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haologram · 4 months ago

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what do i call you? 🕹️ k.mg [m]

synopsis: your best friend is a man of many facets - a creative architecture student, a skilled football player, a wonderful friend and a sought-after lover. not that he'd ever truly glance anyone's way, especially not when his heart has always been set on you. genre: college au, idiots friends to lovers au ; angst, fluff, suggestive ? slightly smutty? themes. pairing: football player!kim mingyu x fem!college journalist!reader word count: 15.3k rating: 18+. minors do not interact. warnings: swearing, mentions of smoking (weed), mentions of food and eating. mutual pining, vernon is a plot device (because i love him.) mentions of infidelity and situationships. vernon calls reader bunny. mingyu and y/n are fucking stupid. mentions of omegas (i had to do it.) kissing, petnames (baby, honey, pretty, etc.) brief dry humping, making out. what to listen to: what do i call you? - taeyeon ; run for the hills - tate mcrae ; number one girl - rosé ; rain - swv ; hooked on your love - en vogue ; cherish the day - sade ; call me baby - exo. author's note: happiest birthday to my dear @tomodachiii ♡ i hope you forgive me for having been so ominous in the chat, and know that i love you so dearly. also, i was going to write the smut but i chickened out, mingyu is just too sexy for my brain. please eat well and stay healthy. also, thank you to both @100vern & @wonuwoe for giving me their journalism insight, as i am unfortunately a woman in stem that knows nothing about it.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, YOU'RE NOT WRITING THE COLUMN ABOUT ME?"

You roll your eyes, sighing as your fingers rub your temples. Your best friend is currently seated not even five feet away, his lower lip jutted out in a pout as the steam from his oxtail bone soup wafts in his face. You'd been attempting to soothe his woes about the stupid column piece for the last thirty minutes, even bribing him by saying you'd spend your last twenty dollars on dessert if he dropped the topic. While nothing can get in the way of Mingyu and his food, his best friend writing a column about a sport he plays, giving one player spotlight, and not choosing him was something he simply could not let go. "Y/N, that's not fair."

"Except it is, Gyu. All the features I've written this season have been about you. One more and people might think I'm in love with you." You huff, forcing your lips into a smile as the waitress slides your order of soft tofu stew in front of you. You thank her quietly, and she simply nods her head curtly before going about her way. Mingyu eyes your bowl, the pout on his lips only deepening as you sigh, sliding your bowl over for him to dip his spoon into.

"I just think you should care about me more." He sniffs, blowing softly on the spoonful of broth from your stew. You quirk a brow as he brings the spoon to his mouth, your own lips twitching slightly at the roll of his eyes from the perfect balance of flavors on his tongue. You loved watching him eat, it was one of your favorite past times.

Not that he needed to know that.

"Mingyu, I do care about you. The newspaper has given me six columns this season alone, and I've interviewed you every single time. Let someone else have a chance." You take your bowl back, but not before he spears the jiggly tofu with his spoon, making you snicker as he burns his tongue on it.

"Why would I do that when you're my best friend? Are you saying you want to give someone else that chance? Like who, Chan? You know he smells like macaroni, right? And he bites." Mingyu breathes around the hot piece of tofu in his mouth, and you only laugh as you slide his bowl of rice closer to you. You take a bit on your spoon, dipping it into your stew before shrugging your shoulders.

"Mingyu, everyone knows you're a star, okay? You've scored sixty-two out of sixty-seven touchdowns so far, and that's just this season. You're the only quarterback in Hawk history that hasn't blown out his shoulder, which is insane. You're one of the best players in terms of field time and academics. That thing you made for your Architectural Design course? Your Apartment of a Lonely Soul model? You got displayed at the Museum of Arts for that two fucking weeks ago, and I put you in the paper for that. The people love Kim Mingyu, I think it's only fair that I give someone else a smidge of the spotlight."

He rolls his eyes, but you see the faint blush creeping on his cheeks and ears as he takes a sip of his water.

Whether you care to admit it or not, you know that the people you speak of, also refer to you.

