#and elvis wants to be with her no matter what | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

foxtrology · 3 months ago

Text

i want you, i need you, i love you (4)

harry castillo x reader

series

word count: 12.8k

warnings: no y/n, 28 year age gap, female reader, fluff, smut.

It had been three weeks.

Three weeks since the gallery night.

Since the bath. Since her in his robe. Since the moment she stepped into Harry Castillo’s penthouse and changed everything.

And somehow, despite the chaos, despite who he was, despite who she was—they hadn’t combusted.

They’d settled. Sort of. Not into a relationship. Not into anything that had labels or expectations.

And she wasn’t in any rush to be branded. But they were something—and whatever it was, it had slowly started bleeding into the rest of their lives.

He gave her a key on a Tuesday. He didn’t make a big deal out of it.

Just set it on the kitchen counter next to her takeout container, glanced up and said, “So you don’t freeze your ass off waiting for me if I’m not home.” That was it. No smile. No explanation.

Just Harry being cold and mean in the most absurdly tender way.

She didn’t say thank you out loud, but she kissed the corner of his mouth that night a little longer than usual. And he didn’t pull away.

They didn’t talk about what they were. They didn’t need to. But the rhythms were there.

He kept orange juice stocked in the fridge because she liked it. She started leaving hair ties on his bathroom counter. And a pink razor in his shower. He bought the cereal she liked. She figured out how to work his espresso machine before he did.

And they saw each other constantly. Not every day—he was still Harry Castillo—but almost.

He texted her at odd hours. Late nights when he couldn’t sleep. Early mornings when he was at the gym at an inhuman hour and saw something that reminded him of her. Articles. Memes.

Yes memes.

Photos of outrageously overpriced apartments that had bathtubs with built-in fireplaces and chandeliers.

He had sent one at 2:13 a.m.

Old man Harry ❤️👴: Would you complain if I bought this?

You: If you bought it and never invited me over, yes.

His response came five minutes later

Old man Harry ❤️👴: You have a key. I’d be forced to.

And that was that.

She didn’t stay over every night. But when she did, she found herself waking up warm. Not just physically—but emotionally. And that scared her more than anything else.

Because Harry Castillo wasn’t easy.

He was brooding. Quiet. Obsessive in ways that only became clear the longer she knew him. But he was consistent. And that? That mattered. He didn’t lie. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. And slowly—slowly—she started letting him in.

It wasn’t until the second week that he found out about her jobs. Plural.

She had just finished showering in his bathroom—wet hair down, wearing one of his button-downs, no pants—when her phone lit up on the bed.

Marco (Flowers): u good to deliver that midtown order today or should I send Gio?

Harry saw it. He blinked. Then stared at the screen like it had personally offended him.

When she stepped out, towel in hand, humming softly to herself, she stopped dead in her tracks.

His eyes were locked on her phone.

She froze. “What?”

Harry lifted it. “Who’s Marco.”

“…Someone I work for.”

“You work where.”

She sighed, already knowing this was going to be a thing. “A flower shop. I help with deliveries sometimes.”

Harry’s jaw clenched. “Since when.”

She arched a brow. “Since always?”

“You never told me.”

“You never asked.”

That made something flicker behind his eyes—sharp and cold and maybe a little unhinged. He set the phone down carefully, then reached for his own.

“Harry—”

“I’m not mad,” he muttered, typing something.

She squinted. “You’re typing like you’re mad.”

“I’m not—” he cut himself off. “I’m just trying not to throw my phone at the fucking window.”

She blinked. “Jesus. Okay, calm down.”

“How many jobs do you have.”

She hesitated. And that was his answer.

He looked up. “How many.”

“…Three.”

“Three?”

She nodded.

Harry exhaled sharply, standing up so fast the chair scraped against the floor. “You said you were a server.”

“I am.”

“And?”

“I bartend on weekends. And I do flower deliveries during the day sometimes. Under the table. It’s not a big deal—”

“It is a big deal.” His voice was low now. Controlled. Furious. “You work three jobs and walk home late at night and don’t tell me?”

Her brows lifted. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

“Don’t—” he snapped, pacing now. “Don’t do that. Don’t turn this into a thing. I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to understand why the hell you think it’s normal to exhaust yourself until you collapse.”

She stared at him. He looked like he wanted to punch a wall. She softened, just a little. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

He stopped pacing. Turned to her. “It matters,” he said, quietly now. “It matters to me.”

And that? That shut her up.

Because Harry Castillo didn’t say things like that. Not unless they were true. The next morning, he asked for the addresses. All of them. She refused at first.

“You’re not picking me up from work.”

“Why not.”

“Because you’re Harry fucking Castillo. You don’t drive. You don’t do Midtown traffic.”

He stared at her. Said nothing.

Then pulled out his phone and typed something. An hour later, she got a notification from Find My iPhone.

Old man Harry ❤️👴 has requested your location.

She stared at it. Then looked up. He smirked.

“Add me.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I’ll come find you anyway.”

“You don’t even know where my flower job is.”

“Not yet.”

She groaned, shoving his arm. “You’re insane.”

“I don’t want you walking home.”

“I have legs.”

“You have shit shoes.”

“I—”

Harry raised a brow. “Let me take care of you.”

That was it. Just a soft command from a cold man who didn’t beg.

She rolled her eyes. But she added him.

The first time he picked her up, it was raining.

Not the soft, aesthetic kind. No—it was New York level chaotic. Sideways sheets of water, umbrellas flipping inside out, cars honking like they were allergic to patience, subways getting flooded by the second.

She was soaked. Her hair plastered to her forehead, her phone dead, her hands freezing.

And then? A black BMW pulled up to the curb. The window rolled down. And there he was. Driving.

She stopped in the rain and blinked. “You…drive.”

Harry stared at her, unimpressed. “Get in.”

“I thought you were allergic to steering wheels.”

He rolled his eyes. “I took a car from my old place. Get in before you drown.”

She slid in, dripping onto the leather seats. “This feels illegal.”

“Your shoes are illegal. What are those, socks with holes?”

“Don’t start.”

He tossed her a dry sweatshirt from the backseat—his, of course. “Put this on.”

She did. And the car smelled like him. From then on, it became a thing. Not official. Not daily. But often enough that she started waiting for it. Harry would show up outside her server shift around 11:15 p.m., texting her with a simple

Old man Harry ❤️👴: Here.

Or he’d pull up to the bar on Fridays, leaning against the hood like he hadn’t spent the day managing millions of dollars and threatening CEOs. Sometimes he brought coffee. Sometimes just a dry shirt and a scowl. But he always showed. And she never had to ask.

Their nights together stayed the same.

Mostly.

She’d enter the penthouse quietly. Leave her shoes by the door. Sometimes he was already home, waiting with dinner or a clean towel or just himself—half-dressed and reading on the couch wearing his glasses that make him look like an even bigger old man.

Sometimes he got home after her, muttering about meetings, his voice hoarse, jaw tense from hours of pretending he didn’t want to text her every five minutes.

But they always ended the night the same way. In bed. Tangled. Quiet. Bodies pressed close under too many sheets and not enough words.

He never said he missed her. But he texted her at 3:07 p.m. once after a brutal meeting with the board...

Old man Harry ❤️👴: This room is full of people who make me want to kill myself. You would’ve made it bearable.

She smiled when she read it. Didn’t respond right away. Let him sit in it. Later that night, when she curled up beside him, he didn’t say anything. Just wrapped an arm around her waist like a reflex.

On Sunday mornings, they got bagels. It started accidentally. She had mentioned a craving for egg and cheese one night in passing, barely awake, face pressed into his chest.

He said nothing.

Then the next morning? Bagel. Wrapped in foil. Sitting on the counter.

She blinked at it.

“Did you—”

“I didn’t want to hear you complain later,” he muttered.

So now it was a thing. Bagels on Sunday. No talking until coffee. Her in his oversized shirts. Him in sweatpants with his hair pushed back, watching her read something on her phone while chewing with her mouth open.

“You’re disgusting,” he’d say.

“You’re in love with me,” she’d fire back.

He never answered. Just stared. Like maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t wrong.

Three weeks in and they still weren’t a couple. Not in public. Not in labels. But in the way he made her tea when she lost her voice. In the way she slipped notes into his briefcase. In the way he bought her new socks and refused to acknowledge it.

They were something. Something real. Something building. And neither of them wanted to name it yet. But maybe they didn’t have to.

Because Harry wasn’t used to letting people stay.

And she?

She had the key.

And Harry knew he was fucked.

It was raining. Again.

Not the romantic kind, either. Not the bullshit people wrote about in novels. This was relentless New York rain. Cold, gray, street-soaking, ankle-wrecking rain. The kind that blurred the skyline and made everything feel too still and too loud at the same time.

His office windows, floor-to-ceiling and usually pristine, were streaked with water. He could barely see the city through them. Which was probably for the best. Because if he could see the Lower East Side right now, he might actually snap and send a helicopter.

He hadn’t heard from her since she’d texted around 9 p.m., after he dropped her off.

You: Frances is being dramatic tonight 🙄

That was it. No follow-up. No photo. Not even a meme. Just that. And now it was past 1 a.m.

Harry leaned back in his chair, phone resting facedown on the edge of his desk, his thumb twitching with the impulse to check it again.

He didn’t. He wouldn’t. He already had. Fifteen times.

“Frances,” he muttered under his breath, jaw tightening.

Across the room, Danny—half-asleep on the leather couch, legs kicked up on the coffee table like he owned the place—perked up.

“What?”

Harry didn’t look at him. Just ran a hand through his hair, glaring at the window like it had personally offended him.

“She texted me earlier. Said Frances was being dramatic.”

Danny blinked. Then grinned. “Ooooh.”

Harry sighed. “Don’t.”

“Do you know who Frances is?”

“I assume…someone in her building?” Harry said, like it was obvious. Like that didn’t already make his throat itch with jealousy.

Danny sat up, cracking his neck. “You assume Frances is a neighbor?”

“Yes.”

“You sure Frances isn’t her ex?”

Harry froze. Very still.

Danny raised a brow, voice far too casual. “I mean. Sounds like something you'd say about someone you know well. Like an ex.”

“Don’t,” Harry warned again, but it was too late. The image was there now.

Frances. Laughing on her couch. Feet on her coffee table. Touching things that didn’t belong to him. Sleeping in a bed that did.

Harry’s jaw ticked.

“Maybe she’s a woman,” he said, but it didn’t land. Not when the image had already nested behind his eyes. Not when the silence that followed made him feel like a kicked dog.

Danny yawned, stretching. “Well, if she comes back tomorrow limping, we’ll know.”

Harry looked up so fast the pen in his hand dropped.

Danny cackled.

“Kidding.”

“Get out.”

Danny didn’t. He just flopped back down, arms behind his head. “You’re unwell.”

Harry didn’t argue. Because he was. He was so far gone he could feel it in the base of his spine. He’d sent the whole team home hours ago—mid-pitch.

He couldn’t focus. Couldn’t finish the goddamn Italy paperwork. The Italy contract—the Italy contract—was sitting open in front of him. A landmark deal.

A decade in the making. Acquisition of a sustainable architecture firm based out of Florence. Tens of millions. Possibly more, if the valuation shifted after Q2.

He was supposed to fly out on Thursday. There was a dinner with the lead architect, a walking tour of the property grounds, some presentation on green luxury Harry couldn’t pretend to care about.

They’d blocked out four days. Harry had almost signed it. Almost. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her in Italy.

He wanted her in a sundress and sunglasses she bought at a corner shop. He wanted to take her to restaurants where no one knew who he was—where they’d drink wine that tasted like cherries and share plates of pasta so good she’d groan with her mouth full.

He wanted to watch her tan—really tan—on a hotel balcony in nothing but one of his button-downs and sunscreen.

He wanted her bare legs kicked up on the dashboard of a rented car while he drove with the windows down and her hand on his thigh. He wanted her bored at a vineyard tour.

Wanted her to lean in and whisper something filthy in his ear just to see if he’d blush.

He wanted to fuck her in a hotel shower with the windows open, the Tuscan hills in the distance and her moaning into his neck like it was a prayer.

He wanted to fall asleep with her in a bed that smelled like citrus and sex, the sound of her breathing syncing with the rain on the villa roof.

He wanted to live with her. Just for a week. Just enough to make it real. To prove it wasn’t some New York fantasy.

Danny cleared his throat.

“You’re still here.”

Harry didn’t look up. “So are you.”

“Because I’m trying to get you to finish the Florence paperwork.”

“I will.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Maybe.”

Danny stared at him. “You’re going to see her, aren’t you.”

Harry didn’t answer. He stood.

“Jesus,” Danny muttered, grabbing his jacket. “You’re in love.”

Harry grabbed his own coat. “Drop me off.”

Danny blinked. “It’s 1 a.m.”

“I know where she lives.”

Danny didn’t argue. He just followed. They always got in separate cars. Harry always took the backseat. But tonight, he climbed into the passenger seat of Danny's Mercedes.

Danny glanced over. “You nervous?”

Harry didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The rain kept coming down. The roads were slick. The city lights blurry. But when they pulled onto her street, Harry felt it—

That low thrum in his chest. That ache. Because he knew this block. Knew it like a scar. She wasn’t just a girl he saw now. She was a rhythm in his life. A piece of the architecture.

Danny pulled up to the curb. Parked. Then turned, lips twitching.

“Good luck,” he said. “Maybe Frances wore her out.”

Harry shot him a look that could’ve killed. Danny just sent him a smirk. And Harry stepped out into the rain.

The air was sharp with that metallic wetness unique to New York downpours. Streetlights flickered against puddles. A pizza box floated past the curb like a makeshift raft.

And still—Harry didn’t rush. He took his time walking.

Her street in Lower East Side, uneven pavement, corners that smelled like cigarettes and Chinatown egg rolls—was familiar now.

He knew the rhythm of her block. He knew that the laundromat two doors down always had one broken dryer. He knew which deli overcharged for grapes.

And he knew the exact slab of sidewalk where she told him she once tripped while texting him. It was cracked slightly, a jagged edge of concrete peeking up like a warning. She’d texted him from the pavement, too.

You: You made me fall, jackass. I was smiling too hard.

That text had stayed in his phone longer than it should have.

He passed the bodega next. The one she claimed had the best dried mangoes in the city. She’d once spent thirty minutes ranting about the owner’s theories on aliens and glitter. Yes glitter.

Now Harry found himself slowing in front of the doors. Peering in. Wondering if the guy knew her name. Wondering if he knew about him.

By the time he reached her building, his shoulders were soaked. His shirt clung to his chest, collar sticking. His suit jacket was definitely ruined. But he didn’t care. He needed to see her. He hit the buzzer.

Once.

Twice.

A third time.

Nothing.

Then—finally—crackled static.

“…Hello?” Her voice was sleepy.

“It’s me.”

A pause. Then—

“Harry?”

His jaw clenched. “Yes.”

More static. Then a muffled, rustling sound. “It’s—uh—4C. Come up.”

The buzzer rang. The door clicked. He took the stairs. She didn’t have an elevator. Of course she didn’t.

By the time he reached her floor, his heart was hammering for no reason. The hallway smelled like weed and soup dumplings. The walls were covered in scuff marks, and someone had drawn a crooked heart on one of the exit signs.

4C had a little sticker on the door. A cartoon ghost holding a margarita. He stared at it for a beat. Then knocked.

She opened the door in one of his shirts—his black one, faded from too many washes—hanging off one shoulder, loose like a dress. Her legs were bare except for cotton boxers with tiny strawberries on them. Her hair was pulled up messily. She looked flushed. And sleepy. And worried.

“You’re soaked,” she said immediately, pulling him inside by the lapel of his jacket. “Jesus, Harry.”

Her hands were already working to unbutton his coat. “Why didn’t you text? I thought you were working.”

“I couldn’t focus,” he said, watching her.

“You’re going to get sick,” she muttered, peeling the jacket off his shoulders, tugging at the sleeves. “Come here—hold still—”

He let her work, silent. She was warm hands and furrowed brows and concern in motion.

Once the jacket was off, she yanked at his tie. “This too.”

He raised a brow. “Undressing me already?”

“You showed up looking like the stock market,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

He smirked.

She disappeared for a second, then tossed him a pair of old gray sweatpants.

He caught them. Eyebrow raised. “You keep men’s sweats on hand?”

She groaned. “They’re Maya’s ex’s. Don’t get excited.”

He stepped into the living room fully now. And froze. Because for the first time, he was seeing where she lived.

Where she lived when she wasn’t with him.

The apartment was small. Lived in. Cluttered—but in a way that made it feel warm, not chaotic. Like every single thing inside of it had a story.

The living room was split between two mismatched couches—one thrifted velvet, the other beige corduroy with a sag in the middle. There were throw blankets in every texture imaginable—fleece, knit, faux fur.

The coffee table was covered in books, old takeout menus, half burnt candles in jars labeled sandalwood, fig, vanilla.

The walls were cluttered with art—some of it clearly Maya’s, some vintage posters, The Virgin Suicides, Before Sunrise, Blade Runner, Patti Smith’s Horses album, and a random framed photo of a pigeon wearing sunglasses.

The fridge in the kitchen was a museum of magnets and notes. There was even a shopping list written in red marker on the fridge door. It read

oat milk

cheez-its

limes

incense

Maya’s weird vegan yogurt

tampons

trash bags

candles (sex ones, not funeral ones)

wine

frozen waffles

cat food

Harry blinked at the last item.

“You have a cat?”

She paused. “...Yes?”

His jaw tensed. “Frances?”

She frowned. “What?”

He turned to her, eyes sharp. “You said Frances is being dramatic tonight.”

She blinked. Then laughed. Actually laughed. And pointed behind him.

Harry turned. And saw a large, grumpy-looking tabby cat perched on the windowsill. Staring at him with narrowed eyes like it knew he’d imagined something inappropriate.

“That’s Frances,” she said, snorting. “She’s named after Frances McDormand. She’s 16 and hates everything exept my heating pad.”

Harry stared at the cat. Then back at her. Then at the cat again.

“You thought Frances was a man?” she said, grinning.

“I thought Frances was your ex.”

She covered her mouth to keep from laughing louder. “You showed up in the rain to confront me about an elderly cat?”

Harry sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. “Shut up.”

She kissed his cheek. “You’re a mess.”

He looked around again. At her world. At the chipped mugs on the dish rack—each one different. One said World’s Okayest Bartender, another had a faded drawing of a walrus. The scarf hanging from a coat hook was purple velvet, half-unraveled at one end.

There were keys on a lanyard that read BOSTON UNIVERSITY, and a half-full tote bag with a produce sticker still stuck to the bottom corner.

The shelf by the entryway overflowed with mail, cracked sunglasses, a tiny hand-painted dish full of bobby pins, and a single, slightly burnt birthday candle shoved into a chunk of ceramic shaped like a frog. The coffee table had three coasters but none of them matched. There were stickers slapped across the side of the fridge—Protect Roe, Biden Harris 2020, Elvis is Alive and So Am I.

In the bathroom, he passed by the open door and caught the faint scent of her perfume mixed with rosewater toner and humidity. The mirror had streaks of lipstick.

Tampons sat on the counter beside an open tin of bobby pins. Dry shampoo. A chipped compact. An old mascara wand lying next to her makeup bag that looked like it had seen war. A pack of pink razors balanced on the edge of the sink like it might leap to freedom any minute.

The hallway wall had a row of hooks, all cluttered—coats, purses, canvas totes, one very fluffy pink bathrobe, and what looked like a dog leash even though she didn’t own a dog. The floor creaked in the middle.

And her bedroom—

Her bedroom was even more intimate. Twinkly lights looped around the ceiling like a soft halo. One strand flickered near the corner. The walls were covered—Cléo from 5 to 7, Velvet Underground, a retro ballet poster, another that read Prince's Purple Rain.

Dried lavender hung upside down beside a Polaroid photo strip taped above her dresser mirror. The dresser was cluttered with rings in tiny dishes, perfume bottles in varying levels of emptiness, tangled necklaces, and an open book of poetry facedown like she’d been reading and got distracted halfway through.

The bed wasn’t made. Worn sheets. Muted floral comforter rumpled down to the foot. A stuffed lamb with one ear bent sat on the pillow beside a pile of soft, mismatched throw blankets. There was a hoodie—his—draped over the headboard.

Her nightstand was pure chaos. A cracked phone charger plugged into an extension cord wrapped in colorful washing tape. A half-eaten cookie. Lip balm. A lighter. A box of allergy medicine. A stack of receipts, one with eggs, incense, LaCroix, cat treats, cherry cough drops scribbled on the back. An empty glass, a hair clip, and a worn paperback with the corner folded as a bookmark—The Secret History.

There was an incense holder shaped like a tiny hand. And beside that, a photo of her and a little girl in matching sunglasses, both sticking out their tongues. It was soft. Lived-in. Completely her.

And absolutely the opposite of Lucy’s old apartment. Lucy’s world had been cold glass vases with eucalyptus branches, arranged like she Googled elegant minimalism. White couches no one could sit on. Art that cost thousands but said nothing. A color-coded closet and a bathroom that looked like a Glossier pop-up—sterile, spotless, unloved.

This? This was chaos and warmth and late night pizza crumbs and nail polish spilled on tile. This was home.

And for reasons Harry couldn’t articulate—didn’t dare admit even to himself—he wanted to be a part of it. Even if it scared the hell out of him.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said finally.

She wrapped her arms around his waist. “You didn’t. I mean, you did. But I’m glad.”

He buried his nose in her hair, breathing her in. Lavender shampoo. Something floral. Her. Frances meowed loudly, interrupting the moment.

She pulled back. “She wants food. Hold on.”

As she went into the kitchen, Harry stood in the middle of her room, still dripping slightly, holding borrowed sweatpants in one hand and the ghost of something warmer than he knew what to do with in the other.

He was fucked. So, so fucked. And he didn’t want to leave. So that night Harry stayed. The rain hadn’t let up.

It fell in steady sheets against her bedroom window—so constant it was starting to sound like static. Or breath. Or the thud of a heartbeat pressed against his ear.

She was in boxers and one of his shirts.

He was in borrowed sweatpants from a man who didn’t matter.

And they were brushing their teeth together in a bathroom that smelled like rosewater and lavender. She bumped into him twice. Once on purpose. Once not. He didn’t care.

He’d forgotten what this felt like. Being near someone. Really near.

Not polished. Not curated. Not part of some long game. Just… here. In a too small bathroom. In her world. She leaned into the mirror to swipe a lip mask on her lips.

He watched her. Like she was art.

When she turned, he was still staring.

“What,” she asked, mouth soft.

“Nothing,” he said, voice lower than he meant. “I just like looking at... you.”

They left the light on. Left the door cracked. The apartment was dark except for that glow and the warm flicker of the TV.

Her bed wasn’t big. A full, maybe. But it held them both. Barely.

She threw the comforter over them, then curled on her side, one hand tucked beneath her cheek. Her eyes were heavy, but she wasn’t ready to sleep. He shifted beside her, body pressed along the curve of hers. Not touching yet. Just close enough that the space between them buzzed.

And then she clicked on the remote. The TV was an old one—boxy, with a DVD player built into the side. It hummed softly as the disc spun.

He blinked. “Is that Sex and the City?”

She nodded. “Season four.”

He glanced down at her, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You have the DVDs?”

“I’m not a heathen.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I haven’t seen a DVD player in a decade.”

She shrugged. “You’re missing out.”

The episode began. Carrie was monologuing. Samantha was best dressed. Charlotte was earnestly hopeful. Miranda was eating Chinese food in bed.

She rested her head on his chest, her hand splayed over his ribs. He felt it everywhere. The rain thudded gently on the window. Frances padded into the room and began eating delicately from her tiny floral bowl in the corner.

Harry reached up and tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “She always eats this late?”

“She’s nocturnal. Like me.”

He hummed. “You’re soft at night.”

She smiled against his skin. “You’re not.”

“No,” he agreed, brushing her arm with his fingers. “But I want to be.”

She turned to look at him. “Why?”

“Because you are.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Her body shifted, draping over his. One leg between his. One hand under his shirt, splayed against his stomach. She wasn’t trying to start anything. She just wanted to feel him.

And Harry? He let her.

He rested his cheek against the top of her head. Closed his eyes. Let the scent of her hair—lavender and something distinctly her—anchor him.

He wanted to tell her right then. About Italy. About the dinner. The villa. The way he imagined her laughing while wine sloshed in her glass. The way he pictured her sunburnt and barefoot, dancing in a linen dress she’d haggled for at a street market.

He wanted to tell her he’d already asked Danny to add a plus one. Wanted to beg her to come. To wake up with him somewhere coastal and quiet, where he could watch her dip into cold water and wrap herself in a towel and ask him what they were going to eat next.

But instead—

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. Soft. Careful.

She sighed.

“Your heartbeat’s fast,” she murmured.

“You’re laying on my chest,” he said. “Of course it is.”

She smiled. “Mine too.”

Frances jumped up onto the bed and circled twice before curling against the back of Harry’s legs. Her fur was soft. Her breathing slow.

The rain pressed harder against the windows. The radiator clinked. The light from the TV flickered over the posters on the wall.

Onscreen, Carrie was questioning whether men were biologically capable of monogamy.

Harry whispered, “Jesus.”

She snorted. “Don’t take it personally.”

“I take everything personally.”

Her hand slid over his stomach again. A slow drag of her fingers, like she could calm something inside him. And maybe she did.

Because that night—

Harry Castillo slept in a tiny bed with a woman who wore his clothes and brushed her teeth with glitter-handled toothbrushes. He slept through the storm. He slept through Carrie’s voice.

He slept through the ache of every part of him that used to hurt.

Because in her world—this small, messy, beautiful world—he didn’t have to be the version of himself that scared people. He just had to be hers. And that was enough.

The morning soon came and of course he woke up first.

She was still asleep when Harry stirred. Pressed against his chest like she belonged there.

Which—by now—maybe she did.

The light coming in through the bedroom window was soft and overcast, the kind of gray that made you want to stay under the covers forever. The rain had stopped sometime in the night, but the air still smelled like it—clean, cool, quiet.

Harry was warm. Ridiculously warm.

Frances was curled up on his feet again, the cat’s soft purring vibrating faintly against his ankle.

And her—

She was wrapped around him. One leg tossed over his hip. One hand curled beneath his shirt—her shirt—she decided to throw on him last minute before bed. Face pressed to his neck, breath ghosting over his pulse.

He hadn’t moved for hours. Didn’t want to. The bed was small, but it had held them both. Just barely. There was something absurdly perfect about that. About how they fit.

He let his eyes drift open, blinking up at the ceiling plastered with glow in the dark stars. He hadn’t noticed them last night. She’d stuck them up there, probably years ago, probably drunk, maybe high. They weren’t aligned properly—some clustered too close, others spread out too wide—but it made Harry smile.

It was so her.

Then—

The door creaked.

His eyes shot to it, his arm tightening around her instinctively. And there she was.

Maya.

In sweats, hoodie up, a tote bag slung over one shoulder and half a bagel in her mouth. She froze in the doorway, chewing slowly as she saw them both.

Harry blinked. She blinked back.

And then—

She smiled.

“Morning,” she said, voice casual, still chewing. “I got bagels.”

His brows lifted. “Maya?”

“Mmhm.” She stepped fully into the room, walked past the bed like this wasn’t completely surreal, and set a brown paper bag on the desk. “One’s egg and cheese, one’s veggie, one’s plain. I got a discount so I went wild. You're not vegan, right?”

“I’m not.”

Maya nodded. “Cool.”

He opened his mouth to respond but then she stirred beside him.

She blinked. Then groaned. “Maya?”

“Hey, you.” Maya turned, already backing out. “Don’t get up. I’m leaving again. Nate broke one of the frames while carrying it up the stairs and I have to go reconstruct it before the opening or I’ll die. Eat your bagel.”

“Maya—”

“Love you, mean it.”

And then she was gone.

The door clicked shut behind her. Harry turned slowly.

She rubbed her eyes. “That’s Maya.”

“She seems…unfazed.”

“She walked in on me giving my high school boyfriend a blowjob in this same bed,” she mumbled. “This is practically G-rated.”

Harry choked. “Jesus Christ.”

She grinned, finally stretching. “Sorry.”

He shook his head, still blinking at the door. “She left you a bagel.”

“She’s thoughtful like that.”

They sat in silence for a moment. The air was warm. The room smelled like her shampoo and toasted everything bagels.

She sat up, reaching for the bag. “You want half?”

“I want the whole thing,” he muttered, watching the way her sleep shirt—his shirt—slipped off her shoulder as she handed it to him.

She raised a brow. “Of the bagel or me?”

Harry took a slow bite of the sandwich, chewed, and swallowed before answering.

“Yes.”

She laughed—quiet and groggy—and curled back into the blankets beside him while he finished eating.

The disc in her old TV menu-looped quietly in the background. And that was when Harry realized—

He didn’t want to leave. Not this apartment. Not her bed. Not this mess of a morning that felt like something he hadn’t let himself hope for. He looked down at her, at the way she was nibbling the corner of a veggie bagel and letting cream cheese smear across her knuckle without noticing.

And that was it. That was the moment. He didn’t plan it. Didn’t rehearse. Didn’t run it through his head a hundred times the way he usually did with big decisions. Because this wasn’t business.

This was her.

“Come to Italy with me.”

She blinked. Mid-bite. Mid-smear of cream cheese.

“What?”

He set his half-finished bagel on the napkin beside them.

“I want you to come to Italy with me,” he said again, softer now. “I leave in three days.”

Her lips parted slightly, eyes searching his face like she was trying to find the joke. But there wasn’t one. Harry was deadly serious.

She swallowed. “You’re inviting me on a trip. To Italy.”

“It’s not a trip,” he said. “It’s a…thing. For work. Big contract. Private villa, vineyard dinner, all that bullshit. I need to be there to finalize some logistics.”

She blinked again.

“You want me to tag along to a work trip in another country?”

“I want you to be there.”

A pause.

“I want to see you sunkissed,” he murmured, voice dipping. “I want to watch you eat pasta with your fingers and lick sauce off your wrist. I want to soak with you in some overpriced marble tub with your legs wrapped around me, pretending we’re not real people.”

Her breath caught.

“I want you to hang off my arm and point at things in little shops and tell me they’re ugly and buy them anyway. I want you to fall asleep in my lap on a train. I want to hear what you sound like in another language.”

She didn’t speak.

Just stared at him.

“And yes,” he added, reaching out to brush a smudge of cream cheese from the corner of her mouth. “I want you there at the dinner. I want you in a dress with your hair up and that little necklace you always wear. I want to introduce you as someone who makes the rest of this shit feel worth it.”

She swallowed hard. Tried to laugh. Failed.

“You’re really pulling out the big guns, huh?”

He nodded. “I’m old. I don’t have time for subtlety.”

She stared at him for a long moment.

Then said, “Frances can’t come.”

He blinked. “The cat?”

“She’s bad on planes.”

He laughed—genuine and warm—and reached for her hand beneath the sheets.

“You don't need to pay for a flight,” he said. “I have a jet. I want you there.”

She looked down at their hands. His thumb tracing slow circles against her knuckles.

“Three days?”

He nodded.

“Do I have to wear heels?”

“Only if you want to kill me.”

She smiled. Bit her lip. Thought.

“Okay.”

Harry’s heart thudded in his chest.

“Okay?”

She nodded again, smaller this time. “Okay. I’ll come to Italy with you, old man.”

He didn’t grin. Didn’t smirk. He just leaned forward and kissed her hand. Soft. Simple. Grateful.

Frances leapt up onto the bed, meowing loudly.

“Guess she wants to come too,” she said, scratching behind the cat’s ears.

“She’s not allowed.”

“She’ll sue.”

“She can try.”

They laid back down—Harry still half-clothed, her shirt riding up at the hem—and just breathed for a moment. Rain tapped lightly against the windows again. The smell of warm bagels lingered in the air.

And Harry Castillo? For the first time in years, he wasn’t thinking about deadlines or numbers or failing. He was thinking about sunlit train rides. About her in linen. About the taste of wine off her mouth in a country that didn’t know who they were.

He was thinking about falling in love.

And maybe—

Just maybe—

She was too.

They didn’t move for a while after that. Just laid there in the warmth of her small, chaotic bedroom—bagel crumbs on the sheets, Frances purring between them, her bare leg draped over his thigh like it belonged there.

Eventually though, real life crept back in. It started with a stretch. Then a yawn.

Then her mumbling, “I should shower.”

To which Harry responded, “I’ll die if you move right now.”

But she did. Of course she did.

She slipped out of bed with that effortless, half-asleep grace, hair tangled, his shirt riding up over her thighs. She padded barefoot across the hardwood and vanished into the bathroom without another word.

Harry stayed in bed for another five minutes. Just… thinking. About Italy. About her. About the fact that she said yes. Then—he got up. Went to the kitchen to get water. That’s when he opened her fridge.

And paused.

It wasn’t empty, exactly.

Jars of random sauces. A half-used block of feta. Mismatched Tupperware with exactly two bites of leftovers. A dozen eggs, one cracked. A bag of spinach that looked like it had been forgotten in a war zone. Five different types of hot sauce. A single mini vodka.

There were ingredients. But no actual food.

And Harry?

Harry had spent the last decade with a private chef and a housekeeper. His pantry looked like an organic catalog.

This? This was something else.

She padded back into the kitchen, hair damp, teeth brushed, pulling on a pair of sweatpants. “What?”

