bakery still kept on running. If we could get through those sleepless nights of trying to convince you that our apartment wasn’t haunted, then we can get through this.” 

Stepping up closer to him, you caught his hand in yours and said, “I think I’m gonna be okay, but thank you, Walter, really, for everything, for this, for letting me move back home and letting me stay there for over a year.”

“Hey,” he squeezed your palm and ushered you to meet his gaze, “you do not need to thank us for that. It’s–…” he dropped the heavy comment he nearly uttered and instead let out a low sigh, “we love you. It was the very least we could do.”

“I love you too,” you heard your voice threaten a tremble of vulnerability, “so much.”

As the bedroom door then swung back open, out stepped Howard with an exhale, “alright, the pizza is on its way. You gonna be okay here?”

“Yeah,” you offered him a nod before walking them out. 

Peeking back at you over his shoulder as he swung his bright red scarf back on, Walter raised his brows tenderly, “promise that you’ll call us if anything happens, yeah?”

“Promise,” you breathed as you watched them creak open the front door and step out into the cold hallway, “love you, goodnight!”

“Goodnight, hon!” Howard waved over his shoulder at your visage in the doorway as the couple reached the stairs, “see you tomorrow! Try and get some rest, just head in whenever you get up.” 

“Okay,” a soft smile warmed your features. Lately, or the past year actually, they’d let you cut down on your work quite a bit so that your hours at the bakery were significantly less and the only days you were to get up before the sun did was on weekends.

“Bye!” they both called out loudly as they disappeared from your view before your own echo rang throughout the hallway.

“Bye!”

You didn’t manage to unpack much, only half of your books, before the buzzer rang obnoxiously, causing your feet to scramble to let the delivery guy up. 

Swiftly locating your backpack, you fished out your wallet just before a knock boomed at your door. 

“That’ll be twenty bucks,” the pimply-faced pizza guy spoke in a monotone voice as soon as you opened up. 

Catching the shadow of another figure ascend the staircase just before you began to dig through your wallet, his handsome and scruffy features were adorned with a pair of glasses that had a darkly crimson tint to them.

“Yep… uh… do you have change for a fifty?” 

“Nope,” he impatiently blinked before loudly popping his bright blue bubblegum.

“Oh, alright…” you felt your palms begin to sweat, “do you mind just waiting here for a second? I might have some more cash in a jacket… somewhere…”

But just before you could duck back inside, the suit-clad man who had stopped to unlock the door directly opposite yours, whipped his own wallet out and handed off the needed bucks, “here.”

Satisfied, the pizza guy accepted the change and shoved the wide box into your arms before dashing off. 

“Oh, you didn’t have to do that,” you blinked over at your generous, new neighbour, “I can pay you back–”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it,” he offered you a polite smile that sent a swarm of butterflies soaring within your belly, a sensation that you hadn’t felt in ages, “welcome to the building,” he added as he tugged his door open. 

“Thanks,” you uttered, slightly windblown in your threshold as he disappeared into his apartment. 

Slipping into your sneakers and hastily fastening them with sloppy bows, you slugged your jacket on and grabbed your bag. As you exited your apartment, the neighbouring door opened just as you locked up your own. 

“Oh, hi!” you squeaked over your shoulder as you turned the key, “good morning!” 

Your breath got caught in your throat as you turned to face him fully, shoving your bundle of keys into your pocket. Did he look even better than you remembered? Now no longer obscured by the terrible excuses this hallway had for lighting, the frosted window to your right illuminated every detail of him that you’d missed the first time around. 

“Morning,” he replied as he too locked his door behind him. 

Waiting a moment before you began to move your feet, you eyed his polished attire, “are you off to work?”

“Yep,” he nodded and fished out a folded-up cane from the inner pocket of his jacket, “you?”

“Yeah,” you sucked in a breath, “I’m Y/n, by the way, forgot to introduce myself the other night.”

“Matthew,” the bespectacled man extended his hand out for you to shake, “nice to meet you.” 

After ignoring the tingle his touch sent down your spine, the two of you began to descend the stairs.

“Thanks again for what you did with the–, oh! I should pay you back!” you reached into your deep coat pocket to locate your wallet, “I’m pretty sure I have–, how much was it?”

“You don’t have to, it’s fine, really,” he politely declined. 

Reaching the bottom of the staircase, your brows flew up, “seriously?”

“Yeah,” he shrugged as he then held the front door open for you to get out onto the street first. 

“Thank you, Matthew,” you slipped out, waiting a moment before you began to head off, “have a good day!”

“Yeah, you too,” he said, flicking out his cane to its full length, just before you both began to walk in the exact same direction. 

“Oh, wait,” you slowed as a giggle bubbled out of your lungs, “you’re also heading this way?”

“Oh, uhm, yeah.”

“Do you–, uh… I can wait for a little bit and let you get a head start if you–”

“Or you can just walk with me, if you’d like,” he suggested with a gentle smile that made your brain forget for just a split second where your destination was in the first place, “it’s fine with me, I don’t mind the company.”

“Okay,” you agreed in a quiet voice, returning to a brisk pace beside him. You didn’t take too many strides before a casual question nervously fell from your lips, “so, have you lived here long?” 

“In the apartment or Hell’s Kitchen?”

“Oh,” your heartbeat thrummed in your ears, “both, I guess.”

“I’ve been in the apartment for a while,” he told you, “but lived here in the neighbourhood pretty much all my life.”

“Yeah?” you smiled, maybe glancing over at him a bit too much for it to be safe as you walked, “that’s nice.”

“You?”

“Uhm, grew up in Brooklyn, moved here to live with my uncles when I was nine, after my parents passed.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” his low tone emanated an air of kinship. 

“It’s alright. It was a long time ago, I was just a kid... anyways! Enough about me before I spill all of my childhood trauma to you,” you gracelessly changed the subject, “you are in a suit.”

“I–,” a faint laugh tumbled out past his lips before he joked, “I’d sure hope I am and didn’t accidentally change into something else.”

“No–, I mean, yes, obviously,” you felt heat begin to rise in your cheeks, “that was just a very weird and backwards way of asking what you do for a living.”

“Ah,” his dark brows lifted in comprehension.

“Let me guess…” you fiddled with your fingers as you thought, “accountant? No… politician? No… funeral director?”

“Funeral di–,” Matthew chuckled, “no.”

“Do you work on Wall Street? Oh, please tell me you don’t because here I was just starting to think you were super cool.”

“No, I don’t work on Wall Street, but good to know that you think I’m cool,” he smirked, making you regret letting that information slip, “I’m a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?” your eyes grew, “seriously?”

“Yep.”

“That’s–... that’s–… waow…” you uttered, completely dumbfounded by the imposing nature of his profession, “well, now I don’t wanna tell you what I do, because it’s so not as impressive.”

“Oh, come on,” he tilted his head, “now you have to tell me.”

“…I’m a baker,” you finally said, “actually,” stopping your stride, you briefly brushed his arm for him to do the same, “this is where I work, right here.” 

“Really?” 

“It’s called Buttercup Bakery,” you glanced up at the familiar storefront, “have you ever been in there?”

“No, never,” his head shook lightly as a small smile warmed up his features, “funny, my office is just a few minutes further down the street, I must have walked passed this place a thousand times but I never noticed it before.”

“Well, you know of its existence now…” you turned your head to gaze at his striking visage once more as he raised a hand to adjust his glasses, “do you wanna get a coffee or something? My treat, as thanks for the pizza.”

“I’d love to,” he sucked in a breath, “but I really have to get going.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” you nodded lightly, “well, thanks for the walk, have a great day. Hope you win a bunch of cases and–, uh… I don’t know, help make the judicial system better,” you couldn’t help but physically cringed at your clumsy words. 

But your new neighbour didn’t seem to mind as he just chuckled before wandering off, “bye, Y/n.”

The small bell above the glass door to the bakery chimed softly as you pushed it open. The interior was simple, both in colour and design, but had a rustic charm to it that gave it a sense of home. Behind the counter, and the mouth-watering baked goods lined up and displayed behind the clear glass, stood Walter. Facing the long shelves adorned with various loaves, he grabbed a crusty baguette and slid it into an appropriately long brown paper bag.

Handing it off to the little old lady on the other side, he said, “here you are. That’ll be four dollars,” before she placed the money on the counter beside his half-read newspaper and strolled passed you, out of the bakery, “have a good day!”

Leaning back down to return to his paper, Walter didn’t glance up at you as he greeted, “hi, honey! You wanna hear your horoscope for today?”

Tugging down the zipper of your jacket, you joked self-reflectively as you began to shed your layers, “does it say that I’ll miraculously turn into a charming and charismatic adult instead of whatever this is?”

“…uh… no,” he furrowed his brow and finally shot you a brief glance, “it says that you're energized and creative. This new moon initiates two weeks of growing work, health and strength. Put your heart into your actions. Practice makes perfect. Oh, and it also says right here that the spelt flour bin needs refilling and that there are about a billion cardamom buns that need to be shaped.”

“Oh, it says all of that, does it now?”