You know that the way you write about Mingyu in your columns is the way a proud friend does, someone who cares, someone who loves him – and you know it shows bias. You know that if anyone watched your relationship with Mingyu from afar, they could tell how much you care about him, how much he means to you, how much you love him.

And you're worried that one day, someone might look too close and realize that your love for him is nothing even remotely close to platonic.

It hasn't been for the last six years of your life-long friendship.

If someone asks you, you're honest. You tell them Mingyu has been your best friend for years. You tell them that you've soothed his broken heart time and time again, that he's held your hair while you've thrown up and he's scared off shitty guys constantly. You tell them that when he's drunk, he sends you ramblings on Snapchat and eventually makes his way to your apartment to crash on your couch. You tell them that you feed him before he crashes, and make him hydrate before he goes down.

You tell them that your mom loves Mingyu, and how helpful he is when he goes home with you every so often. You tell them that he makes the best short rib soup and you've never seen someone so willing to build a bookshelf with your father. You tell them that Mingyu gets along well with your siblings, even going as far as going home with you one summer to coach your little brother's flag football team with your dad.

And then, like always – they tell you that there's no man that does that for anyone he sees as just his friend.

You choose to ignore it.

You continue to write your pieces about him, long-winded and full of purple prose in order to talk him up. You're of the idea that everyone who is capable of loving, should love Mingyu. They do, everyone on campus adores the gentle giant that he is – everyone includes girl after girl after girl. Mingyu has had three girlfriends in the twenty years that you've been his friend. He's definitely the kind of guy that likes to commit – each one lasted anywhere from a year to three. His last one, Sowon, lasted a year and a half – before he found out that she was hooking up with a guy (read: your ex-boyfriend, Daewon) on the baseball team while he was at practice.

He didn't even need her to confirm it, because he walked in on it in the men's locker room. He'd been twenty minutes late to practice, opting to drive you to a game tech convention on the other side of town. You'd practically begged him to, saying that you wanted to write a report about it for your Digital Media course and he just couldn't say no. He doesn't remember exactly what he said to her, her eyes full of guilt and regret as she quickly dressed herself and pushed past him. However, he does remember the odd feeling in his chest, and the way he tried to figure it out as he skipped practice and drove all the way back to the other side of town to pick you up.

He remembers the look on your face when you came out of the convention with your phone in hand to get a rideshare, only to see him parked front and center waiting for you against the grill of his old pick-up truck. He didn't want to talk about it, but essentially told you things between them were over as he drove the two of you to the very same diner the two of you are sitting at now, ordering all of his favorites and scarfing them down while he asked you to tell him everything about the convention. It was the most dejected you'd ever seen him look, but you also knew Mingyu well.

There was a hint of relief behind the glaze of hurt.

That was a year ago. Now, the two of you are sitting on the impending doom of graduation. You're awaiting a call back from an internship you applied to last year, and Mingyu was awaiting a letter from a Masters' program. You were both single, your last situationship ending shortly after starting because the guy was convinced you and Mingyu had a thing – simply because he came over (uninvited, unannounced) on a night where Mingyu insisted you watch the entirety of Park Chanwook's Vengeance trilogy. You didn't care too much – not when the two of you were nervous wrecks, doing everything and anything to fill your racing minds and not think about your futures.

Much like sitting in this diner and sharing a meal, your foot resting on the side of his thigh as he sits on the opposite side of the booth.

"You're too far away." He pouts, before sliding his bowl across the table and standing up, slipping next to you in the cracked vinyl booth. You worm slightly closer to the window, pretending the sudden wave of his spicy cologne doesn't make your head spin. It settled so well with the powdery scent of his detergent, the softer smell that reminded you of laying on a blanket with him, stargazing out on the football field during spring midterms.

You can't hide the way your hands tremble slightly as you reach for your spoon, but Mingyu's hawk-like gaze misses nothing.