He turned from the fridge, holding up a sad little container of pickled onions. “This is your dinner?”

She shrugged, unbothered. “Sometimes I make pasta.”

“Out of hot sauce and… half a lemon?”

“Adds flavor.”

Harry looked at her like she was a war orphan. She grinned.

He shut the fridge. “We’re going to the store.”

“Harry—”

“I’m not letting you live like this.”

She leaned against the counter, playful. “You trying to domesticate me?”

He walked past her, smacked a kiss on her temple, and muttered, “Put on real shoes.”

They stopped at his penthouse first.

“I’m not going to the store in a suit,” he explained as they stepped off the elevator.

She looked him up and down. He had put his suit back on after she left it hanging up to dry overnight.

“You look like you’re about to close on a skyscraper.”

He loosened his collar. “Exactly. I want to buy produce, not acquire a hedge fund.”

She made herself comfortable while he changed. Shoes off. Feet up. Sitting sideways on his pristine leather couch with Frances curled beside her in her tote bag like a queen.

When Harry emerged again, everything shifted. He was in a navy fleece. Dark jeans. Clean sneakers. His hair was pushed back carelessly, and he looked—God, he looked like a boyfriend. Like a rich, brooding, ridiculously hot boyfriend who didn’t like other men looking at his girl.

Which he proved five minutes later.

The market was close. Not some chaotic Manhattan chain store.

This place was a little upscale. A little overpriced. The kind with hand-written chalk signs and fancy cheese displays and a barista in the corner who actually knew what cortado meant.

He parked on the street and opened the door for her.

She rolled her eyes. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

“So why do you?”

“Because if I don’t, some other asshole will.”

She blinked then laughed. “Jesus.”

Harry took her hand as they walked inside.

Casual. Like it was just a thing he did. But when two guys standing near the tomato stand turned to stare at her—eyes lingering a second too long—Harry’s entire body tensed.

She didn’t notice. But he did. Every glance. Every flick of attention. Every half-smirk and second look.

It wasn’t just because she was beautiful. It was the way she walked. The way she moved. The way she laughed when she picked up a can of whipped cream and shook it at him.

“You ever had this on strawberries?”

He blinked. “...No.”

She grinned. “Tragic.”

He didn’t respond. Just added two pints of strawberries and the whipped cream to their basket. She pushed the cart. He added things quietly as they passed them.

Olive oil. Sea salt. Fancy cereal she probably didn’t even like but the box looked pretty. Pasta made by a brand with an unpronounceable name. Parmesan wrapped in wax paper. Fresh basil.

He let her pick the bread. Watched her fingers dance over the loaves before finally choosing one with sesame seeds. He’d never cared what bread tasted like before. But now?

He wanted to watch her butter that slice and eat it on his couch with her knees tucked under her, wearing one of his shirts again.

They turned down the wine aisle.

She held up a bottle. “This one?”

He checked the label. “You like reds?”

“I like this red.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s twenty-one dollars.”

Harry raised a brow. “That’s not wine. That’s regret in a bottle.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and added it to the cart anyway.

He followed behind her, watching the way her fingers curled over the cart handle, the way she tapped her nails when she was thinking.

A guy walked past. Looked directly at her ass.

Harry moved instantly—slipped an arm around her waist and kissed her cheek like it was nothing.

The guy looked away. Quickly.

She leaned in, amused. “Was that possessive or horny?”

“Yes,” Harry murmured.

At checkout, she pulled out her wallet. Harry didn’t even blink. Just slid his card into the reader before she could open it.

“Harry—”

“You’re heading to a whole other county with me.”

“So?”

“So let me buy you fucking groceries.”

She sighed. “You’re annoying.”

“You love it.”

She didn’t respond.

Just kissed his jaw and whispered, “Thank you.”

They carried the bags back to the car, her arms full, the air still damp from the rain.

Frances meowed softly from her tote, swatting at the handle of the bread bag.

“Frances, if you break my focaccia, you’re not going to Italy.”

“She’s not going to Italy.”

“She’s gonna file a complaint.”

“She’s gonna stay with Maya.”

They both laughed.

Back at her place, they unpacked side by side. She tossed him a bag of spinach.

He raised a brow. “You’re gonna use this?”

“Maybe.”

“Uh huh.”

“Don’t judge me.”

“I am judging you.”

She elbowed him.

He stole a piece of her cheese.

Frances curled up on the window sill.

The kitchen smelled like basil and citrus and something that could have been the beginning of a life.

Harry leaned back against the counter. Watched her move. Watched the way her fingers brushed crumbs off the cutting board.

And he thought—

This. This was what he’d been missing. Not the girl. Not just her body. But the mundanity of it.

The way she stood barefoot while she put the yogurt in the fridge. The way she hummed to herself while sorting the pantry. The way her hand brushed his like it meant nothing—and everything.

He couldn’t remember what it was like not to want this. And maybe he didn’t want to.

It was the day before they left for Italy.

And Harry was folding her socks.

That alone would’ve been enough to send Danny into early retirement if he’d seen it.

Moments like this, when Harry Castillo, billionaire, former tabloid cryptid, was sitting on a floor of a cramped Lower East Side apartment, cross-legged, carefully rolling tiny pairs of white ankle socks into little cotton donuts and lining them up in the corner of a borrowed suitcase in her bedroom—made her feel happy.

So fucking happy.

“You’re doing it wrong,” she mumbled from the bed, half-asleep, cheek pressed into the duvet.

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re rolling them like they’re cigars.”

“They’re supposed to be tight.”

“They’ll stretch out.”

Harry didn’t look up. “They’re socks.”

“Yeah, and you’re acting like you’re assembling high-grade explosives.”

He smirked faintly, tucking another rolled pair into the suitcase. “I take packing seriously.”

She opened one eye. “You once told me you haven’t packed your own bag in five years.”

“That was before you made me human again.”

She blinked. He kept rolling socks. Like he hadn’t just said the most quietly devastating thing of all time.

Packing had taken hours.

Partly because she kept getting distracted and forgetting what she’d already folded.

Partly because Harry had brought over a suitcase from his place—one of those sleek matte black things with TSA locks and wheels that didn’t squeak—and she kept insisting it looked like a tiny armored vehicle.

“I can’t believe I’m borrowing your suitcase,” she’d muttered earlier that day, trying to cram a bathing suit and two sundresses into it at once.

“You didn’t have one.”

“I have a duffel bag.”

Harry looked horrified. “That’s not a suitcase. That’s a threat.”

She threw a sock at him.

He ducked, grinning.

She hadn’t traveled internationally in years. Her passport was expired until recently—she only renewed it because Maya begged her to.

The last stamp it had? Toronto. Age 20. Two broke girls, a shared Airbnb, one near-death experience on a rented bike, and a night of crying on a beach with champagne from CVS.

Now she was going to Italy.

With Harry fucking Castillo. On his private jet.

And somehow, he still got excited watching her zip up a suitcase.

They barely slept the night before the flight. Too many nerves. Too many lists.

She kept checking her phone to make sure her passport was actually in her bag.

Harry watched her, amused. Said nothing.

Instead, he busied himself in her kitchen, making tea they didn’t drink and cutting fruit they didn’t eat.

He couldn’t sit still.

Not because of the trip.

Because of the envelope.

It had come two days ago.

A thin ivory card tucked inside pale pink stationary, his name written in looping gold script across the front

Mr. Harry Castillo + Guest You are cordially invited to the wedding of Lucy & John Saturday, June 8th, 2025 2:30 PM Chatham Bars Inn Cape Cod, Massachusetts

There was a note scribbled at the bottom in faint pen.

In Lucy's writing.

No pressure if you can’t come. We’d still love to see you.

Harry had stared at it for ten full minutes before tucking it under a file on his desk and pretending it hadn’t arrived.

He hadn’t told her.

Not because he was hiding anything. Not really. But because he didn’t want to bring Lucy into this. Into them.

Not when she was standing barefoot in his shirt, trying to find her phone charger and muttering about whether three pairs of jeans were “too many.”

Not when she called out, “Did I pack underwear already?” and he responded,

“Twelve pairs.”

Not when she looked at him across the room like he was something safe.

He would tell her eventually. Just…not yet.

The morning of the flight came quietly. It was still dark when the alarm buzzed.

She groaned. “What time is it?”

“2:30.”

“In the morning?”

“You agreed to this.”

“I was in love with you when I agreed. I’ve changed my mind.”

Harry smirked and sat up, sliding a hand through his hair. Frances jumped onto the bed and meowed directly into his face.

“She’s saying don’t leave me,” she mumbled into the pillow.

“She’s saying feed me.”

She rolled over and stared at him. “Do you always look like that when you wake up?”

Harry blinked. “Like what?”

“Like someone just photoshopped exhaustion and sex appeal.”

He threw a pillow at her.

By 3 a.m., Danny was downstairs in the car, already texting.

Danny: I’m not saying we’re late, but we’re late.

Danny: I have coffee. And donuts. And two kinds of Dramamine.

Harry grabbed the suitcase, double-checked her passport, triple-checked the address with Danny, and then took one last look around her apartment.

She was saying goodbye to Frances, promising her the neighbor would stop by and that Maya would be back by sunrise.

Harry just… watched her.

The way she knelt down to scratch behind the cat’s ears.

The way she whispered, “Don’t pee on my rug just to spite me, you little demon.”

He smiled to himself.

The car ride was quiet. Rain tapped against the windows.

She curled up in the back seat with his sweatshirt tucked under her chin. Harry held her hand.

Danny sat in the passenger seat, wisely keeping his mouth shut except to say, “It’s a beautiful jet, by the way. You’re gonna be insufferable about it.”

She looked up sleepily. “Is it big?”

Harry kissed her fingers. “It’s private.”

She grinned. “I feel like a Bond girl.”

The jet was waiting. Sleek. Immaculate. Tucked away on the private runway like something out of a movie.

She blinked when they pulled up. “That’s… ours?”

Harry nodded.

Danny sighed. “Yours. I still fly commercial.”

Inside, the cabin was pristine.

Cream leather seats. Soft lighting. A tiny bar in the corner already stocked with orange juice and sparkling water and espresso pods.

Harry showed her how to buckle the seatbelt. How to adjust the window shade. Where the snacks were.

She laughed. “Are you my flight attendant now?”

“Only on this airline,” he muttered.

Once they took off, she pressed her face to the window, watching the skyline disappear.

He sat beside her, legs stretched out, arm slung over the back of her seat.

Danny popped in once. Dropped off croissants. Said something about Italian cell service and their hotel driver. Then vanished again.

They didn’t talk much. They didn’t need to.

He watched her fall asleep mid-sentence, lips parted slightly, hair tucked under her hoodie.

He didn’t move. Didn’t work. Didn’t check his phone.

Just… stayed beside her.

And for the first time since that ivory envelope arrived—

He didn’t think about Lucy.

Didn’t think about what might’ve been.

Didn’t think about anything but the fact that in a few short hours, they’d land in a city made of light and wine and ancient stone.

And he’d get to see her walk through it.

Get to hear her gasp at things he’d seen a thousand times.

Get to hold her hand while she ate gelato and pointed at pigeons and got overwhelmed in a market stall and accidentally bought a tablecloth because she thought the vendor was complimenting her hair.

He didn’t want anyone else there.

Just her. And maybe that was enough.

Maybe it had always been.

They landed at exactly 5:32 PM local time.

The air was different. Warmer, even in early evening. The light had a honeyed edge to it—soft gold and long shadows draped across the tarmac like something out of a postcard. The jet slowly came to a stop as she blinked blearily at the window, hoodie bunched around her waist, tank top loose and clinging. No bra.

Harry glanced over at her, the edge of his mouth twitching.

"You’re going to give someone a heart attack the second we step off this plane."

She yawned. "Good. Let them die seeing something beautiful."

He almost smiled.

As soon as the door opened, the energy shifted.

Three black cars waited on the runway. Two assistants in pressed suits stood beside them, flanked by a driver and what looked like a security consultant in a tailored gray jacket. The woman in front stepped forward immediately, beaming like Harry personally discovered electricity.

One sign read: CASTILLO PARTY – VILLA LUMEN.

"Mr. Castillo! Welcome back. We’re honored. Truly."

Harry gave a brief nod, hand resting on the small of her back.

The woman turned to her next. "Mrs. Castillo, we hope the flight was comfortable. We’ve arranged everything at the villa. Please let us know if there’s anything else you need."

She froze. Blinked. But Harry didn’t correct her.

Neither did she.

He just squeezed her hip gently and muttered, "Let them think whatever they want."

The drive was smooth, luxurious, absurd.

The countryside blurred past—green vineyards, cypress trees, stone walls bathed in sunset. Their driver offered wine and chilled sparkling water in crystal-cut glasses. The seats reclined. The windows were tinted so deeply she could’ve fallen asleep again without anyone noticing.

But she stayed awake. Watching Harry.

Watching the way he relaxed by degrees, slowly, as the city disappeared behind them.

When they pulled up to the villa, she nearly forgot how to speak.

It was unreal.

Terracotta walls. Ivy-covered balconies. Lavender blooming along the path leading up to the entrance. White roses climbing up the columns. A view that stretched over the hills for what looked like miles.

Inside, everything smelled like lemon and clean linen. Marble floors, arched windows, a winding staircase made of stone.

Their hosts didn’t linger.

Just offered soft words, a bow, and a smile before vanishing with the promise, “Dinner will be served at eight. You are encouraged to rest until then.”

She just stared, slowly spinning in a circle, looking at every detail of the place.

"They put us in the west wing," Harry muttered, fingers lightly brushing her back as they were led upstairs.

"We have wings now?"

He looked at her. "We have whatever the fuck we want."

The bedroom made her stop walking.

A carved wooden bed stood in the middle, sheets white and impossibly soft. The balcony doors were open, a breeze dancing in. Beyond them—vineyards. Hills. A sky slowly turning the color of ripe apricots.

There were flowers on the nightstand.

A bottle of wine already uncorked.

Macarons in a glass bowl.

She lets out a sigh, closing her eyes as she makes her way out onto the balcony.

"Is this a honeymoon suite?" she whispered.

Harry didn’t answer.

He stepped behind her instead. Hands on her waist. Lips grazing her neck.

"Come here."

She turned in his arms, breath catching. His eyes were darker than usual, jaw tight. There was something restless behind it. Something feral.

"You’re quiet," she murmured.

He studied her face. His hands slid under her tank top.

"You smell like a fucking dream."

She arched a brow. "That’s not an answer."

"I haven’t touched you in days."

Her stomach clenched.

"I noticed."

He kissed her.

Hard.

Like he was angry at himself for waiting. Like he’d been hungry for weeks. Like her mouth was the only thing that could make him human again.

Her back hit the stone and he lifted her onto the bench, hands gripping her thighs, dragging her tank top down, mouth never leaving hers. She gasped when the cold air hit her chest—bare, sensitive—and he groaned deep in his throat.

"Fuck," he muttered, pulling back to look at her. His eyes were locked on her breasts, his thumbs brushing over them like he was memorizing. "You’re so fucking pretty. You don’t even know."

She bit her lip. "Then show me."

And he did.

He kissed down her throat, down the center of her chest, sucking, licking, dragging his teeth along soft skin until she was squirming. Until her thighs squeezed around his hips. Until she said his name like it meant something.

Then—

He dropped to his knees.

Right there.

On the balcony.

The breeze blew gently around them, the smell of lavender and wine in the air. Her tank top was shoved up, her shorts already pushed down her thighs. She slowly slid down the bench.

And Harry looked up at her like she was something sacred.

"Keep your eyes on me."

She did.

She watched him lick a stripe up her slit, slow and deliberate, like he was tasting something rare. She cried out, legs shaking, hands grasping for the stone railing behind her.

He groaned again. "You taste like everything I’ve ever wanted."

His tongue was relentless—circling, flicking, sucking. His grip on her thighs was bruising, grounding her, holding her open like he couldn’t get enough.

She tried to speak. Failed.

He slid two fingers inside her—slow at first, curling perfectly—then fast, then deeper, fucking her open while his mouth devoured her.

"You gonna come for me, baby?"

She whimpered.

He sucked harder.

"Say my name."

She did.

Over and over.

Until she shattered.

Until her legs gave out and he had to catch her.

He stood, scooping her up like she weighed nothing, carrying her to the bed and laying her down gently.

Then he kissed her again—messy, hungry, licking her taste off his lips and moaning like he was drunk.

"I can’t stop," he muttered. "You do something to me. You ruin me."

She pulled at his shirt. He let her.

Let her undress him like she owned him.

And when he pushed inside her, slow and deep and all at once—

It wasn’t just fucking.

It was worship.

It was raw, reverent, almost painful in its intensity. He braced one hand against the mattress and the other curled around the back of her neck, holding her gaze like he couldn’t bear to look away. Like he needed to see every twitch of her mouth, every blink, every gasp that left her lips as he thrust into her again and again, steady and deep and so achingly deliberate.

She breathed his name like a prayer, fingers tangled in his hair, lips parted with pleasure. Her body arched to meet every movement, desperate to be closer, to swallow him whole.

Harry moved like he was etching something permanent into her—like he wanted to mark her from the inside. His mouth brushed her cheek, her jaw, her lips between every breathless exhale.

"You feel like heaven," he rasped. "You feel like mine."

She whimpered at that—at the way he said it like a truth carved into stone.

He kissed her again. Slower this time. Tongue teasing her mouth open as his hips rolled in a rhythm that was almost cruel in how good it felt. Like he knew exactly how to undo her.

One of her hands slipped down, tracing over his side, his back, clutching at him as if to make sure he stayed there. As if she couldn’t take the chance he’d pull away.

And he didn’t.

He never faltered. Never let her go. Just kept moving—fucking her with care, with need, with that terrifying depth he never shared with anyone else.

She tightened around him, legs trembling, her voice breaking as she said his name, pleaded, begged.

He whispered into her mouth, "I’ve got you. Come for me. Right now. That’s it—fuck—just like that."

Her body arched, then shattered beneath him.

And he followed.

A low groan ripped from his throat as he spilled into her, thrusts faltering, his whole body shaking from the force of it. His forehead pressed to hers. Their breath tangled. Their pulses frantic.

He didn’t move for a long time.

Didn’t say anything.

Just held her.

One hand cupping the side of her face, the other stroking her waist in lazy, absentminded circles.

Eventually, he pulled back just far enough to look at her—eyes heavy, mouth soft, expression unreadable.

Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered, "Thank you."

She blinked. "For what?"

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

He just kissed her shoulder, slow and reverent, and stayed there.

Outside, the Tuscan night whispered around them—

Soft. Endless. Real.

The air inside the villa was thick with the ghost of everything they’d just done. Her skin still tingled. Her chest rose and fell in slow, steady waves. She was sprawled across the sheets, hair a mess, limbs boneless, skin flushed with afterglow and the faintest imprint of the linen texture pressed into her back.

The room still smelled like sex and sunlight.

Harry was quiet beside her.

Not cold. Not distant.

Just...quiet. Like the kind of silence that comes only after something tectonic. Like he was letting the earth settle. Like something had cracked open and they were both just standing in the new air, breathing it in.

His thumb moved absently along her waist, tracing lazy circles. He was still half-hard, still close, but not demanding more.

Not yet. He just needed to be here. In it. With her.

She rolled over onto her side, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. His skin was warm and smelled like wine and her perfume and faint lavender from the villa sheets. Familiar and new at the same time.

Neither of them said anything for a while.

She let her fingers trail along the curve of his chest, nails faint, almost ticklish. She counted the moles across his sternum. He hummed at that, deep in his throat, then exhaled slowly, one big hand sliding up to rest on the back of her head.

“You’re going to be late,” she mumbled against his collarbone.

“No, I’m not.”

“You have a dinner.”

“I said what I said.”

She laughed quietly. “Harry.”

“I don’t care if we show up looking like we just fucked.”

“We did just fuck.”

“Exactly.”

She nudged his rib with her knee. “You have to shower, old man.”

He groaned. “You’re the reason I’m sweaty.”

“You’re the reason you’re grumpy.”

He cracked one eye open. “You wanna say that again?”

She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Shower. Now.”

Eventually, they moved.

Reluctantly.

Limbs tangled as they rolled off the bed. Her thighs ached. She was sore in the most decadent way. Her body felt loose and tender and entirely his. He offered a hand as she stepped down from the mattress—mock-gentlemanly, fake regal—and she accepted it with a smirk and a dramatic curtsey.

The bathroom was all marble and glass. Golden light spilled in from the balcony, painting the countertops in warm hues. The shower was massive—big enough for two, maybe three. Probably four if they stacked right.

She turned the water on.

He watched her.

Always watching.

When the steam curled around their bodies, she stepped in first. Hot water sluiced down her back, her shoulders, her spine.

She sighed as it hit her skin. A low sound. Almost grateful. Almost reverent.

Harry followed.

No words. Just hands.

Big hands. Careful hands. Hands that had held her like she might vanish, that had gripped her thighs and touched the softest parts of her like they were sacred. Like she was.

He grabbed the soap first.

Rubbed it between his palms, lathered slowly. Then—gently, reverently—dragged his hands over her back.

Her shoulders. Her arms. Her stomach. Her hips. Down to the back of her knees.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t need to.

He washed her like she was precious. Like she was something ancient and delicate and holy. He kissed the top of her spine. The curve behind her ear. Rinsed her hair with long, slow strokes. Massaged her scalp until she leaned back into him, humming.

She returned the favor.

Lathered his chest. His arms. Dragged the soap down the deep lines of his stomach with slow, teasing fingers. She worked the shampoo into his hair, watching his eyes flutter closed. When she got to his thighs, he groaned.

“Behave.”

She didn’t.

He pulled her close, water cascading over their bodies, their skin slick and clean and flushed with something almost unbearable.

She reached for a cloth and gently wiped behind his ears.

“I’m not your child.”

“You’re acting like one.”

He grabbed her waist and yanked her flush against him.

They stayed like that until their fingers pruned.

Then—finally—they dried off.

She wrapped herself in one of the impossibly soft robes from the villa.

Harry did the same, though his looked comically small on him. She giggled when it barely covered his thighs.

“Say a word and I’ll throw you into the courtyard.”

“Promise?”

He rolled his eyes. “I have international security clearance. No one would know.”

Back in the bedroom, the air had shifted. Still warm. Still gold-lit. But now it felt like transition. Like preparation. Like a pause before the world returned.

The suitcase sat open on the bench at the foot of the bed. A half-folded silk dress draped over the edge. His suit jacket hung on a chair.

“Unpack?” she asked.

He nodded.

They worked together.

Unpacking side by side.

She folded his shirts. He folded her underwear.

Her fingers danced over his cologne bottle, the one she always associated with him. She set it gently on the nightstand beside a small glass of water. He didn’t say anything, but he glanced over. Noted it.

He placed her hairbrush beside the bathroom sink, untangling a few of her strands caught in the bristles.

She rolled her socks and tucked them into the drawer. Folded her pajamas. Lined her skin care in a neat row.

He lined his ties on the shelf like a ritual. Stacked his cufflinks in the tray she passed him.

They shared the space. Merged into it. No questions asked. No territory claimed.

She hung up her dresses into the villa wardrobe. He adjusted the hangers. Steamed the back of her dress when she wasn’t looking.

She noticed his charger cable was frayed. She pulled one from her tote and handed it over without a word.

He opened a small velvet box and revealed a delicate necklace he’d packed for her without telling her.

“Wear this,” he said simply.

She blinked. “You packed jewelry?”

“You didn’t.”

Her lips curved.

The moment lingered.

Then—getting ready.

She stood at the vanity, pulling a comb through her damp hair. He stood beside her, shaving. Both in their robes. Moving in tandem. Like they’d done this a hundred times before. The kind of rhythm you can’t fake.

She did her makeup slowly, lip balm first, then liner, then a whisper of mascara. A little blush.

He adjusted the collar of his shirt beside her, fingers methodical. Buttoned his cuffs. Straightened his sleeves.

She reached for perfume. He paused, watching.

“You use that every day huh.”

“I do.”

He leaned down. Smelled her neck. “Still there.”

Then he asked if she could spray some on him.

She smiled.

He walked into the closet to grab his belt. She watched the way his robe opened slightly as he moved, the lines of his body still lingering with the softness of their morning.

Then—clothes.

She slipped the silk dress over her shoulders. It was pale. Bare-backed. Barely structured. The kind of dress you wore in Italy when you weren’t sure if you were someone’s date or someone’s downfall.

Harry froze when he saw her in it.

She turned.

“Too much?”

His jaw flexed. “You’re not changing.”

She smirked.

He moved closer. Adjusted the straps like they were made of glass. Tucked a piece of hair behind her ear. Let his thumb brush her collarbone.

“You’re going to make this very hard for me.”

“You invited me.”

“I didn’t know what I was inviting.”

“Yes, you did.”

He said nothing.

Just buttoned his shirt.

Put on his watch.

Slid into the jacket like he was donning armor. Sharp and deliberate.

She watched from the bed.

Hair pinned up now. Lipstick barely there. One heel dangling from her foot. Legs crossed like temptation.

“You look mean,” she said.

“I am mean.”

She grinned. “But you smell nice.”

He offered a hand. She took it.

They stood in front of the mirror together.

Perfect opposites.

Dark suit. Soft silk. Sharp jaw. Warm smile. Something dangerous, something beautiful.

Together.

They didn’t say much after that.

Just breathed.

The dinner.

Work.

But for now—

It was just them.

But not for long.

Because at exactly 8:17 p.m.—fashionably, just barely, late—the knock came.

Three soft raps on the thick villa door, followed by a polite, accented voice calling, "Mr. Castillo? Your guests are seated. The drinks are being served."

Harry exhaled slowly. A breath through his nose. One final glance at her.

She looked unreal.

Silk dress. Loose updo. That faint smudge of color on her lips that made his mouth twitch every time he looked too long. Her necklace—the one he picked—rested delicately on her collarbone like it belonged there.

He didn’t say anything.

Just offered his arm.

She took it.

And down they went.

Dinner was being served under a pergola lit by strands of woven golden lights. The villa’s courtyard stretched out before them like something out of a dream—white linen table, wine glasses already half-full, the sound of crickets humming in the background.

Candlelight danced across bottles of olive oil and bowls of olives, and the scent of rosemary and garlic wafted from a nearby kitchen. Cicadas buzzed low in the distance, the fading sunlight casting long shadows across the rustic stone tiles.

There were twelve seats.

Ten already filled.

Harry’s partners were an intimidating mix—Italian, British, and New York-bred tycoons with slick smiles and suspiciously quiet watches. Their wives, dressed in silk and linen and quiet diamonds, turned when Harry and she arrived—eager, observant, their eyes already cataloging every detail.

Like predators sizing up a rare animal at the watering hole.

Lorenzo and Marcella sat closest to the head. Lorenzo was tall, leonine, late fifties, with thick white hair and a voice like a cello. Marcella wore a linen suit and pearls, her Italian accent soft and theatrical. She was always watching.

Next to them—Livia and Paolo. Livia had a sharp chin, a sharper voice, and a body that looked sculpted from Florence marble. Paolo wore a navy suit that screamed Milan, his cufflinks catching the candlelight.

And at the far end, Francesca and Luca.

Francesca looked like a Donna Tartt character. Blunt bob, smudged eyeliner, a cigarette nearly lit. She wore a sheer black blouse over a vintage slip and held her wine glass like it was an accessory. Her smile was the kind that knew secrets.

Luca barely spoke. Just watched. Calculating.

And then there was Danny.

"Harry!" Marcella called, standing with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "We were starting to think you’d eloped."

Harry rolled his eyes. “You’d know. It’d be on the news within the hour.”

There were polite laughs. The kind that had more teeth than warmth.

He pulled out her chair before taking his own. It was a subtle motion. Protective. Possessive. Deliberate. A quiet claim staked in linen and candlelight.

Francesca’s eyes sparkled.

Marcella tilted her head. “And this is…?”

Harry rested one hand on the back of her chair. "My girlfriend."

Silence.

Then—

Marcella blinked. "Girlfriend?"

Livia raised a brow. “That’s new.”

Paolo chuckled. “She’s beautiful. Young, too. You’ve been holding out on us, Castillo.”

Harry didn’t smile. Just picked up his wine.

“She’s not a secret. She’s just not your business.”

Marcella laughed, waving her hand. “You know us. We’re nosy. Besides, the wives are all dying to know. We have a betting pool.”

“Jesus,” Harry muttered, under his breath.

Francesca leaned over to her. “Don’t mind them. They’re all bored and drunk on red wine and old money.”

She smiled.

“I’m Francesca,” the woman said. “And you—are fascinating.”

The meal began.

Plates of antipasti. Olive tapenade, roasted tomatoes, shaved fennel, slices of prosciutto that melted on the tongue. Tiny burrata drizzled with balsamic. Warm focaccia with rosemary. Bowls of almonds and figs.

It was decadent without trying to be. Effortless luxury.

Harry stayed quiet for most of it. Sharp-eyed, tense-shouldered. Only relaxing slightly when she brushed her leg against his under the table. She could feel the energy buzzing off him—wary, protective, always watching.

She found herself in conversation with Francesca quickly.

Books.

They talked about books.

“I just reread The Secret History,” Francesca said, swirling her wine. “Still makes me want to commit academic murder.”

She grinned. “I always wanted to be Bunny. Not in spirit. In wardrobe.”

“Tragic prep chic.”

“Exactly.”

Harry glanced over at that. Quiet approval in his gaze.

Francesca lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around her in elegant swirls. “Who are your favorites?”

She shrugged. “Zadie Smith. Donna Tartt. Ottessa Moshfegh, but only when I’m feeling unwell. Lately I’ve been reading a lot of Didion.”

Francesca beamed. “You and I are going to get along dangerously well.”

Livia leaned in across the table. “How did you two meet?”

Harry stiffened.

She opened her mouth.

He beat her to it.

“Page Six is going to run that story in a week. Ask them.”

More laughter. More glances. More eyes like spotlights.

Marcella pressed on. “It’s just surprising, Harry. You’re not… known for romance.”

He smirked. “I’m not known for a lot of things I am.”

Paolo raised his glass. “Is she moving in?”

Harry stays silent, starting to scowl at Paolo.

“Soon?” He pushes. He keeps on fucking pushing.

Harry didn’t answer. But his hand brushed hers under the table.

Francesca spoke instead. “Let them be. Love doesn’t have a lease agreement.”

Marcella sipped her wine. “But surely it’s serious. You brought her to Italy.”

Livia leaned in again. "And what’s the age gap, if you don’t mind me asking?"

Harry’s jaw ticked.

“I do mind.”

Marcella laughed, shaking her head. “We’re just curious. You know how it is. Older men and beautiful women. It’s a tale as old as time.”

“She’s not a tale,” Harry said flatly. “She’s a person.”

That shut them up.

For a beat.

Then—

Lorenzo, quiet until now, finally spoke. “And what about Lucy?”

The table paused.

Her stomach dropped.

Harry didn’t blink. “What about her.”

Lorenzo shrugged. “Just surprised to see you here with this girl, that’s all. I'd thought you'd be reeling from shock over Lucy sending you an invitation to her wedding.”

How did he know.

How the fuck did he know?

She froze next to him.

Her hand stopped rubbing his out of comfort.

Harry’s jaw ticked. “We haven’t RSVPed.”

Marcella’s eyebrows rose. “Wait. You were invited?”

“Apparently.”

“Wow,” Livia said. “That’s bold. Isn’t she marrying that waiter?”

“John,” Paolo supplied.

“Oh, right. The bohemian.”

“She's not my girlfriend anymore, so stop bringing her up.” Harry said. Cold. Even.

Livia raised a brow. “But she was.”

Silence.

He stared down at Livia. “She isn’t now.”

She didn’t say anything.

But her body went still.

Francesca noticed. She shifted slightly, nudging her foot against hers under the table. A quiet, unspoken solidarity.

The conversation moved on.

Sort of.

She laughed at something Francesca said about poetry readings and obscure authors who only write in lowercase.

But inside—

Something tightened.

He hadn’t told her.

About the wedding.

About the invite.

About any of it.

She smiled. She clinked her wine glass. She even leaned into his arm when dessert was served—some kind of lemon tart with burnt sugar and pistachio.

But something shifted.

Just slightly.

A hairline crack in the evening.

Not enough to break it.

Just enough to notice.

Francesca asked her if she’d read Bluets.

She nodded. “Three times.”

They talked about heartbreak. About writing through pain. About how nobody writes yearning like Nina LaCour.

Harry kept his hand on her lower back. Gentle. Present.

But she wasn’t fully there anymore.

When Harry looked down at her later—when the stars came out and the wine dulled most of the tension in the room—he noticed it too.

Her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

He wanted to ask.

But didn’t.

Because he already knew why.

#harry castillo #harry castillo x reader #materialists #materialists fanfic #harry castillo x you #pedro pascal x you #pedro pascal x y/n #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal #pedro pascal characters #joel miller x reader #joel miller writing #joel miller x y/n #joel tlou #pedro pascal fandom #the materialists #the materialists fanfic #Spotify

940 notes · View notes

david-lynch-ate-my-son · 1 month ago

Text

Title: Relative Fiction

Part: 1/?

Fandom: Animal Kingdom

Pairing: Andrew "Pope" Cody x Reader

WC: ~6k

Summary: Lena's in a foster home, Smurf is making moves to gain custody, and Pope is out of hope.