Letting a tense breath go, you apprehensively let your fist meet the dark door in three shy knocks. 

As soon as it swung open, the sentence, “do you like croissants?” sputtered out passed your lips. 

Head reeling back slightly at the unforeseen and sudden question, Matt blinked, “what?” 

“Do you like croissants?” you repeated as if it wasn’t strange to just blurt out something like that out of the blue. 

“Uh,” a smile then crept up on his lips, “hello to you too, Y/n.”

“I mean, I’ve personally never met anyone who doesn’t care for them, but I’m sure they exist.”

“Sure, I like croissants.”

“Oh, great, wonderful!”

Leaning against his door, his head tilted as you failed to continue, “…did you just have a burning desire to know that fact about me?”

“Right, no, I–, uhm, there were a bunch leftover today that we didn’t sell, so purely just to not let any go to waste, I thought you’d like some,” you held up the crinkly paper bag for him to hear. 

It had been a lie, but he didn’t have to know that you’d set some aside for him before they all sold out, just to have an excuse to talk to him again. 

“Oh, thank you,” he held out his open palms, “that’s so nice of you.” 

As you handed the bag off into his grasp, you felt as if your heart might beat straight out of your chest.  

“…alright, well…” you stumbled slightly, “I should probably head off to bed. Weekends are always the busiest, so my shifts are usually really long and I have to get up like super early, so... goodnight then!” 

And with that you awkwardly whirled around and scurried the short distance into your own apartment, only faintly catching his warm chuckle as you disappeared. 

“Night.”

© 2024 thyme-in-a-bubble 

[ghostedgwen]

I really like how you wring angst and I know you like jegulus so what if james x reader who are married but the war is going on and they just had Harry but reader could tell that James' heart wasn't with her and they're contemplating a divorce (because James is still inlove with Reggie)

thank you so much ily

the final blow | j.potter

note : wow this hurt like absolute hell to write but the juicy juicyyy angstttt was so delicious i also enjoyed every bit of it! I love jegulus and i also love angst and james x reader so this was just a perfect request thank you so so muchhh! <3

warnings : SO MUCH ANGST, like not a single happiness in this one folks, read only if you want pain, hurt no comfort - nonexistent nope nada, jegulus in the plot, regulus is still very much dead rip, warning you might hate james and the other marauders but that's up to how you feel by the end of this, enjoy 3.8k of pain

The war is on and yet you felt too caught up in your failing marriage. James was different and somehow, it had everything to do with a boy who died a year ago who you never even knew at all.

└——————— - [ 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 : 𝚃𝚊𝚢𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚂𝚠𝚒𝚏𝚝 - 𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝙻𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙼𝚎]. +

The nursery is still, save for the soft rustling of pages and the barely-there coos of a infant being lulled to a peaceful sleep. Harry’s breathing has evened out into a slow, steady rhythm, one tiny fist curled near his cheek. You smile, lips ghosting against the words as you finish the last line of The Tales of Beedle the Bard, your voice just above a whisper.

“...and so the three brothers parted ways, each with something far greater than what they had bargained for.” You shut the book softly. “Goodnight, my love.”

You lean in and kiss him on his head, right where his black hair meets his forehead, you sit up straight and brush back a lock of his impossibly dark hair - his father’s hair. He smells like clean laundry and something sweet, perhaps chocolate.

The door creaks faintly, and you freeze.

You don’t look right away. You already know who it is, the silence that follows is familiar. Weighted and waiting, and careful with each step, you listened to the creaks on the floor next. 

You place the book down on the shelf with slow, deliberate care and finally turn around. James is leaning against the doorframe.

He doesn’t say anything. Just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes are on Harry. Not you. You watched as he trailed his hazel eyes over the crib where the sleeping infant was resting, and you watched as he failed to regard you.

Something in your chest pulls tight.

You offer him a tired look, but he doesn’t meet it. He only watches his son like he’s not sure how to enter the room he was supposed to live in.

After a pregnant pause, he pushes off the frame and disappears back down the hallway. No words offered for you at all. Not even a glance was spared, it stung like a stinging jinx.

You stay there, frozen in place, heart thudding in the quiet.

The room feels colder once he’s gone. Which is weird because it was unbelievably warm before he had been in it.

It wasn’t always like this. You remember when James used to come home and find you first - fingers tangling in your hair before you even had the chance to take off your coat, lips at your temple, laughter against your skin.

You used to fall asleep in his arms. You used to wake up to the weight of his hand around yours like gravity couldn’t separate you, even in sleep.

Now he sleeps too far on his side of the bed, the distance between you two more evident as the days go by.

Now you kiss your son alone goodnight while he pretends you weren’t even there.

You try not to think about what you found last week, the letter in his drawer, unsigned, unsent, a name you don’t speak aloud sealed behind the shaky handwriting.

“Don’t forget me.”

You try not to think about the way he said I love you this morning, like a reflex, like a password. Not a vow.

There’s a war brewing outside. One that kills and takes and tears. Your family was far from safe, your little Harry being the one most at risk and yet, it feels like your home had a war of its own brewing right below you.

But the worst part, you could feel it stir right below you as if reeling you in with every motion round and round and round - and the war didn’t do this to you.

He did.

And he’s still doing it. Bit by bit, if he meant it then you just had to question why. What did you do to him that was so wrong to be punished this cruelly?

You reach for the crib railing, holding onto it like it might anchor you, and allowed a single tear to roll down your tired cheek. The war was stirring right under you and every day the stir is stronger, some of it spilling and you wonder how much you could take before you fall right in.

The tea’s gone cold. You honestly don’t even remember making it. The warmth had all but left the mug as you cradled it in both hands like it could ground you to reality.

And reality is that your marriage was falling apart, horrendously, like the foundations were never that strong to begin with.

The morning light cuts through the kitchen blinds in pale slats, painting stripes on the floor like prison bars. You’re seated at the table, hands cupped around your mug like it still offers warmth. Across the room, James fumbles with the frying pan, back to you, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, wand lazily flipping bacon.

The air smells like eggs and burning toast.

It smelled like home and it was somewhat warm, like how a home should be but it felt far from it. Your husband’s broad back was no longer a comforting sight to see, it was all you’ve been seeing. His back, turned on you. Metaphorically and quite literally.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he offers, voice light, like he’s commenting on the weather. It surprised you that he even bothered to talk.

You don’t lift your head. “So have you.”

There’s a moment of silence, like even that clipped answer bruises something. You watch him from beneath your lashes - how he pretends to focus on the pan, how his shoulders twitch when you speak. He doesn’t look at you. He hasn’t looked at you in weeks.

Like your gaze might sear through to something he doesn’t want you to see. But the thing is, you have already seen through it all despite his pathetic attempts.

You take a long breath, careful not to let your voice crack. “Where have you been, James?”

His hand stills, you see the tense warp all over him. He doesn’t turn. “Order stuff.”

You snort, it was out of you before you could stop it. “Right. Of course. Order stuff.” You set the mug down harder than intended. It clinks. “What’s her name?”

That gets him. He flinches like you slapped him with your words,a nd perhaps you had wanted that effect.

He turns, slowly. “What are you on about?”

You laugh but it’s empty. There’s no joy in it. No amusement. Only the acidic tang of disbelief and hurt simmering just beneath your skin. He dares to still pull this shit despite you being very blunt and outright with him, after almost a month of dancing with him in this fucked up waltz.

“I’m not stupid.” Your voice is shaking now, with quietly simmering fury. “Or perhaps I am, for even asking the obvious. But I’m not that stupid, James. So at least tell me her name.”

His jaw tightens. You can see the muscle tick in his cheek. His facial hair has surely grown, it suits him and for a moment, all you see is the man. Gone was the bit of youth you saw still residing in him, the James you had back in school - he’s just a man now.

A man in your house that you weren’t sure you wanted in it.

“There’s no other woman,” he says finally, quietly, and it’s not a lie - you could tell that much, but it’s not comfort either.

Because there’s truth in the omission. Because Regulus Black doesn’t count as a woman. That’s when it hits you - it wasn’t a woman, but there is someone.

Your breath leaves you in a scoff, barely contained. “You’re unbelievable.”

James runs a hand through his hair and lets out a long, tired sigh, like he’s the one fraying. But you know better. You feel it, the threads snapping loose inside you. Little by little, you were the one dying and he was watching it happen like he wasn’t the one doing the stabbing.

“James, you - ”

You were cut off by a sharp piercing sound of your infant crying, Harry was crying all the way from the nursery and he had saved James right on cue. You could almost laugh, seems your baby was too convenient, it breaks the moment clean in half.

You shoot James a look - a bitter, burning glare that says this isn’t over - and shove your chair back with a scrape.

The tea sloshes over the rim of the mug as you stand. You don’t wait for him to speak. You don’t want to hear his excuses, not now, not in this quiet war zone of a kitchen that still smells like family and love and something that once resembled home.

You walk out, shoulders trembling, heart bruised and bracing.

Behind you, James doesn’t follow. He never does. He watched you leave like it was so easy for him, like he couldn’t be bothered if you didn’t come back.