"You cold? You're shaking like a leaf." He eyes you with a raised brow, and doesn't allow you to respond before you feel him tug his hefty letterman jacket off. The black leather sleeves brush your sweater, and you find yourself being cocooned in the warmth that now filled the jacket, radiating off your best friend's body with ease. "You're a human furnace, Mingyu." You mutter to yourself, feeling him ruffle your hair as he moves his water closer to him, opting to rearrange all the side dishes as you carefully inched away from him. You could be caught staring and Mingyu wouldn't tease you about it, you knew that much – but to be caught tensing at the brushing of your thigh with his, your arm with his, your hand with his…would be much more embarrassing.

"So I've been told. Don't think you're gonna butter me up into forgetting about the fact that you hate me, Y/N." He gives you a pointed look as he stirs his soup, your jaw dropping slightly to gape up at him.

"Oh my God, Mingyu! I don't hate you, you're making this a bigger deal than it is!" You whine, but don't miss the way he smiles around his straw, his broad shoulders taking up way too much of your space as he shrugs.

"I mean, six pieces on me in one season, but you won't make your last piece about me? And it's to spotlight a player? You've been giving me the spotlight all season! You can't take it away from me, I'll get withdrawals." "Mingyu, there has gotta be something I can do to get you to get over this. I already offered to pay for dessert, and I'm letting you pick. What else do you want from me?" Your voice is exasperated, but you don't like the glint of mischief in Mingyu's eyes as he looks down at you. He traces your features, before a soft smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"What are you doing Friday night?" "Mingyu." "You're not doing me, sweetheart. I need you to focus." You gape inwardly, scoffing out a laugh and running your hand through your hair as you tilt slightly to face him. He's already looking at you, his tongue running over his lower lip as you meet his eyes.

"I mean…unless you want to." "You are so fucking irritating." You scoff, shoving his shoulder as he giggles. Mingyu rarely made comments like that, but when he did, it was like he was the master of timing. He loved to catch you off guard, even going as far as pinching your cheek or sidling up to you really close to emphasize his point. He'd give you that cheeky smile, he'd look at you like you put the stars in the sky and sometimes, just sometimes, those eyes would dart down to your lips before flickering away and ending the bit.

All in good fun, you always thought.

Of course you'd thought about it, about him. About what being a lover to him would be like, about what he was like as a boyfriend. You saw it, the way he treated his girlfriends – with the utmost care, the biggest gentleman you'd ever met. He held doors open, he carried them over puddles, he retired his jackets and hoodies to their shoulders if the air even had a hint of a chill in it.

But, he cooked for you. He cleaned for you, he helped you with your projects and asked for your opinion on his. He held you close, no matter who was in his life – and it became a point of contention in his relationships. So much so that any girl that he began talking to had to meet you first – and he'd observe quietly. He'd watch you try to befriend them, how your animated personality often dwindled in their presence. He'd notice the way your smile would softly fade, often replaced with a furrow in your brows before you glanced at him, as if to say, next.

You approved of Sowon, because she was sweet. She was nice to you, and she was nice to Mingyu, until she wasn't.

You approved of his longest girlfriend, Soyoung, because she tried her hardest to get along with you and even invited you to her own social gatherings – regardless of if Mingyu would be in attendance or not. The two ended when Soyoung decided she wasn't built for sharing Mingyu's attention, and he let her go without so much as a second thought.

You approved of his first girlfriend, Sohee, because you were all idiots in high school and you didn't think it would matter that much to Mingyu – and you'd told him so.

You also did it because it was year two of you dealing with your newfound romantic feelings for Mingyu, and you figured if he had a girlfriend – he wouldn't notice the way you drifted from him. If it meant keeping your friendship and dissolving your romantic feelings for the puppy-eyed man, you would take the leap of being distant. However, return to the abovementioned point: Mingyu's hawk-like gaze misses nothing. He broke things off with Sohee after a year, noticeably missing your presence and seeking you out so much your mother asked you if you were dating. You remember the look of pity in her eyes when you'd answered in the negative.