Enter: Lena's sweet, dependable, entirely-too-respectable next door neighbor with a very interesting proposition.

The one where Pope enters into a marriage of convenience and gains so much more than he bargained for.

Warnings: Possibly too much eye narrowing and jaw clenching, use of the word "simulacrum" (but I genuinely couldn't think of another way to say what I wanted to say), exposition bomb

The first time Pope called you by your real name, as far as you knew, was on your wedding day.

The entire affair felt like something out of a Hunter S. Thompson novel–the chapel in Vegas with its electric blue, shag carpeting, the plastic wisteria plants draped from the ceiling and trailing down the walls, the Elvis impersonator slurring his way through your vows, and a very confused (very high) Craig who’d been dragged out to Nevada to act as witness.

And yet, the most surreal moment was when Pope actually said your name at the altar–not “kid,” which was what he usually called you–but your legal, god-given name.

It had sounded foreign on his tongue–like a gauzy simulacrum of the name you knew–and you were so thrown that Elvis had to nudge you with his elbow to remind you to say, “I do.”

Pope’s gaze was always a blade, sharpened and direct. Cutting across rooms, through bullshit, to the heart of things. You knew it freaked some people out, having all that attention held so tightly against their throats. But you liked it; liked knowing that he was taking his time to look; that you could almost feel him prodding, nudging, grasping, looking for something (only he knew what) and refusing to be subtle about it.

And in that moment, at the head of the aisle, exchanging vows, the blade sunk deep. Pinning you with a singular focus you’d never felt before, like a moth mounted to styrofoam. All that blue, swallowed in an instant as his pupils dilated, then constricted, holding your gaze.

Before the words, “you may now kiss the bride,” were even halfway out, Pope was dragging you down the aisle and into the chapel’s front office to sign the marriage certificate.

You were certain the clerk was half-swooning at how tightly Pope grasped your hand, knuckles turning white. How impatient he was for the marriage to be legal. You’d smothered a wry grin; it was desperate, sure, but it wasn’t romantic.

You’d never been the type of kid to dream about her wedding day. You’d gone through phases where you imagined yourself married to Nick Carter (objectively the cutest Backstreet Boy) and then later Bam Margera (you developed a thing for bad boys in high school). But in those fantasies, it was always about the man standing at the end of the aisle, not the dress or the flowers or the first dance.

Growing up thumbing through your parent’s wedding album had taught you that great spectacles of love often worked as sleight of hand–a misdirect from something far less shiny and far more hollow.

So you didn’t mind the ill-fitting ring purchased at a nearby pawn shop or the gas station bouquet wilting in your grasp. At the cut of it, none of the details really mattered.

What mattered was the man standing next to you, the wedding certificate, and the little girl whose future depended on getting it signed as quickly as possible.

“Do you have any dirty laundry I can use?”

Skidding around the hallway corner and into the kitchen, you came to a halt in front of Pope. He was exactly as you’d left him 5 minutes ago–sitting with straight-backed alertness at the breakfast counter and staring with familiar intensity through the living room to the front door. While you’d been nervously skittering about the house, fluffing throw pillows and spit-cleaning smudges on door frames, he’d been maintaining the same position with the composed stillness of a sniper.

But your question briefly jolted him, as he turned his head slightly in your direction.

“What?”

“Dirty laundry,” you repeated. “So I can add it into the laundry basket with mine. Right now it’s just my stuff in there and I’m worried it’s going to look suspicious.”

His brow furrowed, a look of confusion, then concern, flitting across his face.

“Do you think they’ll come in the house again?” he asked, now turning on his stool to face you fully.

He was impeccably dressed, as usual, in a freshly-ironed, short-sleeve button-up, bootcut jeans, and clean leather boots. But his fists, clenching and unclenching against his thighs, ruined the veneer of composure.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” you sighed, running a hand through your hair. Pope tracked the movement. You knew he’d picked up on it as a nervous tic. “Normally, I’d say the home visits they did before signing off on the temporary placement would be enough. But, you know…” you trailed off, shaking your head.

Pope’s jaw tightened and his eyes darted away. But you caught the look of guilt that scorched through him before he could hide it.

You wanted to tell him it wasn’t his fault, but you’d been through this song and dance enough times to know it would be a useless endeavor. You could take the whip from his hand, but a martyr would always find another way to self-flagellate.

And the sting of it was, his instinct to self-blame wasn’t entirely wrong. You’d fought tooth and nail for DCFS to allow Lena’s temporary placement into your care, and the shitstorm it had kicked up certainly wasn’t due to your track record.

A high school art teacher with a supplementary degree in school counseling, you were the perfect candidate to entrust with Lena’s care. You didn’t drink or do drugs, you’d never even had a parking ticket, your credit score was an impeccable 850, you’d shown up bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for jury duty both times you were selected, and you recycled religiously.

Hell, you even drove a goddamn Subaru. You were DCFS’s wet dream.

Pope, on the other hand…

It wasn’t just the litany of charges marring his record that was the problem, but the way he’d flown off the handle when DCFS intervened to place Lena in foster care. To say her case worker wasn’t a fan of Pope was an understatement. You considered it a minor miracle, what you’d pulled off, and still couldn’t believe that Lena would be back home–intact and within arm’s reach–in just a few short hours.

“Just to be safe–even a pair of jeans I can throw on top of the pile will do.” You knew you were probably being ridiculous, but the idea of having come so far just for one minor detail to derail the whole plan had you feeling paranoid.

Pope eyed you for a moment, thoughtfully, before standing up and unbuttoning his shirt. You made a pathetically half-assed attempt to look away as he revealed his pecs, then his upper abdominals, then his–

“Here–” he tossed the shirt your way, “you can add this to the laundry basket. I’ll get another one.”

He walked past, and you tracked the movement of his back muscles for only a moment before ducking into the bathroom to artfully arrange his shirt atop the pile of your dirty clothes in the hamper.

You could hear hangers clattering in the main bedroom–formerly Baz and Cathy’s room–and pushed down the weirdness that thought brought up.

It had taken quite a bit of coercion for Pope to allow you to move into the main bedroom, and he still approached it with the wariness of a cat circling a cage, but where else were you going to sleep if you truly meant to pull this whole thing off?

You’d already leased your own house next door to a new tenant, and you both agreed that this marriage needed to look as real as possible for Lena’s sake. She had enough going on without you asking her to lie to her teachers or caseworker. So if anyone asked her whether her Aunt and Uncle slept in the same bed at night, or ate breakfast together in the morning, you wanted her to be able to say “yes.”

It was a situation you and Pope were still adjusting to.

You were once again nervously pacing the length of the kitchen by the time Pope returned, wearing a new shirt. He paused, eyes following your movements back and forth, head tilted to the side.

“Sit,” he said. His voice brokered no argument; not because he was being particularly stern, but because his voice always brokered no argument.

And–god help you–you obeyed immediately, taking up his former post at the breakfast counter.

He approached in that slow, deliberate way of his, never breaking eye contact. Stopping on the opposite side of the counter, he leaned down onto his forearms, his eyes level with your own.

“You need to relax.” He didn’t say it quite as a command, but it definitely wasn’t a request.

You scoffed. “You’re one to talk, you–”

“Relax.” He repeated, more forcefully, leaning in just a fraction of a centimeter, but filling the remaining space with the heat of his gaze.

After a moment, you took a deep breath, nodding.

“Only one of us can afford to be unstable right now.” There was a near-imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Track record says it’s most likely to be me.”

You pursed your lips, trying not to smile, and Pope’s eyes darted down at the move.

“Okay, yeah.” You relented. “You’re right. I’m calm. Can we just go over everything one more time?”

“That would make you feel better?”

“Yeah. Maybe. A little.”

“Okay.”

To tell the truth, the plan had been fucking insane since its inception. You’d known it was insane, too, which was why you’d spent three restless nights lying awake in bed, turning it over and over in your head like a wishstone, before you’d even approached Pope about it.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about Lena’s little face pressed against the car window, staring after her Uncle Pope, as the DCFS officer drove away.

And, god, the hunted look in Pope’s eyes when she’d finally disappeared from sight and he’d collapsed to the front steps of Cathy’s house, head in his hands.

That man loved his niece; not out of some moralistic, familial obligation. But truly loved her. Like he was cradling a light–watching it grow and feeling warmth for the first time.

And you knew that exact feeling, because you loved Lena too.

You’d been her neighbor, technically, since before she was born. The year you’d started your teaching job at El Camino, you’d moved into the bungalow right next door and instantly hit it off with Cathy.

She was a little serious and had a tendency to withdraw into herself at the oddest moments, but she also had a huge heart and reminded you of the older sister you’d always dreamed of as a kid. Someone responsible and steady, who you could confide in and watch trashy TV with.

Baz was another story.

From the moment you’d met, he’d struck you as arrogant and almost a little detached. It puzzled you, sometimes, how someone as dependable as Cathy could end up with someone as….weasley as Baz. And their affection for one another, while it seemed genuine, often flipped from hot to cold in arbitrary turns (always determined by Baz’s moods and whims, it appeared, and never Cathy’s).

Once Lena was born, your opinion of him only got worse.

Cathy worked a lot, and her hours at the bar weren’t always predictable. At first, it seemed like Baz was making a genuine effort to pick up the slack and take over childcare whenever he could. He changed diapers (occasionally), brought Lena to mommy-and-me classes (when he wasn’t busy with other things), and even took her on long afternoon walks (though you always found it a little suspicious how many bikini-clad women seemed to cluster around the stroller when he’d park it at the beach).

That effort lasted about two months. Then, it just seemed like he got…bored with it all. Like he figured he’d given full-time parenting the good old college try and found out it wasn’t really “for him.”

He started fucking off to god knows where at all hours of the day and night, leaving Cathy with a colicky kid and practically no money for daycare or a babysitter.

Which was where you stepped in. School let out at 3:20pm (2:50 on Wednesdays), which meant that you had afternoons free to look after Lena. And really, she wasn’t too much of a difficulty. Early on, you realized that if you rigged her baby chair to your oscillating fan just so, the back and forth movement soothed her right to sleep.

You couldn’t really go out on weeknights anyway, what with all the grading and lesson planning you needed to take care of. And having Lena by your side, even if she wasn’t much in the way of company at that age, made you feel less alone.

Which was how you became Lena’s auntie. Became the person who cleaned up her scrapes when mom wasn’t around, sang Joni Mitchell songs to put her to sleep, and taught her all the best clapping games to show her friends at school.

And until a little under a year ago, aside from Cathy, you were the only steady adult presence in Lena’s life.

Then her Uncle Pope got out of jail and suddenly there was someone else buying her ice cream and taking her to the park after school.

At first you may have been a little jealous, sure. After all, you weren’t used to Lena ditching you, preferring to spend time with someone else, and it kind of hurt. But then you actually met Uncle Pope and–yeah–you got it.

There was something about all that quiet intensity that was intoxicating. Watching him was like staring down at a glass-bottom boat, only catching the slightest movement toward the surface but knowing there were leagues of life beneath.

And for a kid like Lena, who’d been starved of attention from her sole male role model for so long, you could only imagine what it was like to have someone like Uncle Pope suddenly hanging on her every word.

She perked up when he came back into the picture. It was subtle–kind of like her uncle, everything with Lena was a little subtle–but it was there. And she talked about him a lot when it was your time with her.

Uncle Pope says I’m a good color-er. He asked if I could do him another picture like the one I did with the dolphins but I told him I had to think about it because it took me a whole recess to draw it and I’m supposed to play fairies with Jenna at next recess.

Uncle Pope got me chocolate ice cream today. He never gets ice cream but he says grown ups don’t like sugar like kids, is that true? You like ice cream. Are you a grown up?

Uncle Pope said the friendship bracelet you made me is cool. Can you show me how to make one for him? But maybe blue instead of pink. I don’t think he likes pink.

And if you also spent a little extra time thinking about Uncle Pope, who had to know, right?

All he seemed to wear were those damn short-sleeved button-ups, so who could blame you for lingering a little too long on the bulge of his biceps or the veins of those thick forearms whenever you caught a glimpse of him through your window picking up Lena.

Even before his curls began to grow back out, his face had a kind of gladiatorial-beauty–too rough to be classically-handsome but compelling in its resoluteness. The recent addition of those reddish-brown curls added something so soft to the harsh line of his mouth, the cold blue of his eyes. A clash of concepts you couldn’t look away from.

So damn compelling.

Then Cathy had ‘disappeared’ and Baz had been shot and bled out mere feet away from your front door.

Lena’s entire center of gravity, which had been losing stability and shifting from underneath her for months (maybe years), collapsed.

Watching Pope contort himself into unfamiliar shapes to hold Lena’s world together–rearranging his schedule to give her something constant to trust in, softening his edges to provide comfort, begging (probably for the first time in his life) for the opportunity to prove himself worthy to care for her–it broke something open in you.

It flayed you wide, peeling back layers of flesh and sinew and metallic-tanged viscera. Laying bare the infected heart of you–a splinter planted in your youth and left to putrefy–the injury that screamed–

Why didn’t anyone care about me that much?

Why wasn’t I ever worthy of such devotion?

Where was the devil-hero who would destroy the world to save me?

So yes, the plan had been fucking insane.

I know we’ve only really been acquaintances up until this moment, but do you want to get married and petition the family court for temporary custody of Lena with the goal of eventually working toward your full adoption of her?

But what could you say?

Truly, what could you do?

Your nerves immediately dissipated the moment Lena walked through the door.

As you’d suspected, her caseworker had insisted on a “final” walkthrough before the official handoff. She’d forced Lena to wait in the car, peering through the passenger window with too-tired eyes, while she scoured every corner of the house. Opening the pantry and assessing the array of (healthy, organic) foods available, turning every tap on and off again, letting the shower run long enough to test for hot water, inspecting every corner of Lena’s bedroom and closet.

All things she’d done before–multiple times. All completely unnecessary.

But it was a show of power; a reminder, specifically aimed at Pope, that he was under surveillance. That no place was sacred and nothing his own. Not even his home.

For his part, Pope had stood silently at the living room window, not sparing a glance at the social worker, but instead locking in on the outline of Lena in the car parked across the street.

You’d done what you could to cut the tension, answering all the case worker’s questions and steering her away from Pope any time she wandered too close. But you didn’t take your first deep breath until she was out the door and Lena was dragging her Frozen suitcase across the threshold.

“Hey, bean!” You smiled, dropping to your knees and opening your arms for Lena to walk into. “We missed you so much. We’re so glad you’re home.”

Lena’s hug was weaker than normal, but she tucked her little face into your neck and you felt some of the tightness in her shoulders melt.

As you were giving her a good squeeze, you could practically feel Pope’s energy burning into your back, impatiently waiting his turn.

In all the time you’d known Pope, you’d never seen him be particularly affectionate, physically, with anyone. But with Lena, he was different–holding her hand, hugging her goodbye before school, brushing her hair out of her face when it got too unruly. And you could tell he was done waiting his turn for a hug.

You stepped back and watched him kneel down, grabbing Lena and pulling her into a tight embrace. With his face turned toward you, you watched him close his eyes as dual feelings of relief and guilt contorted his features.

He was so often studiously, carefully blank– tightly controlled and able to bank his reactions under a blanket of inflexible coolness–that seeing the unrestrained emotion steal over him felt strangely intimate.

You wanted to reach out and comfort him–place your hand at his nape or pet your fingers through his hair. But you didn’t want to intrude on the moment.

So instead, you clapped your hands together, injected some pep into your voice, and announced, “I made birria for dinner–are you hungry?”

Pulling back from Pope’s hug, Lena shrugged and made a non-commital noise before heading down the hallway toward her room.

Still on his knees, Pope turned slightly to follow her progress, mouth tightening. Once Lena was out of sight, he shifted his stare toward you.

“Give her a little time,” you tried to assure him quietly. “It’s been a long, tiring day for her.”

From his expression, you could tell he didn’t feel assured, but he nodded anyway, standing to follow you to the kitchen.

“I’ll finish up dinner,” you said, opening the fridge. “You fix the table.”

Dinner was a quiet affair. Aside from asking, “are you and Uncle Pope really married?” Lena didn’t have much to say. She pushed her food around her plate, took a few bites when you encouraged her, but mostly sat quietly with a pensive look on her face.

Her silence agitated Pope, if his furrowed brow and clenched jaw were anything to go by. He kept shooting you pointed looks across the dinner table, as though he was waiting for you to say or do something to magically fix her.

But you knew it was best to give Lena a little space to readjust and find her footing. The last thing she needed was someone making her feel like her natural reaction to all the recent trauma was somehow wrong. Or making her feel guilty for not acting a certain way when she was just trying to figure things out for herself.

When dinner was over, Lena ambled off to brush her teeth and get ready for bed. You grabbed Pope as he brought his dishes to the sink.

“Hey, hold on a sec.”

He stilled instantly, his gaze dropping to your hand on his forearm. Instead of letting go, you gave into instinct and ran your thumb over the tender skin of his inner arm in a soothing gesture until his eyes came back to yours.

“I’ll do the dishes. You put Lena to bed, read her a story. Just sit there with her for a bit and let her soak up some good juju from your presence.”

He stared.

“Good juju?” The question was skeptical.

“Yeah, you know,” you gestured vaguely with both hands, “positive energy.”

His brows twitched downward.

“Positive energy?” he repeated, blinking. He held his arms out at his sides, looking askance.

You snorted a laugh.

“Yeah, I guess positive energy might not be the right descriptor.” You tilted your head back and forth in thought for a moment. “Protective juju, how about that?”

Pope studied you for a moment, eyes flitting across your face, then nodded. He turned to walk toward Lena’s room before stopping suddenly in his tracks and turning back.

“Do you know how to load a dishwasher?”

The question was so abrupt, it took a moment to register.

“Uh, yeah?” You meant it as a statement, but in your confusion, it came out with the lilt of a question. All the meals you’d eaten so far in the house had been small enough that you’d hand washed the dishes, so this was the first time you’d be using this particular dishwasher. But still, it wasn’t like Baz and Cathy’s dishwasher was from the future. “Who doesn’t know how to load a dishwasher?”

“The right way.” He narrowed his gaze. “Do you know how to load it the right way?”

“Like plates on the bottom and cups and bowls on top?”

Pope made a frustrated, growl-like noise and started back toward you.

“No no no!” You threw your hands up, stopping his progress. “Lena! Bedtime story!” You pointed back toward Lena’s bedroom just as the sound of her opening the bathroom door made its way down the hall. “The world will not end if the dishwasher isn’t loaded correctly, I promise.”

He didn’t look entirely convinced, but Lena’s bedroom light flickering on in the hallway drew his attention and he was forced to capitulate.

“If it’s not right when I unload it tomorrow, you’ll be hand washing the dishes from now on,” he grumbled as he walked away.

“No I won’t!” You called after him, smiling to yourself.

You heard him pause, as though seriously contemplating turning back around, before eventually continuing to Lena’s bedroom.

By the time you were done with the dishes, Pope had finished reading Lena her story. He didn’t use funny voices, or project particularly loud, but he read with a sort of rhythmic cadence that carried into the kitchen. So you knew the moment he was finished with that night's chapter of Blue Willow.

On your way to the main bedroom, you stopped just outside Lena’s door and quietly pressed in closer, eavesdropping. You caught the last half of whatever Pope had been saying.

“--would have got you out of there sooner if we could. I never wanted you to be anywhere else but here, you know that, right? Lena, tell me you know that.”

There was a desperate vulnerability in his voice that you’d never heard before, and you suddenly felt guilty for listening in. Before you could hear Lena’s response, you continued down the hallway to get ready for bed.

The entire time you’d been preparing for Lena’s arrival, Pope had slept on the couch, insisting that you needed your space. But now that Lena was in the house, that particular sleeping arrangement was coming to an end.

You tried not to overthink it as you brushed your teeth. While you briefly considered exchanging your normal sleep outfit of a big t-shirt, no bra, and men’s boxers for something a little more full-coverage, you decided against it. If Pope couldn’t handle the possibility of seeing a little nipple poking through your shirt, he’d just have to get over it.

You were walking out of the en suite when he came into the room. He stopped in his tracks so quickly, it jolted you, and you dropped the earring you were removing from your ear.

“Sorry,” he muttered, bending down at the same time you did, hand bumping yours as you both reached for the earring. “Sorry,” he repeated lowly, withdrawing his hand quickly, as if your touch burned.

“It’s okay,” you brushed it off with a chuckle. “You just surprised me. I can be a little jumpy.”

You both straightened, and while you turned to place the earring on the bedside table, you tried to ignore the heat of Pope’s gaze on your legs. It sparked a keen awareness up your spine; buzzed pleasantly at the nape of your neck.

“Lena down for the night?” you asked, turning back around in time to see Pope’s eyes dart away from your ass.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” You climbed under the covers and began nestling down. “Is it alright that I take the right side?”

Pope nodded, shifted uncertainly from one foot to the other, then walked into the en suite, closing the door after him.

Turning out the lamp–the only light in the room–you rolled onto your side away from the bathroom door. You didn’t want to make things any more awkward by staring straight at him when he walked out.

As much as he tried to hide it, you could tell he was skittish about this part of the whole arrangement. Knowing what you did about his personal life and his past, though it wasn’t much, you wondered if he’d ever shared a bed with a woman for more than a night.

The idea that you might be the first person to lay next to him night after night gave you a secret little thrill. Made an inappropriately proprietary feeling take plant its fingers in your chest.

Contemplating that thought, you tried not to react when the bathroom door creaked open and Pope padded quietly over to the bed. He hesitated briefly on his side before slipping under the sheets.

You waited to feel the customary wiggling and moving about indicating that he was getting comfortable, but Pope’s side of the bed remained dead still.

Glancing over your shoulder, moonlight from the window illuminated his figure–flat on his back, sheets pulled up to his chin, arms at his side, staring straight up at the ceiling. Like a corpse or a Pharaoh in a sarcophagus.

Rolling your head back over, you shoved your face in your pillow to stifle a laugh. There was probably something clinically wrong with you that you were charmed by how unsettled he seemed to be with the entire situation.

Once you had your giggles under control, you were about to say “good night” when Pope spoke.

“She isn’t talking.”

He said it quietly, but with weight.

You rolled to your back.

“Yeah.”

“Why isn’t she talking?” He continued staring straight up at the ceiling.

“She’s always been a quiet kid.”

“Not this quiet.”

“I know.” Running a hand down your face, you paused to gather your thoughts. Unlike Pope, you had some experience in this particular area. All of your pre-service teaching had been at Title 1 schools, and you’d acted as a support system for plenty of dispossessed kids navigating the system. Too many, really.

So while Pope was going into this with Lena blind, you weren’t. And you knew it would be up to you to help guide them both.

“It’s going to take some time, Pope. The last few months have been so unstable for her, just one sucker punch after another. When kids go through stuff like this, when they’re not sure what they can trust or where they’ll be the day after tomorrow, they enter into survival mode. They’re not thinking about laughing with their friends and doing schoolwork and playing with their toys. They’re just focused on what they can control–themselves. Which is why it’s going to take a while for Lena to loosen some of that control and relax.”

“When they’re not sure who they can trust?” Pope’s head snapped toward you, his voice still quiet, but with a dangerous undercurrent. “Lena knows she can trust me, okay?”

“No,” you turned your head toward him as well, “that’s not what I said. I said she’s not sure what she can trust.”

“What’s the difference?” His tone was accusatory, defensive.

“Andrew.” You rolled over completely, facing him squarely and holding his heated gaze. “Lena is a smart kid. She knows she can trust you–I believe that–but she also knows that you can’t control every circumstance in the world. She’s lost her mother, her father, and even briefly, her home–all in the span of a year. And none of that had to do with her trust in your ability to take care of her.” You gave him some time to absorb your words.

He made a choked, frustrated noise. Then, he sighed, resigned.

“Well then what am I supposed to do?”

“We.” You corrected. “We are going to give her routine, stability, and time to adjust. Kids are resilient. She’ll find her footing sooner than you think, as long as we keep the ground she’s standing on steady.”

It was quiet again, for a long moment. You almost assumed the conversation was over, preparing to roll back into your sleeping position. Then Pope spoke again.

“What if I’ve already fucked her up?” He whispered, so quietly you almost didn’t catch it.

“You didn’t.” Your answer was immediate.

“How do you know?” Still whispering.

“How do I know?” Shaking your head, you took a deep breath, not sure where to start. “First of all, if Lena were somehow fucked up–IF,” you emphasized, pausing until Pope turned his head back toward you and caught your eyes, “which she isn’t…it wouldn’t be your fault.”

He started to speak, but you cut him off. “I’ve known Lena since the day she was born, and she’s had a lot of less-than-stellar influences in her life, but you are not one of them. You’ve never yelled at her, belittled her, forgotten her at daycare, or left her alone at a party past midnight.” You didn’t have to say Baz’s name for him to know who you were talking about; the stories you’d heard from Cathy could fill a case worker’s files to overflowing.

“Secondly,” you continued, starting to rile yourself up a little, “even if things have been bumpy and you weren’t always able to shield her from the bad stuff, you’ve been trying. Genuinely trying. Kids see that–they know when someone gives a fuck about them, and it counts for a lot more than you think it does.”

Pope swallowed visibly, his lips twisting as he thought.

“And third, Lena’s just a good fucking kid. At her core. She’s smart and funny and she cares about people. That’s not going to change because DCFS took her away for a little while. Trust me.”

You fell back against your pillow with a huff, staring up at the ceiling once again. Pope’s side of the bed rustled as he rolled over to face you, stared for a moment, not speaking, then rolled to his back once again.

“Okay,” he finally said.

Just that.

Okay.

He said it without conviction, less an agreement and more a surrender. Like he didn’t know how to respond and so just gave up.

Worrying your lip a moment, you contemplated your next thought before you said it out loud. It’s not that you were particularly precious with details about your past, or that it was something you safeguarded out of a misplaced fear of vulnerability. But there were times you still felt trigger-shy about overplaying your hand, emotionally, and you worried that what you were about to admit might be a step in that direction.

“Look,” you rolled back over to face Pope, who turned his head toward you. “I spent two years in foster care when I was just a little older than Lena. It was not like her situation with a sweet house in the suburbs, yeah? It was messy and chaotic and scary. And even still, when I was sent back home, I didn’t want to go. That’s how bad it was with my family.”

You tried not to get distracted by the way Pope’s gaze narrowed and darkened, or the look that crossed his face that you couldn’t quite describe.

“I would have given everything to have someone like you looking out for me back then.” Pausing, you swallowed as an unexpected surge of emotion tightened your throat. “Everything. But even without someone to ride in and save me, I ended up just fine. And I’m not half as strong as Lena is. So when I tell you that you haven’t fucked anything up, believe me.”

“Okay.”

This time, when he whispered it across the pillow, you almost believed him.

As you drifted off to sleep, you considered that maybe Pope was going to need as much care and guidance recovering from this whole incident as Lena was.

#andrew pope cody #pope cody #animal kindgom #andrew pope cody fic #pope cody x reader #andrew cody x reader #what the hell is tagging #i'm just clicking all the ones that pop up #how do i do this #i haven't posted fic since 2018

693 notes · View notes

thinkinonsense · 9 months ago

Text

VELVET ELVIS ❤︎

lumberjack!logan howlett x fem!reader

cw: fluff! domesticity! soft!logan pregnancy

author's note: this was inspired by the kacey musgraves song! just wanted to write some fluff :)

masterlist

divider credit: @/roseraris

within these cabin walls, time stood still. logan liked his life and the time machine he's built himself. you and him live in a 60's dream home.

during the weekdays, logan went to work at the lumberyard while you stayed at home and worked on your paintings. when the two of you moved in together years ago, logan got you to agree to quit your job and prioritize your talents since he could do triple the amount of work for a normal man, money would never be an issue.

on saturday's, the two of you would go into town and you would bring your art pieces to a shop downtown for them to sell. whatever money you made, you put back towards the supplies you needed because logan covered everything else.

"well, don't 'cha look like a dream" logan compliments as he watches you get ready in the mirror.

"thank you, sugar." you smile as he leans down to kiss your temple then down to your cheek.

"prettiest fuckin' thing i've ever seen." he mutters against your skin. "is this new?"

both your eyes fall to the satin powder blue slip dress that adorned your frame. he loved how it looked with your pretty white mary jane boots and the small bump blooming underneath the soft material of your dress.

"yeah, picked it up earlier this week." you reply, removing the curlers in your hair and teasing the hair pieces up high.

"love it." logan says, nibbling at your earlobe.

"logan..." you giggle, lightly shoving him away. "go get dressed so we can leave."

"yes, ma'am."

reluctantly, logan gets up and grabs the nice outfit you put together for him earlier. a fresh pair of denim jeans, a white shirt, and his brown leather jacket. as an anniversary present one year, you got logan a silver star-shaped belt buckle that matched the necklace he got for your birthday when you two first met. in the mirror, you watched him put it on.

"whatcha thinkin' about over there, sweetheart?" he smirks, looking up to find your eyes.

"dippin' you in honey."

"dirty. i like it."

"not like that, perv." you giggle. "just wanna be stuck to you forever."

"that's sweet," he says, walking over, bending down, and gently grabbing your chin to kiss you.

✦•┈๑⋅⋯ ⋯⋅๑┈•✦

once the two of you make it inside the tiny shop, logan brings in your painting while you greet the older ladies who own the building. all of them fawn over logan and your round tummy; telling you how lucky you are. something you never let yourself forget.

"you'll never believe what we picked up at the gala last weekend." one of the grey-haired women tells you.

"what did you two find?" you asked, always curious to their treasures.

"the hell kinda painting is this?" logan asks, looking sideways at one of the paintings on the wall.

the sight makes you laugh. no matter how long you two have been together, logan still struggles to see some of the beauty that you do in certain art pieces.

"i think the handsome lumberjack found it." the other lady winked as they guide you over to where logan stood. hanging upon the wall sat a velvet elvis painting.

"oh my!" you gasp.

ever since you were a little girl, you adored the painting that some would call 'tacky'.

"you like that, sweets?" he questions but you ignore it, stepping closer, running a finger along the golden frame.

"my grandma used to have one in her living room, it was her most prized possession –well, next to my grandpa."

behind you, logan could see the couple smiling to each other. too busy amazed by the painting to notice anything else around you.

“what a lucky find!” you marvel, turning around to face them.

“which is why we want you to have it.” one of them says while the other takes it down from the wall.

in shock, you shake your head insisting that you couldn’t allow them to give it away. they insist on you two taking it home, telling you to hang it somewhere nice. logan wasn’t exactly thrilled to have the painting in the home but he knew you adored it so he would never say a word out loud.

on the way home that night, you raved about the piece. logan loved hearing you talk about the things you were passionate about. he could listen to you explain color theory for hours. his own personal, prettier version of bob ross. when he brought in the painting, you told him exactly where you wanted to hang it in the living room.

“right there, baby.” you instruct him. “be careful.”

the man couldn’t be hurt if he tried but he found your warning cute. once it was hung up, you both step back to admire it. the art work did at least match the aesthetic of the house, logan could admit.

“i mean, its no mona lisa but i don’t mind it.” logan says, pulling you in to kiss your forehead.

“you know, i don’t really care for the mona lisa.” you admit with a shrug.

“really?”

“mhm, don’t like that everyone fawns over it. i want character, creativity, and something unique."

"hm.." he hums, swaying you gently.

"this painting reminds me of you." your voice meek and muffled against his shirt.

"is that so?" he asks, looking down at you.

you nod. "i want something no one else has and something no one else will ever understand the way that i do. you're my favorite work of art, lo."

"i'm only a work of art because you carved and molded me with your beautiful mind." he says, trying to allow a tear to fall down his face.

logan couldn't believe the life he'd been gifted after all the shit he's dealt with in his lifetime. he didn't deserve this; he didn't deserve you. your kindness, your warmth, your talent, your body that carries the only other human he will ever love as much as you. he would never be able to repay you for this little life and slice of peace that you've gifted him.