He wasn’t home for three days after that. He left you a letter on the counter saying he’ll be with Sirius for more Order Stuff, you had burned that letter after reading it. You supposed the distance could be good to let your anger die down.

Despite everything, James knew you the best. He knew to keep his distance and to give you time as you were too angry to think rationally, you always lost it when you were angry - it’s almost funny how you barely know him anymore but he clearly still knows you.

He returned exactly after three days, like he said. You had acted like a ghost then, going about as if you were floating when he came back, serving him food and ate lunch with him like normal.

It’s now afternoon and raining.

You sit on the edge of the bed, still in yesterday’s jumper, fingers twisting in your lap like you’re bracing for impact. The storm outside taps against the windowpane in slow, uneven rhythm - like a heartbeat on its last set of beats.

James stands by the dresser, shirt half-buttoned, hair still damp from the shower. He hasn’t looked at you since he walked in from the bathroom - you could only wonder what goes on in that head of his.

You used to know.

You speak before you lose your nerve. “Do you still think about him?”

Silence. Not the kind that leaves room for answers - the kind that is the answer. Your lip twitches at that.

He doesn’t move, but it’s not like you could see as you have turned your back on him, you continue to watch the rain while he had been shuffling behind you. The tension in his shoulders spikes like he’s just taken a hit to the gut.

You keep your voice steady. “You’ve been somewhere else for weeks, James.”

He still says nothing.

You rise and turn to him. You walk past him slowly, like the air itself might snap underfoot. You open the drawer beneath his sweaters, the one he never uses.

And you find it, having seen it before and knowing exactly where it was hidden between his hold Quidditch jumper and a pair of trousers. 

It wasn’t a picture of all four of them, that one had been hung proudly on the painted wall in your living room. It’s not his parents either, their photos were framed and moving on top the kitchen counter top. It was definitely not either of you or Harry - those littered the walls of the staircase.

It was a picture of a boy, all alone looking into the camera like his eyes could pour out the love it had for the person taking the picture. Just Regulus. All alone, blinking slowly with a reserved smile playing on his lips, but even an idiot could tell such a small smile held a lot.

You hold it up without a word.

James turns, sees it, and his breath falters. A thousand cracks spiderweb across his face in one slow second.

“He’s dead,” he says, voice ever so hollow.

You nod once, tightly. “You don’t act like it.”

His jaw clenches. “I said he’s dead.”

The thunder rolls.

You look down at the photo, thumb brushing the edge. Regulus’ expression doesn’t change - just a flicker of haunted softness, caught forever. You swallow the scream building in your throat and smile, small and weary.

“Love doesn’t die with people, James,” you whisper. “Don’t be daft now.”

You look him in the eye again, tearing your gaze away from the photo. No flinching this time.

“We both know the truth. Stop dancing around it and just be honest with me. I have your name, your ring. I gave you a child.” Your voice breaks there, but you push through it. “I deserve that much.”

He runs a hand through his hair, looks like he might cry or yell or disappear. But instead, he says it. A quiet, breathless confession.  “...Yes. I - I still think of Reggie.”

Reggie.

Not Regulus. Not Black. 

Your chest goes tight, heat rising fast in your throat.

You want to slap him. Want to scream until the walls shatter but instead, you sit. Slow and controlled, but it did nothing but gave away the fact you had lost strength in your knees. They had buckled under the weight of that confession.

You let out a soft, bitter laugh, more air than sound.

“Thank you for your honesty.”

And this time, it’s you who won’t look at him.

The room is warm with firelight and shallow laughter. Someone cracks a joke - Sirius, maybe, and everyone laughs like they mean it. You force your lips to move into something resembling a smile, eyes trained on the rim of your glass, fingers curled too tightly around the stem.

James is across the room, drink in hand, his laugh a little too loud, his grin a little too sharp at the edges. You know it by heart, the performance. That peculiar brand of forced brightness that he only pulls out when he’s trying to hide something behind his teeth.

Sirius is watching him. It’s obvious he knew of James’ troubles in paradise, those two were soulmates, the very definition, of the word. He was watching James like he would implode any minute, and maybe he will.

Maybe you will.

The fireplace crackles behind you, casting the room in soft gold and cruel shadows. Your throat is dry, your wine untouched. You don’t remember what the meeting was even about.

Just that it’s over now, and you're all pretending life is something you still have time for.

You excuse yourself to find a quiet corridor. Exiting the festivities (if you could even call it that), you breathe.

But you're not alone for long.

Lily corners you by the coat rack, hair slipping loose from its clip, eyes glassy from drink or knowing, maybe both. Most likely both, she was always smart like that. She had figured out the furry problem at first year, first month in.

“It’s very obvious, you know,” she says gently, trying to remain kind in her tone. “Maybe not to the others, but… as your best friend - I can tell. What’s wrong?”

You freeze, throat thick. She reaches for your hand, soft and warm and familiar, and instead of being comforting, it hurts.

You look her dead in the eye. “Did you know?”

She blinks. “Know what?”

You swallow, breath shaky. “About him, and R - Regulus.”

The pause is short, too short in fact, as you watch her face fall.

You feel it like a knife to the ribs, lodged in your heart after it had stabbed past the now broken rib. She knew.

“You knew,” you whisper, horror building, “You didn’t tell me.”

Lily’s voice is small. “It wasn’t my secret to tell. I’m sorry.”

You're shaking now. You force your voice steady.

“Who else knew?”

Lily looks down at her shoes. Her silence answers you before her words do.

“Everyone.”

You almost shatter the glass in your hand. The stem creaks under your grip. “Everyone knew but me. And how long did they - how long?”

She doesn’t meet your eyes.

“End of fifth,” she says, like it might be softer that way. “Till sixth. A whole year. I found out because… I caught them. They didn’t plan on telling anyone.”

You feel something rupture inside your chest. A small, silent explosion no one else will ever hear. You look around the room, through the crack in the door - at Sirius, at Remus, at Marlene and Peter. At James.

You’d thought they were your family.

Lily tries again. “I couldn’t tell you. It wasn’t my business. And besides - he… he died. That secret had died with him.”

Your laugh is dry. Empty. It slips out without your permission.

“He died,” you echo, “but he took James with him.”

Lily's eyes snap up to yours. Your voice doesn’t rise, nor does it crack.

You say it like a confession. A final nail in that coffin that had long been dropped six feet under.

“My husband isn’t mine. He’s just a man living in my house, eating my food, loving my son - but he doesn’t love me.”

Lily looks like she wants to say something, but her mouth just opens and closes around the weight of it all. She can’t fix it, she knows that.

You take a breath, glass trembling in your hand, and finish the thought: “I don’t even know if I can say I lost him… when he wasn’t really mine at all.”

And that’s the truth of it. Not that he loved someone else, but that he never loved you enough.

The storm hits the windows in rhythmic bursts, water streaming like tears down the glass. Wind howled outside and it was almost mocking how the weather reflected the emotions stirring inside you.

You’re pacing. The clock ticks too loudly, the silence of the house even louder.

He’s late. Again.

You hear the door creak open. Hear his boots on the floorboards. Wet cloak, shaking hair, the sharp smell of rain and danger and someone who doesn’t belong here any more.

James doesn’t even flinch when he sees you standing there, arms crossed, jaw clenched.

“If you don’t want this,” you start - voice already raw, “then just tell me.”

He shuts the door behind him. But he doesn’t take a step closer or even shed off his wet cloak that weighed his shoulders down along with the look on your face.

“It’s just the war,” he says. He almost sounded convincing but you’re not that easy any more.

“No,” you snap. “The war is outside, James.”

You take a step forward. Point to the floor beneath your feet, to the table where he hasn't joined you in days, to the light that's dimmed from your eyes.

“This? This is you. This is him. This is me - dying in a house we built together.”

His shoulders drop. He breathes your name like a prayer, like a curse. But you didn’t allow it to get to you, not again, it just slid off like some curse thrown towards a protective shield.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“You didn’t have to,” you whisper, voice hollow. “You just stopped choosing me.”

Your fingers press lightly to your chest, where your wedding ring sits heavy on its chain.

“Or was I ever the choice?”

The words bleed out of you before you can stop them.

You think back to seventh year. The way he held your hand at graduation. How you both clung to each other after his parents died - cold hands, dragon pox, the funeral so quiet and cruel.

You were eighteen and in love and hopeful. You got married within months of graduation. It felt like survival. It felt like forever was promised then.

Harry came before you could blink. Twenty years old and calling yourself Mum.

And now you’re twenty-one, with a baby asleep upstairs and a husband who can’t look you in the eye - mourning a boy he was never allowed to love out loud.

“I don’t want to give Harry a home that has nothing but quiet resentment,” you murmur, fighting back the tremble. “He deserves better.”

“I don’t want him to have a broken family,” James fires back.

Your head snaps toward him. “You don’t think we’re already broken?”

The kitchen cracks open with the weight of it.

“Do what’s best for our son,” you say slowly, deliberately. “Let’s just end this here, before we hurt each other further.”