"What, Miss Y/N, are you doing on Friday night?" You try to ignore the smile on his lips as he leans slightly closer, closing your eyes as you sigh. "Nothing, Mingyu. I'm not doing anything." "Now you are." "I'm broke, Gyu."

"Pretty girls never pay, hm?" He gives you a pointed look, and you sink slightly into his jacket, sliding a bit down the booth as your cheeks burn. He only laughs, his warm fingers pinching the fat of your cheek before you swat him away. "God, you'd think I've never complimented you. We've been friends our entire lives, what's your deal?" "Nothing! You're just a twerp who doesn't mean it." You stick your tongue out at him, before feeling the tips of his fingers graze your jaw. He tilts your head up to face him, a quizzical look in his eyes.

"What makes you say that? You think I say things just to make you feel better?" You raise a brow as his fingers squish your cheeks together, your lips puckering slightly as you reply, "I mean…don't you?" "No, Y/N. I don't. I think you're pretty, why would I lie about that?" He scoffs, before tilting his head in the direction of your stew. "Eat." The rest of the meal was spent in comfortable silence, your cheeks remaining hot under his soft gaze and gentle gestures. He drove the two of you to get dessert across town, his card hitting the reader before you could even fish out your wallet to spend your last twenty dollars as promised. He wiped your face of stray cookie crumbs as you ate in his car with the heat blasting, your own hand swatting him away constantly.

He walked you up to your apartment, biting back his laugh as your roommate, Hansol, nearly fell on his ass trying to pry open the living room window to air out the smell of weed. He smiled hazily at Mingyu, before Mingyu's best friend appeared out of your bathroom, stoned out of his mind.

"Sol, you said you wouldn't hotbox the living room again." You groan, setting your purse down on the foyer table. He winces, before pointing at Wonwoo.

"His idea." "Your apartment, idiot." Wonwoo rolls his bloodshot eyes, and Mingyu only grimaces as he quietly offers to let you spend the night at his place. You decline it almost immediately, not wanting a repeat of the first (and last) time you ever spent the night at Mingyu's apartment. Yours had flooded, and Hansol had found solace in his girlfriend's arms (and apartment) while you were left to fend for yourself.

Not really. Not if Mingyu had any say in it – and he did.

That night was like a scene out of a movie, the way he literally slammed into you fresh out of the shower. You remember the perfect way the moonlight lit him up through the cracked window, the drops of water on his abdomen burned into your brain. You also remember sleeping on the very edge of his bed that night, so much so that he eventually moved to the floor to let you get a good night's rest. You left the next day to invade Hansol and his girlfriend, Saerom, for the next two days while your apartment was fixed.

Neither of you spoke about it since, and you thanked your lucky stars that it was never brought up.

You let Wonwoo and Hansol bicker on your ratty couch, rolling your eyes as you held the door for Mingyu. He leaned against the doorway slightly, smiling down at you through perfectly bitten pink lips.

"I'll see you around, Gyu." You offer softly, rolling your eyes and tilting your head towards the two stoners now fighting over the remote to watch movies on your Amazon Prime account. "Friday." He corrects, and you suddenly realize how easily he stares at you like he knows something about you. You clear your throat, your cheeks growing even hotter as he tilts your chin up to look at him. "Say it. Say you'll see me on Friday. I'll pick you up from the office." "I'll see you on Friday." You murmur, earning a wink from him.

"See you, pretty." He spins on his heel, tucking his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket as he barrels down the stairs of your apartment complex. You watch over the railing as he gets to his car, waving as he looks up. He waves back, opening his car door and almost instantly pulling out of the parking lot.

What you don't know is how he settles into the way your citrus perfume is now infused with his on the material of his jacket. His cheeks are warm at the idea of your flustered state in the diner earlier, and when you were sitting in his car eating your cookies. How your shy smile was only ever present around him, immediately disappearing if someone else joined your conversations or if you were around literally anyone else.