1K notes · View notes

caracalla-dondus · 5 months ago

Text

Suspicious Minds

Pairing: Emperor Geta/wife!reader

Summary: A senator informs Geta about the rumors surrounding his wife

Author's Note: This fic consists of pieces I took out from a much longer fic I had written. After reading what I originally wrote I didn't really vibe with the whole thing and so I took out parts I liked best to create this fic. Idk if it's better or worse because things feel a bit rushed in this fic now and not as cohesive as before but it's good enough I think ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I was partly inspired by Fire & Blood where it says that some in court found Queen Rhaenys Targaryen suspicious because she spent time with bards and singers and they were sure she must be having an affair on Aegon I. Also the title is from the Elvis song of the same name because it popped into my head while writing this because it's similar to the plot lol.

~~~

The late afternoon sun streamed through the marble arches of the palace, casting shadows across the floor of the Emperor’s private chamber. Emperor Geta paced restlessly, his jaw clenched tight, his fingers twitching. The rumors had come to him this morning, carried by a senator whose words had been carefully chosen, yet laced with venom.

“She is often seen in the company of poets and bards, my Emperor. Some say perhaps too often.”

The words echoed in Geta’s mind as he strode to the balcony. Below him, others strolled about, oblivious to the storm brewing in his heart. He had always known that his wife had a fondness for the arts. It was one of the things that had drawn him to her. The way her eyes lit up when she heard the verses of a poem she thought was interesting, the soft smile that graced her lips during the final notes of a ballad. She was a woman of intelligence and charm. Perfect qualities to be his empress.

But now those very same qualities and interests had become the source of his unrest.

Geta finds his wife out in the garden. “I had hoped to speak with you my wife,” he said, his tone polite but firm.

“What troubles you, my love?” she asked, her brow furrowing as she stepped closer to him.

Geta studied her, his gaze lingering on her face, searching for some sign of guilt. But she looked as she always did, serene, composed, and beautiful. “There are whispers in the court,” he began slowly, “that your affection for music and poetry has extended beyond mere appreciation.”

His wife’s eyes widened, and then she laughed softly, a sound like the chiming of bells. “Surely you don’t believe such nonsense.”

“I don’t want to,” Geta admitted, his voice low. “But the court is not kind to a woman who spends her days surrounded by other men, no matter how innocent her intentions.”

Her smile faded, and she placed a hand on his arm. “Geta, these men are poets, musicians and artists. They speak to me about the soul, not the flesh. My heart belongs to you, and only you.”

He wanted to believe her. He needed to believe her. But the thought of her laughter, her attention, her admiration being bestowed on another man gnawed at him. “Then why do others speak of you so?” he demanded, his voice rising slightly. “Why do they say you adore Bacchus so much that you have embraced his indulgences?”

His wife stiffened, her hand falling away. “Do you question my virtue?” she asked, insulted that her husband would believe such nonsense about her.

“I question the company you keep!” he snapped, the words sharper than he intended.

She took a step back, her expression conveying her hurt and frustration. “You have always known who I am Geta. I am not a woman content to sit idly in the palace, just simply gossiping my day away. I find joy in the divine chaos of creation. If that makes me suspicious in the eyes of our court then so be it. But I will not apologize for things I did not do.”

Her words hung in the air between them, heavy with emotion. Geta clenched his fists, his anger warring with his love for her. Finally he spoke, his voice softer. “I do not wish to stifle you. But I cannot bear the thought of others questioning your loyalty or your love for me.”

His wife stepped closer, her gaze steady. “Then let me reassure you, my emperor. I am as sure of my love for you as I am about Sol bringing us the sun each morning. But if you doubt me, then tell me what must I do to prove myself?”

He sighed, reaching out to cup her face in his hands. “Stay with me tonight,” he murmured. “Let the poets and bards sing their songs without you for once. Let Bacchus have his revelry elsewhere.”

She smiled faintly, leaning into his touch. “If it will ease your mind, my dear husband then I will stay.”

Geta pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if to shield her from the whispers that sought to undermine them. But even as he held her, a shadow of doubt lingered, refusing to be banished entirely.

The grand halls of the palace echoed with the click of her delicate sandals against the marble floor. The weight of her husband’s arm on her shoulder was both reassuring and suffocating. For the past three days, Geta had not let her out of his sight. Where she went, he followed. Where he could not follow, he sent his guards to watch her every step. It was unlike him, and though his paranoia was silent, she could feel it in the way his fingers tightened around her arm, in the watchful, almost desperate glint in his eyes.

She had tried to comfort him, tried to reassure him of her loyalty, but it seemed no words could pierce through the suspicion that had taken hold of him.

During a feast, Geta watched his wife like a hawk as she entertained a visiting nobleman whose son had written a collection of poems. His wife listened to the man intently, her soft smile never wavering as the man recited a verse.

But Geta saw something else. He saw how the man’s eyes lingered on her, how her laughter seemed to light up the room. His fingers dug into the armrests of his chair, his jaw tightening. Was it admiration? Was it mere courtesy? Or was there something more? The thoughts churned in his mind like a storm, dark and unrelenting.

When the man left, Geta wasted no time. He rose abruptly, crossing the room to where his wife stood.

“You enjoyed his company,” he said, his voice low but laced with accusation.

His wife blinked, startled by his tone. “He was reciting his son’s poetry, my dear husband. That’s all it was.”

“You smiled at him,” Geta pressed, his eyes narrowing. “You laughed.”

“Am I not allowed to smile and laugh?” she asked softly, though there was a tinge of frustration in her voice. “Must I always wear a sour expression to please you?”

His hand shot out, gripping her chin and forcing her to look up at him. “You are mine,” he said, his voice trembling - not with anger, but with something deeper, something more fragile. “Your smiles, your laughter, they belong to me and no one else.”

Her eyes softened as she saw the flicker of insecurity behind his harsh words. She reached up, covering his hand with her own. “And they are yours, Geta,” she murmured. “Only yours.”

His grip loosened, and he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly as if afraid she might vanish. “I will not lose you,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I cannot.”

For the next several days, Geta’s wife’s world shrank. Where she once wandered the gardens freely, now her husband walked beside her, his hand resting possessively on her waist. When she visited the library, he went with her. Her gatherings with poets and musicians were no more, replaced by dinners where Geta sat her beside him, his eyes never leaving her.

She tried to be understanding, but his constant scrutiny weighed heavily on her. One evening, as they sat together in their chambers, she finally spoke.

“Geta,” she began, her voice tentative. “Do you not trust me?”

He looked up from the goblet of wine in his hand, his expression guarded. “Of course I trust you, you are my wife,” he said after a long pause. “It is everyone else I do not trust.”

“You cannot keep watch over me forever,” she said.

His jaw tightened. “You are my wife,” he said firmly. “My empress. And I will not risk anyone else taking you from me.”

“Even if it means suffocating me?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Geta flinched, as if her words had struck him. He set the goblet down and rose to his feet, pacing the room. “You do not understand,” he said, his voice low and strained. “I have enemies everywhere. We have enemies everywhere. They would use you against me. They would take you from me. Take your love away from me”

“Who could take me when I am yours in both heart and soul?” she asked, rising to stand before him.

He stopped, his gaze meeting hers. For a moment, he looked like a man on the edge of breaking, his carefully constructed armor of intimidation cracking to reveal the fear beneath. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice trembling. “But the thought of losing you terrifies me.”

She reached out, cupping his face in her hands. “Geta,” she said softly, “you will not lose me. I love you.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into her touch. “Promise me,” he whispered. “Promise me you will never leave me.”

“I promise,” she said, though her heart ached at the desperation in his voice.

He pulled her into his arms again, holding her as if his life depended on it. She sighed softly, resting her head against his chest. She understood that his possessiveness was not born of cruelty, nor out of a need to stifle her but it was of a fear he could not truly voice, a fear he could not truly reconcile with, and it had consumed him.

And so she stayed, tethered to him by her love for him, hoping that soon his insecurities would ease and he would see that she was his, not because he demanded it, but because she chose it. But she was not sure how much she could take of this suffocating behavior. Of every move of hers and every interaction being heavily watched.

She rarely let her frustrations boil to the surface, but this time was different. As she sat across from her husband in their private chambers, the weight of the senator’s venomous words and their impact on her marriage gnawed at her patience. For days and days now, Geta’s suffocating possessiveness had taken over every aspect of her life, and she could no longer bear the thought that this rift between them had been instigated by a man seeking to undermine her, a man seeking to replace her.

She set down her goblet with a sharp clink, her hands trembling, not with fear, but with barely restrained annoyance and anger. “I’ve been thinking, my dear husband,” she began, her voice calm but carrying an obvious edge to it.

Geta glanced up from his seat, his brow furrowing slightly at her tone. “What is it?”

She met his gaze, her eyes blazing with uncharacteristic determination. “The senator who came to you with these baseless rumors. I believe he must be punished.”

Geta blinked, clearly surprised. “Punished? For what?”

“For daring to speak against me,” she replied, her voice firm, slightly exasperated that he did not already know what she spoke of. “For poisoning your mind with lies and causing this… this chaos between us. He sought to undermine your confidence in me, to cast doubt on my loyalty, to possibly destroy my reputation. That is not something we should let go unanswered.”

Geta leaned back in his chair, studying her intently. “You surprise me, wife. I thought you were above petty revenge. You have always counseled me against such rash decisions before”

“This is not petty, nor is it rash!” she shot back, her tone sharpening. “He sought to disgrace me, your wife, your empress. By doing so, he has disgraced you as well. How can you tolerate such audacity?”

Her words struck a nerve. Geta’s insecurities flared, his mind racing as he considered her argument. She was right. The senator’s insinuations had not only called his wife’s loyalty into question but had also implied that Geta was a weak ruler, unable to control his own household. The thought made his blood boil.

“What would you have me do?” he asked, his voice low.

“Demote him. Remove him from his position. Let it be known that you will not tolerate slander against your Empress.”

Geta narrowed his eyes. “And if others see this as an act of weakness? A sign that I am blinded by my love for you?”

“Let them see it as a warning,” she countered. “Let them know that your loyalty to your wife is unwavering and that you will not allow anyone to sow baseless discord in your court.”

Her words appealed to Geta’s pride, and she could see the gears turning in his mind. After a long silence, he nodded slowly. “Very well. The senator will be dealt with. I’ll ensure his removal will be public and soon.”

Relief washed over her, though a part of her felt dissatisfied about simply just having the senator removed from his position. The senator had meddled in her marriage, made her husband watch every move she made for days now, and he deserved to face more severe consequences for it. The senator has a daughter around her age, she felt certain the senator was likely hoping to get her pushed aside to potentially make way for his daughter to get close to Geta, for her to be the next Empress of Rome. Geta’s wife seethed silently at the thought of someone replacing her, of someone attempting to steal her position. She thought about paying Caracalla a visit and informing him of the treacherous senator in their midst. He would certainly give her the dramatic reaction she wants.

Geta rose from his seat, crossing the room to stand before her. He cupped her face in his hands, his gaze softening. “You are right. I should never have allowed his words to poison my mind. You are my empress, my wife. No one will come between us again”

She smiled faintly, leaning into his touch and calming for a moment. “And I will always stand by your side Geta. But we must stand together, against anyone who seeks to divide us.”

Geta kissed her then, fierce and possessive, as if to reaffirm their bond. She let herself melt into the embrace, even as a small voice in the back of her mind wondered if she should push for more to be done about the senator.

~~~~

reader can't take out her frustrations on Geta so she will take it out on the senator who started all of this instead lol

#emperor Geta x reader #Geta x reader #emperor Geta x you #gladiator 2 #gladiator fanfiction #gladiator x reader

707 notes · View notes

atleastpleasetelephone · 2 months ago

Text

Manners

A/N: So I saw something in a museum when I was on holiday about curtseying and then like the weirdo I am my brain turned that into a fic. Enjoy!

Pairing: 73!Elvis x wife!reader

Word count: 2.4K

TWs: Reader calls Elvis Daddy and Sir, sub/dom themes, Elvis is teacherish, the cane makes an appearance, praise kink, Elvis talks reader through it, smut including a bit of a rough blowjob.

You stand nervously in front of him, fiddling with the hem of your skirt. You know he doesn't like it when you fiddle but you can't help it. He's been sitting on the couch, reading and ignoring you ever since he called you into the room what has to be at least five minutes ago, although it seems like twenty, and it's making you feel kinda awkward. Part of you wants to mumble your excuses and go back to what you were doing, but the rest knows that wouldn't be a good idea. He did call you in after all, so he must want something. You've always struggled to stand still though, no matter how hard you try, shifting your weight from foot to foot as your fingers caress the very edge of your dress. Impatient, that's what he always calls you. An impatient little girl. But you can't help it if waiting in silence for him to finish reading an unknowable amount of book is boring. You hate being bored. It baffles you how often he subjects you to it, actually. Considering you're absolutely certain that you mentioned it at least ten times.

“Baby, ya've gotta stand still. Yer causin’ a distraction.”

He hasn't even looked up, his eyes still fixed on the page. Or you think they are anyway, the shades make it hard to tell. You're sure this head hasn't moved though.

You bite your lip, hard, and let go of your dress. “Yes, Daddy,” you reply, trying to use the sharp pang of pain to focus your mind. You can stand there without shuffling. It's got to be possible. Those guards at Buckingham Palace don't move for hours, so a little girl from Kentucky should be able to manage a few minutes.

After what genuinely seems like forever, he closes his book, sets it to one side and moves his attention to you. You can feel yourself colouring as he looks you up and down, studying every inch of you. It goes on for far too long, and you start to worry about your hair and whether the humidity has made it frizzy, and then whether your dress has creases from where you've bunched it up to get it out of the way when you were scrubbing the floor earlier. Maybe your eyeliner is smudged, the bow in your hair is crooked, your nail polish is chipped. A million worries go through your head as he continues his silent observations. You wipe your slightly sweaty palms on your skirt and toss your head a little in the hopes of rearranging your hair. He chuckles.

“Can't keep still, can ya? Impatient lil thing.”

Clearing your throat awkwardly, you wet your lips with your tongue as you try to endure the intensity of his gaze without any more shuffling about.

“Sorry, Daddy.”

Looking down, your eyes alight on his black boots, shining from the polish you'd given them the other day. The memory of the way you'd done it makes your cheeks burn with shame, it's certainly not how your mother had taught you to polish shoes, and you briefly wonder what she'd think if she knew what your life was really like here. Just a nice country girl, thinking her daughter had married well, into fame and fortune and the Presley family. Having no idea the sorts of things he asked you to do on a daily basis. The sorts of things you enjoyed doing.

“Baby, I've been readin’ somethin’ that might interest ya.”

His smooth baritone interrupts your thoughts and your head whips up, eyes meeting the shadow of his behind the shades.

“Really?”

Another low chuckle. “Really. Book ‘bout manners.”

You look at him, wide-eyed, as he continues.

“Young ladies used ta curtsey fer their masters.”

Your stomach drops at the word master, and you can feel tingling between your legs.

“They did?” You breathe.

A grin spreads lazily across his face. “They sure did, honey. Thought ya might like ta learn how.” He's leaning back against the couch in that self-assured way he has, hands resting on his spread thighs.

“Yessir,” you reply, sensing the slight change in atmosphere.

His grin gets somehow wider at the use of the honorific, and he opens the book back to the page he’d just been looking at, holding it up for you to see.

“Alright then. Feet out ta the sides like this, baby.” Tapping the picture in the middle of the page with his index finger.

You shift your feet out as far as you can, then put your hands behind your back as he tells you. He nods his approval, reaching for his cane, which you somehow hadn’t noticed had been propped up against the couch this whole time. You’d been too busy looking at him. You might’ve been bored, but his attention was all you wanted.

“Bend yer knees,” he continues, tapping one with the end of the cane. “That’s it. Keep bendin’ ‘em honey. Keep goin’. Very nice. Now straighten up again.”

You do as you’re told, springing back to an upright position with your legs straight. His teeth seem to gleam as he grins again.

“Very good. Again.”

You weren’t really expecting to have to do it again, but you repeat the movement as he gets up from the couch to stand in front of you, watching you bob down and back up.

“Don’t stop, honey.”

Slightly flustered, you curtsey again, trying not to move your head to follow him as he starts to walk around you, looking at you from all angles.

“Straighten up, honey.” A tap to your lower back with the head of the cane. “Keep yer chin up.” His fingers under your chin, pushing firmly. “No stickin’ that lil bottom of yours out, now. Keep goin’ straight up an’ down.” He taps your ass with the cane, just hard enough to make you flinch. To make you remember other times he’s tapped you not quite so lightly.

Your quads are starting to ache from the movement, and you feel the start of sweat beading on your brow too. His warm breath on the back of your neck as he talks you through what he wants you to do, praising you when you’re getting it right, the smell of him… it’s driving you crazy, wanting his lips pressed up against yours, his tongue in your mouth. You feel something hard nudge your hip as he leans closer, whispering that you should be looking straight ahead as you dip down for what seems like the hundredth time. A sharp little exhale gives away your discomfort and he smiles to himself as he asks you for just one more, one more perfect one for Daddy.

“Yessir.” Your voice is hoarse, lust-filled.

“Oh that’s my good girl,” he coos. “Ya can stop now.”

Your legs tremble as you stand there, watching him move back to the couch, his legs splayed and his obvious hard-on on display for you. The idea that you’ve got him so excited makes you giddy.

“Well, I think ya got it down, baby,” he tells you, with a wink as he removes his shades. “Think ya deserve a reward. Whaddya want?”

You can barely tear your eyes away from that big bulge in his pants and you can’t think of anything else but how much you want his dick in your mouth right now.

“Can I suck you?”

He blinks, that’s not the answer he was expecting at all, but surprise is soon followed by delight. What a good girl you are. “Such a fuckin’ good girl,” he murmurs, undoing his belt. “So good fer me.” He gestures for you to kneel between his legs. “Don’t deserve ya, baby.” Unzipping his pants and freeing his aching dick. “C’mere.”

You shuffle closer, opening your mouth obediently, feeling it water at the sight of him. He gently eases the tip between your lips, pumping it slowly as you run your tongue around the head, enjoying the sound of him moaning softly. As you start to take more of him, you look up to see him reaching for a cigar and lighting it, taking a long drag. His hand cups your cheek and he softly encourages you until his whole dick has disappeared inside your mouth, puffs of cigar smoke enveloping you both. His fingers continue to caress your cheek, murmurs of praise and encouragement falling from his lips as he grips the cigar between his teeth and adds his other hand to your face, holding you oh-so-gently while his hips start to thrust upwards, the end of his dick nudging the back of your throat and making you gag.

Your eyes water, and feeling your stomach clench you shift to get a better angle, one that gives him a clearer route to fuck your throat, hands demurely resting behind your back. Groaning at the sight of you and the feeling of tightness all around him, his fingers knit into your hair, hips snapping now, trying to hold back so as to avoid hurting his princess, but failing a little more with every movement.

“Yer so goddamn perfect, baby,” he mumbles around the cigar, still trapped between his teeth. “Gonna cum right in that perfect little mouth a yours.”

Your watery eyes look up at him, lost in pleasure, you can tell he’s only a few strokes away from completion. You love watching him like this, out of control because of you. The final thrust forces him further down your throat than he’s ever been before, and you cough and your eyes stream, but you swallow it all down anyway. You don’t want to waste a single drop.

“Lemme see,” he instructs, lazily, putting the cigar into the ashtray as you pull off him, saliva trailing out of your mouth. He grins as you stick your tongue out to show him you’ve swallowed. “Good girl.” Putting himself away with trembling hands, he pats his thighs. “Come sit in Daddy’s lap.”

You wipe your wet lips with the back of your hand and shakily get up off your knees, letting him help you sit sideways in his lap. One arm is around your body, holding you to him, as the other runs up your leg, feeling the bumps on your skin from kneeling on the carpet for so long.

“So good ta me,” he murmurs, kissing your face, then your lips.

You moan into the kiss, the place between your legs is so hot and swollen and so needy for him. His big arms make you feel safe and warm and that rich, woody smell that surrounds him makes you melt into his kisses. His hand carries on its journey, sliding under your skirt now, the coldness of his rings and the roughness of his palms just adding to the sensations.

“Not even askin’ fer anything, after bein’ so good,” he coos, fingers deftly moving your panties to the side. “Can’t leave yer pussy like this though, can we?”

His fingers slide through the slickness he finds between your legs, making it very hard to think, let alone speak.

“Hm?” He encourages, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, his nose tickling the end of yours.

“N-no Sir…” you finally manage.

He smiles. “She’s all wantin’ an’ needy…” he slides his fingers down to your entrance. “Can’t leave her like that… all empty…” he pushes one finger in, and then another quickly follows. You gasp. “Not after all ya’ve done fer me.” His thumb brushes your clit as he starts to pump his fingers in and out, lubricated by your arousal, his eyes flicking over your face to watch your reaction. You whimper at the feeling, pushing your face into his chest. “Pretty, selfless little girl didn’t even ask ta cum… so goddamn patient…” he whispers in your ear, fingers still working you in the way he knows will make you come undone. “Best girl I ever had…” he continues, praise so intense it’s making you blush, pleasure filling your body. It feels like he’s holding you right on the edge of orgasm and it’s starting to make you crazy.

“Uhhhhh.” Muffled into his shirt.

You hear that tell-tale low chuckle of his at the noise you just made, knowing he’s fucking you stupid only using his fingers, knowing he doesn’t need anything else. Sometimes you think he could make you cum just by talking to you.

“That’s it, baby,” he coos, back to encouragement again, feather-light kisses on every inch of skin he can reach, pressed into your hair. “Cum all over Daddy’s hand. You can do it. Fer me. Reward fer bein’ so patient…”

You feel it start to build then, his fingers brushing against that place inside of you as he increases the pressure with his thumb. All those years of guitar playing… people said he wasn’t any good, could only do basic rhythm parts, but he’s playing you like a damn virtuoso… your attempts at being demure fly completely out of the window when it finally hits, fingers grasping desperately at his shirt, head tipped back, back arching as you moan low and dirty, looking like the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Yes… fuck…” he mutters, holding you as he gently finger-fucks you through it until you’re flopped against him, breathing heavily.

Watching you as you lean your head on his chest, eyes closed, your make-up a mess from the blowjob earlier and your breasts heaving, he wants to hold you like this and never let you go. He slides his fingers out and presses a kiss to your temple. Gradually you start to come back down to earth, eyelashes fluttering as you open your eyes to see him watching you. His cute, lopsided smile makes you smile too, a hand reaching to touch his cheek.

“Thank you, Daddy,” you tell him.

“You deserve it, baby.”

Still smiling, you feel warmth spreading through you at his words. And then you remember what you were doing earlier.

“Though I should probably curtsey, shouldn’t I?” You giggle.

Elvis chuckles too. “Ya should. But I won’t make ya.”

Giggling together, you nestle closer into him, and he picks up his book again, flicking through a few pages ahead and then moving so you can see. The next chapter is called "the Texas dip” and there’s a photo of a girl doing it. Her arms are out to the side and one of her legs is bent behind the other. She’s bent over so far at the waist that her head is almost on the floor. You giggle. It looks kind of ridiculous.

“Whatchu gigglin’ for?” Elvis teases, elbowing you playfully in the side. “This is tomorrow’s lesson, little girl.”

***

Taglist:

Please let me know if you want to be added or removed:

@arg-xoxo @from-memphis-with-love @msamarican @blursedblegh @returntopresley @eapep @everythingelvispresley @i-r-i-n-a-a @arrolyn1114 @jhoneybees @polksaladava @lookingforrainbows @jkdaddy01 @epthedream69 @lustnhim @elvisslut @pomtherine @that-hotdog @epletsplayhouse @angschrof @fairybloodsucker @deltafalax @makethemorning @elviswhore69 @ilovequeen978 @wildhorseinkansas @pocketfulofpresley @dkayfixates @iloveelvisss @kxnnxy @presleyhearted @lvrdollep @nebulamorada @iloveelvis2 @18lkpeters @elvisbdoll

#elvis #elvis presley #elvis fanfiction #elvis fic #elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley fic #elvis smut #elvis fanfic #elvis presely smut #elvis imagine #elvis x reader #elvis x y/n #elvis x you #elvis presley x reader #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley x you

193 notes · View notes

mysoulbelongstothe60s · 3 months ago

Text

Pairing: FEM!Reader x Caregiver!Elvis Presley (Late 70s)

Warnings: Age regression themes, tantrums, crying, mild angst, hurt/comfort, sweet and fluffy moments, babyish speech (e.g. replacing "l" with "w"), emotional reconciliation

Summary: After a month of Elvis being away on tour, the reader is left at Graceland feeling abandoned and neglected. His cold phone calls only add to her frustration, leading her to throw a tantrum when he finally returns. Accusing him of not caring, the reader lashes out at Elvis, the Memphis Mafia, and everyone around her. But as the dust settles and she reflects on her actions, she realizes that Elvis was simply doing what he loves—singing for his fans. In an attempt to make things right, she writes him a heartfelt apology letter and goes to find him, hoping to patch things up and show him how much she truly loves him.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Graceland felt bigger when Elvis wasn’t there.

At first, it wasn’t so bad. You knew his tour schedule by heart, marked the days with little stars in your head, whispering, One day closer. The first week, his absence was manageable—his voice still fresh in your ears from late-night calls, the lingering scent of his cologne on his pillow. The housekeepers doted on you, Red and Charlie checked in, and the routine stayed the same.

But then, the days stretched. The calls got shorter.

By the second week, Elvis was different on the phone. Tired. Distracted. Sometimes, cold. You’d cling to the receiver, voice soft and needy, only to be met with clipped answers and heavy sighs. “I know, honey. I miss ya too. But I gotta go, alright?” The dial tone would ring in your ears long after he hung up.

By the third week, you stopped expecting warmth. You stopped hoping he'd say something sweet before hanging up. You still answered every call, still waited by the phone like a lost puppy, but the excitement had dulled into something else. Something bitter. Because even when he was there, he wasn’t really there. “Ain’t got time for this, darlin’. You know I love ya. Don’t make me feel guilty.” And just like that, the conversation would be over before it ever really began.

The house felt colder. The staff—bless them—tried their best, but they weren’t him. They didn’t fill the empty space in your bed or stroke your hair when the quiet got too loud. They didn’t hum soft lullabies when the world felt too big, too lonely.

By the fourth week, you were mad.

Mad that he left. Mad that he didn’t sound sorry. Mad that no matter how bratty you were, how much you stomped your foot or refused to eat dinner, he didn’t see it. He wasn’t here to fix it, wasn’t here to scoop you up and tell you he understood. You could cry all you wanted, but it wouldn’t reach him through the wires of a telephone.

But today, he was coming home.

And you weren’t sure if you wanted to run into his arms or make him suffer the way you had.

The day passed in slow motion.

You should be happy. You should be running to the front door, counting the minutes until you saw him again. But all you could think about was every cold phone call, every rushed goodbye, every moment you spent staring at the ceiling, waiting for something—anything—from him.

So you didn’t bounce out of bed. You didn’t even rush to get dressed. You stayed curled up under the blankets until one of the housekeepers came in, gently coaxing you up with soft words and a warm smile. You let her dress you, comb your hair, but you didn’t say much. You just let it happen, your mind somewhere else.

Downstairs, the staff was busy. The house had been cleaned top to bottom, fresh flowers in the vases, food being prepped in the kitchen. The Memphis Mafia moved through the halls, making sure everything was perfect for Elvis’ return. Someone made a joke about how you must be counting down the seconds until he walked through the door, and you just forced a tight-lipped smile, gripping the hem of your dress between your fingers.

You weren’t counting. Not this time.

By noon, you could hardly sit still, but not in the way they expected. There was no excited bouncing, no impatient peeking out the window. Instead, there was a slow burn in your chest, something bubbling under the surface. You pushed your food around your plate at lunch, barely answering when someone asked if you were okay. You ignored the fond looks from the housekeepers, the way they seemed to expect you to light up at any moment.

But how could you?

He was gone for weeks. Left you here, alone, with nothing but half-hearted phone calls and clipped goodnights. And now, he thought he could just walk back through the door like nothing happened? Like you hadn’t spent the past month missing him so much it made your chest ache?

No.

You weren’t going to run to him. You weren’t going to let him think it was okay.

So you stayed stubbornly curled up on the couch, arms crossed, staring at the front door but refusing to move toward it. The sun dipped lower in the sky. The hours stretched. The tension coiled in your belly, tighter and tighter.

---

You heard the door open.

He was here.

The sound of voices downstairs made your stomach twist even tighter. You gripped your stuffed bunny, pressing it against your chest as you listened to the laughter, the deep rumble of Elvis’ voice mixing with the Memphis Mafia’s greetings. He was happy to see them. Chatting. Taking his time. Not rushing upstairs to see you.

Your bottom lip trembled.

You knew this was going to happen. He left you alone for a whole month, barely called, acted all cold on the phone, and now he was taking his sweet time saying hi to everybody else before coming to see you? Like you weren’t the one who missed him the most? Like you weren’t up here, waiting and waiting and waiting—

A sob bubbled up in your throat, hot and angry. You kicked your legs against the bed, gripping your bunny tighter.

"Stupid Ewvis!" you huffed, voice thick and wobbly. "Don’t even cawe ‘bout me no mowe!"

You threw your bunny across the room, watching it flop onto the floor with a huff. Then you kicked your feet against the mattress again, just to make noise, just to make somethig happen.

Downstairs, the voices kept going.

Ten minutes passed.

Fifteen.

He was still down there.

Tears pricked your eyes as frustration boiled over. You scrambled off the bed, snatched up the closest stuffed animal—a big ol’ teddy bear Elvis gave you last Christmas—and hurled it at the door.

THUMP.

The sound was loud, but not loud enough.

You grabbed another toy, a soft little puppy, and threw it next. Then another. And another. Each one hit the door with a dull thud, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. You wanted him to hear you, to know you were mad, to fix it.

Then, finally—

Footsteps. Heavy boots on the stairs.

You froze, breath hitching, hands clenched into fists at your sides.

The doorknob turned.

Elvis stepped inside, still in his travel clothes, dark sunglasses pushed up into his messy hair. He looked tired, but when he saw the mess of toys scattered across the floor, his eyebrows shot up. His lips parted, like he was about t’say something but then his gaze landed on you.

Curled up in the corner, face red, hands trembling.

And that’s when it hit him.

You weren’t just mad.

You were still little.

His expression softened instantly. "Aw, hell, baby…"

You sniffled, curling in on yourself. "Don’t wanna tawk t’you."

He sighed, stepping inside, closing the door behind him. "C’mon now, sweetheart, ain’t gotta be like this. Daddy’s home."

You glared at him, bottom lip jutting out. "Don’t cawe! Didn’t even come see me! Tawked t’evewybody ewse f’so wong!"

Elvis exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "I know, baby, I know. Was jus’ tryna—"

"Don’t cawe!" you interrupted, voice cracking. "You weft me! You was mean on da phone! Now you back ‘n you don’t cawe!"

His jaw tensed, guilt flickering across his face. He took another step toward you, slow and careful, like he was approaching a skittish little thing. "Sugar, y’know that ain’t true. Missed ya somethin’ fierce."

You huffed, turning your face away, curling tighter into yourself. "Don’t bewieve you."

Elvis let out a breath, then crouched down beside you, close but not too close. His voice dropped to that soft, low drawl he used when he was trying t’calm you down. "Baby, look at me."

You refused.

Elvis was patient. He always was with you. But right now, that only made you madder.

You didn’t want him to be soft and sweet, not after what he did. You wanted him to hurt the way you did, to feel as bad as you felt all those lonely nights when he didn’t call, when he sounded cold and distant.

Your little hands balled into fists, shaking with frustration. "No! Don’ wanna tawk t’you! Don’ wanna see you!"

Elvis sighed, staying crouched beside you, reaching out again. "C’mon, sugar, I know y’mad, but—"

"No!" you shrieked, smacking his hand away before grabbing the nearest stuffed animal—a big ol’ floppy-eared puppy—and hurling it right at him.

Elvis barely flinched. The toy bounced off his shoulder and hit the floor. "Ain’t gonna help nothin’, baby."

That only made you madder.

You grabbed another stuffed animal—your big teddy bear—and threw it even harder. "You weft me!"

THUMP.

"Didn’t caww me!"

THUMP.

"Was so mean t’me!"

THUMP.

"Bet you was wiff otha giwws!"

That made him pause. His brows pulled together, lips parting slightly like he couldn’t believe what you just said. "What?"

You were breathing hard now, chest rising and falling fast, eyes blurry with angry tears. "You heawd me!" you spat, voice shaking. "Bet you was wiff pwetty wadies ‘n you didn’t caww ‘cause you didn’t cawe!"

Elvis’ jaw tightened. He exhaled slow, like he was trying to keep his patience. "Ain’t never done that, baby, and y’know it."

You sniffled hard, shoulders rising to your ears. "Do I?"

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. "Jesus, darlin’…"

But you weren’t done.

"Bet you was huggin’ ‘em, t-touchin’ ‘em, givin’ ‘em kisses—"

"Now stop it," Elvis cut in, voice low, firm. "Ain’t never been like that, sugar, not ever."

You huffed, tears spilling over as you reached for another stuffed animal. "Wiar!"

You threw it at him. Then another. And another.

One hit his arm. One hit his knee. One bounced off his boot and landed in the middle of the floor.

Elvis sighed. Long and heavy.

Then, without another word, he stood up. Straightened his jacket. Adjusted the sunglasses still perched on his head.

And walked toward the door.

You froze. "W-Where you goin’?!"

Elvis didn’t turn around. "Ain’t gon’ sit here ‘n let ya scream at me, sugar," he said, voice calm but tired. "Y’need t’calm down, ‘n I ain’t helpin’ none by sittin’ here lettin’ ya throw things at me."

Your chest tightened. Panic bubbled up, mixing with the anger. "Nuh-uh! No weavin’!"

Elvis opened the door.

"Daddy!" you wailed, voice cracking.

That made him stop. Just for a second. His shoulders rose, like he was taking a deep breath, but he didn’t turn around.

Then, just as slow, he stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut behind him.

And just like that—

He was gone.

The room was quiet now. Too quiet.

You sat there, knees pulled up to your chest, surrounded by the mess you’d made. Stuffed animals scattered across the floor, the covers on your bed twisted and thrown aside, little sniffles still hiccuping out of your chest.

Elvis was gone.

For a while, you were still mad. You sat there, arms crossed, glaring at the door like you expected him to come crawling back, begging for your forgiveness. He should come back. He should feel bad. He should be the one apologizing, not just leaving you like that.

But he didn’t come back.

Minutes ticked by.

Five.

Ten.

And then, slowly, the stubborn little fire in your belly started to cool.