James steps forward now, frantic. Desperate. “Please. Don’t - don’t say that. Don’t give up on us, Harry - “

You shake your head, breath catching.

“James,” you say, voice thick. “Please. Be honest. With me. With yourself.”

You can barely breathe as the storm raged on outside, it was so fitting with the rage that stirred in you. You couldn’t let it all out, afraid you’d hurt him if you allowed the anger to ooze out of you so you stood there, allowing your anger and pain to rattle you to the core.

Stood there, calm in your stance and your wand nowhere in sight as you confronted your fears. You could almost explode from the feelings overtaking you but you are a woman, a mother. You had it in you to still stood with clothes not wrinkled, hair pinned properly as your heart slowly broke to a million pieces.

You had grown up with society’s fucking expectations of women, so you managed to keep it all in as you were tearing at the seams. Your voice was steady when it spoke despite how much your hands were trembling and how bad you wanted to yell.

It was all inside you as you slowly filtered them out.

“Regulus was just a year, but he clearly meant so much more. Choose him and mean it - or choose me and promise to forget he ever existed.”

You blink back the sting in your eyes.

“We both know you can’t erase him. Not really. So let’s stop pretending. Let’s stop hurting.”

Silence stretches between you, sharp and sacred. His eyes are glassy now, wide and wet and full of all the things he never said aloud.

He opens his mouth. Closes it.

Then finally: “I want you to know that it was love. It really was.” you allowed those words to stab you all over, you could almost guess those words would come back to haunt you every night. He wasn’t done. “There was love somewhere in between, please believe me.”

And that is what sucked. “I do.”

How funny. The last time you said those words, it meant something sweeter. Like a promise of forever that you thought rightfully belonged to you. The ring hung heavier on your neck now, like a weight that was pulling you down and you wonder if you went underwater, if you’d ever come back up for air with how it dragged you so.

The storm outside roars, but you can’t hear it over the sound of your heart finally breaking.

end. masterlist

[bucketgetter535]

No Margin for Error: Chapter Five

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

CW: Drinking,mild sexual content (no smut you freaks…yet)

WC: 5.1k

Notes: Annndddd we’re back. You guys should like this chapter probably. Lmk what you think 😊

The wind at Silverstone always felt like it had an attitude, like it knew it was hosting one of the biggest races of the year and wanted everyone to feel it. Paige pulled her jacket tighter around her as she crossed the paddock toward the Ferrari garage, her eyes narrowed against the cool breeze.

It was early still, but Mercedes had already sent a message. Their car was fast. Maybe not on raw one-lap pace, but over a race distance? Dangerous. Paige had seen the data. She didn’t need Luca to tell her that if Ferrari didn’t find something extra, this weekend was going to be a fight.

She found him exactly where she expected — leaned up against the pit wall, tablet in hand, scrolling through sector times like the rest of the world didn’t exist. His hood was up against the cold and he looked about as happy as she felt.

“Morning,” Paige said, tugging her gloves on.

Luca glanced up briefly, offering a grunt that passed as a greeting. He tapped a few things on the screen and flipped it around to show her.

“They’re quick,” he said, like it wasn’t obvious.

Paige studied the graph, then sighed. “Long runs look worse than quali sims.”

“Yeah.” Luca smirked. “Your favorite.”

Paige shot him a look but didn’t bother arguing. He was right. She could handle a fast lap. Managing tires and fuel while fending off a Mercedes breathing down her neck for fifty laps? Different story.

She shifted her weight, glancing over toward the garage. Mechanics were moving around like usual, but there was a weird energy. Like something was missing.

“Where’s Azzi?” she asked, frowning.

Luca hesitated. Then, almost reluctantly, he said, “Sick. Flu or something. She’s not running practice today.”

Paige straightened immediately. “Wait. She’s sick sick? Is she gonna race?”

He shrugged, a motion that somehow said both I hope so and no clue. “Depends how bad it is. Doctors are with her.”

Paige pressed her lips together. Silverstone wasn’t just another track — it was Azzi’s track. If she couldn’t race, that would be an issue.

Before she could ask anything else, a voice cut through the buzz of the garage. Chiara, Ferrari’s head of PR, appeared, tablet in hand and moving with the kind of urgency that always made Paige suspicious.

“Paige,” Chiara said, in that polished tone she used when she was about to ruin your day. “We’ve scheduled a meeting for you. In a few weeks.”

Paige blinked. “Okay… with who?”

Chiara smiled tightly, like she was about to hand over a corporate gift bag. “Dirk van de Meer.”

There was a half-second where the name didn’t register, then it hit her. Van de Meer. Adrian van de Meer. Former Ferrari driver from the early 2000s. Legend in his own right. Which meant—

Paige fought back a groan. PR boyfriend alert. She didn’t even have to ask. She could see it already — some clean-cut golden boy from the Netherlands, shoved into her orbit for “optics” and “future potential” and whatever other nonsense PR liked to throw around.

“Awesome,” Paige said dryly. She caught Luca’s glance out of the corner of her eye. He was trying — and failing — to keep a straight face.

She crossed her arms. “How old is this guy, anyway?”

Chiara didn’t miss a beat. “Twenty-seven.”

Paige raised an eyebrow. Older than her, but not by much. Old enough that if this was some weird matchmaking attempt, it wasn’t technically creepy. Still. She could already picture it: the cameras, the rumors, the endless speculation about Ferrari’s future power couple.

Fantastic.

Luca coughed into his hand, and she shot him a death glare. He only shrugged, like hey, don’t shoot the messenger.

Paige exhaled slowly and looked back at Chiara. “Fine. I’ll meet him. Just… after Silverstone.”

“Of course,” Chiara said with a bright smile, before disappearing back into the chaos of the paddock like a storm had passed through.

Left alone again, Paige leaned against the wall next to Luca. For a second, neither of them said anything.

Then Luca said, deadpan, “You’re gonna love him.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Shut up.”

–

Paige Qualified third

It wasn’t that third was bad.

It was that third at Silverstone, when you knew you could’ve had more, felt like a punch to the ribs.

Paige yanked off her gloves the second she pulled into the garage, her jaw clenched so tight she thought she might crack a molar. She didn’t even look up at the screens flashing provisional results across the pit lane. She didn’t need to. She knew it already — Mercedes locked out the front row, Ferrari in third.

Behind her, the red garage buzzed with energy, trying to spin it as a good result. And technically, it was. Ferrari was miles ahead in the Constructors’ standings. They could afford a race or two where they weren’t perfect.

But that didn’t mean it didn’t sting like hell.

Paige hopped out of the car and tugged her helmet off, running a hand through her sweaty hair. As the adrenaline faded, the other weight settled back on her shoulders — because, of course, qualifying frustrations weren’t enough.

No. She also had Dirk van de Meer waiting for her.

Apparently, PR Boy couldn’t even wait until after the race. Chiara had texted her mid-morning: “Dirk will be joining us today. Please meet him before media commitments.”

Translation: Smile for the cameras, be friendly, and don’t scare off our sponsor’s golden child.

Paige set her jaw and stalked toward the back of the garage, her race suit half unzipped and tied around her waist. The second she turned the corner, she spotted him.

Dirk. Tall, blond, textbook Dutch features. White Ferrari polo shirt like he belonged there already, laughing too loud at something Chiara said. He had the same easy, polished look that always seemed to follow sons of ex-drivers around — born to be here, even if he hadn’t earned a damn thing yet.

Paige slowed her steps, dragging out the inevitable. She caught sight of Luca off to the side, pretending to busy himself with a laptop but definitely watching the whole thing unfold like it was reality TV. Paige gave him a look that said I will murder you in your sleep and kept walking.

And then, a little farther down, she saw Azzi.

Azzi was sitting on one of the spare tires near the wall, still in her race suit, helmet resting beside her. She looked pale, miserable, and more frustrated than Paige had ever seen her. Normally, Azzi at Silverstone was a weapon — sharp, deadly, untouchable. Today, she looked like she was barely hanging on.

Their eyes met for a split second, and Paige’s heart twisted. Azzi didn’t have to say anything. Paige could see it — the sickness still weighing her down, the frustration of knowing her body was betraying her at one of the biggest races of the year.

Paige hesitated, torn between storming over to check on Azzi and dealing with the PR nightmare standing a few feet away. Chiara, naturally, solved it for her.

“Paige! Over here,” she called, bright and fake.

Paige gritted her teeth and turned toward Dirk. He stuck out a hand like they were old friends.

“Dirk van de Meer,” he said, flashing a perfect grin.

“Paige,” she said shortly, shaking his hand once before dropping it like it burned. Her voice was calm, but her mind was still with Azzi, still furious at herself for not putting the lap together, still pissed she had to deal with this circus instead of being able to focus.

Dirk didn’t seem to notice the iciness. Or if he did, he powered through it with PR training so thick you could smell it. He asked some polite question about her qualifying — she didn’t even remember what — and she answered automatically, her eyes flickering back toward Azzi every few seconds.

Azzi hadn’t moved. She was just sitting there, staring at the floor, hands clenching and unclenching in her lap.