Like he made you nervous, something he'd noticed almost a decade ago. The way he could listen to you, talk to you, look at you all day – and you just brushed it off like it was nothing but you couldn't hide the twinge of fluster in your voice around him. The way you constantly talked about him if you thought he wasn't listening. How you wrote all your pieces about him, and how all his friends teased him about how in love you sounded. How enamored you sounded when you wrote about him, how passionate you were about sharing him and his success with the world to appreciate. He could date these pieces back to the first semester of your freshman year together, but he's liked you far longer than that.

Mingyu knew a lot of things, but he knew you best. You hadn't ever cared about someone the way you had him, and you made it very obvious. He crossed all his fingers, hoping the feeling in his chest when you brushed against him was something you felt, too. Hoping that you also settled in your bed and your only thoughts before closing your eyes were of him as his were of you.

Hoping that you liked him, in the same way. Hoping that you wondered what his lips would feel like against yours, what it would feel like to slot your fingers together in more than just a platonic way. He wondered if you'd let him kiss you breathless, he wondered if your eyes lingered on him that night because you liked what you saw.

Yeah, Mingyu likes you. He likes you a lot.

"NO CAN DO, Y/N. YOU ALREADY SAID YOU'D INTERVIEW LEE CHAN."

Hansol was sitting on the edge of his desk with a lollipop between his lips, looking over the rough drafts of your fellow journalists. How all of you at the Hawk Review ended up under Hansol Chwe was beyond you, but you weren't complaining. He was smart and calculated, creative, and he figured out a way to redirect some of the funding to better snacks and a Keurig for the Hawk Review Committee.

And you can't lie, either – he was a very just and fair editor. He didn't let just anyone onto the committee, often going through rigorous interviewing processes (for virtually no reason except vibes) and even going as far as making you his second in command – so long as you agreed that what happened at the HRC, stayed at the HRC. As your editor, he was more than willing to listen to you drone on and on about literally anything having to do with any of your columns or articles. As your roommate, Hansol did not want to talk about the committee at all – he preferred throwing popcorn at you while you bickered over who was dumber in How I Met Your Mother. You both agreed it was definitely Ted for the majority of the show.

"I'm gonna have to pull a veto on that, Chwe. I need to write about Mingyu." You sigh frustratedly, running a hand through your hair as you stuff your laptop into your tote. Hansol eyes you, before sliding the lollipop out of his mouth and pointing it at you.

"You are down atrociously for that guy, you know that? The dating rumors that I've had to deny for you are driving me towards the brink of insanity." You scoff in offense, your mouth attempting to form around words but only resulting in odd noises before you cover your face with your hands.

"Hansol!" "Y/N!" "I am not down anything for Mingyu, okay? I just know that if as a journalist, consistency is key, is it not? If I have put my best foot forward towards a project, in this case, interviewing Mingyu regularly for my columns…wouldn't it be just and fair, as a journalist with a semi-Mingyu-based following, to give him Spotlight of The Season? Wouldn't it be, oh wise one, something just and fair to have him be the topic of my last column as your second-in-command, Editor Chwe?"

Hansol only smiles, shaking his head before sighing. "You drive a hard bargain, Y/N." "So I've been told. Please, Sol. Mingyu will kill me if I don't do my last piece on him." You clasp your hands in front of you, jutting your lips out in a pout as you bat your lashes at him. He only snorts, tossing his unfinished lollipop into the trash can. He slides into the chair behind the heavy mahogany desk, a glint of mischief in his eyes that you can't quite place as he opens his laptop. He types away as you cross your arms across your chest, bearing your weight on one foot, tapping the other nervously.

"Well, let's see. You've written six columns on Mingyu this year alone, and one of them had nothing to do with football. Your column about his exhibit at the Museum of Arts last month was actually a great piece." He peers at you over the top of his laptop, and you tilt your head. "The Museum emailed our coordinator, you know. Said that your piece brought their ticket sales up by five percent." Your jaw drops slightly, "You're kidding." "I'm not." He shrugs, returning his line of vision to the laptop in front of him. You can see the way his cheeks move slightly, as if he's suppressing a smile, "You know, the coordinator who writes the recommendation letters for our internships. Mrs. Lee." "Hansol, if you're kidding, please shut up right now." Your voice is whiny as he smiles softly. You'd only ever seen him smile that way when he's going to deliver good news, as if to soften the blow, lessen the shock value. A smile that screams you deserve this, and everything good that comes your way.