You rubbed your face with your sleeve, sniffling again, and thought about what you’d said. Bet you was wiff otha giwws. Your own words rang in your head, sounding smaller now, weaker. Elvis had looked hurt when you said that. Not angry. Not mad. Just… tired.

And maybe, just maybe, you hadn’t been fair.

You peeked at the door, like maybe he was standing right outside, waiting for you to call for him. But there was nothing. No footsteps. No voice. Just silence.

You flopped back onto the bed, gripping the edge of your blanket, heart twisting in your chest.

Elvis did love you. He always made sure you were safe, made sure you had everything you needed. He built you this room, filled it with your favorite things, just so you’d never feel alone when he was away. And yeah, he’d been mean on the phone sometimes, but maybe he hadn’t meant to be. Maybe he was just tired, worn out from all the traveling, the singing, the meetin’ fans—

Oh.

Your breath hitched.

That’s what he’d been doing.

He wasn’t ignorin’ you. He wasn’t bein’ mean on purpose. He was just doin’ what he loves.

Singing for his fans. Performing. Being Elvis.

And what had you done when he got home?

Thrown a tantrum. Yelled at him. Threw things at him.

Your stomach twisted into a guilty little knot.

You sat up slowly, rubbing your puffy eyes. You had to say sorry. But words were hard, and you were still too shy, too stubborn to just go find him and say it out loud. No, you needed somethin’ else.

An apology letter.

You scrambled off the bed, digging through the little desk in the corner of the room. Crayons, paper, scissors—there! You grabbed a sheet of pink paper and started cutting, tongue poking out in concentration as you shaped it into a big, wobbly heart. It wasn’t perfect, but neither were you.

Then, gripping a chunky red crayon, you started writing.

“Deaw Daddy,

I sowwy.

Didn’t mean to be so mean. Didn’t mean to frow my toys at you. I miss you so so much ‘n I wuv you so much ‘n I know you wuv me too.

I know you gotta sing and see yo’ fans ‘n do what makes you happy. I jus’ missed you so bad I didn’t know what to do. But I shouldn’ta been a bad giww.

You awe my bestest best fwiend and da onwy pewson I evew wanna be wiff fowevew ‘n evew. I pinky pwomise I’ww twy t’be bettew next time. Pwomise!

Pwease fowgive me?

I wuv you so so so much.

Yo’ baby y/n”

You finished the letter with a big, wobbly heart at the bottom, then grabbed a sparkly sticker from your desk and stuck it right in the middle for extra cuteness. You sniffled, holding the letter to your chest for a moment, trying to build up the courage to go find him.

But you couldn’t just go empty-handed. You needed somethin’ else. Somethin’ that would make him really know you were sorry.

Your eyes flicked around the room before landing on your stuffed bunny—the one you never let anyone else touch, the one you slept with every single night. It was soft and well-loved, its ears a little floppy, but it was your favorite.

Slowly, you picked it up.

It hurt a little, thinking about giving it away, even just for a little while. But if anyone deserved it, it was Elvis.

With a deep breath, you tucked the letter under the bunny’s arm, clutching them both close as you padded toward the door.

Time to find Daddy.

---

The house was quiet. Too quiet.

You peeked down the hallway, then slowly crept toward the staircase, clutching your bunny tighter. You weren’t sure where Elvis had gone, but you had a feeling he was downstairs. Probably sitting in his chair, all tired and grumpy, maybe talking to the guys or drinking a Coke.

Your tummy fluttered with nerves as you made your way down. The Memphis Mafia was still around, lounging in the living room, talking and laughing, but Elvis wasn’t with them. You felt tiny standing there, hesitating at the bottom of the stairs, bunny squeezed against your chest.

Jerry spotted you first, his expression softening. "Hey there," he said gently. "Feelin’ a little better?"

You nodded shyly, but you didn’t stop. You just kept walking, poking your head into different rooms until—

There.

Elvis was in the den, sitting on the couch with his head back, one arm draped over his face like he had the worst headache in the world. He hadn’t even changed clothes yet, his boots still on, his shirt rumpled from travel. He looked tired.

Your heart squeezed.

For a second, you almost turned around. Almost ran back upstairs.

But no. You had to do this.

Slowly, hesitantly, you shuffled into the room, feet barely making a sound against the carpet. Elvis didn’t move. Didn’t look at you.

You took a deep breath, then stepped right up to the couch and held out the bunny and the letter with both hands.

A tiny, timid whisper left your lips.

"Fow you…"

Elvis didn’t move right away. For a long moment, he just sat there, eyes still covered by his arm, like he didn’t even know you were standing there. But then—

His arm slowly slid off his face, his eyes blinking up at you, surprised but soft, like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing.

You stood there, holding the bunny and the letter like it was all you had left in the world. Your fingers were trembling. You tried to keep your gaze steady, but you could feel your heart racing in your chest.

Elvis stared at the bunny for a second, and then his eyes flicked up to meet yours. His voice was low and gentle when he spoke.

"What’s all this, sugar?"

You bit your lip, your eyes going down to the floor for a second. You didn’t know how to say it—how to tell him you were sorry, how to make up for everything that had gone wrong.

But you had to.

"I… I sowwy, Daddy," you murmured, voice shaky. "I didn’t mean to be so mean. I just… I missed you so much, I got mad, and… I know you had to be away, but… I wuv you so much. So much, Daddy. I… I jus’ wanna be with you."

Elvis' expression softened, and he sat up slowly. His big hands reached out to take the bunny from you, fingers brushing gently against your own. He looked at it for a moment—your favorite stuffed animal—and then back at you.

"Sugar, you ain't gotta apologize. I know y’missed me."

He pulled you toward him gently, your body soft and small in his arms. You could feel the warmth of him, that familiar sense of safety, and for a moment, all the tension you’d been holding onto melted away.

He held you for a second, and you buried your face in his chest, feeling a few tears escape. Elvis didn't rush you. He just let you cry.

"I’m so sowwy, Daddy…"

"Shhh, darlin', it’s alright," he said softly, stroking your hair. "You don’t gotta apologize. I should’ve been better, shoulda checked in more. But, sugar, you know I love you, right? I love you more than anything, more than the world. I’d never leave you on purpose. Just had to do what I do, y’know? Sing, see my fans, that’s my job. But you’re my world, baby."

You sniffled, your tiny hands clutching onto the sleeve of his shirt as you nodded. "I know, Daddy. I know you wuv me... I jus’ got so sad 'n mad. I... I wanted to be wiff you, but I was being a big baby."

Elvis chuckled softly, brushing his thumb over your cheek, wiping away your tears. "You ain’t a baby, sugar. You’re just... my little girl, and sometimes, little girls get upset. I understand, okay?"

You pulled back slightly, looking up at him with wide, soft eyes. "You fowgive me?"

"Course I do," he said, his voice full of warmth. "Ain’t nothing to forgive. I love you. Always will. You’re my girl, ain’t no doubt about it."

You smiled a little, the weight in your chest starting to lift. You’d made up. You’d said what you needed to say.

"Can we pway now?" you asked quietly, shifting from side to side. "I just wanna stay wiff you, Daddy..."

Elvis smiled, that familiar twinkle in his eye. "Course we can, sugar. We got all the time in the world."

He helped you climb up onto his lap, the bunny resting between the two of you. You snuggled into him, feeling his arms around you, secure and warm. You could hear the sound of his heartbeat, and everything felt right again.

"I love you, baby," he whispered.

"I wuv you too, Daddy," you replied, your voice small and soft.

And just like that, everything felt better.

_________________________________________________________________________

Hey everyone! This is my first time posting any of my writing, so I just wanted to say this is my first time posting any of my writting and I’d love to hear any feedback or advice you might have! I’m still learning and trying to improve, so please feel free to point out anything that could make it better ! Thank you! :)

#elvis presley #elvis the king #elvis history #elvis the pelvis #70s elvis #elvis presley x reader #elvis #elvis fans #age regression #age regressor #sfw agere #agere blog #agere community #sfw age regression #elvis x reader #elvis x y/n #elvis presley x you #elvis presley fanfiction

191 notes · View notes

mclager · 4 months ago

Text

Devil's roll the dice (angel's roll their eyes) | Landoscar X reader

English is not my first language, take it easy

Warnings: Stupidity (in a cool way), drunken marriage, Landoscar having a crush on eachother and being little bitches about it, drunk sex, m/m/f, mentions of Elvis Presley covers

Face claim: girls of pinterest under the "white dress" search

🃏

Ynrkv

Liked by Lando, oscarpiastri and others

Ynrkv Only white dresses for Las Vegas, I hope I don't have to say anything else!

View all comments

User81 someone is getting married this weekend!

Lando I will say it for you

→ Ynrkv Thank you very much 🙏🏼

Oscarpiastri Why Lando get a cool picture and I got whatever this is?

→ ynrkv You look cute, shut up

→ Oscarpiastri @/Lando I hate you

→ Lando You don't

🃏

"Is Lando responsable for this?" Oscar stopped in front of me and showed me my newest post on Instagram. Specifically the first photo on the slide.

"Yeah." I said still laying on the couch in his driver's room. "Did you like it?"

Osc locked his phone and put it in his pocket.

"I did, half of the grid did too." He he said a bit too irritaded, and I chuckled.

"By half of the grid you say Lando?" Oscar rolled his eyes and closed the door behind him, starting to pack up his things.

"And it matters?" He wasn't in a good mood, the race wasn't the best, so this, what is a normal thing, became a little bit bigger than it should.

"Lando is always flirting, it's nothing new."

"I don't like it." He said closing his backpack passive - aggressively.

"He flirts with you too, should I be mad?"

"Don't be crazy, he doesn't."

"He does, I'm not crazy." I got up. "We're in Vegas, let's drink the bad fellings away."

"I want to sleep."

"You don't, you want to cry to sleep, is different. Now please, can we go have a drink?" Oscar nodded. "Thank you."

He kissed me and out we went. We debated where to go, but in the end the hotel had a great bar, so we went there, no thoughts, just a cosmopolitan and a expresso martini on hand. It was conforting, just me and Oscar talking about silly things, but a couple drinks in I saw Lando walk in, comicly trying to get away from a blonde girl that was following him like a lost puppy. I chuckled and Oscar looked too.

"This girl again? Jesus." Oscar made the same face he did when he was talking about the picture and Lando flirting with me.

"Go help your mate." Osc shook his head and took a sip of his drink.

"Last time I did that she started crying." I laughed and shook my head.

"Babe, you have dealt with worse, go help, Lando." He rolled his eyes, but I could see he was glad to go fuck that girls happiness up. Oscar walked to Lando, and without even say hi, he pulled the man away from the girl. She tried to say something, but Oscar can get a bit intimidating when he wants to, which is not often, and strangely only happens in situations when Lando and Myself are needing help with something. The girl looked around and her eyes stopped on me, so I waved to the girl, I don't think she liked it.

"Got a girl problem?" I asked Lando as he aprocched me with Oscar by his side.

"Problem is a cute word, she is worst. She is everywhere, I can't anymore. Thanks for the help." He looked at Oscar that nodded.

"To celebrate, let's do shots?" Before anyone answered I was ordering the shots.

"I like her." Lando said to Oscar.

"She is my girlfriend, Norris."

"And? I never said I didn't liked you." Lando was tipsy, and it was visible, but so were we. I turned to look at Oscar that was blushing.

"Why are you all red, love?" I tease him, he always denied when I asked if he had a crush on a man ever in his life, but everytime Lando looked at him with his flirty eyes, the man was blushing like a little girl.

"Shut up." The shots were now in front of us.

1, 2, 3, 4 at the fifth round of shots we decided to go somewhere else, since Las Vegas has too many places to just be stuck in one hotel bar. First, Lando used his famous F1 driver badge, and Oscar's too just for good mesure, to get us inside a club, and it worked. The place was crowded, but it had good music and I love to dance.

"Good pick!" I yelled trought the loud music to Lando and he nodded.

"I know." He didn't yell like me, he got way too close to say it in my ear. I looked at Oscar that just looked at Lando, not one sign of jealousy, so I let it slide.

"Let's dance." I pulled Oscar by his hand to the dance floor, when I looked at him I saw he pulling Lando like I did with him.

The lights on the dance floor were blinding me, the smell of sweat and alchool were strong, but the song is too good to not enjoy it. I started to dance, Oscar did too. I don't know what happened, but between one song and the other, I was being pressed in between the two men, Oscar's face was so closed to mine, and Lando's body even closer to mine.

This was overstimulating all my senses, but god, it was good. Oscar's hands were on my hips, and I was sure of it, so it was clear that the other pair on my hips were Lando's. I never thought that this could happen without Oscar getting mad or too jealous, but it was happening and I wasn't mad at all. His face was sundenly on my neck, this was going too far, but Oscar was just looking.

We had to let go of eachother when we saw a girl in the distance pull out her phone to film us. So we got to go to the next location. We walked for some minutes and we were at a chapel one of those that you get married by a Elvis. I was ready to walk away from it because I didn't thought anything of it, but Oscar stopped.

"Love?" He called me and I looked at him.

"Yeah?" He looked at the little chapel and back at me.

"Do you want to marry me?" I look at him confused.

"What?"

"Do you want to marry me?"

"Are you serious?"

"Yes, come on." Lando looked at us.

"Please, go get married." I nodded.

"Let's do this." We runned in, and again, Oscar and Lando did all the complicated stuff and I just needed to say yes to Elvis, as it played love me tender in the background. Lando was the best person to have with us in this moment. Then we got back to the hotel and drank more.

It was almost six a.m when we were walking into Oscar's room.

"Don't break anything, Lando." Oscar said closing the door. I took of my heels and went to drink water.

"Why me? That's crazy."

"You're the liability, not me or my wife." Lando threw himself on the bed.

"Me? Oh fuck you, I'm not a liability, I'm fine." I gave a bottle of water to Lan and other to Oscar before hugging my husband.

"Yes, you're. Thank you, love."

"Thank you, darling."

"You're both welcome." Lando opened the water bottle and spilled all over himself. Oscar looked at Lando, and Lando looked at Oscar.

"I know what you're going to say, so don't." He got up and took off his shirt trying to dry his pants.

"As I said, liability." I sat on the bed and looked at them.

"At least you didn't wet the bed."

"But everything else is fucking wet." Oscar looked at me and smirked.

"Everything? Are you sure?"

"Oscar!" I threw a pillow on him.

"I just asked if he was sure."

"Pervert." Lando said laughing. Oscar lay down on by my side and hugged my waist.

"What? You two are perverts, I'm just saying, not everything is wet. The bed is fine, the floor is fine, you're the only thing that's wet."

"Sure." Lando said throwing his shirt on the floor.

"Take it off." Oscar said to Lando.

"What?"

"You want to be all wet fine, if don't, take it off, it's fine."

"Can I?" Lando asked me and I nodded.

"Sure." As he was taking his pants off, Oscar put his face on my neck leaving little kisses and soft bites. This man knows what he is doing.

"Can you two stop?" Lando was way hotter in his boxers, I have to give him that.

"Stop what? I'm just hugging my wife, can't I?"

"Osc... You're not just hugging her." He sat by my side rolling his eyes.

"No?" He pushed his hips against mine, Oscar was really excited about what was going on in his mind.

"Love, what are your plans?"

"I don't have any plans."

"Can you control your boyfriend, darling?"

"Oh, he's past the control part. I'm sorry." Oscar sighed.

"You two are boring. Sometimes I forget that all Lando can do is bad flirting."

"I'm really good at flirting, and I can do a lot more than that."

"Prove it." I turned to look at Oscar, completely in shock.

"How? You want me to do what? Kiss your wife? Kiss you?" He joked, little did he knew that was exactly what Oscar wanted.

"Are you thinking about it, Oscar?" I asked and he nodded.

"Any cons?" I shook my head.

"Go ahead."

"Oh god, you really mean that don't you?" Lando asked.

"What? Do you think I would let you grind on my girl just because I'm nice?" Oscar sat on the bed. "Are you going to say now you don't like the idea? If you don't, it's fine too..."

Before the end of his thought, Lan pulled Oscar and kissed him. Everything is happening too fast, or my head is too slow because of the alcohol, either way everything looks like a wet dream.

"That's what I'm talking about." Oscar said against Lando's lips. The unclothed state of Lando didn't help his case, he was getting hard by the second.

"I fucking knew you had a crush on eachother." I whispered more to me then to them, but they heard it, of course they did. Oscar chuckled letting Lando go.

"Sorry for lying."

"Well, sure, yes, sorry. Can we skip to the part fun? We can discuss about your man being canonically bi later."

"You're more needy than her after a race weekend, this will be fun."

"I'm not needy." I sat up.

"Sure, show Lando how not needy you're." I rolled my eyes jokingly and kissed Lando, and it was as good as I thought it would be.

Oscar unzipped my dress pulling it down, Lando's hands went to my hips in my naked skin, Oscar's hands also came in contact with my skin, less shy than Lando's. Oscar was quick to slide his hand on to Lando's body too, who pulled him into the kiss.

My hands went to Lando's boxer and Oscar's pants, both men incredibly hard. Lando moaned into the kiss making Oscar smile as he helped me get into his pants.

"You moan like a little bitch did you know that?" Oscar examined Lando's face trying to see if he was aligned with him, and the second moan coming out of him said a big yes to that.

"Now I know." I got down to take him on my mouth while I kept Oscar on my hand. "For fuck's sake." He gripped my hair pulling me against him.

"She's great." I heard Oscar saying, and if I needed to bet, I bet he was smiling.

"Yes." I looked up seeing Lando's face he wasn't able to answer more than that anyway. Oscar slapped my ass before sliding his fingers on my folds making me moan against Lando, and he gripped my hair even harder.

"Not only his clothes are wet, I see." He put on of his fingers inside me and moved a couple times before taking it off making me whine at the loss. "Lando?"

"hm?"

"Do you want to feel her?" He nodded eagerly, with his free hand he put one of his fingers in me, being followed by one of Oscar's. I took my mouth of Lando and moaned. They moved in an unison, driving me fucking crazy, just the thought of them fingering me could break me.

"Fuck, can someone fuck me already?"

"As I said, needy." I hate when he is right, but right now I hate to not have anyone inside of me. He took his fingers of me, sucking my juices off his finger, before he grabbed my face making me look at him. "Do you want to be fuck my Lando?"

"Yes, please!"

"Will you be a good girl for him?" I nodded.

"Yes, I will." Oscar smiled.

"Ok, then." He looked over to Lando. "She is yours, be good and make my girl come before you do."

"Yes, sir." Lando said without thinking, but quickly took it back. "I mean, Osc."

"No, no, I like that, keep it up." I couldn't see Lando's reaction to Oscar, but I could feel the tip of his cock brushing on my pussy. I looked at Oscar as Lando buried himself in me, like Osc likes to say: Moaning like a little bitch.

"Lando, you feel so good." I whined.

"You feel even better." He groaned. I saw Oscar getting closer to my face and I opened my mouth, he didn't think twice before starting to fuck my mouth, as hard as he could. My eyes where watering, I was drooling everywhere, but Oscar was looking at me like I was the prettiest girl he ever saw. It made me clench around Lando, who gripped onto my hips for dear life.

As harder as Lando fucked my pussy, Oscar did as well to my mouth, I never felt as full as right now. I could get used to it. Oscar pulled Lando to a kiss, they looked so good together I could put it on the Louvre and if I did, people would stop looking at the Mona Lisa. I moaned against Oscar, and tightened around Lando.

"Fuck, darling." Lando moaned.

"Do you want to come?" Oscar asked me and I nodded, he took his dick off my mouth and said on my ear. "Then do it as loud as you can."

"And as quickly as you can, because I'm almost there too. If you take longer I'll cum inside you." It wasn't a threat, or a promise, it was a concerned statement, but the thought of him cumming inside me just made me go over the edge, I screamed, both of their names, feeling every inch of me trembling almost falling against the bed. Oscar chuckled.

"I think she liked the idea." Oscar looked at my face and back at Lando. "You can if you want." He didn't have to say it twice, as soon as Oscar finished his sentence I felt Lando coming undone inside me.

"Fuck." He moaned and Oscar pulled my hair to make me look at him.

"Open up." I opened my mouth as he came partially inside of it. Lando pushed me against him to lick my chin clean of Oscar's seed, as he was still inside me. We kissed, then Oscar joined.

"Is this one of those things that doesn't leave Vegas?" Lando asked as he helped me to lay down on the bed.

"I would love if it did left Vegas." Oscar said as he got up, going to the bathroom. I hugged Lando's waist and nodded agreeing with Osc.

"You will sleep with us tonight, right?" I asked Lando, he looked at Oscar who just sat by my side and started to clean me up with a wet towel.

"You heard the queen." Oscar answered jokingly.

"If you insist."

"I do." I said closing my eyes, they started to talk about something, but I slept so quickly I couldn't understand what it was.

I woke up with the sun on my face, cursing myself for not closing the blinds properly. I opened my eyes to see Oscar sleeping like an angel, but I could feel the heaviness of someone else's arms on my waist. I turned around to see Lando drooling on the pillow. I smiled. It wasn't a dream, it was real.

I pause. I look at my hand.

All of it was real.

I was really wearing a wedding ring that matches Oscar's, and I can't really believe that our first action as a married couple was bring Lando in. It wasn't a bad idea.

"Good morning." I heard Oscar and I turned to see him.

"Good morning." He kissed me and looked passed my shoulder to see Lando. He smiled.

"Sorry for keeping it a secret from you." He whispered to not bother the sleepyhead.

"It was not very well kept, but I'll forgive you for denying it when I asked." I brushed his hair off his face. "Don't lie to me again."

"I won't." He paused. "Did you enjoy it?" I nodded.

"Very much, you?"

"Very much." We smiled.

"By the way, why you decided to get married drunk in Vegas?"

"Because I love you." He looked at Lando, as if that I love you was him too, and I didn't mind.

"I hope that nobody in PR gets even close to discover this."

"If they do I'll simply confirm that I'm the luckiest man alive."

#poly! f1 #lando norris x reader #f1 x reader #lando norris x oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri x reader #poly!f1

198 notes · View notes

youaintnothinbuta · 1 year ago

Text

"Elvis! You cannot keep coming home like that!" — Elvis presley x reader

Summary: drabble of Elvis coming home with lipstick stains all over him, and his mama telling him off

Pairing: Elvis or Austin!elvis x reader

Word count: 450

Warnings: none, fluff!! Probably typos <3

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Elvis strode into his house, a bit of pep in his step after his date with you. He went to greet his mama in the living room, freezing when she looked at him with displeasure.

"Elvis! You cannot keep coming home like that!" she exclaimed, a stern look on her face.

Elvis, momentarily confused about what she meant, walked over to the mirror that was hung on the wall, and inspected his reflection. A soft chuckle escaped his lips as he ran his fingers over the lipstick smears that painted his lips, face and even his neck, he couldn’t help but smile at the fresh memory of the feeling of how they all got there.

“Aw mama, we're just having a little fun,” he said, flashing her a grin.

His mama shook her head, a mixture of concern and exasperation on her face. “I don't like seeing you like this, Elvis,” she said. “You deserve better than to be treated like a plaything.”

Elvis took another look at himself. He could still feel the way your lips felt so soft and delicate against his, and the way you giggled pressed up against him as he peppered you with kisses. He knew his mama was just being protective, but he also knew she had the wrong idea, and you and him were really getting quite serious.

“Mama, it's just a little lipstick,” he reassured her, turning to meet her gaze. “I promise, I'm not being treated like a plaything. Y/N and I have something.”

His mama sighed, her expression softening as she listened to his earnest words. “I just want you to be happy, Elvis,” she confessed, worry evident in her eyes. “And I don't want to see you get hurt.”

Approaching his mama, Elvis enveloped her in a comforting hug. “I know, Mama,” he murmured, holding her close. “But I promise, I am happy. I really like this girl, and she feels the same way about me.”

His mama nodded, a small smile on her face. “Well, if you say so, Elvis,” she says. “That's all that matters to me.”

“Why don’t I bring her over sometime, mama? She’s a real sweetheart, I think you’d like her,” he offered, a hopeful smile tugging at his lips.

“That’d be nice,” she replied warmly.

“Good,” he kissed her on the cheek and headed upstairs to his bedroom. As he entered his ensuite, he caught sight of himself once more. With a fond smile, he reached for a towel and dampened it with water, gently wiping away the traces of you. If only you knew how giddy you made him.

679 notes · View notes

marsmaximoff · 6 months ago

Text

🎄; 25th of december ❄︎⋆˚⊹☃︎

content warning: fem!reader. pure fluff. many curses. reader is 20 and calls him “dym” as a short name, he calls her “love, darling and my love”. they’re dating. let me know if i missed something.

word count: 732 ❣️

author’s note: i wasn’t planning on posting anything for Christmas, but i got this idea and i had to write it. so, i apologize if the quality is not that good, as i usually spend days on my writings while this was all done on a matter of hours. also, english is my third language, so i’m sorry for the mistakes. constructive criticism is welcomed as always. thank you so much for the support on my last post, and merry christmas everybody! 🤍 happy hanukkah, kwanzaa, diwali or any other celebrations too 🫶🏻 and if you don’t celebrate anything, have a happy end of the year ✨ p.s.: god im in love with dmitri and almost no one is posting anything, i’ll probably post more of him. anyways, enjoy!! <3

the silk grazes my fingertips as i stretch my arm. i tentatively palm the bed looking for some warmth, for him. but the sheets and pillows are the only things left around me.

the screen of my phone clears up as i blink. 11:28 a.m. with a bit more of focus, the notifications slowly reveal themselves and my eyes travel through them searching for his name. nothing. he’d have texted me if something had requested his presence back at the office. although, he couldn’t have business to deal with on Christmas, right? not this soon, at least.

the pearly white snow greets me through the window making me stand up with a smile. how gorgeous. i make my way to the kitchen to grab something to drink while knotting my robe, and the shiny decor welcomes me effusively. i don’t realize at first, but a big and unfamiliar shadow catches my attention from the corner of my eye while i open the carton of juice.

“holy fuck. dym?”

our christmas tree, stunning as always, lays now almost drowned in presents. in fact, the stack is such, that i can’t even make out the floor for a good four-five steps. some light chuckles behind my back fill the room with the warmth i’ve been craving since i woke up. “beautiful, isn’t it?”

i turn around to dmitri sitting on the couch, staring at me with a huge grin. as if that number of gifts was the most normal sight in the world. “what the hell?” “you’ve had me waiting, darling. did you sleep good?” he asks affectionately.

“what are you, on your Santa Claus era?” i say looking at the presents again. he grants me that laugh that i adore so much as i try to give them a quick count, but after the twentieth, it starts to feel simply bonkers. they’re not even small ‘little treats’, oh no. there’s large boxes and bags everywhere.

“seriously, are you giving gifts to your whole fucking building? or is every one of your men getting one?”

“wrong. and. wrong” he says proudly, and once he’s in front of me, he just smiles. there are obvious love and joy in his eyes, which sends a cute fluttery feeling to my heart. “dmitri-“ his lips seal my words with a gentle kiss. “merry christmas, love”. a sparkle makes space on his gaze that could so easily compete with the star of the tree itself. wait. oh. oh. there’s no way.

his hands take mine and softly walk me towards the swimming pool of gifts. then, he sits close by and points at them with his head. “come on, darling. you’ve had me feeling all impatient”. he looks so excited. so cheerful. but i can’t help the slight guilt that takes over me. “dym, you’re crazy. tell me these are not only for me. you can’t- god do you even have an idea of how many there are?!” “40”. he doesn’t even take a single second to think about it. seriously, what the actual fuck? “two for every christmas i couldn’t spoil you in” this has to be a damn dream. “we’ve been friends since school!” i say grinning. “but we weren’t dating. so it doesn’t count. i wanted to make it special.” “you really didn’t have to” i refute. “i wanted to. please don’t make me wait anymore i need to see your reactions”. with a final glance, i turn around and grab the first one. “ohhh you’ll love that one!”

how can he be so cute? he wasn’t wrong, tho. it was a special edition of one of my favorite books. during the next hours, i go one by one, filling the room with gasps, yells, curses and many “oh my good”s and “thank you so much”s.

by the end of it, i’ve got clothes, books, headphones, plushies, a phone, jewelry, plane tickets, merchandising, signed stuff from famous people i love, and the cherry on top; a new car.

“you are mad. i love you so much but you’re mad” i say hugging him still shocked. “madly in love with you, you mean” he answers pulling back. “you liked them, then?” “loved them” he gives me another kiss, longer this time. “good. merry christmas, my love. i love you” he adds.

he can only hope i’ll love the ring just as much.

187 notes · View notes

strawberryblue-blog · 1 year ago

Note

Hey, hope you’re good. For the Barcelona football player povs, could you maybe do one about the moment he realised he was in love with you, thanks :)

FALLING IN LOVE

—FC BARCELONA.

summary: How would boys react when they realize they are in love?

words: +1.5k

warnings: none. cute, soft.

song recommendation:

Pedri González.

You were probably one of his first loves. Maybe he once loved someone but not like he does you. He really wanted to take things slowly but after not being able to hide his feelings, he would accept that he is completely in love with you.

Although he still doesn't know whether to tell you, he trusts you and knows that you would never hurt him, but he will wait for you to tell him so as not to influence your decision.

But he is very in love and you will see how he begins to have different attitudes towards you, his hands look for yours all the time, his eyes do not stop looking at you, his voice changes when he talks to you.

Ferran Torres.

You just got out of a relationship and didn't think you could fall in love again so quickly. But Ferran will not hesitate to tell you that her feelings have changed and now he sees you differently.

He really loves you, like you are the right person for him, he likes you with all your strengths and weaknesses. The way you laugh, when you seek his warmth, when he embarrasses you at his compliments.

He really admires and is proud to be able to say that he loves you. Because for him you are an honest, loving and kind person. So how not to fall in love with you?

Joao Felix.

Like Ferran, Joao also just broke up from a somewhat complicated relationship and although he thought he would not fall in love again for a long time, you arrived to ruin his plans (in a good way).

It was inevitable for him to think that you were a great woman, with clear values, principles and objectives. A woman who knows she wants him and loves that.

Compared to his previous relationships, this time Joao feels that it is real. That you understand and complement each other, that you don't need to tell the world about yourself but that you love and support each other.

Pablo Gavi.

For Gavi, loving you is something new in his life. Maybe she has had the odd romance but none like yours. He is completely lost in you.

Like a youthful romance and one of those that will last a lifetime. Gavi admires you, supports you and loves you no matter what. Willing to learn from you and everything that loving you entails.

He's a gentleman, he likes to be affectionate with you, tell you cheesy things, take you to cute places. He will show you to the world, because he loves you and he wants everyone to know it.

Fermín Lopez.

You have known each other since you were little and how could you not fall in love with such a man? He is everything to you.

Fermín is the person that everyone wants by their side, affectionate, kind, careful and respectful. And he loves you unconditionally. He has loved you forever, since you used to play in the gardens of his house.

I always accepted his feelings for you and he was always direct because he knows what he wants and that's you. So he's an old romantic and will treat you like the queen you are.

Marc Guiu.

Maybe at first he tries to hide his feelings, we all know that he likes to seem like a tough man but deep down he is not.

He is completely in love with you and he won't be able to hide it for long. Because he loves it when you laugh, when you get close to him, when You are free and fun.

He likes it when you care about him and take care of him, it makes him want to love you more than he should. So he will confess and he won't let you go, he is determined to have you in his life and he knows that you want it too.

Héctor Fort.

You are the first girl he has liked since he can remember and it will be a little shy and embarrassing for Hector. He doesn't know how to tell you, act, or approach you.

He will probably feel a little insecure at first but he will gain confidence when you are the one who approaches him and shows him that you are also interested.

Everything will be like the first time with him, loving each other, understanding each other, taking care of each other, but it will be so magical because Héctor is simply in love with you in every way.

841 notes · View notes

buckyseternaldoll · 18 days ago

Note

Ok ok, this is my first ever author request and since yours was the first Bucky fic I’ve ever read, this just felt right! Also buckle in, this is long and I’m sorry in advance 😩

Alright hear me out, Avenger wedding lol I’ve had the song “I can’t help falling in love” stuck in my head all morning. Yes Elvis sang it originally but I have the Haley Reinhardt version playing through my brain. (I promise I’m going somewhere with this)

ANYWAYS! I’m imagining a reader who works with the Avengers but not an actual Avenger. Maybe she works in intelligence or research, sorry I’m not particularly creative when it comes to creating a character profile. Idk who’s getting married, maybe Natasha and Bruce bc I always thought they were adorable but go crazy lol

Now, they ask reader to sing a song at their wedding because omg why wouldn’t you want your bestie to do that for you? (In my imagination I’d totally be besties with Natasha if I were an Avenger lol)

Anyways, reader sings this song and of course she and Bucky have secretly been pining over each other forever because #idiotsinlove but in my brain Bucky is somewhat quiet, dark, pensive (broody) and honestly a little intimidating, so reader hasn’t had the courage to talk to him in any depth about their feelings. Think longing and heated glances in the hallways, small but lingering accidental touches. I am corny 🙃

Now OF COURSE at the wedding she’s actually singing this song to Bucky, who is in turn making absolutely *smoldering* eye contact💀

He’s experiencing all the feels and it’s this intense and beautiful moment that leads him to later confront reader and then of course fireworks ensue. It doesn’t matter to me if the fireworks are in the form of an emotional and sexually tense conversation, fluff or smut, whatever you feel good writing.