Luca finally drifted closer, mercifully inserting himself into the conversation under the guise of checking her data screen. Paige barely registered what he said, only that it gave her an excuse to pull away from Dirk.

She muttered something about media duties and ducked toward the garage exit, not waiting for permission.

She needed a second. Away from cameras. Away from fake smiles. Away from the growing pressure in her chest that was getting harder and harder to ignore.

Silverstone was supposed to be a statement. And now it felt like they were barely surviving it.

–

Paige barely made it to her little room off the back of the Ferrari motorhome before she collapsed face-first onto the narrow bed.

It wasn’t exactly glamorous — a twin mattress, a chair, a tiny desk piled with unopened water bottles and a couple half-eaten protein bars — but it was hers for the weekend. A place to disappear for five minutes and pretend the rest of the world didn’t exist.

She kicked her shoes off and stretched out with a groan. Every part of her body felt heavy — the adrenaline crash from qualifying, the pressure, the PR nonsense — it all layered over her like a second fireproof suit she couldn’t peel off.

And somewhere, at the back of her mind, a new and very real fear was setting in: if Azzi gave her the flu, she would kill her.

Paige flipped over onto her back and stared at the ceiling, arms sprawled out like a crime scene.

“I swear to God,” she muttered, voice rough, “if I get sick and have to race like that, I’m taking her out at Turn Three. I don’t care. Straight up.”

She was halfway considering napping — just a quick reset — when she heard the faint sound of someone moving next door.

The shuffle of feet. A door closing quietly.

Azzi.

Paige blinked up at the ceiling for a second, debating. She should probably stay here. Germs. Sanity. Self-preservation.

But… it was Azzi. And Paige couldn’t just ignore her.

Grumbling under her breath, Paige hauled herself up and wandered over. She rapped her knuckles lightly against the doorframe.

“Hey,” she said, voice still low from exhaustion. “You alive in there?”

The door cracked open, and there was Azzi — messy bun barely hanging on, race suit half undone, a hoodie pulled on over the top. She looked like hell. Pale, tired, dark circles under her eyes. Still, she managed a half-smirk.

“You sure you wanna risk it?” Azzi said, voice scratchy but teasing. “I’m like… one step away from biohazard level.”

Paige leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Yeah, well, if I get sick, I’m running you off track tomorrow. Fair warning.”

Azzi snorted and stepped back to let her in. Paige followed, already regretting it a little because holy hell, it smelled like Vicks and cough drops in here.

“You already look sick, bro,” Azzi said, dropping onto the edge of her bed with a wince.

Paige froze. “What?”

Azzi looked up at her, half amused, half serious. “Yeah. You’re all pale and sweaty. Gross.”

Paige narrowed her eyes. “That’s just… qualifying stress.”

“Mmhmm.” Azzi wrapped herself tighter in her hoodie like a burrito. “Keep telling yourself that.”

Paige huffed and sat down in the only chair, immediately regretting how much her legs ached. Now that Azzi mentioned it… she did feel kind of weird. But it was probably just adrenaline.

They sat in silence for a minute, the quiet hum of the paddock barely leaking in from outside. It wasn’t awkward. It never was with Azzi. Even sick and miserable, she was still Azzi — the one person who didn’t make Paige feel like she had to perform every second she was wearing red.

Paige leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

“Just don’t breathe directly on me,” she muttered.

Azzi laughed weakly. “No promises.”

–

From the second Paige opened her eyes, she knew it wasn’t going to be a good day.

It wasn’t the flu — not yet, anyway — but something gnawed at her edges. A bad mood, raw and restless under her skin, tightening everything until her muscles ached before she even got in the car.

Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was nerves. Maybe it was the fact that Azzi was apparently going to race today, despite what every medical professional in the country of Britain had advised.

Paige dragged herself through morning meetings and media duties on autopilot, nodding at the right times, signing autographs, posing for the same pictures she always did.

It all felt distant. Like she was wading through static.

By the time she was strapping into the car on the grid, helmet already steaming with her own breath, she forced herself to focus. Third place. Good start position. Damage control today. Don’t do anything stupid.

The lights went out, and Silverstone roared to life.

Paige got off the line clean, tucking neatly behind the two Mercedes and immediately slamming the door on the McLaren trying to sneak up the inside. She held her position through the first lap, her car heavy and twitchy with fuel, the tires screaming on cold asphalt.

By Lap 10, she was in a rhythm. Controlled. Mechanical.

3rd. Still 3rd.

“Update on Azzi?” Paige asked over the radio, voice steady even if her stomach twisted at the question.

A crackle of static, and then Luca’s voice, clear and professional:

“Currently 7th. She’s holding pace but dropping a little.”

Paige exhaled through her nose. Good enough, she guessed. Azzi had no business being in the car today, but if she could survive the race, that was all they needed.

Turn One came up fast, Silverstone’s brutal high-speed right-hander. Paige flicked the wheel in — and the front end didn’t bite the way it should.

Understeer. Subtle, but real.

“Understeer, Turn One,” she said calmly into the radio, adjusting her steering mid-corner.

There was a pause. Then Luca:

“Sorry? You’re feeling understeer?”

Paige blinked, irritation flaring hotter than it should have. “What? No. There is understeer. In Turn One. Track’s getting greasy or the wind’s shifted or something, I don’t know. Figure it out, Luca.”

Another beat of static.

“Copy,” Luca said, way too neutral for Paige’s liking.

She gritted her teeth and kept pushing, heart pounding harder than it should for Lap 11 of 52. Every time she turned the wheel, it felt like the car was a second behind her, lazy and stubborn. Every time she thought about Azzi, still fighting through fever and muscle aches, it twisted something deeper in her gut.

She wasn’t sick.

She wasn’t tired.

She wasn’t anything.

She was just angry.

At the track. At the car. At herself for caring so much.

At Azzi for racing when she shouldn’t.

At Dirk and his stupid PR smiles.

At the universe for daring to make her feel anything today at all.

Paige slammed the car over the curbs and punched out of the corner, engine screaming under her.

3rd. Still 3rd.

But it felt like barely holding on.

–

Fourth place.

Not a disaster. Not a win, either.

Paige went through the media gauntlet like she was sleepwalking — same questions, same fake smiles. How was the car? Was she happy with the result? How’s the team morale heading into the break?

Smile. Nod. Say the right things. Don’t think too hard.

She hadn’t seen Azzi since the cooldown room. Actually, she wasn’t even sure Azzi made it through the whole race. Someone said she finished, someone else said she got hauled straight to medical. Paige pretended she didn’t care. Pretended really hard.

After the last interview, Paige peeled off her race suit in the garage, pulled on a hoodie and leggings, shoved her duffel bag over her shoulder, and left without another word.

Hotel.

Shower.

Flight.

Forget Silverstone ever happened.

The two-week break stretched out in front of her like a life raft. She hadn’t been home to Minneapolis for longer than a few days since preseason testing. All she wanted was to sleep in her own bed, see her family, remind herself she was still a person and not just a Ferrari-branded robot.

Paige got to the private terminal just after sunset, the Silverstone sky bleeding into deep blue and gold.

And there it was — Azzi’s jet.

It looked exactly how Paige expected it to: sleek, polished, expensive enough to make her bones ache.

She wasn’t even sure if she was invited on it. But someone from logistics had just said, “Yeah, you’re flying with Azzi back to the States,” like it was no big deal. So here she was.

Paige climbed the short set of stairs and ducked inside, half expecting to be tackled by security or something.

Instead, Azzi was sprawled across one of the big leather couches, hoodie up, headphones half-on. She looked up when Paige entered, blinking like she was still coming back to reality.

“Hey,” Azzi said, voice rough but better than yesterday.

“Hey,” Paige answered, shoving her bag into an overhead compartment before flopping down across from her.

The engines started to hum underfoot. A flight attendant offered water, snacks, blankets — all of which Paige awkwardly declined. She wasn’t used to flying like this. It felt like stepping into someone else’s life.

The jet taxied and lifted off with barely a bump, angling toward the U.S. East Coast.

Azzi pulled off her headphones and tossed them onto the seat beside her.

“You headed home?” she asked, voice casual.

“Yeah. Minneapolis,” Paige said, stretching her legs out.

Azzi smiled faintly. “Two weeks of peace and quiet.”

“Hopefully.”

They sat there for a while, the noise of the engines soft and steady around them.

Paige realized it was the first time since that night in New York they’d really talked without helmets on, without the garage screaming around them, without strategists hovering nearby like vultures.

Azzi looked different outside of a race suit — softer, almost. Still competitive under the surface, but quieter about it.

And Paige… Paige didn’t know who she was right now. Just tired, probably. Or maybe remembering there was a real world out there, somewhere beyond press conferences and tire compounds.

“First time on a private jet?” Azzi asked, smirking.

Paige rolled her eyes. “Obviously.”

Azzi chuckled, low and scratchy. “Not bad, right?”

Paige leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes.

“Yeah,” she said. “Not bad at all.”

–

The hours blurred together in the kind of quiet that didn’t feel awkward.

The hum of the engines, the soft lighting, the low, steady rhythm of flight — it all made it easy to forget everything they were usually supposed to be.

Paige stared out the window for a while, watching the stars scatter across the dark sky.

When she turned back, Azzi was still sitting there, hood pulled low, looking half-asleep but not quite gone.

“You got family back home?” Azzi asked finally, voice rough but curious.

Paige nodded. “Yeah. My little brother, Drew. Probably taller than me by the time I land.”

Azzi grinned a little at that. “They grow fast when you’re not looking.”

“Tell me about it,” Paige said, smiling despite herself. “And my dad’s there too. He’s — he’s great. Still thinks he knows more about Formula One than he does.”

“Classic.”

Paige laughed under her breath, feeling herself loosen up. “My mom… she’s out in Montana now. Bought a ranch or something after the divorce. Not really in the picture anymore, but it’s fine. I think she’s happier that way.”

Azzi nodded slowly, like she understood without needing all the messy details.

Paige shifted, pulling one leg up onto the seat. “What about you?”

Azzi smiled faintly, her fingers tugging at the hem of her hoodie. “Parents are still in D.C. I’ve got two younger brothers. Jon and Jose.”

“Yeah? You close with them?”

Azzi shrugged. “In the way brothers and sisters are. They were always around growing up — annoying me, taking my stuff. Pretty classic younger brother stuff.”

Paige laughed again, genuinely this time. “Sounds about right.”

Azzi tilted her head back against the couch, looking at Paige through half-lidded eyes. “You probably would’ve fit right in.”

Paige smirked. “Probably would’ve been grounded every weekend.”

“Definitely,” Azzi said, smiling wider.

For a minute, they just sat there, letting the conversation breathe. Then something clicked in Paige’s brain.

“Wait,” Paige said, sitting up straighter. “If your whole family’s in D.C., why the hell do you live in New York?”

Azzi blinked, like she hadn’t expected the question. “Wanted some space. After I signed with Ferrari, it just… made sense to be closer to everything. Europe flights, brand stuff, whatever. Plus, D.C.’s a little too — I don’t know — perfect sometimes. New York’s real. Loud. Messy. I like it.”

Paige thought about that, nodding slowly. She couldn’t blame her.

There was something about New York that made you feel small and big at the same time. Like you could be nobody and still belong there.

“Besides,” Azzi added, grinning lazily, “I wouldn’t survive another Christmas with my mom setting up matching pajamas.”

Paige snorted, shaking her head. “God. I feel that.”

The conversation slipped into another lull, but it wasn’t heavy. Just comfortable.

Until Paige sighed and slumped further into her seat, muttering, “Fucking Dirk.”

Azzi’s eyebrow arched, sharp and amused. “Dirk, huh?”

Paige groaned into her sleeve. “Yeah. Fucking Dirk. Ferrari’s latest genius PR move.”

Azzi laughed, coughing a little. “The Netherlands guy?”

“Yep,” Paige said, popping the p. “Supposed to be some golden boy. Son of a former Ferrari driver. I’m probably supposed to be fake-dating him for sponsor points or some shit.”

Azzi looked way too entertained. “You gonna?”

“God, no.” Paige rubbed her face. “The guy probably irons his jeans.”

Azzi cracked up at that, the sound low and a little raspy but real. Paige smiled despite herself, basking for a second in the normalcy of it all.

No helmets. No pressure. No cameras.

Just two girls, exhausted and flying through the night sky toward something that — for a little while — wasn’t racing.

–

It had been one week. Well, a little less

Five whole days of pretending she was a normal person again — seeing family, catching up with friends, trying to remember how to sleep past 7 A.M. without an alarm screaming at her.

And now here Paige was, back in New York, standing at some bougie rooftop event she didn’t even want to be at, pretending she cared about fancy cars and overpriced champagne… all because of fucking Dirk.

Dirk van something.

He was as punchable in person as Paige remembered. Tall, hair slicked back like he thought he was stepping onto a magazine cover. He smiled too much, laughed too loud, and kept finding excuses to stand just a little too close.

Ferrari’s PR dreamboy.

Paige’s personal nightmare.

She had been texting Azzi under the table all night.

PB5: i will kill him

PB5: i swear to god azzi i will catch a charge tonight

Azzi’s responses came quick, like she was laughing from wherever she was.

AF35: sounds like a u problem

AF35: i have more tequila tho

AF35: come over after

Paige didn’t even hesitate.

PB5: bet.

She stuck it out another forty-five miserable minutes — posed for a few pictures, shook a few hands, gave Dirk exactly zero smiles — and then slipped out of the event the second no one was looking.

Her heels clicked sharply against the Manhattan sidewalk as she texted Azzi again.

PB5: omw. u better have limes.

Azzi just sent back a thumbs-up emoji. Paige smirked, already feeling the weight of the night start to peel off her shoulders.

–

By the time she got to Azzi’s place, Paige was looking ridiculous — and she knew it.

Loose pink sweater. Hair slicked back. Earrings she didn't even like that much.

She looked like she was still walking into something actually important, not an impromptu tequila night with a friend who probably hadn’t changed out of sweatpants.

Paige knocked once, then let herself in when she heard Azzi call, “It’s open!”

The apartment was half lit, music low, and Azzi was curled up on the giant couch in athletic shorts and a hoodie, hair thrown into a messy bun.

“Hey,” Azzi said when she looked up. “You’re awfully dressed up.”

Paige dropped her bag and kicked off her shoes dramatically.

“I had to survive Dirk for three hours. I deserve to look hot.”

Azzi laughed, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. “Fair. Very fair.”

Paige flopped onto the couch, feeling her spine crack in about twelve different places. A minute later, Azzi came back balancing two shot glasses and a bottle of tequila.

“You really came through,” Paige said, impressed.

Azzi grinned. “Told you. I don’t mess around.”

They poured shots — no measuring, just vibes — and clinked glasses sloppily before knocking them back.

It burned, sharp and fast. Paige winced and then smiled, the first real smile she’d had all day.

They settled into the couch, trading war stories from the past week — Paige about Dirk and the PR people trying to wrangle her into “joint photos,” Azzi about a family dinner that ended with her mom trying to set her up with someone Azzi definitely would never be into.

Paige wiped tears from her eyes at that one. “What is it with moms and matchmaking?”

Azzi shrugged, smirking. “Control issues, probably.”

Another shot. Another laugh.

Somewhere between complaining about PR nightmares and arguing about who had the worse fake dating prospects, Paige realized how easy this felt — how stupidly normal it was to be here, tequila loose in her veins, her hair slipping out of its sleek style, laughing until her ribs hurt.

Azzi nudged her with a socked foot. “Hey. You survived Dick, I mean, Dirk. That’s something.”

“Barely,” Paige muttered, tipping her head back against the couch cushions.

Azzi just smiled — a real smile, tired but genuine — and poured them another round.

–

The tequila was working its way into every limb, slow and warm, making the whole room feel softer at the edges.

Paige was stretched out on the couch, feet up, hair a mess. She wasn’t about to admit it, but she was way too comfortable here.

Azzi refilled both their glasses — smaller pours this time — and flopped down next to her, bumping Paige’s knee with her own.

“Remember the last time you were here?” Azzi asked, voice low and teasing.

Paige hummed, pretending to think. “Mhm.”

Azzi smirked. “You swore you could beat me at cards. Got your ass kicked. Twice.”

“I let you win,” Paige said lazily, grinning sideways at her.

Azzi rolled her eyes. “Sure you did.”

She reached over and grabbed a deck off the coffee table. Just sitting there like it had been waiting for this. She held it up between two fingers. “Wanna run it back?”

Paige shrugged, not really caring about the cards but liking the way Azzi looked at her — half-challenging, half-daring. “Why not.”

Azzi started shuffling, but it was half-assed, the cards slipping between her fingers like she wasn’t paying attention. Paige watched her, feeling the air between them shift — slower, heavier.

It wasn’t the tequila. Or maybe it was. But it wasn’t just that.

They barely made it through one hand.

Paige couldn’t even remember who was supposed to be winning.

Because somewhere between Azzi leaning closer to toss a card down and Paige reaching across to grab another, the game stopped mattering completely.

Azzi looked at her — really looked at her — and Paige felt it like a pull under her skin. The kind of look you didn’t just brush off.

“You’re really bad at this,” Azzi murmured, her voice all soft edges.

Paige smiled lazily, heart kicking a little harder against her ribs. “Maybe I’m just distracted.”

Azzi didn’t move for a second. Just held her there, suspended.

Then, almost like it wasn’t even a choice, she closed the distance — a hand brushing Paige’s knee, the casual touch sparking hotter than it had any right to.

Paige tilted her head, smirking without thinking. “You distracted?”

Azzi’s fingers curled slightly against her leg. “Maybe.”

The cards slid off the couch, forgotten completely, a fluttering mess on the floor.

Neither of them noticed.

Azzi’s hand slid higher on Paige’s thigh, slow, deliberate — and that was it.