I know in real life this totally gives main character energy, like singing a love song to your wannabe boyfriend at your besties wedding but it’s fiction and I can do what I want.

Also, I feel like this is so cliché, again I am not creative this way so I humbly request your talents to help make this little vision come to life😂

Thank you and I love your writing and if you don’t want to do this I totally understand! 💚💚🍀

Ooof, yes yes YES to this! It’s a quick one, but I hope it lines up with your vision!

can't help.

Summary: You were just supposed to sing at your best friend’s wedding. Not confess your feelings to the brooding super soldier with your eyes and a love song.

Disclaimer: slow burn, emotional tension, mutual pining, implied smut, soft confession, light teasing, wedding setting

The hum of your monitors was the only sound in the room—aside from the quiet clack of keys as your fingers danced across the keyboard, navigating the encrypted maze of a burner phone retrieved during last week’s mission. You didn’t bother looking up when you heard someone step inside.

“You’re early,” you said absently. “I just started slicing through the outer layer. Gonna take a while.”

A pause.

Then his voice—low, almost amused. “Didn’t say anything.”

You turned your head slightly, catching the familiar figure leaning against the wall. Bucky Barnes, arms crossed, eyes pinned on you like he was watching something delicate unravel. Not unusual—he did this a lot. Lurking. Lingering. Speaking only when necessary.

“Is this even Hydra?” you asked, holding the device up.

“Looks like it,” he muttered. “Feels like it.”

You hummed in agreement and went back to work. “No decryption key?”

“Thought you liked a challenge.”

You smiled despite yourself. “So you do listen.”

You caught a flicker in his eyes—almost like a smile—but it vanished as quickly as it came.

And then—

The door burst open.

“There you are,” Natasha Romanoff announced as she strode in, crimson hair swaying behind her. “Both of you. Perfect.”

You blinked up at her. “We’re working.”

“You’ll keep working,” she said breezily. “But first—we need to discuss your setlist.”

Your fingers stilled. “My what?”

Nat crossed her arms. “You’re singing at my wedding.”

Your brain lagged several seconds behind the words. “Nat—no. No, I—what?”

She rolled her eyes. “Don’t act surprised. You’ve murdered that song—Can't Help Falling in Love—at karaoke more times than I can count. I want it for the ceremony. Haley Reinhart version. Obviously.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but nothing coherent came out.

Bucky was silent beside you. As usual.

“Nobody knows about that,” you said finally. “Only you.”

“Exactly,” Nat smirked. “That’s why I’m asking. No one else can sing it the way you do. You’re doing it. It’s decided.”

“Natasha—”

“You promised!” she sang as she started backing toward the door. “Don’t make me put it in writing.”

You groaned softly and slumped back into your seat.

“Oh,” she added, peeking back in dramatically. “Bucky? You’re one of Bruce’s groomsmen, remember?”

His brows twitched. “I wasn’t sure if—”

“Don’t even try it. Suit up. Smile. Dance, maybe. Live a little.”

Then she was gone.

The silence returned.

You stared at the screen, unable to focus, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

That’s when you felt him still watching you.

Then quietly—

“You should do it. Sing.”

You turned to him, blinking. “Why?”

He paused for half a second.

“Think Sam’s looking for me.”

And with that, he turned and slipped out of the room, footsteps fading down the hallway.

—

(Bucky’s POV)

He didn’t know why he said it. Maybe because the thought of her voice echoing through that garden-lit hall—dressed in something soft and light, bathed in golden glow—was too much to keep to himself.

He remembered the night he first heard her humming.

Empty tech wing. Past midnight. She thought she was alone.

She wasn’t.

He stood in the shadow of the server racks, listening to that melody spill from her lips like it had always belonged there. Not perfect. Not polished. Just real—a raw, honest sound that stayed with him long after.

And now he’d get to hear her sing for real.

God help him.

(End of POV)

—

The Nerd Nest wasn’t much to look at—just one corner of the tech wing you’d gradually claimed with enough monitors, tangled wires, and caffeinated chaos to make Tony Stark roll his eyes and mutter something about “gremlin territory.” But it was yours. A space where the rest of the world—the noise, the pressure, the people—couldn’t reach you unless you let them.

Today, it was just you, your half-finished AI prototype, and your nerves. Your fingers danced across the keyboard, tuning the neural relay script—light, fast, in rhythm.

And without thinking, you hummed.

“Wise men say… only fools rush in…”

You didn’t get far. You sang a few more notes before realizing what you were doing, and instantly scrunched your face in embarrassment.

“God,” you muttered. “What are you doing…”

You turned in your chair, reaching for your water bottle—and practically jumped out of your skin.

“Holy f—!”

Bucky was there.

Not across the room. Not by the wall.

Right behind you.

Close enough that you could feel the quiet press of his presence at your back. Close enough that the heat from his body prickled against your skin like static.

You turned slowly, pulse spiking—because he was just unfair like that. All sculpted silence and midnight stares. And now he was too close for your heart to pretend it wasn’t affected.

You hated how often he left you breathless by doing absolutely nothing at all.

“Jesus, Barnes,” you gasped, gripping the arm of your chair. “You can’t just—are you training to be a ghost?”

He didn’t answer. Not verbally.

Instead, he stepped closer. Not to move past you—but to linger. To hover.

He reached for something on your desk, but his fingers trailed near yours first—light, deliberate. Not accidental. Not anymore.

He didn’t look at you when he did it. But he knew. And you felt it everywhere.

“Door was open.”

His voice was low. Barely an excuse. Definitely not an apology.

You squinted at him. “Still—some warning would be nice.”

He didn’t answer. Just watched you for a second too long. Long enough that your skin prickled under the weight of it.

Then—

“You hum when you work.”

Your stomach flipped. Shit.

“I—burner phone,” you blurted, voice cracking like your dignity. “Right. Hang on.”

You spun toward your desk so fast you nearly knocked your water bottle off the edge.

You reached for the device, your fingertips brushing against his palm as he reached too. Neither of you pulled away right away.

His gloved flesh fingers brushed yours when he took it—just briefly, but enough to make your breath hitch.

He glanced down.

Then up.

“This your number?”

His knuckles grazed yours as he handed it back. Not enough to count as a touch, but too much to ignore.

Your stomach dropped. “What—no! That’s my phone. Shit. Sorry.” You snatched it back and shoved the right device toward him. “This is the burner.”

He took it silently.

“Subtle,” he said after a pause.

Your face burned. “I’m not flirting with you.”

His expression didn’t change. “Didn’t say you were.”

You stared, unsure if he was mocking you or… something else.

You hated how unreadable he was. Hated how it made your chest flutter anyway. He could look at you like that—eyes stormy and still—and you’d forget how to breathe.

—

The door slid open again. “Why does nobody in this building knock?” you groaned.

Natasha stepped in, Bruce right behind her.

She clocked the tension in the room instantly. Her gaze flicked between you and Bucky, and a slow grin curled at her lips.

“Barnes, you’ve been hanging around in here a lot lately. Didn’t know you were into AI code and—karaoke?”

Bucky shifted behind you—closer than before.

You felt it first in the air—how it changed.

Then his hand grazed your back. Just barely. Just enough to make your breath catch.

He didn’t move away.

Instead, his fingers lingered… brushing down the curve of your spine in a single, featherlight stroke.

Then, like it never happened, his hand was gone.

You groaned. “Natasha—please.”

You could feel heat rushing to your face, and not just from embarrassment. He was still standing too close behind you.

Bucky didn’t say a word. But you felt it—his gaze. Heavy. Unwavering.

Bruce, bless him, tried to cut the tension. “We heard humming from the hall. It sounded… really good.”

You choked out a laugh. “Guess I need to work on soundproofing the Nest.”

Natasha tilted her head toward Bucky, sharp as ever. “Didn’t you say you weren’t into slow songs?”

His response came low. Cool.

“Didn’t say anything.”

But he glanced at you. Just for a second.

Like the words were a lie he needed to swallow fast.

Bruce raised a brow. “You okay, man?”

“Fine.”

Natasha nudged him with her elbow, playful but just enough to provoke. “You showing up to rehearsal later, groomsman?”

“I’ll be there.”

Short. Unsmiling. End of conversation.

Nat threw you a wink on her way out. “Don’t let him scare you. He only bites when you ask.”

You wanted to melt through the floor.

Bucky stood still for a moment longer, unreadable. Then he left without another word.

You sat back, heart pounding, and realized:

You really needed to stop humming around him.

—

It was later that evening, and you found yourself curled up in one of the compound lounges with Natasha, tucked under a throw blanket that smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and too much time near Clint’s socks. She’d brought tea—hers black, yours with extra honey—and despite the comforting warmth of the cup in your hands, your stomach was still tight.

Nat watched you for a while without saying anything, her green eyes too sharp to be fooled.

“You’re spiraling,” she said finally, tone light.

You sighed and leaned your head back against the couch. “I don’t get it. I’ve presented mission briefs in front of generals. I’ve walked agents through crisis comms in real-time. Why does singing one song feel like I’m about to disarm a live bomb?”

She grinned. “Because singing is personal. You can’t hide behind data when your voice cracks on a love lyric.”

“Wow. Thanks for that horrifying visual.”

She laughed softly. “You’ll be fine. It’s not even a big crowd.”

You peeked at her over your mug. “No?”

Nat shook her head. “Intimate. Friends, family, the team. That’s it. There’s no big altar or spotlight. Just a little raised platform Bruce is putting together in the ceremony hall—they’re decorating it like a garden. Might still feel stuffy with just you up there."

You groaned and buried your face in the blanket.

“Maybe I should fake laryngitis.”

“Don’t tempt me to throat-punch you.”

You giggled under your breath, and for a few seconds, the tension eased.

Then Nat tilted her head. “Wanna talk about something else?”

You glanced at her.

She smirked. “Boys, maybe?”

Your face went hot instantly. “There’s… no one.”

“Mm-hm.”

You sipped your tea too quickly and burned your tongue. “Seriously.”

She didn’t push. Didn’t say a word.

But the way she looked at you, it was clear she knew. Of course she did.

All those times Bucky lingered in doorways when you spoke. The way he stood closer to you than anyone else. That odd, unreadable tension in his jaw when someone else made you laugh.

“Well,” she said casually, standing up and brushing crumbs off her leggings. “Whoever it is… you’ve got my luck.”

You blinked. “You’re not gonna guess?”

“Already guessed.” Her smirk deepened. “But I won’t spoil the fun.”

She grabbed her tea and headed for the door, pausing just before leaving.

“Just make sure you catch the bouquet, yeah?”

You groaned. “Natasha—”

“What? Continuous luck. I don’t make the rules.”

And with that, she was gone.

Leaving you on the couch, blushing into your tea, and not thinking about Bucky Barnes at all.

Not. At. All.

—

The ceremony hall had been transformed into something soft and surreal—stone walls veiled in blooming vines, long white drapes fluttering gently from the ceiling beams, and golden fairy lights woven into the greenery above. It felt more like stepping into a secret garden than a wedding.

Eighty guests. Maybe a few more. But it still felt like too many.

In a small prep room tucked behind the main hall, you stood in front of a tall mirror, trying to breathe. The space was barely large enough for the dress rack and makeup table, but it was quiet. Private. Wanda had helped with your hair—an elegant twist pinned at the back, with a few curled strands left loose to frame your face. You barely recognized your reflection.

Your dress was soft blue, simple but perfectly fitted. Not revealing, not loud. Just… you. Or maybe a version of you from someone’s daydream.

You looked beautiful.

And you felt like you were about to pass out.

You mumbled the opening lyrics under your breath, pacing a little as you tried to calm your nerves.

“Wise men say… only fools rush in…”

Your voice wavered. Your hands trembled.

A soft pat on your shoulder made you flinch.

You turned—and stopped breathing for a second.

Bucky stood there. Dressed in a dark suit, clean and crisp, collar brushing against the edge of his jaw. His expression unreadable. Steady. His eyes—something else entirely.

He didn’t speak. Just reached into his jacket pocket and held out something small in his palm. As you reached for it, his fingertips brushed your palm—warm, calloused, grounding. He didn’t pull away immediately. Neither did you.

You took it carefully. A coin? No—heavier than that. It looked worn at the edges, an old challenge token or medallion, with a compass etched on one side and faded Cyrillic on the other.

“I keep it when I need to stay steady,” he said, voice low. “Helps.”

You stared at the token, then up at him—wanting to ask why, or thank him, or say something. But the words stuck. His eyes had that quiet pull again, steady and deep. And you… you were one stupid glance away from telling him everything.

“You’ll be fine,” he added, then turned and walked away before you could get a single word out.

You looked down at the token again, heart still pounding. You swore his touch still lingered—like his hand had left a quiet imprint on your skin.

You slipped it into your palm, curled your fingers around it, and walked toward the doorway when they called your name.

—

The crowd hushed as you stepped onto the low platform.

You adjusted the mic. Exhaled slowly.

Bucky stood near the back. Tucked into shadow but somehow impossible to miss. His gaze found you instantly.

And held.

You squeezed the token in your palm—and sang.

Wise men say only fools rush in

Your voice trembled, breath barely catching the note. The melody felt fragile, like paper floating through still air. But your eyes found him again—blue, steady, burning.

But I can’t help falling in love with you.

He didn’t blink. You didn’t either. There were about eighty people in the room, but it might as well have been just him.

Shall I stay? Would it be a sin?

Your throat tightened. You could feel the hitch in your chest—the ache of words you’d never dared to say aloud. He tilted his head slightly, like he could hear the cry in your voice.

If I can’t help falling in love with you.

A breath. A heartbeat. You swore your knees wobbled under the weight of that line. But he never looked away. His jaw clenched, subtle and sharp, like the sound was pulling him apart.

Oh, like a river flows, surely to the sea

You felt your voice grow stronger. The line came easier now, like it had always been meant for him. Meant for this moment.

Darling so it goes, some things are meant to be

You could swear he swallowed hard—his expression unreadable, but his eyes screaming. You imagined what it would feel like to finally touch him without hesitation. Without hiding.

Woah, take my hand,

Your voice dipped low, husky and real. You weren’t sure you could breathe.

Take my whole life, too

He leaned forward ever so slightly. Not enough to draw attention—just enough to make your heart rattle like glass inside your ribs.

For I can't help falling in love with you

Your vision blurred for a second. You didn’t even realize your lashes had gone wet. The coin in your palm grounded you—his coin. You clung to it as if it could carry the truth you couldn’t say.

Like a river flows surely to the sea

You kept singing, voice floating like a confession in slow motion. Your gaze stayed locked on him, and for a moment, you wondered if he could feel your heartbeat from across the room.

Darling so it goes, some things are meant to be

The tiniest twitch in his lip—like he almost smiled. Almost. The aching softness of it nearly undid you.

Take my hand

You meant it. God, you meant it. If he walked up now and took it, you wouldn’t care who saw. Wouldn’t care that it was your best friend’s wedding. That lyric was yours—and his.

Take my whole life too

If he stepped forward now, you might’ve crumbled in front of everyone.

For I can’t help falling in love with you

You held the note a moment longer. Felt it in your chest. Your fingertips. Your soul.

For I can’t help falling in love with you.

The final note left your lips like a vow wrapped in velvet.

And then—silence.

Not from within.

From him.

Still watching. Still holding you there with his eyes.

—

You stood there, trembling. The token still clenched in your palm.

Bucky hadn’t moved. Not a muscle. His gaze still held yours.

You didn’t know what you’d just done.

But you knew exactly who you’d done it for.

—

You didn’t see him again.

The second you stepped off that tiny platform, Bucky Barnes had vanished like smoke.

People surrounded you immediately—Natasha and Wanda, Sam with his teasing smirk, a few guests you vaguely recognized from earlier missions or boardroom briefings.

“You killed it.”

“I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

“God, I got chills.”

You smiled. Thanked them. Laughed softly at the compliments. But your eyes kept scanning. Searching.

Nowhere in sight.

Not near the drinks. Not by the back row. Not by Natasha.

Gone.

But that look he gave you during the song—blue flame, unblinking, something wordless and raw—was burned into your mind. You couldn’t stop replaying it. Couldn’t shake the phantom pull of it, like gravity still clinging to your bones even when the source was gone.

Eventually, the buzz around you grew too loud. Your own heartbeat louder still. You mumbled an excuse—needed air, needed space, needed to think.

You slipped outside.

—

The garden was quiet. String lights drifted overhead like suspended stars, their glow soft against the trimmed hedges and pale stone paths. You followed the curve of a walkway until it brought you to a small koi pond near the edge of the property.

You exhaled slowly, staring into the water.

It was crystal clear—so clear you could see the koi swimming just beneath the surface, orange and gold scales rippling like stained glass.

You didn’t hear the footsteps until he was already close.

“Can I talk to you?”

You startled. Turned.

Bucky stood at a respectful distance, hands relaxed at his sides, voice low. Different now. Softer.

Of course it was him. The man who could level you with a glance. The one you were supposed to avoid wanting—and failed miserably.

You nodded.

You didn’t speak as you led him back through the quiet side corridor, winding past the ceremony hall until you reached the prep room again—the same one tucked just behind the stage. It was empty. Dim. The door clicked softly shut behind you—

And then he locked it.

Your pulse kicked.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you. His gaze dropped to your chest—no lower, just where your hand was clutching something tight.

The token.

“You’re shaking,” he said. His voice was velvet now. “Your heart’s racing.” He reached for your hand slowly, his thumb grazing the inside of your wrist as if reading your pulse through touch alone.

“I know,” you whispered.

He took a slow step forward. Then another.

“You’re not scared of me,” he said. Not a question.

“No.”

“Then why are you trembling?”

You couldn’t answer. Because how do you explain this kind of gravity?

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small foil-wrapped candy, and handed it to you without a word. His fingers brushed yours again—intentional this time. The contact was gentle, but it sparked down your spine like a live wire.

You blinked. “What is this?”

“Sugar. Helps. Just… try it.”

You unwrapped it with shaking fingers. Pressed it to your tongue. Cherry.

“Did you sing that song for me?” he asked, finally.

You froze.

“I—I sang it for the wedding.”

You avoided his gaze.

“Don’t lie,” he said softly.

You looked up.

He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t teasing.

Just… sure.

“I heard your heartbeat when I left you the coin,” he murmured. “It was calm. But when I wasn’t where you expected me to be—”

“It spiked.”

“You sighed when you couldn’t find me.”

“You looked for me through the whole room.”

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“You think I don’t notice the way you named your AI project JBB?” he added gently. “I cracked your file tree once. Saw your debug comments. All tagged ‘//buckbytes’.”

Your throat went dry. You blinked—hard.

He’d seen that? The little scraps of you scattered across cold code and digital logic. Things you never meant anyone to notice. Especially not him.

“I couldn’t help it,” you whispered, barely breathing. “You’re just… always there. Even when you’re not.”

You looked down, fingers knotting at your sides. “You’re broody and intense and sometimes you scare people, but you don’t scare me.”

A beat of silence.

When you looked up, his eyes had changed—no longer guarded, no longer hiding. Just… soft.

Like he’d been waiting forever to be seen like that.

“I always feel safe when you’re near,” you added. “You never look at me like I’m too much. Or in the way.”

He stepped closer.

“I watch you because I see how much you carry,” he said, voice nearly a whisper now. “You do ten things at once and still think it’s not enough. You take care of everything. Everyone. You make the team better.”

You felt your eyes sting. You looked away.

“You’re brilliant,” he murmured. “Too brilliant. And I’m too old. Too haunted. I don’t deserve someone like you.”

Your breath caught.

“You’re light,” he said, “and I’ve only ever lived in shadow.”

Then—

Your lips crashed into his.

Not delicate. Not rehearsed.

But yours.

He froze for half a second—caught off guard. Like he hadn’t expected you to be the one to close the space.

And then—he melted.

A low sound left him, one you felt more than heard. His hands gripped you tighter, pulling you in like he’d been holding back for months and finally had permission to fall. You could feel it now—the quiet thunder of his heart pounding beneath his shirt. Fast. Unsteady.

You kissed him like you’d been waiting your whole life for this exact beat in time. And from the way he kissed you back—hungry but reverent—so had he.

It wasn’t careful.

It wasn’t clean.

But it was real. Overdue. The kind of collision that had been building for months, maybe longer—carved out in every sideways glance, every stolen breath, every time you left a room and felt his gaze burn between your shoulder blades.

Bucky reached for you slowly, as if he still wasn’t convinced you were really standing there. One hand cradled your jaw, the other settling at the curve of your neck. His touch was reverent—light but grounding. His thumbs stroked across your skin like he was memorizing the texture of a miracle.

His breath ghosted across your lips.

“I’ve imagined this,” he murmured, voice thick with restraint. “So many damn times.”

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Your heart thudded so hard it echoed in your ears. Your body leaned toward his instinctively, as if it already knew what he wasn’t saying.

“I thought maybe… if I ignored it long enough, it’d fade,” he continued, each word quieter than the last. “But it didn’t. It just dug in deeper. You—you’re always there. Even when I’m not looking.”

His forehead brushed against yours. The gesture was tentative, but intimate—anchored in want, steeped in something terrifyingly close to worship.

“And then you sang that song,” he whispered. “And I knew I was fucked.”

That broke your stillness. A breathy laugh escaped you—too full of nerves, too full of feeling. You slid your fingers beneath the edge of his vest, pressing your palms to his chest like you needed proof he was actually standing there. That he was real. That he wanted you too.

“I meant it,” you said softly. “Every word.”

Bucky didn’t answer with words this time.

He kissed you.

Not in the way you expected—quick or rough or hungry—but with aching patience. His lips brushed yours first like a question. When you leaned in, he answered it. Fully. Deeply. Like he was starving and this was the only thing that could save him.

Your hands curled around his shoulders, dragging him closer as if the heat in your chest would eat you alive if you didn’t.

He tasted like something you’d craved before you even knew it had a name. Like longing turned real. Like gravity, finally.

And God, the way he touched you—

His hands didn’t wander. They held. Steady. Secure. Like you were something precious. His thumbs stroked your cheekbones, and when you moaned softly into his mouth, he responded with a quiet, desperate sound of his own—one that made your knees almost buckle.

You broke away just slightly, lips brushing the edge of his jaw. You didn’t even think—just let your teeth find the curve of his earlobe, tugging gently. The sharp intake of breath he gave you in return made your core tighten.

“You know,” you murmured, smirking against his skin, “they say the nerds are the dangerous ones in bed.”

His breath caught. You felt the way his hands gripped you tighter, like he couldn’t help it anymore.

“God help me,” he rasped, mouth at your temple, “I believe that.”

You kissed again. Slower this time. Deeper. Like both of you had finally stepped out of the silence and into something you weren’t afraid of anymore.

And maybe the door stayed locked a little longer.

Maybe the coin he gave you never left your hand.

And maybe the sun was still up outside—burning past the garden-themed walls of a borrowed celebration.

But in his arms, it felt like everything had gone still. Like time had folded into itself.

Like the moment he’d been waiting for had finally arrived.

And maybe—just maybe—you’d been waiting for it too.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes one shot #elle's answering asks #requested fic by elle #જ⁀➴ by elle #tysm for the request! 💜#avengers fanfic

69 notes · View notes

devilsandwings · 7 months ago

Text

Quiet Scenes- A Paul mescal fic

Synopsis: This will be an ongoing story. About Paul Mescal and a singer/actress with Sabrina Carpenters discography. That’s all I’ll reveal for now, read to find out. Love yall 💕

1k words ~ CW: none

This indicates a flashback ✨

March 12, 2023

I’m sitting at the Academy Awards, sipping on my champagne and gossiping with my best friend, Florence Pugh. She’s presenting an award with Andrew Garfield later tonight, you’re her guest. “…so anyway after all of that they ended up getting back together.” Florence finished her story about one of her friends.

“Wow yea that is ridiculous why would she take him back after that.” I responded in bewilderment of her story. She just shrugs her shoulders and the lights dim. Jimmy Kimmel comes back out onto the stage.

The night has been going great, you and Florence are having an amazing time. She killed it presenting, the host is funny, you’re running into friends and icons. You’re having a wonderful time at the Oscars. The announcers voice booms over the audience, “Please welcome academy award winners Jessica Chastain and Halle berry”

The two women walk onto the stage in their beautiful gowns. They smile at the assuring crowd as they walk to the microphone. “When an actor or actress first approaches a role we use every tool at our disposal to help us create the world of the character” Jessica says, reading the teleprompter. They continue about how actors create their characters.

“Here are the nominees for best performance from an actor in a leading role” Halle says

“Austin Butler, Elvis.” The announcer exclaims. The screen above the stage changes to a camera of Austin at his seat, he smiles and looks at his costar. The crowd erupts with applause. The announcer continues to read off names and the crowd cheers.

“Would now be a bad time to tell you I’ve never seen Elvis?” Florence whispers to you

I turn my head and gasp at her, “YOU WHAT” I whisper yell at her, but it doesn’t really matter nobody else can hear us over the cheering for Colin Farrell. “Ma’am you have to see it, I’m showing it to you next time you come over, I own it.” She laughs at my demand and nods her head, she cheers for Brendan Fraser.

I turn my head back to the screen as the announcer says, “Paul Mescal, Aftersun.” My brain screeched to a hault at the mention of his name. Then he was on the screen, wearing a white suit. He looked good, really good. “Bill Nighy…” the announcer continues. Just like that he was gone again. Florence cheered and smiled at me with an exaggerated smile, yay see you worked with him and his next role got an Oscar nomination, she’s probably saying in her head.

She doesn’t know what happened, I didn’t tell her. How could I have told her? She loved Mike, she would have been so mad at me. I’ve never seen her mad before, upset and frustrated sure, but mad? No, and I do not want to see it.

“Do you mind if I sit with ya? My trailers a Sauna.” Paul asks, sticking his head into my trailer. “Well we’re in Australia, so it’s hot in my trailer too but sure.” I retorted. “You’re probably just looking to escape your own mess.” He closes the trailer door and puts his hand over his chest, “You wound me, I thought we were friends.” He “stumbles” down onto a chair. I roll my eyes at him and throw a pretzel out of my bowl at him, “friends don’t steal from each other.” “Don’t bake delicious biscuits and expect me not to eat some” he says to you smiling, looking at you with those blue eyes. You look back into them, you could look into them forever. Your eyes meet, and the moment hangs there, magical, electric. Then breaking the spell he clears his throat and looks away from me.

The announcer finished the names and all the nominees are shown on the screen but you can’t help but look at Paul. “And the Oscar goes to,..” Jessica begins, “The Whale”. You audibly groan and Flo gives you a strange look and laughs.

“God I know you worked with him but I didn’t know you wanted him to win that much.” She chuckled as she claps. “Did you even see his movie?”

“Of course I did” I reply, “it was amazing. He was very good.” I drastically lowered my volume halfway through because Brendan began his speech. His face, you can’t get it out of your mind. It was only a slight falter when The Whale was called but it was noticeable.

You’re standing at the bar of the Vanity Fair Oscars Afterparty, waiting for Florence to come back. You grab your drink off the bar and turn around to look at the crowd, you scan the room hoping to find a familiar face when you see Paul. Standing halfway across the room laughing with a couple people. Then as if sensing her gaze, he looks up. Their eyes meet.

He excuses himself from the group and walks over to you. There’s a beat of silence as you take each other in. He looks a little rougher, more grown, but his eyes are just as sharp. His blue eyes that I wanted to swim in.

“You look…” he breaks the silence, “incredible”.

“Thank you” she blushes, “you don’t look too bad yourself. White looks good on you.”

He chuckles at her compliment, “thanks.”

There’s an awkward silence. He takes a sip of his drink. “Congratulations on your nomination” I say to him, holding up my drink, “I was hoping you’d win. I saw your movie it was amazing Paul.”

“Thank you. That really means a lot, coming from you.” He says, “It’s good to see you. Really good”

I take a sip of my champagne, studying him. I’m about to say something to him when Pedro Pascal walks over to us.

“Paul hey, could I talk to you for a minute?” Pedro asks, then he turns to me “I’m so sorry could I steal him for just a moment?”

I laugh, “Go right ahead.” I pause for a moment and look at Paul, “It was nice talking to you, I’ll see you later.”

Paul nods, “See you later” His gaze lingers on you until Pedro grabs his shoulder and they turn away. You sit alone at the bar, finishing your drink.

Authors note: Hey this is my first time writing in like a long time so be nice. Lmk what yall think & if you want a part 2. Also feel free to request anything! ~rose

#paul mescal #Paul mescal fic #paul mescal x reader #florence pugh #sabrina carpenter #pedro pascal #gladiator 2

204 notes · View notes

belovedgyu · 4 days ago

Text

FASHION SHOW || Kim Mingyu part 3

part 1 part 2 ⚬ pairing: uni au! kim mingyu x fem!reader ⚬ word count: 14.5k (forgive me!!) ⚬ warnings: alcohol, drinking, insecure reader, heavy mentions of body dysmorphia, internalized shame, spice/nsfw mentions and smut, the fmc briefly slips into a dissociative space but its not mentioned directly, MDNI ⚬ genres: slowburn if you squint, jealousy, established relationship, hurt/comfort, angst, fluff, smut, uni!au ft. jun, soonyoung, dokyeom, giselle and yunjin

⚬ recommended songs for this chapter: - pov by ariana grande (!!!) you're so vain by carly simon plastic by moses sumney dress by taylor swift life of the party by shawn mendes she by elvis costello

⚬ author's note: you asked for one big update, you get one big update! - this was one of the messiest things i have ever written, not just because of the subject matter i was dealing with (i wanted to address, as carefully as i could, how internalized misogyny reflects in one, especially those identifying as women) but because this was also the first fic which i have written unplanned. - pardon any major grammatical errors which bug you, but writing and editing nearly 15k words in two days def took a toll on me! take care and enjoy <33

Dokyeom dropped you at your dorm after you had settled Yunjin on her bed in her apartment.

All night, your head kept on throbbing — from exhaustion, overthinking and feeling shitty in general. But what amplified it even more was the urge to check your social media every five minutes. It kept on clawing behind your eyelids each time you tried getting some sleep.

Worse was the fact that you gave in.

It was humiliating, in fact, that you kept clicking on their stories as soon as anyone who was present at the party posted something.

And each time you clicked on one, your breath thickened and your lips mumbled a silent prayer as if to brace for some violent impact.

Throughout the night, until your eyes got heavy and shut on their own, you had seen so many pictures and videos that you could describe what anyone at Suri’s party was wearing with fearsome accuracy.

Now, sitting in your empty booth at The Cold Brew with your jacket sprawled on the opposite seat, haphazard notes littering the whole table, you felt nothing but stupid.

You dug the heels of your palms on your burning eyes as if that would ease the pain.

What were you even thinking? Expecting to see a picture of Mingyu with his tongue shoved deep in Suri’s throat as her already skimpy dress rode even higher? To catch your boyfriend cheating on you on camera with the girl he had voluntarily cut deep rooted ties from?

You stayed up all night, paranoid and tense with pain, for what? The worst thing you had found in those stories was that when Suri cut the cake, her fingers offered the first bite to someone who was standing far away to her left, more than a safe distance between them.

In one of the stories posted by Lydia, you could hear Suri announce that ever since her second birthday, whenever she celebrated, she’d always offered the first piece of the cake to her best friend in the whole world – Mingyu.

Suri then proceeded to walk all the way up to him, tripping over her heels twice, making him steady her by catching the wrist which she pushed to his mouth to feed him the cake.

Mingyu bit off a little piece with a smile you knew was kind but not warm.

Mumbling something to her, he turned her around on her shoulders, directing her towards her younger brother who had flown in all the way from LA.

Mingyu urged her that it was her brother who deserved that honor and not him. But the audio cut was cut short as Lydia cheered from behind the camera, “To two more decades of this friendship!”

It was an innocent act, an innocent video, an innocent friendship but a very devious dress.

You couldn’t spot Mingyu in any pictures or videos after that, evidencing that he had left around an hour after you. He had texted you something at the same time, probably a ‘good night’ or a ‘reached safe’ – you hadn’t bothered to check.

When you woke up at eleven today, parched and irate as the late morning sun scorched your burning eyes, you had found a text from Yunjin waiting to be answered in the group chat.

Yunjin🪼 (10:34 am): kickin off the weekend with some much needed study session @ the cold brew💪 who’s with meee?

Of course Yunjin was reignited with a new found flame of motivation. She always did, after satiating her monthly alcohol quota.

The text had been lying idle for a solid hour, you knew no one else would join her.

Soonyoung had competed with Yunjin on who could drink more and unlike her, must still be too out of it to care. Jun had to tidy up his place from yesterday’s mess and one couldn't pay Giselle enough to study on weekends.

Dokyeom and Mingyu were the only ones sober but they must have been too tired hauling their drunk friends up to their beds all night.

Besides, Mingyu and you had already planned to spend the weekend together at his place days ago — a plan that you mercilessly bailed out on when you replied to Yunjin.

You: Need to do some catching up on stats, will be there in an hour jinny

You heard her reshuffling your things to make room for a seat before you saw Yunjin.

“Sorry I’m late!” She quipped, “Took an ‘everything shower’ today.”

“Why did you have to wear red?” You groaned, the crassness of your own voice gyrating in your sensitive ears as you eyed her shirt warily.

“What’s wrong with red?” The fashion major looked personally offended.

You just shrugged, unable to tell her that red was slowly becoming a color you just couldn’t stand.