Paige moved first, grabbing Azzi’s hoodie by the collar and pulling her in hard.

The kiss was messy. Too much teeth, too much desperation.

Azzi pushed back into her, hands everywhere — Paige’s hip, her waist, the bare skin at the back of her neck.

It wasn’t like the last time.

It wasn’t like the first time either.

Not like the drunken, half-laughing kiss they’d had after a podium party in Monaco when they were still teenagers — both pretending it didn’t mean anything.

This was different.

This had intent.

Paige gasped into Azzi’s mouth as she felt herself pulled across the couch, practically into Azzi’s lap. She kissed Azzi harder, tilting her head, demanding more.

Azzi gave it to her without hesitation.

Their hands fumbled — over clothes, skin, fabric — too fast, too much.

Paige shoved Azzi’s hoodie up, palms flat against the warmth of her stomach, feeling the slight tremble there.

Azzi swore under her breath and tugged at Paige’s sweater, unbuttoning it with rough hands. Paige arched into her, breath hitching when Azzi’s fingers skimmed along her abs.

“Fuck,” Azzi muttered, voice breaking, mouth moving down Paige’s neck. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Good,” Paige said, biting back a shudder.

The sweater slipped off her shoulders and hit the floor, forgotten. Azzi kissed lower, open-mouthed against the skin of her collarbone, and Paige let her head fall back, her hands tangling in Azzi’s hair to keep herself grounded.

It was frantic — months of racing side by side, arguing, shoving, pretending not to notice the way they looked at each other when they thought no one else was watching.

Years of it, really — ever since they were seventeen and F3 teammates and too stupid to do anything about it.

Azzi’s hands were rough and sure, sliding down Paige’s bare sides, making her breath stutter.

“You sure?” Azzi asked, voice wrecked, a thread of restraint still hanging on somehow.

Paige opened her eyes — dark, heavy-lidded — and smiled, slow and dangerous.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Azzi kissed her again — hard, deep, hungry — and Paige didn’t think after that.

There was only heat and skin and the sound of Azzi breathing her name against her throat.

Only the weight of Azzi’s body pressing her into the couch cushions.

Only the wild, dizzy feeling that maybe this wasn’t just some drunk, stupid mistake — maybe it never had been.

[marauder-misprint]

Hi I was wondering if you write for James potter, if don’t please ignore this. But I’ve been obsessed with Alex Warren’s new song ordinary it literally is such a James potter love song to me. And I don’t know maybe a story about this song with James and the reader like maybe they are friends and one day it’s just clicked in James head it’s always been her. I don’t know the song is just so beautiful

Hi! thank you for the request! I do write for James ❤︎

Also, I love this song! Love, love, love.

I don't think I've done the song justice, but here it is!

Win for me

James Potter x reader

2.1k words

cw: fluff, lil bit of pining

No one questioned when you called James, he came. You were his oldest friend. You were practically neighbors, just living two streets away from each other. You had gotten lost, turned down the wrong street, and James helped you get home. There weren’t too many kids in the neighborhood so you and James latched onto each other and pledged to be lifelong friends. 

Your friendship didn’t waver or falter when you arrived at Hogwarts and got sorted into different houses. You still spent plenty of time together. You’d study together and sometimes sit together for meals. There were plenty of times when you were invited to hang out with his new roommates. You got along with all of them, although none quite as well as James. Merlin, you would describe him as your person, except he wasn’t yours. 

That idea passed through your mind several times as you got older. You never acted on it though; your friendship with James was too important to you. You didn’t flirt with him or act any differently than you would’ve for him. That being said, you were still closer to James than you were to anyone, let alone any other guy. 

James was the reason you wore Gryffindor colors to quidditch matches, even when they were facing your own house. Those games you sat with Sirius, Remus and Peter; otherwise you sat with your house. James was the reason you knew so much about quidditch. He would ramble on and on about it before you even stepped foot onto the Hogwarts campus. James was the reason why you occasionally got detention. He was the reason you passed several classes over the years, and you were the reason he passed some as well. 

“What’s going on between you and Potter?” a boy had asked you once.

“Huh? James?”

The boy nodded.

“Nothing,” you said with a shrug. “He’s just my best friend.”

“You’re not dating or nothing?”

You laughed. “No, we’re not. Haven’t you heard though? He fancies Lily.”

“Ah, didn’t know that. Then how about you ‘n’ me, Hogsmeade?” 

For some reason, whenever a conversation like this happened, a boy asking you out, your brain immediately went to the pipe dream of hoping that maybe one day James would like you back and you would be more than just friends.

“No thank you,” you said.

You’d give the boy a polite smile before walking away. Your friends always questioned you about it later. They didn’t understand why you turned away guy after guy. There was a decent variety of them, enough to disprove your ‘not my type’ excuse. Except that your type was James, and you just couldn’t tell anyone that. 

---

“Capt, your girl’s waiting for you!” Gideon yelled as he entered Gryffindor’s changing room.

Gryffindor was facing Slytherin today. You wanted to wish James good luck, as you did before every match. You knew he would appreciate it extra today with everything that rode on this game. By everything, you meant his pride. He would essentially disappear for a week straight if they lost today, and you weren’t going to let that happen. 

“Hey you!” James cooed when he stepped outside.

You flung your arms around him. Out of habit, his arms wrapped themselves around you and he rested his chin on top of your head.

“Good luck, James. You’re going to crush it out there, I know it.”

“Thank you, love,” he murmured into your hair.

You gave him an extra squeeze. “Win for me?”

“Just for you.”

He gave you a bright grin as he pulled back and out of your arms. You waved to him before turning to join the herds making their way up into the stands. James watched you until you disappeared from sight, slowly blending in with the crowd. Only once he couldn’t see you, James returned back to the changing room. He ran a hand through his hair. 

Marlene grabbed his shoulder as soon as he walked in.

“So when you come to your senses and ask her out?” she asked him.

He gave her a confused expression. “What d’ya mean?”

“That was the first time you didn’t yell ‘Not my girl’ when going to Y/N. So you’ve stopped harassing Lily and asked out the right one, right? When’d you do it?”

James shook his head with a small smile on his face. “Not my girl,” he whispered before pulling away from Marlene to grab his broom. 

He needed to give his pre-game speech to the team. He shook his head again. You weren’t his girl. You didn’t want to be, right? He would be lying if he hadn’t thought about you from time to time. No, you were his best friend. You were closer to him than Peter, than Remus, than Sirius. So he stopped himself from even entertaining the idea. You were his girl friend, not his girlfriend. 

James gave his speech, just like he planned to. The team was hyped. They thrived on the energy from the stands when they exited their locker room. The cheers from the crowds were almost deafening. The team mounted their brooms and met the Slytherin team in the air. James let his focus waver for a moment, flicking to where he knew you would be standing, cheering for him. 

Then the match started. James had laser focus, and you could tell that nothing was going to distract him. He was on his A-game. It was always mesmerizing to watch him in the zone. He was so nimble on a broom. He had such control over it, not even considering how easily he caught and threw the quaffle. You cheered and yelled yourself hoarse as James scored goal after goal. 

When Gryffindor’s seeker caught the snitch, you joined every Gryffindor as they stormed the pitch. There were so many people pushing and shoving. You were afraid you wouldn’t be able to make it to James where he stood at the center of it all. 

Then you heard your name being yelled. It was louder than the cheers. You looked around, trying to find the source. Then you saw him. James. He was pushing through everyone to get to you. He took the pats on his back and the ruffling of his hair in stride, but he wasn’t going to let anything stop him from getting to you. 

You let yourself get pulled into a sweaty hug.

“You won!” you yelled in order for him to hear you.

“Just for you,” he replied, just as loudly. 

Although James pulled out the hug, he still held onto you. His arm remained draped over your shoulder as he maneuvered through the people congratulating him. You passed by Lily and Marlene and James didn’t even pause long enough to say anything, just flashing them a smile and moving on. Lily looked at you more than James and she gave you a wide grin, like she knew something that you didn’t. You didn’t linger on it though. You were just with your best friend.

He kept you glued to his side until you got to the Gryffindor Common Room.

“I’ll be right back, love. Going to shower,” he said, giving you one last sweaty hug before disappearing up the stairs. 

You looked around the common room, looking for someone you knew better than a name. It didn’t take long for the rest of the Marauders to return, carrying a crate of butterbeer and firewhiskey. 

“Oi! Where’d our Captain go?” Sirius called to you when he spotted you leaning against the wall near the stairs.

You jerked your head toward said stairs. “Showering.”

Sirius nodded and continued to help Remus and Peter set up for the party. You just watched. You didn’t see Lily, Marlene or Mary around so it was just you. Soon enough though, James returned and you had to take a second look. It was a casual outfit, but it was fashionable. Not only that, but he looked good. He looked like he made an effort. 

“Wow, Prongs, trying to impress Evans?” Sirius asked when he saw him.

James gave you a fleeting glance before saying, “Something like that.” 

Of course, he was trying to look good for Lily. You knew that you were just his friend. You knew this and you accepted it. At least you told yourself that you did. That didn’t keep you from his side while everyone finished setting up for the party. In your defense, you were standing just as close to Sirius, Remus and Peter. As a group, they didn’t know what personal space was. 

“There she is,” Peter said when Lily came down from the girls’ dorms with Marlene and Mary. 

Your stomach churned briefly, although you opted to ignore it. James looked toward the stairs, but it was only for a moment. Then all of his attention was back on the conversation the group was having. 

“Need another drink?” he asked you, dropping his head so he was speaking into your ear. 

You could his breath hot on your skin. You swirled the little bit of butterbeer foam that sat at the bottom of your cup.

“Yeah, sure,” you said, handing it to him.

He smiled and got up. You hated how you immediately felt cold without his presence next to you. You looked around the room and sawa that Lily was at the opposite end of the room. She was as far away from the drink table as she could be. So he was just being nice. Yup, that’s all it was. Your best friend being a friend. 

When he came back, James offered you a hand, rather than your cup.

“Can we talk?” he asked.

Everyone in your small group stopped talking and at looked at James. 

“Erm, yeah.”

You took his hand and stood up. You could feel everyone’s eyes on you as James led you upstairs to his dorm. It wasn’t too odd, in your opinion. You’d been in his dorm before and it currently offered privacy that wasn’t available while a party was occupying the common room.

“What’s up, Potter?” you asked after the door closed behind you. 

“I’ve been an idiot,” he stated after he set the drinks down. 

You crossed your arms and leaned back against one of the posts at the end of his bed. 

“Sad to report that’s not new news.” 

He laughed and stood in front of you, less than a broom’s length away. 

“I like you.”

“Um, we’re friends. I’d really hope you like me.”

“No, um, not quite like that,” he said, taking an uncertain step toward you. “You know I’ve liked Evans.” 

“I think all of Hogwarts knows you like Lily,” you replied dryly. 

“That’s where I’ve been wrong. Been an idiot. A real, dense idiot.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “You dragged me away from a party, your party, to tell me that you’ve moved on? So who is it then? Marlene? Mary? Emmeline? Lucinda?” 

James took another step toward you. He reached out and tucked some of your hair behind your ear. Your breath hitched at the unexpectedly affectionate contact. You met his gaze to find even more expected affection. You can’t remember a time when James has looked at you with such softness. 

“You,” he breathed before gently pressing his lips to yours. 

You didn’t respond right away, frozen beneath him. Then, as his lips lingered on yours, you kissed him back. You felt James’ hands move to grip your hips. You gasped as he squeezed them. You pulled backwards, feeling breathless. 

“Me?” you asked as James rested his forehead against yours. 

“Merlin, you’ve been in front of me this whole time. How did I miss you?”

“What about Lily?” you asked meekly. You hated yourself for asking it as soon as the words left your mouth.

“A distraction, I guess. But, being around her, I’ve never felt like I do when I’m with you. And you… You get me. And I get you. Fuck, you’ve been my girl before I even considered it.”

“I’m your girl?” you breathed, each word dripping with confusion. 

“If you want to be,” he said softly before adding more confidence to voice. “I mean, I did win the game for you.”

You laughed and pressed your lips to his again. This kiss was brief and much softer than your first. 

“Every game you’ve won has been for me,” you teased, which was true being that you asked him to every time you wished him luck. 

You and James didn’t return to the party. Instead, you spent the night talking, snuggling and sipping the drinks James had grabbed before bringing you to his dorm. It was just like being best friends, except now you kissed him from time to time. 

[nameless-jamie]

I love the PA series!! So so good! The dynamic between them <3 if you ever write more of them, I’d love to see your take on a role reversal type of situation where Jamie has to help his PA (maybe she’s having a bad day or something like that).

Thank you for all your writing <3 and hope your week is going okay!

Tissues and Tea

Masterlist

Jamie Tartt x fem! PA reader

TW: cursing, flirting

A/N: Hello! Thank you for this great request. I hope you like what I made out of it. I'm doing fine, I hope you have a great rest of the week and enjoy your reading. <3

Y/N should’ve stayed home. She knows that.

But the thought of leaving Jamie Tartt to his own devices for a full day? Unsupervised? With a match coming up and at least three emails that need responses before noon? Absolutely not.

So here she is, standing outside his house, sniffling, a little wobbly on her feet, but determined. Her usual pencil skirt and blouse combo were exchanged for some jeans and a loose hoodie. She rings the doorbell and barely has time to brace herself before Jamie swings the door open, wearing—of course—nothing but gray sweatpants and a cocky grin.

"Ew, you look like death."

"Good morning to you too," she grumbles, brushing past him into the warmth of his house.

Jamie shuts the door behind her, frowning. "Nah, for real. Why d’you sound like a ninety-year-old chain-smoker?"

She ignores him, heading straight to the kitchen counter where she usually sets up her laptop. "I’m fine. Just a little cold."

Jamie narrows his eyes, watching as she unpacks her work things with shaky hands. "Right," he drawls. "And I’m fuckin’ Cristiano Ronaldo."

She sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her head was throbbing and she could not take any banter today. "Jamie, I’m fine."

"You’re not fine," he counters, stepping closer. "You look like you’re gonna pass out. Actually—" He pokes her arm and she loses her balance a little. "—yeah, that’s definitely wobbly behavior, love."

She swats his hand away. "I just need to get through the day, then I’ll rest."

Jamie scoffs. "Yeah, not happening." Before she can argue, he grabs her laptop and walks off with it.

"Jamie—what the hell?!" she croaks, chasing after him.

"Oi, don’t strain yourself," he teases, holding it above his head like a schoolboy dodging a playground fight. "You’re sick. Ya need to rest. And lucky for you, I’m a proper gentleman, so I’m gonna look after ya today. Call me your personal assistant."

She blinks. "You? Taking care of me?"

Jamie gasps, mock-offended. "What, ya don’t trust me?"

"Not even a little bit."

"Rude," he mutters, placing her laptop high up on a shelf, far out of her reach. He puts his hands on her shoulders and shoves her towards the living room "Now, let’s get ya on the couch, yeah?"

She knows she should fight this, but honestly? Standing for this long is exhausting. And Jamie's 50.000-pound-couch looked comfy ass hell. So, reluctantly, she lets him guide her to the couch, where he throws a ridiculously big fluffy blanket over her.

"There," he says, hands on his hips. "All cozy. Like a little babeh."

"I can’t move," she deadpans, buried under the weight of the blanket.

"Exactly." he pulls the finger-guns at her.

She glares at him, but Jamie just grins.

A beat of silence, then—

"Want some tea?"

She exhales. "That would be nice, actually."

Jamie beams, disappearing into the kitchen. A minute later, she hears cabinets slamming, the sink running, and Jamie muttering "fuckin’ hell, where’s the sugar?" under his breath.

"It's in the second cupboard on the left," Y/N shouted as loud as her croaky voice let her.

"Got it!"

When he returns, he hands her a mug with the smuggest expression. "There ya go, love. My specialty."

She takes a sip—and immediately grimaces. "Jamie."

"What?"

"This is just hot sugar water."

He frowns. "Nah, it’s tea."

"The teabag is what makes it tea..." she narrows his eyes at him. "Let me guess, you don't know where the teabags are?"

"I could put some leaves from my kitchen plant in there. Same thing, innit?" he scratches his neck embarrassed.

She sighs, setting it down. "You’re lucky I’m too weak to fight you right now."

Jamie plops down next to her, looking way too pleased with himself. "You are lucky, actually. Not everyone gets personal Jamie Tartt care."

She gives him a tired, but teasing look. "Oh, so this is an exclusive service? Where do I complain? Is there like a hotline or..."

"Hey don't get sassy with me, you booked the VIP package. Special treatment. No refunds." He smirks, then leans in a little. "Want me to tuck ya in?"

"Jamie."

"I’ll do it proper, promise. Maybe even sing ya a lullaby."

"Jamie."

His smirk widens. "Or, if ya prefer, I could be your personal hot water bottle. Y’know, for extra warmth."

"Jamie."

"What? No cuddlin' ?"

She rolls her eyes, but her lips twitch—because despite everything, he is making her feel better.

He watches her for a moment, his teasing expression softening just a little. Then, without thinking, he reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

"Y’know," he says quietly, thumb brushing against her temple, "you spend so much time lookin’ after me. Someone’s gotta return the favor, yeah?"

Her breath catches.

It’s the kind of moment she’s always tried to ignore—the kind where Jamie isn’t just the flirty, cocky footballer she works for, but something more. Someone who cares about her. Someone who, if she let herself believe it, might actually love her.

But she’s too tired to overthink it today.

So instead of pushing him away, she just leans into his already open arms, lets herself relax under the ridiculous blanket, and mutters, "Fine. But if you try to feed me soup, I’m leaving."

Jamie grins. "Nah, love. I’m terrible at soup."

And with that, he settles in beside her, her head on his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her. Y/n's silent snores fill the room and Jamie sighs satisfied. Yep, he's refusing to move from this position—ever again.