The two of you worked in silence for some time, occasionally sipping on your drinks before diving back into the heavy texts. The Cold Brew was mostly deserted on weekends. The murmur of the staff and the rhythmic whirring of the coffee machines being the only ambience inside the sweet smelling shop decorated with wood and plants. They weren't even playing that regular Japanese lofi playlist today.

All the windows were let open, allowing the cool breeze in and with all this ambience and serenity, it felt like the place could breathe once a week.

Yunjin settled in her seat again after getting a little snack topped with fresh cut mangoes.

You were busy struggling with your nearly dead highlighter to do its work when you heard her.

“Thanks for coming, though I thought you were gonna spend the day with Mingyu?”

Yunjin had her eyes focused on restarting her laptop hence she didn’t notice how you nearly flinched at the question.

“How do you know?” You muttered, warmth draining from your face. Anger? Embarrassment? Who knows?

“I called him in the morning to ask if he could cook something for me – all I had at the apartment was cold pizza and didn’t want to order out. He told me that he was gonna cook lunch for you and that I was welcome to join you guys if I wanted.”

Your chest sunk a bit when she told you that. Of course, Mingyu was already planning out the day meticulously.

And you didn’t even have the guts to tell him directly that you wouldn’t show…he had to find that out from your passive aggressive text on the groupchat.

“I told him no cause I didn’t want to interrupt you guys, guess I ended up doing that anyways?” Yunjin scoffed.

“No, no.” You huffed, pushing your notes away like you had given up on pretending to study while your brain couldn’t even register thirty percent of the material. “You didn’t interrupt. I was already planning on not seeing him today.”

Yunjin was confused. If there was any couple she knew who never got tired of each other, no matter how much time they spent together, then it was you and Mingyu.

“Everything alright?” She asked.

You nodded, but your sorrowful eyes betrayed you.

“Wait, is this about the lovebombing thing?” Yunjin’s eyes widened like she had finally found the answer to some conundrum. “Honey, it was just something stupid…I bet Giselle didn’t even mean it when she–”

“What? No, no Jinnie…” You couldn’t help but laugh, the suffocating tension locked in your body easing up a little. “Its not about that.”

Yunjin tilted her head to the side, blinking rapidly like she expected you to clarify. Perhaps, give her a clue about what was going on for you to abandon Mingyu for a study session which you weren’t even studying in.

You bit down on your lower lip, as if sucking on it would give you the words needed to present your problem to your friend.

You wondered if there was a problem to even begin with?

Or was it just the frustration of unspoken words and wonky theories which was stretching you apart like two ends of a rigid rubber band.

You shifted once in your seat, sweating because the afternoon breeze had mellowed down. Even the wind seemed to allow you the silence and space to speak. Then you shifted once again, this time involuntarily, as the red of Yunjin’s shirt sparkled mockingly in the streaming sun rays.

“I dunno, I guess I am upset about last night.” You finally spoke, voice coming out louder than you expected like someone had just undid the menacing knot tied around it.

Yunjin blinked at your borderline outburst before her face settled with recognition.

“Oh…yeah, I was too drunk to notice but Giselle did say something about Mingyu being an ass and ignoring you.”

You shook your head. “No, he didn’t ignore me, not really.”

“Then what is it?”

You wrapped your shivering palms around the dewy condensation on your half empty coffee cup. Your shoulders were too taut but your fingers loosened lifelessly, suspended from your hands, struggling to grasp the glass.

Why was something so simple so hard to wrap your head around? You knew you didn’t feel the best, but you couldn’t deduce the reason behind this discomfort.

Maybe, talking it out loud with a friend might help?

“Mingyu didn’t do anything wrong,” You exhaled, “Suri dragged him around and he followed, yes. But it was nothing too scandalous or unkind towards me.”

“He was just catching up with friends, that’s all.” You shrugged. “Mingyu is devoted and loyal to me, I know that. But he also loves his friends, old or new. There was nothing to be jealous about, maybe there was but it wasn’t Mingyu’s attention. I don’t even know if it's jealousy…anger, perhaps?”

“Anger towards who?” Yunjin retorted, taking a bite of her dessert. “Mingyu, for letting Suri pull him around and not spending time with you. Suri, for being, you know, Suri? Or the whole thing in general?”

You considered Yunjin’s words, letting silence envelope your booth until you thought you found the right answer.

You spoke low like you were spilling an embarrassing secret, “Anger towards myself, I guess.”

The clinking of the metal spoon cutting and scraping the ripe fruit from the small china plate halted for a moment.

Yunjin wasn’t expecting you to say that at all.

“What? Why?” she licked the small smudge of whipped cream off her finger as she leaned back, giving you her full attention.

You crossed your legs and began, “Look, Suri’s behavior was expected of her. She has always been a bit territorial over Mingyu, it's like she wants everybody to know – I was here first! And Mingyu, he has the tendency to get attention just by existing.”

“Tall boys always do. Ours comes with a killer charm and attractive looks to top it off.” Yunjin added, earning a light laugh out of you.

“Yeah, but I trust him so I don’t really mind.” you explained, “It made sense for him to catch up with his old friends and not blatantly ignore Suri, not on her birthday.”

“He’s a classic people pleaser.” Yunjin shrugged. “Like I am not saying that he should tell the birthday girl to fuck off, but he could have tagged you along at least.”

You couldn’t help but wince at Yunjin’s comment.

“Well, that's the part I am angry at myself about. Because he tried to. He asked me to come meet his friends. But I told him no because I was already getting pissed over nothing. All this sense that I am talking of right now, seemed to have vanished last night.”

Yunjin just nodded, sensing you had more to say.

“So, I am angry at myself for ruining the mood completely…for leaving the party without him, for ignoring his texts, for staying up all night to keep tabs on what had happened after I left and for bailing out on our day together. All because of a fucking red dress.”

The last part startled you as much as it did Yunjin.

You knew, somewhere deep down, that you were carefree and having fun up to the point Suri sauntered in wearing something that you could never have the guts to put on.

Your mood had soured even more when you heard your boyfriend compliment the woman wearing it.

It left you with questions like whether he found it attractive, if that was the type of style he thought looked best on women.

You didn’t know, you never talked about stuff like that with each other.

You thought he dressed well and you assumed the same about his opinions towards your dressing sense too.

“Suri’s red dress?” Yunjin asked.

“Yeah…it was just so sexy and good and Mingyu told her she looked good. I think that's what kicked off this whole insecurity bandwagon because I could never pull off something like that.”

“Oh you can totally pull it off.” Yunjin cut you off before you could finish that sentence with a convincing yet pitiful sigh.

She didn’t seem patronizing or sympathetic, but dead serious. Her words carried her confidence and conviction.

“I know, I know, the whole ‘anyone can pull off anything, you just need the confidence for it’ speech.” You drawled, resisting the imminent eyeroll that threatened to follow.

“No, that’s what Giselle would say.” Yunjin leaned forward on the dark table, picking the abandoned spoon once again trying to salvage whatever remained of the mangoes floating over melting, frothy cream and soggy bread.

She continued, “I don’t think anyone can pull off everything. I, for once, would look stupid if I wore a heavy fabric…or a chunky belt with skinny jeans. But Jun would eat that up.”

She had spent hours researching body types and color analysis, this conversation was something one could trust Yunjin’s insights on. So you kept your mouth shut and listened.

“Thats why, I mean it when I say that the dress would look good on you. The corset silhouette paired with your knockers and waist and hips? Ugh, iconic.”

She moaned a little as the ultimate bite of the sweet treat melted on her tongue which made you doubt if the last line was a compliment directed towards you or her snack.

“Now I am not the one to compare women and there’s nothing more annoying than the ‘who wore it better’ discourse, but the truth is, Suri looked sexy as hell.,,,and you, my precious little y/n, you would look erotic. There’s a difference between those two.”

Your jaw opened and closed, then opened again as you wrecked your brain to formulate a response. “I…uh, I don’t know what to say…thanks, maybe?”

Yunjin wordlessly pushed the clay plate away. Now satisfied and full, she leaned back again with her arms crossed under her chest.

“Wanna try?” she gave you a mischievous smile.

You snorted, returning to arrange your pens and highlighters in your pencil case. “Should have asked that before you ate the whole thing…how am I supposed to try it now? Lick your lips or perhaps, the plate?”

“I am not talking about the dessert, dumbass.” She laughed, “The dress!”

And that’s how, despite your several protests against it, you found yourself being dragged by Yunjin and Giselle to market on an afternoon which once belonged to your boyfriend.

They insisted you try this store called "glitzy gurlz" tucked away on the far end of the street that only sold dupes. They weren't going to make you buy real Versace...not after they had just made you buy two sets of expensive lacy lingerie at Victoria's Secret not even an hour ago.

“Wow, that’s quite...extreme…I want to expand my comfort zone, not shatter it with a sledgehammer.” You argued when Yunjin lifted up a pair of bootyshorts that would leave seventy percent of your cheeks hanging exposed.

The store was...something. You had passed it several times while exploring these markets at night and with the studded, low cut, bandage tops always dangling at displays, you never thought you'd ever step in here.

It reeked of cigarettes and seduction. You were used to shopping at places that smelt like fresh cotton and lavender.

“Did you text him like I asked you?” Giselle asked from another corner, rummaging through a rack of crop tops like a cunning scavenger scrounging for the best meat on a carcass.

The girls insisted that you let Mingyu know that you were out shopping with them. Not because he was entitled to know about your whereabouts, but to give him a heads up for what was about to come.

You see, you and Mingyu had this little ritual where anytime either of you’d come home after buying something – sneakers or sweaters, you’d give each other a little fashion show.

It was silly, it was stupid but it was yours.

He had even made some score paddles out of old table-tennis rackets – the scores ranging from ‘9🤩❤️’, ‘10🥵💓’ or ‘10+1 for being so adorable🥰’.

He refused to give you anything below the ten each time you stepped out of the bathroom and gave him a little twirl in your newest steals from your favorite stores.

While the 9 followed by a “womp womp” sound on your phone was your average reaction to whatever glittery paraphernalia Dokyeom convinced him to buy.

The reason why the girls wanted you to let him know about this shopping spree was so that he could be prepared to ‘get the air knocked out of his stupid six pack abs’ in the evening when you'd surprise him with each of these risque pieces.

“No, I haven’t texted him.” You answered, lowering your voice as you checked out the ice cream cone shaped neon heels like they personally offended you.

“Whyyy?” The girls halted together.

“Because I don’t know if I am even gonna buy any of this, let alone try it on in front of him.”

You gestured towards the pile of skimpy skirts and racy dresses hanging over Giselle’s arms like handkerchiefs snipped into weird shapes and sewn in tassels.

Already regretting this whimsical side quest with your insane girlfriends who’d follow you down any rocky paths in high heels just for the thrill of it, you switched your phone on and off for the third time.

“You’re not chickening out now!” Giselle protested, “I rescheduled my waxing appointment for this.”

“I’ll wax you.” You offered, genuinely.

“Thanks, but I’d rather you text Mingyu for now.” She smiled, going back to hunting down the next wow thing.

You took a heavy sigh, trying to gather as much air as you could because you needed that extra dose of oxygen to face the texts you had been ignoring for over sixteen hours now.

Your fingers hovered over the screen, sweat accumulating on your soft palms as you opened his chat to see six of his messages waiting for you.

Mingyu 🐶🩷 (02:05 am): did you reach safe baby?

Mingyu 🐶🩷 (02:20 am): nvm i asked dokyeom and he says you did…ig you’re asleep. good night my love.

Mingyu 🐶🩷 (3:23 am): reached home too, love you <3

Mingyu 🐶🩷 (10:00 am): hope the hangover’s not too bad, remember to drink water.

Mingyu 🐶🩷 (10:02 am): also, do you mind if Yunjin joins us for lunch at my place?

Mingyu 🐶🩷 (11:47 am): saw your text on the group about studying with Yunjin…you not gonna come over?

You closed your eyes like that would make those texts disappear.

You could feel his enthusiasm dimming with each text, his voice echoing in your head when you read them, until it dropped down into the balked question at last.

Somehow, the vibrance of all the colors around you dimmed as if a cloud had engulfed the once sparkling store.

You wanted to type out a paragraph, or send him a hundred hug emojis, two hundred crying ones and a thousand cat memes which you knew would cheer him up.

But for now, you settled for a lie.

You (5:37 pm): Baby I am so sorry for missing your texts…the deadline for the stats assignment is near and I wanted to finish it off today. totally forgot about our lunch plan, thats on me. how about i make it up to you…dinner @ mine?

You (5:37 pm): I was feeling a bit low so came out to shop with the girls to cheer up. do you need me to buy something for you?

You didn’t expect a reply, not after you had ignored him so heartlessly and you knew that he’d be able to tell that your first text was full of lies. But it was worth a shot, and you were ready to face whatever was could come — being left on read, not being read at all, an angry rant which was just so unlikely for him to do.

But a text came, around twenty minutes later, when you were trying on the thigh highs Yunjin had searched for in your size.

Mingyu 🐶🩷 (6:03 pm): sure love, will be there by 8?

You: kk, love youuu 🥺

Mingyu 🐶🩷 (6:03 pm): more, always😘

Mingyu's POV

The basketball thudded once on the ground and then clanked against the metal of the pole with an intensity that could have almost burst it open. The pressure he had applied while simply dribbling was unnecessarily huge.

Dokyeom wanted to comment on it, crack a pun about bursting balls, or maybe just ask him to calm down.

But he knew better than to speak anything which wasn’t relevant to the ongoing game between the two. Not because Mingyu was angry, but because he was thinking.

The jollier guy knew how hard his best buddy tried to keep everything around him well and running, but life wasn’t linear like that. Sometimes, situations arose where one had to tidy up the mess they had no contribution in creating.

But it was taking time for Mingyu to get that through.

“I didn’t even know she was cross with me until she ghosted me today.” He muttered, more to himself than to Dokyeom.

He flicked the sweat off his brows before it could slide down into his eyes and tossed the ball towards his friend.

Dokyeom caught it with one open palm and then with reflexes of a snake, passed it back on. “No, you did.”

Mingyu didn’t try to stop the ball, letting it bounce away until it halted on its own after colliding with the metal fence. “What do you mean?”

“You heard me.” Dokyeom pocketed his hands, exhaling a long held breath. “You knew it since last night that she was upset. Because why else would you call me instead of her when she didn’t reply to your texts after getting home?”

“I think it's natural for me to worry about her if my drunk girlfriend left with some guy who isn't me and didn't answer my texts after.” The taller guy snipped, instantly hating how bitter that sounded.

Mingyu flopped down on one of the stone benches stationed at the vacant court. Unable to look Dokyeom in the eyes, he let his own close shut. They burned with the sweat that had gotten into them regardless. He hung his head low with his elbows resting on his knees, not knowing what to do with all this dejection.

Dokyeom’s laughter filled the spaces left by the chirruping of returning birds as he took a seat beside his friend, the sun setting behind them. “Don’t lie to yourself by dressing up your curiosity in the clothes of worry. You trust me, know that I am responsible and would never do any wrong to y/n.” then a beat, “you called me because you wanted to know if she had told me something about what bothered her. To see if she had complained to me about something you did.”

Mingyu didn’t lift his head. He just craned his neck from side to side to crack the stiff muscles like he was trying to borrow more time to put his dilemma into words.

“I thought about it all afternoon when she didn’t come,” he swallowed, body still slightly heaving from the adrenaline of the game, “and I know I didn’t do anything inherently bad. And I was so worried, thinking that I hurt her somehow. But then she texts me like nothing happened....she never tells me what's bugging her, just pushes it under the rug.”

Mingyu accepted the clean towel waiting in Dokyeom’s hands, swept his over his face and hair before tossing it over the bag lying between his stretched legs on the floor.

“Dokyeom, do you think she’s that type of person?” He finally faced his friend, breathing more controlled than before.

Dokyeom cocked a brow at him because he understood what he wanted to say, but only to a vague extent. “The type of person who gets mad at you over nothing…for attention?”

Mingyu shook his head at Dokyeom’s wild guess. “Gosh, no…the type of person who would be upset because I didn’t make her my first priority for an evening?”

“Are you calling her spoiled?” Dokyeom laughed too casually for a situation where his friend was practically ripping his own hair out. “Well, I think it depends. Was Suri preceding her on this figurative list of priorities of yours?”

“Wha..why, no dude.” Mingyu’s head tilted, eyes narrowing as if that was the most insulting thing anyone could ever say to him. “There wasn’t even a list of priorities to begin with. I just wanted to catch up with my old friends and…I just…I just didn’t want to make Suri feel bad on her birthday.”

That settled it for some time. Dokyeom just nodded. He didn’t say anything, just let Mingyu sit there–-mind racing, breath getting dimmer until it settled in its natural pace.

And then, when he was assured that Mingyu would be able to answer his question without reacting with surface level emotions, he asked.

“Do you regret ending things with Suri?”

Mingyu gnawed at the edge of his mouth, grinding the soft skin between his teeth until he could taste metal. It was a habit, a bad one which led to irritating sores sometimes. He wasn’t contemplating what to say because the answer was clear to him.

He was thinking about how to make it make sense to Dokyeom.

“I really don’t because I did that for y/n.”

His response was certain—no regrets, no second guessing—like he didn’t even need to explain the reason behind the choice he made all those months ago.

Though, on the other hand, he reckoned that his recent behavior at Suri’s party might need some explanation.

“But there’s this part of me, the little boy who loved Suri like a twin, which makes me want to compensate for the way I just tossed her out of my life, y'know? And I know its pretty fucking unreasonable, but I thought y/n would understand even when she shouldn't.” Mingyu exhaled, a strange sense of shame shooting up his spine.

Dokyeom let those words hang in the maturing darkness around them. The sun had settled fully now, leaving the sports complex littered with departing practitioners and a vast expanse of dewy turf on cracked concrete. One by one, the overhead lights began flickering bright, cackling irritably as they did.

His hand landed on Mingyu’s shoulder, signaling that they should also get going if they didn’t want a sweaty stout man blaring whistles at their heads.

“You should tell her that.”

“She never asks.” Mingyu hauled his bag on a shoulder, tossing the ball from one palm to the other. “It irks me…because she never complains, just lets her thoughts run wild until she’s overwhelmed and then she blames herself for it.”

“Yeah she tends to feed herself these theories and I’m like…go clarify it before you believe it, dude! Fact vs fiction.” Dokyeom laughed, breathing easier in the lighter mood.

“Fact vs fiction.” Mingyu echoed like Dokyeom had just discovered the key to the universe.

“And as for you...” Dokyeom’s steps slowed down when they reached the crossroads where they were to separate. “Making anyone feel better about how you choose to live your life shouldn’t be your burden. Well, not unless you’re harming yourself or someone else…you’re not responsible for Suri’s feelings, not after you explicitly told her what you needed.”

That slight tinge of shame from earlier jerked back up.

Mingyu took a second too long to exhale before he averted his gaze. Too open, too vulnerable to Dokyeom who was telling him to stop being a fucking people pleaser as gently as one could.

Dokyeom patted his friend’s back and gave him a mock salute as he retreated…like any of that would cheer Mingyu up after this psychological deboning.

Mingyu debated if he should catch up with Dokyeom who was headed back to their shared apartment to take a shower before going to your place. But that would only delay him more and he didn’t want you to think for even a second that he was deliberating standing you up for what you did at noon.

Besides, you were at the point of your relationship where each of you had half your wardrobes at the other’s place, he'd take a shower at yours.

He bought a large pizza with your favorite toppings and the honey mustard sauce you liked.

As he paid, he noticed a pair sitting together for what seemed like a date, their hands conjoined on top of the wobbly table stained with grease and dried ketchup.

Uncaring. Young. Possibly freshmen.

His shoulders dropped at the sight.

It reminded him of his first few amateurish dates with you.

It was Jun who introduced the two of you at a party at his frat. It was an exclusive affair, invites only, so Mingyu had expected the same few faces he always did.

But for the first time, he saw you. And it made his heart skip like it never had.

Your fingers were trembling around the red cup in an unsure grip like someone had just handed it to you and you were too polite to reject them, but too cautious to actually drink the contents.

It made him want to take that cup away from you, ask you what you would actually like to drink and then get it for you.

He couldn’t understand why you were shivering though, or why your knees looked like they were seconds away from collapsing limp with the pressure you were putting on them.

But he got closer, and saw you smile. It wasn't a full smile, didn't even cause your eyes to narrow with bliss. It was just spread on your face with a lot of effort, like it was already causing your cheeks to ache.

That made him realize that you were nervous. Calculating your words before the girl you talked to could even finish her sentences.

When he asked Jun about the girl in the corner, the one in the pale blue dress and soft hair, Jun said, “Ah, that's my lab partner from chem. She did most of the work this sem and I got an A because of her so I returned the favor by inviting her tonight.”

“She’s cute.” Mingyu stated.

“Yeah?" Jun had instantly perked up, "Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

You were even more nervous around Jun and Mingyu than you had been with the girl in the neon overalls. Constantly glancing at your cardigan buried under much larger coats and jackets near the entrance, switching between fidgeting with your rings, your locket or your earrings.

Mingyu couldn’t take it anymore when you had faked your laugh at another one of Jun’s puns.

He knew he had to get you out of here. Not because he felt bad for you, but because he wanted to see how you existed when you weren’t so presentable.

He got rid of Jun quite easily and talked to you a bit more. It was all things random—majors, roommates, clubs, frats and parties.

He had wanted to ask you if you would like to leave but held it back because he couldn’t find words to say it in a way that didn’t sound like an invitation for a hookup.

He didn't want that night to end in just a hookup. Something in the nervous clench of your knees and the red imprints on your soft skin left by your accessories raged within him this desire to see it all again. Over and over again. Everyday, even.

So he stayed shut, giving you enough room by slowing down the conversation.

A natural at steering every social interaction the way he pleased, he made it seem like he had run out of ideas for small talk. When in truth, he could stand there all night for you, listen to your thoughts about anything ranging from meditation to Maslow if you let him.

You were quick to grab that cue, as if you had been waiting for it all night.

“I should go.” you had said, your smile shy.

“Would you like me to walk with you? I am leaving too.” Mingyu didn’t hesitate in making that offer, you miss all the shots you don’t take after all.

And he wasn’t shy about his obvious curiosity for you, he wanted you to know that he was interested in you.

He saw your eyes widen before you blinked twice. His offer wasn’t too insistent or too casual, it just stood there with a little ball of hope. One you knew you could deny if you wanted to.

But you didn’t because he was just so cute, so you nodded, mumbling something like “I would appreciate that.”

It had played out exactly like he wanted it to.

And till this day, Mingyu firmly believed that the universe had something to do in making the two of you meet.

Because unlike at Jun’s party, Suri never got sick drunk which meant she usually never left Mingyu’s side. But that day, Soonyoung had to drive her back home meaning there was no one by Mingyu’s side ruling out any girl he laid his eyes on with disapproving sneers.

If she had been there, Mingyu knew she would have said something like, “oh, she looks like someone who gets too attached too quick, don’t invite trouble gyu.”

It must have also been the universe’s doing when you had miscalculated just how cold it would get out in the campus and wore a flimsy cardigan. Because it allowed him to offer you his hoodie which earned him another chance to see you when you promised you’d return it.

The numbers exchanged to ensure the "hoodie" was returned to its righteous owner soon turned into a channel for memes and texts which teetered on the edge of flirtation and something more delicate—friendship?

The banters over texts were replaced by teasing at the movies and discourses during bookshop dates.

And that’s how Mingyu finally got to know you when you weren’t a guarded girl tugging at a modest dress like it was a habit, eyeing the liquor in your hand suspiciously when you should be paying attention to neon overalls.

One thing, Mingyu never got back though, was his hoodie.

Mingyu exited the pizza shop at the same time as the younger couple leaned in for a kiss. This time, his steps were slower than when he entered.

He took a detour that would delay him by another fifteen minutes but the delay wouldn't matter.

Because what he was going to get for you would make your eyes crinkle with that unburdened lovely smile he had grown all too familiar with.

And it was worth everything.

“Peonies!” You exclaimed, launching yourself on Mingyu before his foot could hit the floor inside your dorm.

You crushed him as hard as you could in your arms, which wasn’t a lot considering Mingyu practically lived at the gym while you hadn’t even lifted a single dumbbell in your life.

You didn’t care how the plump blooms squished between your chests or the fact that his skin was caked with dried sweat.

Balancing the large box of pizza, an ample bouquet of your favorite pink peonies, the flimsy bag on his shoulder and now your whole but small body, Mingyu looked too large for your narrow dorm.

“You said that you were upset earlier,” he said, “so I wanted to cheer you up.”

He couldn’t help the laugh that vibrated in his chest. That made you clasp him even tighter as if it could convey to him your earnest regret which was as mighty as this hug.

“I bailed out on lunch with you but you brought me flowers.” You squeaked, soft voice muffled even further in his clothed chest.

He thought he heard you sniffle. That stilled Mingyu’s attempts of pulling the peonies out of the embrace before all their petals tore apart.

“Baby, no…” he somehow set the pizza on your desk by the door and looped his arm around your shoulders to give you a gentle tug. When he saw there were no actual tears on your lashes, he sighed. “Lets forget what happened today, alright?”

You nodded, taking a step back from him to hold the flowers—a few of them had flattened despite Mingyu’s rescue attempts.

You placed them neatly on your desk, right next to your textbook which was bulging with sticky notes and bookmarks.

“Thanks for the pizza,” You said, lifting the box up in your unsteady fingers, still looking anywhere but in his eyes, “I was about to order one, it's like you read my mind.”

You didn’t intend for it to sound as sad as it did.

No matter how much he tried to play it cool, and how much you tried justifying yourself– you knew he didn’t deserve to pack the full Thai spread, which he had cooked especially for you, in tupperware and share it with his neighbors instead.

He stepped in closer, his running shoes nudging against your fuzzy slippers.

“We can talk about this, you know?” his fingers tips brushed against your twitching ones.

It made him notice the rings you were wearing, and the glint of your two chain necklace peeking from between your hoodie and skin.

Strange, he thought, you only wore accessories when you thought you needed courage, like when you had to attend your first frat party at Jun's.

Something about the delicate elegance of jewelry calmed your nerves, equipped you with power.

You didn’t say anything for many seconds, just stared at him with your big doe eyes—unblinking—like you didn’t want the sincerity of his expression and the ease he had created around you to disappear for even a moment.

It cracked something within him, because he could see the clench of your jaw and the hollow of your neck. You were straining yourself from saying what mattered. From showing him the places that hurt.

The growing cold in your fingers told him that you wouldn’t say anything anytime soon. So he took charge like he often did for you. Not because he thought you couldn’t carry this conversation, or whatever it was that he was borrowing from your shoulders…but because he could see it whenever you were struggling and didn’t want your knees to buckle with the weight of it.

There’s a fine line between patronizing and caring. And Mingyu had never crossed it.

“I am sorry if you felt abandoned by me at Suri’s party.” he said, “I want you to know that it was never my intention to make you feel left out, baby. I just wanted to catch up with my buddies and thought that I tried including you, but apparently it didn’t communicate well.”

Then, both his palms came up to cup your face with reverence, soft cheeks spilling out from the faint gaps between his fingers. “So I am sorry if I hurt you. And yeah, this afternoon sucked. But we can move past that.”

He wanted to say more, assure you more. But, your brows furrowed deep and your lips parted like you were bewildered…like you had expected him to unravel you right then and there but he gloriously missed the shot.

“What…Mingyu, nooo” you uttered, “no, of course not. I know you didn’t…I didn’t feel left out or anything, told you so myself that I didn’t wanna join you guys. And of course, it was her birthday…you wouldn’t neglect her. You shouldn’t neglect anyone on such occasions."

It was his turn to mirror your perplexity now.

He dropped his hands to his side, pocketing one of them. “Then what is it that is making you seem so” he searched for the right word to describe what he saw in you at that moment, “…gutted?”

You snorted at that, or at least tried to. “I just had a bad day and I hate what I did to you…standing you up on lunch, I mean.”

You spoke in a way that told him you didn’t want to prolong this more. So he chose to believe you, despite the fact that your eyes had averted again and he could sense that this wasn’t an entirely honest answer.

He just pulled you forward until you were smothered in his chest, again. “It's alright,” he whispered in the calming coconut scent of your hair, “just pay me back with twice the afternoons you promised.”

Even if you couldn’t see his face, you knew that he was grinning ear to ear—playful and relieved.

You pushed away, slightly enough for him to see you bat your lashes at him, but still close enough for the strands of your freshly washed hair to stay stuck to his hoodie.

“How about I pay you back with something better?”

The amalgamation of your shy voice with that suggestive offer was lethal and had him take a deep breath to calm down. A breath which you snatched away from him when you bit down on your bottom lip.

“But first, let's eat.” you giggled.

“Brat.” he mumbled.

The dinner was a blur of arguments over what to watch on your run down laptop and updates about his basketball match with Dokyeom earlier in the evening.

You told him about the shopping, not in significant details because you were planning to rather show him just why it was unlike any other sprees you had been on.

And now he was half lying on your bed turned on his side with a folded arm supporting his head on his fist.

His hair, wet from his recent shower, dripped on your pillow. He was shirtless, just wearing a pair of sweats which he had left here last week. His free palm occasionally patted your favorite worn out teddy which looked freakishly small in front of his naked chest.

One of his legs dangled down a little off the mattress because he was just too tall to fit it full, while the other was propped folded up allowing him to drum his fingers on his knee as he waited for you, facing your bathroom.

Inside the said bathroom, you were sweating buckets. You tried not to look at the curve of your thigh which you had never let Mingyu see unless you were naked on his bed.

Now, the twin curves on either side peeked from under the dress whose hem ended too up for your usual taste.

“Still waiting for my top model.” You heard Mingyu call out from your room.

His persuasive eagerness cajoled you to step out.

Your fingers fidgeted around the hem, pinching and twisting. But then you remembered that Giselle had scolded you from doing that when you had first tried it on so you flinched your hands away like the fabric had torched them.

This was the first outfit and you wanted it to land softly before the buildup towards increasing riskiness began.

You anticipated him to react like it was just another new dress.

You didn’t expect him to notice the shorter hem, the deeper neckline that dipped at your cleavage in a v, the flimsier fabric that fell over your body like spring.

But with his jaw hanging low, it was safe to assume that he did.

He composed himself by jerking his head as if that would clear his head of all the unholy thoughts brimming in it, “God baby, this is already…woah, you’re gonna kill me with your beauty.”

It made you smile and give him a twirl. The fabric swished around your legs, kissing them soft. He clutched his chest with his palm, swooning dramatically on your small bed.

“Okay, next one.” You announced, loaded with a newfound thrill.

You had to put on the thigh-high boots Yunjin had forced you to purchase for the next one because you refused to leave most of your skin bare by pairing it up with the kitten heels like they told you to.

It was a black miniskirt—your first one ever.

Short enough to expose your business if you bent, but low enough to hide the safety shorts underneath.

It was shorter than the first dress and you debated if the cropped, ribbed top meant to go with it would be too much.

You took the executive decision of disobeying the girls and switched the top for a white t-shirt. You further knotted and tucked it under your bra for a better silhouette.

It was simple, looked like an outfit someone would wear to lecture if they had dance club practice scheduled immediately afterwards.

But you weren’t a dancer, neither were you a fan of how faintly the pudgy ripples of flesh in your inner thighs jiggled every time you took a step in this skirt.

The only aspect of this outfit which kept you grounded were the thigh highs which stretched well just above your knee. You had expected your upper thighs to bulge ridiculously out at the top of them. But they didn’t, not ridiculously at least.

Despite your brooding predicament which was shaped like two lumpy logs of wood wrapped in bacon, as you called them, Mingyu was waiting for you outside.

So you huffed out, slapping on a fake pout when you reemerged.

Avoiding his eyes like a plague, you twirled as soon as you could. Bad move, your teeth clenched. The twirl had caused the skirt to whip around in air, making it ride up just enough to show more of your legs.

When you couldn’t avoid it anymore, you faced him, heart thumping in your throat. He wasn’t looking at your face, not yet, but you could see him blink several times at your legs.

‘God, he thinks they’re hideous too.’ you thought and tried looking for clues of disgust.

You wanted to bolt back inside the bathroom, put on your biggest sweatpants and throw him out.

Had you paid closer attention to the slight crease in his forehead, which only appeared when he was trying to figure something out, you would have understood that he wasn’t judging your legs.

Rather, he was examining them with curiosity.

If only he could read his mind which was running at a thousand thoughts per second, you’d know that he was only trying to find out if you were clenching your knees. If any of this was causing discomfort to race in your nerves.

But then he looked up, and you couldn’t help but ask, “What do you think?”

Your throat felt like it was stuffed with sand.

His face broke into a smile, a lazy one. Too trapped up in your own cage of shame and self loathing, you didn’t see the way he was grinding down on his lower lip—not until he let it go, red and abused.

“Babe…this is so hot.” he sighed, voice laced with seduction and something deeper. “Please make the boots a regular affair?”

“Really?” you blinked, unbelieving.

He was trying too hard not to shift in a manner that could make his semi hard bulge visible to you. But you looked too caught up in your head, obviously embarrassed, to be paying attention to anything but his words.

“I swear…” he almost groaned, “those look so good on you. And the skirt…’m so close to ripping it off of you baby.”

“Not yet!” you squealed, staggering back into the bathroom. “There are three more I wanna show you.”

“The night is all yours sweetheart.” his chuckle dimmed when you shut the door.

What started as one of the many cheeky little fashion shows you did as a couple, a comical ritual at best, was turning into something strange. It knocked against his temples like an uncomfortable pendulum.

Something he couldn’t exactly put his finger on…You weren’t giggly, excited, or even a bit playful like you used to be at these things.

The hesitant spinning, the reluctant drag of your feet like you didn’t want to leave the bathroom in the first place and show him what you wore…was so unlike you.

And he saw you too clearly to call this timidness. No, this was raw shame.

He knew that you weren’t just a shy person, but someone who thought everything she did was embarrassing.

So for you to be acting so out of character by wearing things you never wore was certainly a bit bizarre.

But he didn’t comment on it, not when his ration tried to reason it out as you trying out something new for yourself. And he would rather swallow shards of glass than say something that could dim you down with doubt.

But the flutter of your knees, too evident even under those dark boots…it didn’t leave his mind.

For the first time since he had outgrown his awkward teenage years, Mingyu was experiencing being turned on and being confused at the same time.

The bathroom door clicked open once again and you stepped out of the sterile lights into the warm yellow glow of your bedroom. This time, you had a pink pair of Juicy Couture shorts and a black bralette on.

You turned around too soon, again, like you couldn’t face him anymore. But hid that embarrassment under the pretense of showing off the studded “juicy” written all up your ass.

This one was more of a gag. You didn’t even think the girls were going to make you buy it when they had you put it on.

Right now, the only explanation Mingyu could offer to someone who asked him what gave him the power to remain in his place and not pounce right on you to smack that juicy butt, it would be that Kratos himself was blessing him with strength.

‘I am gonna tear them off your body.’ he wanted to say.

Some variation of ‘you’re killing me’ he ended up saying.

Ten more minutes of you struggling to fit inside of it and avoiding the bathroom mirror at all costs. Another outfit, this time a sheer lacy dress dress with matching innerwear that resembled a swimsuit.

“Gonna wear this one to the 8 am lecture.” you joked, choking down the uncomfortable tears prickling behind your lids.

“Oh hell nah,” he was sitting up now, legs and arms hugging your pillow because your lingering perfume on it relieved him. “Not unless you want me to be expelled on grounds of being violent towards anyone who even dared to look at you in this.”

“You’re a dramatic puppy.”

“You’re insanely sexy and unaware of it.”

“I am taking this off.”

“Please don’t, please come sit on my lap….baby I will die if you don’t right now.” he whimpered.

You could see the veins on his forearms getting prominent when his grip around your pillow strained tighter.

Your body begged you to follow his command by throbbing at all the wrong places.

You felt exhausted without even doing anything significantly physical.

But exerting whatever courage your humble body contained to smile and spin for him in dresses that made you feel like you weren’t even in your body anymore, just an onlooker crouching down in the dark corner of the room, was tiring enough.

Succumbing to the warmth of his body was alluring, but not powerful enough to distract you from doing what you thought needed to be done.

“Just one last dress, Mingyu.” you whispered, eyes rimming pink.

He caught it, of course he did. But you blinked rapidly and turned around, disappearing into the bathroom again.

Mingyu’s concern for you was inflating with each dress getting bolder, though he didn’t try to show it much.

Your room, which once smelt like vanilla and coffee grounds, now reeked of burnt out nerves and shame when you finally walked out in the last dress.

Trembling fingers locked behind, shoulders taut and out for display with nothing but the frail thread like straps holding it all together.

A red dress.

Eerie resemblance to the one worn by Suri.

High slits on either side, ones which had reached her hips, looked like they had been stretched on you—not by your body, but by your fingers which might have twisted them or tried knotting them to cover the skin which glowed, exposed.

It had been about an hour since this fashion show of yours started, a ritual of humiliation you planned for yourself.

And by this point, with this final dress clawing at your body, your underlying intentions about this entire ordeal were not hidden anymore.

It hit Mingyu like an uncontrolled truck on a highway.

It was never about his time or attention at the party.

It was about the dress, this dress.

His limbs functioned on their own accord—abandoning the pillow on the bed, he crossed the room in long strides and stood before you, clutching your shoulders as you continued staring at him with eyes wide yet hauntingly blank.

It was like you weren’t even with him anymore. Weren’t even aware of what was on your body. Just a thought, a question, a need for approval.

Mingyu couldn't stand seeing the girl who had made him want to change for better standing like a shrunken version of herself, in clothes that itched on her delicate body.

Cold, detached, waiting for the validation of an idiot who was so in love with her that it sometimes physically hurt.

And he hated that he might have had some part to play in the dethroning of your pride.

“Do I look as amazing as her?”

You were wearing vulnerability like an armour, like it was the only thing that fit you tonight.

He didn’t answer, just a repeated murmur of, “baby…love…God, no don't do this…” as he grabbed the blanket and wrapped it over your shoulders.

Your self sabotage had misconstrued his “Wow Suri, you look wonderful” into something more honest than “I’d give anything right now to wipe my memory so that I could experience seeing you in those shorts for the first time all over again.”

“How do I look, Mingyu!?” you asked, a little louder this time like you were tired of pretending his compliment to Suri had bounced off. It never did.

“Beautiful.” Mingyu said, face bare and serious while he forced your eyes on him. “Look at me. You always look beautiful, no matter what. You don’t have to dress up like othe—”

“But why do I hate my legs so much…?” Your voice had gone impossibly small. Streaks of something wet were staining your cheeks.

“I don’t know my love, your legs are perfect like the rest of you…we’ll talk about it, but not like this.” His fingers were already fumbling around the wretched red dress under the blanket.

The dress was objectively, jaw droppingly hot. And you looked delicious in it. But Mingyu couldn’t bear seeing it touch your skin—the skin which deserved all his love and reverence. It looked like it was slicing at your pride.

He finally unzipped it, pushed down the straps. The dress pooled down around your ankles like it was already tired of doing its job.

“He’d be so shocked when he sees you wearing this.” Giselle had giggled a mere few hours ago when you paid for this dress.

“I think he’d be disgusted at my cheap jealousy.” you had mumbled, loud only for yourself to hear.

You search him for that said look of disgust and disdain. But all you found was hurt.

Pain in his hands which held you up like if they didn’t, you’d perish in thin air.

Pain in his voice that pleaded you not to do this to yourself.

Pain in his heart, which hammered against your naked chest.

The blanket around your shoulders slipped when you stretched your arms to cling on him. And with it, all the weight you had been carrying since the last thirty odd hours came off as well.

One of his arms was latched onto your lower back, the only thing still keeping the blanket half wrapped on you. While his other hand found solace in your hair, angling your head so that he could kiss all the skin accessible to him while mumbling apologies and adulations.

Not buttering, not going an extra mile to make it right. Just his plain, honest thoughts about you.

You weren’t overwhelmed by his words. But you also wanted him to just shut up and kiss you on the lips. When he didn’t get the hint, even after you tried sneaking one peck on the corner of his blabbering mouth, you took things in your own hands and locked his lips with your scorching, open ones.

He was caught off guard for a moment, his words still lingering on his tongue which was now supposed to get used to yours gliding against it all of a sudden.

He melted, almost mashing his lips with yours.

Teeth, tongues, whimpers…your bodies had kept count of every hour which had passed without each other. And they wanted to compensate for it by pouring all that built-up fervour into this kiss.

When his hand shifted from your lower back to sprawl over the expanse of your shoulders to pull you up closer, it caused the blanket to completely fall down and join the red dress on the floor.

His neck ached from being craning too low, so he groaned in your mouth like an animal and just lifted you up until your toes hovered over the ground. You shuddered and arched towards him, letting yourself be grappled by him like a doll.

Your fingers raked in his hair when you pulled apart, just enough to give yourself the room to say what you wanted to say, a string of saliva still linking your mouths. Your toes met the ground, though still stretching up.

“Make me forget everything that happened today,” you begged, “the lunch, the lies, whatever the hell this was…”

“You sure?” he whispered, the rough pad of his thumb rubbing circles on your cheek.

“Positive.” you answered, certain and surer than you had ever been.

A hiccup interrupted you, but you continued regardless, “I need you to remind me that I don’t have to do any of this to earn your love.”

If it wasn’t for your words, that tiny hiccup was enough to undo him.

“You don’t, you really don’t.” he kissed both your eyelids shut and scooped you up.

You weren’t trembling anymore, neither were you burning hot with the fever of humiliation like before. If anything, it felt like your body was mellowing under his touch.

Like you were listening to your favorite poem after being stuck at a rave all night.

Like this was all that mattered, this moment…your body hitting the creaky mattress…his chest blocking your view of the ceiling…his hands, those damn hands, already parting your thighs to show him what throbbed for him.

One of his hands smoothed over the valley between your breasts to distract you from the fact that he had accidentally ripped your panties while pulling them off.

“I heard that!” you commented, referring to the obvious sound of stitches tearing.

“I underestimated my strength against their fragility.”

He hovered over you, planting both his palms on either side of your head and dipped down to reclaim your lips before you could scold him again.

“I am tired of you ruining my underwear…” you tried your best to complain, even when he was nibbling at that sensitive spot right under your ear.

“I ruin them?” he seemed baffled, his nose brushing against your slightly damp cheek. “You’re the one always creaming them.”

“And whose fault is that?” you shot back.

God, you wished you were this confident all the time and not only when a giant puppy was lapping at your skin like you were his favorite candy.

He snickered, muttered a quick thanks, before trailing his lips soaked with your shimmery pink gloss and saliva down your neck.

He kissed the hickie he had left yesterday at the party before clamping his suction grip down on it again.

You withered under him, a guttural moan echoed through the room. It reminded you of the paper thin walls of your dorms and how the bio major living next door was going to give you a stink eye the next day if you didn’t shut up.

But you were so sensitive. And Mingyu was so relentless.

You had no choice but to chomp down on your wrist when he found a new spot, just above your nipple, to savor on.

Your buds had already perked up, waiting for his attention. Something about him sucking on your nipples always made the warmth between your legs leak like a faucet.

He cupped both your breasts, giving them a firm squeeze before taking one of the rosy nubs in his mouth. Tongue tied, you let your head bury deeper into your pillow as Mingyu grated his tongue against your aching nipples, teasing and tickling until your throat closed up.

“Shit, shit, shit…” you began rubbing yourself on his clothed thigh parked between your parted legs.

Some other day, Mingyu would have restrained you by stilling your hips with force. But tonight, he let you do whatever you wanted.

You pulled away, cursing. He could have nursed on your breasts for several more minutes had it not been for the fabric of his sweatpant getting disgustingly wet from his own leaking precum and from your sensual gyrating.

He removed them in one tug, tossing them somewhere on your gossamer rug. The brief break from his heady presence allowed you the space to breathe in the muggy air, but it didn’t last long because he was above you again.

Bleary eyed, almost animalistic.

This time, he didn’t lean down to worship your body with his mouth. Sitting up on his haunches, he exhaled with a low hum as his large palms roved over your knees, sliding his hands down over your thigh until they finally settled on your hips.

“Mingyu…?” you didn’t mean for it to sound like a question, but he was staring for too long and that…confused you.

His eyes flickered towards you, dark and fluid, then back to your lower body.

“You are so unbelievable, y/n.” he spoke and with an unexpected force, jerked your legs farther than he had ever done causing you to yelp, “so…so, fucking unbelievable.”

With each word, he leaned down more and more. By the time it registered to you that he didn’t mean those words to sound so condescending, his breath was already fanning against your drenched core.

“So fucking unreasonable for thinking that this is ugly,” a chaste kiss that shouldn’t have stayed as long as it did was planted on your inner thigh “or this…” your hip was the next target.

“How can you…” he wanted to rebuke you for the act you pulled earlier.

But your scent was too intoxicating, too inviting.

And his lips chose to betray his mind by pressing down on your open cunt instead of finishing that sentence.

A scream tore from your lips as he began kissing your core the same way he made out with your lips.

Eager, slow, wet...almost desperate.

The back of your thighs were pressed to his biceps and trapped by his veiny forearms in a deadlock that disallowed every wiggle, each twitch.

The only mercy he showed you was permitting your grip on his hair—something to keep you from slipping into a world where nothing mattered but him.

You realized that your teeth would draw blood if you continued muffling your moans by biting your wrist, so you turned your head around on your plump pillow and bit on it instead.

The sounds your cunt made in response to his hungry licks were nothing but debauched. You tried clenching around something or nothing, as if that would stop the hot juices from streaming down your holes, drenching the linen sheet underneath.

Mingyu saw it and couldn’t help himself from chuckling, it vibrated against the most reactive part of you. You were just so cute when you tried like that.

To think that you could control yourself to any degree when he was doing to you all the things that would put even the best selling pornstars to shame.

He ripped his lips apart from suckling on your clit with an audible smack.

And then, you heard him spit on you before you felt the thick, hot glob of his saliva dribble down from your little clitoris, soaking your fluttering petals until it mixed with the weeping fluids soaking your ass.

He dove in again, but this time his intention wasn’t limited to kissing, nibbling and sucking on your folds. He lapped at you like a parched dog smearing the sinister mix of fluid all over your cunt, even sullying your inner thighs with it.

All while you were trying not to rip out chunks of your pillow with your teeth.

Something probed at your entrance, wet and soft. He was coaxing you to allow his tongue in.

By now, you should know the gig. He had fucked you limp too many times for you to not too. He’d first open you up with his tongue, then make you comfortable on the thickness of his fingers before scissoring them around to stretch you well enough to take his cock in a new position that’d make him go deeper than he had any previous times.

Yet, no amount of preparation or practice could ever dull the feverish ache in your belly.

His tongue had wriggled inside your heat now, making the white, translucent cream gloss his lips as his nose nudged your clit with expert precision.

He hadn’t stopped moaning at your taste and your ability to get so drenched, so quick. And if his tongue didn’t make you forget your name tonight, those vibrations sure as hell would.

Unprepared like always, your body orgasmed without giving your head a warning. Your teeth let go of the pillow as you yelled out his name.

A prayer, an appeal, a demand.

You were pulling at his hair to get him out of there.

He responded to your fervor by clenching his eyes shut and pressing his face even closer to your folds.

You don’t know what gave you the energy, but you pulled yourself up on your elbows, chest heaving and mouth hanging limp as you begged. “Mingyu please…”

He shook his head in between your thighs, like he was denying your empty pleas. You were swollen and oversensitive to his touch now, but his broad tongue persisted with those flat strokes, a playful little nibble here and there. Your clit was abused with overuse by the time he pulled apart.

His body still didn’t budge from its rigid position though. Just a slight change, where he let go of your left thigh which plopped down on the mattress, listless.

He was going to use that arm to elongate the torture.

Your pussy was still fluttering, trying to recover from the previous orgasm, when he plunged a finger inside your hole. His thumb, rough and fat, began teasing your clit to tempt your walls to make space, to let his another coarse finger join its companion.

It made you curse at him for never wearing gloves while lifting weights at the gym.

“Mingyu!” you cried out, but he was too fascinated watching your cunt swallow his fingers whole and return them drenched and dirty.

His pace quickened making the squelching grow louder and louder until some of it squirted past his fingers, landing onto your thighs and his lips.

“Baby, look!” he scoffed, “look how messy it is.”

Your palms dug deeper in your face at that. You had long let go of urging him to pull away by yanking at his hair, you knew he wouldn’t stop until he wanted to.

So you continued to whimper, flailing your free leg around. Sometimes, your heel would prod and push at his strapping shoulder—a sorry effort to make him stop playing with your cunt like that.

It was your third orgasm which stroked some sympathy in him because you had begun crying from the overwhelming pleasure.

Having stretched your walls, and vandalized them with enough lubrication to feel assured that you could take him with ease, he got up.

Large hands with soaked fingers massaged your thighs again. This time, not to warn you of what was about to come, but to help settle down the goosebumps.

“Water?” he asked.

Thorns were scratching at your throat when you attempted to speak so you resorted to nodding the best you could. Your head felt heavy and light at the same time.

When you opened your eyes, you saw him uncapping the bottle from your nightstand, and when you shut them close, you saw the images of him smirking from between your legs.

You had given up on suppressing your cries sometimes midway through the second orgasm. It wasn’t that you were suddenly inconsiderate of the bio major next door, but because you had lost track of time and space.

You didn’t even know where you were anymore.

His bed? Your bed? The floor? The couch in the club?

Make me forget—you had asked him to.

And make you forget, he did.

Some liquid spilled between your lips. Oh, yeah, the water.

“Open up baby.” you felt like he was repeating that sentence, but you wondered when he said it the first time.

He heard you wheeze a little when the plastic met your bitten raw lips. It was impossible to ascertain what angry marks on those swollen pink petals belonged to him, and which ones were your own doing.

Once you had gulped down a significant amount of water, you felt the invisible chains, which had been restricting your limbs, loosen a little.

The first thing you did when you could move them was stretch your arms, extending them as an invitation for the boy massaging your legs with stars in his eyes.

Wordlessly, he caved in, pressing his head gently on your breasts and nearly crushing you with his weight. Your fingers found his hair again, this time to soothe his scalp which you had pulled and scratched raw.

Dating someone as large as Mingyu was fun until you had him in your personal space. Because now, it seemed like there was a calf in your bed with you.

Your legs shifted instinctually and you heard an agonizing whimper before you felt something heavy dig right above your knee. You stilled.

“Gyu…” you called out in the dark.

He didn’t answer, just nuzzled his nose deeper into the plumpness of your chest like he hadn’t wanted you to find out that just eating you out got him hard as a rock.

When a pearl of something liquid, something warm, hit your skin and you jerked away like it was lava, he began sitting up.

“We don’t have to…” he assured, creating some space between your bodies that you so undesired.

“Get back here!”

“No, I really need you to think about it.” he licked his lips, “you look so exhausted.”

He was trying hard to hold back but his eyes betrayed him when they flickered to the source of all his anguish, his throbbing dick…

…and you both knew that just him and his fist in your bathroom couldn’t placate it tonight.

“I am not tired.” you spoke, earnestly.

Sure, your limbs ached from twisting and pushing around so much and your spine already felt like it could use some cracking. But that didn’t mean you wanted him to stop any of this halfway. There was no heaviness tugging at your eyelids and there was a fire roaring inside of you. Fire that could only be satiated by him.

The only portion of his body you could touch was his forearm which was smoothing over your side. So you gently wrapped your fingers around it, bringing his palm to your face. You kissed it once before nestling your cheek on it.

“I need to feel you, Gyu.” you batted your lashes at him. His eyes, dark and ravenous, were already watching your actions carefully, when you wrapped your lips around his thumb.

The same thumb which had been flicking at your nub and now you were sucking on it while giving him those bashful eyes.

“Fuck, don’t beg like that.” he exhaled like that would save him from the torment you were shoving him in.

His thumb traced the velvet of your tongue but you pushed it out with a pop.

“Gyu, please…need your cock to fill me up so bad.” you pouted.

That fucking pout…you could be telling him to burn the whole world down and he’d do that thoughtlessly if your sweet, small lips puckered up like that.

A groan of your name spoken like it was the holiest prayer in the world before he kissed you again.

Miraculously, your limbs still had the energy to apply some pressure around his body as they coiled over his neck and waist. There was no logical explanation to it, but you had learnt not to question miracles when they landed in your lap (or squeezed over your hips).

His hand was still cupping your cheek when he deepened the kiss. You could taste a familiar sour tinge coating his tongue which wasn’t there when he kissed you the first time.

Your taste.

While he fished around in your drawer where he knew you kept the condoms, you hummed in his mouth, as if savoring your own aftertaste.

You giggled at those thoughts. It had him break the dance of his lips against yours to search your face with adoration instead.

“What is it?” he enquired, smiling fondly down at you.

You shook your head and giggled again. You had embarrassed yourself enough already…admitting that you liked kissing him more after he had eaten you out was mortifying.

The faint golden glow the fairy lights curled around your bedpost illuminated the slight curve of his brows. He looked so harmless and boyish like this, surveying your laughter with wonder.

It was a devastating contradiction because you knew what was about to come.

You heard it in the crinkling tear of the plastic wrapper between his quivering lips—impatient and urgent. And in the vigor with which he palmed his length before rolling the rubber on.

You braced yourself for all of it—the passion, the stretch, the force.

You turned your body around, intending to roll over on your stomach and getting on your knees and elbows when he stopped you by holding your shoulder.

“No, I want you like this.” he demanded and you obliged, falling back on your back.

This was new, you both preferred it when he fucked you from behind. The position made it seamless for him to piston in and out of you at whatever pace he wanted without much restriction. The salacious slamming of his hips against your ass was an added bonus.

Regardless, you wrapped your legs around his slim, chiseled waist, locking your heels on his lower back as he began rubbing his length up and down your slick.

You hissed with pleasure of being touched like that, but something just didn’t feel right.

It could be more real, more raw.

“Mingyu remove the condom.”

His eyes shifted up from your needy cunt creaming around him to your obscene eyes at this vile request.

“Remove the condom…” you nearly sobbed, not wanting to repeat yourself but doing so regardless because he was still hesitating. “....no, not with the condom…”

It took you wringing your head from side to side and arching your back impossibly for him to roll the condom off and settle back in his position.

Your eager hole immediately wrapped around the tip when he tried lubricating himself against you.

“Greedy…so fucking greedy,” he reprimanded. “My sweet little baby, always so wet and tight for me.”

Your face burned at his comments, but all you could do was moan pathetically as he began pushing in.

Your voice got louder with each additional inch. In this very public dorm, you should have controlled it…or at least, tried to.

But you didn’t because he was so damn big! And you were ready to fight anyone who called you out for screaming so loud by challenging them to fit something so big inside themselves without turning into a puddle of blubbering mess.

Where were your morals? Where was your pride? Common sense?

When you arched to adjust better, and he took the opportunity to glide his hands under to squeeze your ass as he settled in balls deep inside of you, you got the answer to all your questions.

All in the palms of his fucking hands.

“Hush baby…stop screaming so much.”

Just like you, he didn’t want the annoying bio major to lodge another complaint against you with the RA, so he swallowed your moans by mashing your lips with his.

He knew just how sensitive you were—always reaching out to hold hands, apologizing to inanimate objects when you bumped into them by accident, petting the corner of your books before closing them with a silent goodbye—and that sensitivity transcended into your sexuality too.

You often had a hard time controlling yourself in bed but you could always rely on his vigil awareness and steady presence.

Looking after all your needs, giving you what you needed and stopping when he knew he should even when you begged him not to.

His hands raked all over your soft body as you kissed him back, soft and shy. The gentle curves of yours pressing into his hard muscles drove him to a point of insanity.

“Y/n you’re gonna kill me…god, what a way to go.” he broke away from your lips.

“Mingyu don’t say that!” you blubbered.

He drew back halfway before thrusting back in. Your voice against his lips got louder. He repeated that action, sometimes slow and deep sometimes fast and hard, until you got used to his massive girth and size—clinging on to him when he pulled out and clenching hard when he thrust back in.

The bedpost thumped against the wall and the mattress squeaked like its springs were about to break when he lost control for a few seconds and fucked you wild, trying to hit the spot he knew too well…the spot he had abused with his fingers just a few minutes ago.

Your body recoiled when he finally nudged it and you broke the kiss again to cry out instead.

Ecstatic, he confirmed if it was the right spot by hitting it with calculated deliberation over and over again.

He didn't care how loud the bed banged against the wall, creating visible dents, or how your little body was being pushed deeper and deeper into the bed as he fucked you like that. All he wanted was for you to say it.

“Right here, baby?” he asked each time he bumped into it, “This is the spot, right?”

Each time, you cried out louder until there were actual tears running down your temples into your sweaty hair and drool—yours and his—dribbling down the left side of your cheek.

“Mingyu…” you sobbed, “Mingyu…” like it was the only thing you knew. Because at that moment, maybe you did.

You gasped when his hand grasped your neck, applying minimal pressure, and slowly brushed his thumb along your jawline. His face was buried in the mattress right by your ear which was ringing as he choked you.

You felt him tilt his head and sigh, breathing into your hair.

“You are so beautiful,” he admired so softly, like his cock wasn’t bullying the most delicate parts of you so erotically, “so sweet, so pretty…all mine.”

He kept hitting your sensitive spot, rubbing his crotch against your raw folds and thrusting in and out of your leaking heat which was releasing waves after waves of pleasure until your abdomen tightened with hurting buildup.

You mewled and keened when he snaked his arm between your tangled bodies to rub circles around your clitoris.

“S’okay baby, just wanna make you feel good.” he cooed seeing you struggle.

The efforts it took for you to keep your legs locked around him ran out under the vile administrations of his dick and fingers.

Your legs fell limp on either side of his hips which were jutting in and out of you at an obscene pace.

Rough, fast, primal, deep.

He noticed that and ripped his fingers away from your clitoris to hook his arms around your knees instead. He pulled them up near your chest as much as your flexibility allowed and kept them there—folded and steady–with his giant palms sprawled all over the back of your thighs.

“Is this okay, y/n? Can i fuck you like this?” He asked, stilling a little.

You frantically nodded, “Y-yes Mingyu, please…please don’t stop...close, close…”

Your incoherence wasn’t an obstacle for him to understand what you meant by those last words.

He knew your release was just around the corner, he could feel it in the pressure your throbbing walls were applying around his dick, like your cunt wanted to milk him for all he was worth right then and there.

It made him smile like a cat who just ate the canary. “You’re squeezing me like you want me to fill your tummy with my cum, is that what you want, hmm, naughty girl?”

A feminine scream echoed through your room when he began fucking your snug pussy in this new position, stretching you so deliciously that you felt like he would split you wide open.

The orgasm which hit you was violent to say the least. It wrecked you of any ability to think or speak until your mind was nothing but an ocean of hot white lust.

What was the most concerning was his damning persistence, wouldn’t relent his pace at all even when you had squirted all over him, drenching his crotch and the blankets underneath.

Now aiming for his own release, he continued slamming deep and hard into you.

“Sorry, sorry, so sorry baby but I gotta…argh…” his voice sounded painful when you wept in his neck, hugging him from under his arms which were planted on either sides of your pillow.

“Its okay…” you hiccuped, “its okay Mingyu, I love you so much.”

“Say that again my love,” he begged, pressing his sweaty forehead with yours, “please say that again.”

“I love you.” You whispered, holding back a sob which ached in your throat.

“Say my name too…i wanna..fuck, it sounds so good when you say it.”

“Mingyu…Mingyu….I love you so much Mingyu…please come inside me baby, I am going to break…” you arched until your breasts were smushed against his solid chest.

That undid him.

He kissed you like he wanted to eat your lips–biting, swallowing, savoring. While down there, his dick pumped ropes after ropes of his shooting semen inside your heat.

“God y/n, I love…I love you so much.” he mewled, “you know that, right? You know how much I love you. No? You don’t have to…fuck, you could be wearing a fucking potato sack and I’d still make love to you like its the last time I get to touch you…”

You couldn't believe he was really talking about you wearing potato sacks while coming so deep inside of you.

Mingyu always rambled too much every time he’d come. And his chatterbox was just unstoppable when he was coming inside of you, raw and unhinged.

You answered by burying your nose in his chest which even after having been soaked and splattered with sweat—yours and his—still smelt like warm earth and fresh citrus.

He slumped against you, spent and grateful. His hips had begun slowing down, fucking whatever come had seeped out back in and keeping it plugged down there.

When he did stop moving, and it was only your breaths and the whirring of the fan which could be heard in your room, he still didn’t remove himself from you.

“Pull out.” you hoarsed.

“Pull out? Do you not love me anymore?” it was his turn to pout at you now as he nuzzled in your neck, kissing your sweat soaked earring.

He did pull out eventually, carried you to the bathroom, helped you clean up and then left you soaking in the warm bathtub while he changed your sheets after another quick shower.

The fan was turned off, you preferred the ventilation of the open window more. It brought in the cool breeze along with the calming scent of magnolias abundant on the campus.

Below your broken window, campus life buzzed—people getting in and out of the dorms, some getting ready for a party while some complaining about how noisy it was in the library that day. It was the kind of commotion that would coerce one to do something. Anything.

Any other day, you would have caved in by either grabbing your books for an all nighter at the library or a pair of heels to crash some party. Maybe just a walk around the campus.

But tonight, you were content with where you were, lying boneless and pink on Mingyu’s chest.

Your head rested on one of his pecs while your teddy lay on the other like he was a mattress in himself. The comfiest, coziest one. He occasionally patted your hair some times, caressing the teddy clutched in your fingers the others.

You thought it would ruin the night, talking about what happened earlier. But it didn’t feel so heavy anymore.

The words weren’t lodged in your throat now, they were sitting ready at the tip of your tongue, ready to spill out for him.

“Mingyu?”

“Mhmm?”

“Do you hate me for what I did?”

A beat. Something crackled on the pavement outside, or maybe that was his chest. You took a breath, drawing strength from the magnolias.

“Why would I?” The way he proposed that question, like it was up to you to do any explaining or leave it at that, shrinked your doubts even more.

He wasn’t ridiculing you for thinking what you thought, or pushing you to give him reasons to hate you. Just plain genuine curiosity about what reigned your thoughts.

“I dunno…because I was weak?”

He didn’t even wait for a moment before answering like he already anticipated that question and had a reply for it at the back of his hand.

“You did what you thought was the bravest thing, even when it hurt you. It was careless, yes. But weak? I don’t think so.”

You let that seep into your skull. It did take you some courage to pull the stunt you pulled, it left you so exhausted…but it was also true that your intentions were reckless.

Insecure and doubtful of the truest thing you had ever known—his love for you, this was certainly not your proudest moment.

“I just think you need to be kinder to me, y/n.” he whispered, staring at the corner of the room where plaster was beginning to peel.

Your heart sank in your gut.

“Are you saying…are you saying that I am cruel to you, Mingyu?”

God, this wasn’t what you wanted. At all.

The bail out, the outfits, the persistence…it was all for you. Because you needed space, you needed assurance, you needed to prove something to yourself.

You never wanted him to be caught between the crossfires of your perception and identity.

“Yes…" he affirmed, "but not when you stand me up on dates. It's when you let yourself think to the point of misery. When you make assumptions. When you talk to yourself like your biggest hater…"

"...because, i love you so much, y/n. And whoever treats you the way you treat yourself is the most cruel person in my eyes…” he gulped hard, his voice gruffer and deeper than it had ever been.

Like he was holding something back…tears, perhaps, and it was causing him so much pain.

He continued after gathering his scattering self together, “Please, never put me in that dilemma where I have to fight you to save you. It should never be you and the lies hammered in your head vs me…it should be me and you against them instead."

He strained his neck just a little to capture your watery gaze like a promise. "Let me hold them with you, let me help you battle them…let me show you just how weak they are. They’re all just lies, after all. And you, you’re my little genius who is unfortunately outnumbered against the opinions of others.”

You didn’t know you were crying with your teddy tucked under your jaw, until the wet pool began growing on his chest. His hands were tighter on you now, stilling your rocking shoulders gently.

He didn’t knacker you to stop crying. Didn’t even talk about anything other than how much he loved you. You slipped in and out of consciousness when you had no tears left to cry.

That night, you dreamt of a girl who kept on tugging at the edges of her dress in a room choking with faceless people and their angry chatters. She looked hauntingly similar to you, but rounder at the edges which were yet to be formed, more juvenile in age.

Scared and trembling like she was anticipating to hear something which had already gone bad. But no bad news came.

What came instead, was a boy. Beaming with kindness and dragging her along with a firm hand wrapped around her soft wrist. The girl kept trying to look back inside the room they had just emerged out of. But the boy kept on running, trying to match her slower pace and distracting her with the sun and the flowers.

By the time morning rolled around, the room full of faceless people had been reduced to a pinpoint of white in some vast galactic stretch. The girl’s steps weren’t hesitant anymore as she ran away with the boy, chasing birds around magnolia trees, peonies in her hair.

After that day, you never felt left out or pitied yourself when other girls wore shorts. You joined them, instead. Not all the time, but on days when you felt like confusing your peers into believing you had joined the fiercely stylish dance club.

And every time, Mingyu would be there to hold your hand in your microeconomics class. The one he didn't belong in.

Your favorite juicy shorts stayed, replacing your old cotton pajamas as the thing you wore the most while struggling with statistics in your dorms.

They were surprisingly comfy.

And with them stayed the boots, ones which Mingyu claimed were lethal but also never complained about when you put them on for an occasional brunch with the squad.

You never touched the red dress, though. Joking about donating it to Yunjin and Giselle who could alter it into something new. But you could never get yourself to keep those words.

It hung at the back of your closet, not as a token of shame, but as a memoir of how far you'd risen up from those voices which mocked you in your head.

Every day when you opened your wardrobe to get dressed, you greeted that dress like an old friend you didn't speak to anymore, one who had built your character more than anything ever could.

And on some nights, when you lay with Mingyu, pressed close to his heart, and if he felt too playful, he'd ask you when were you gonna put on the potato sac fashion show for him.

You'd call him an idiot. He'd call you beautiful.

the end. <33 p.s. - i wrote ramen instead of semen at one point and it just reminded me how lost i am when i have to insert a smut scene in a fluffy angsty story all of a sudden. p.p.s. - pls enjoy the moodboard i made for this chapter! <3 you can follow me on pinterest

taglist: @armycarat2612 @scoupswife1234 @mmessier31

let me know if you wanted to be tagged for my upcoming fic "normal people".

93 notes · View notes