"Mrs. Lee asked me what I thought of you, Y/N." He leaned back in his chair, pulling the drawer open and taking out yet another lollipop. He offers you one, and you take the green apple, unwrapping it as you lean on the desk. "She also asked me if I'd be willing to write your recommendation letter." Your eyes widen, "Hansol, please–" "Don't beg me. I hate it when you beg." He rolls his eyes, turning his laptop to face you. It's open to Y/N LETTER - DRAFT 2 OF 6. You can feel your nose burn as tears sting your eyes, and he closes the laptop before speaking.

"It will still go through Mrs. Lee for review, and for her to add her own notes. I think your dedication to the Hawk Review Committee has been absolutely insane. You've never failed to deliver, and everyone always loves your pieces, whether they're about Mingyu's abilities as a quarterback, Mingyu's talent for architecture and eye for what looks good. I think you're right, consistency as a journalist is key." He nods, giving you a knowing look.

"I'm sensing a but, here."

"But, I won't submit something that goes against what is true. I wrote in here that I think you're a brave individual who takes on any challenge life gives you. Submitting that when I know it's simply not true is a violation of ethics, giving false information and whatnot." He taps the metal of his laptop, and your brows furrow.

"What?" "I'm not submitting this until you tell Mingyu that you're in love with him. That gives you…" He checks his phone, "Three days. Three days to confess, so I can submit this to Mrs. Lee and she can get it in at your internship before the deadline closes and you're inevitably out of an opportunity at your own volition." Your jaw drops fully, "You're kidding." "I can assure you, Miss Y/N, I am not." He smiles lazily, shrugging his shoulders as he leans back. You scoff, but nothing tells you he's serious more than the way he opens his phone and sets a timer for seventy-two hours. "Three. Days. Hop to, bunny." "Hansol." "Oh, and I need your Spotlight of the Season column by then, too. Gotta skim through to make sure you don't say he's the love of your life in paragraph three again." "Oh, fuck you! That was one time!" You pout, "Don't do this to me, Vern. I literally helped you get that date with Saerom last year!" "And look at me now, Y/N!" He holds up his phone, a picture of him and Saerom filling the screen. "Just because you don't have balls, doesn't mean you can't have balls, you know?" "Wise words from Hansol Vernon Chwe." You hear Mingyu's voice fill the room, making you jump as Hansol smiles. He winks at you, before making a shooing motion with his hand.

"Get outta here, Y/N. And I want that damn column on the desk before Monday at six, you hear me?" He points the new lollipop at you, and you ignore the way your cheeks heat as Mingyu's arm drapes around your shoulders and he bids Hansol goodbye. You flip Hansol the bird as he makes kissing faces at you, Mingyu pulling you towards the door of the office.

"How was your day?" He asks as the door closes behind you, the chill of the November air piercing through your thin cardigan and making you regret the short skirt you chose earlier that day. You roll your eyes, opening your mouth to tell him to cut it out with the small talk – when his fingers pluck the lollipop out from between your lips and plant it straight onto his tongue.

"Mingyu! You're so gross!" You gape at him, swatting his side as he giggles around the hard candy, scooting away from you. His arm that was around your shoulder falls to his side, before you notice the way he shrugs his jacket off his shoulders, making you hold your hands out in protest. "No. Keep it, it's cold." "You're shivering." He says matter-of-factly, and you try to ignore the forming green tint on his lips from your lollipop, your eyes flickering up to his with a feigned look of confidence.

"I'm in the presence of a collegiate football superstar and future architect of the coolest buildings in our city, forgive me for being a little excited." You huff dramatically as you feel his warm jacket being draped over your shoulders. A defeated sigh escapes from your lips as his hands rest on your shoulders, guiding you out of the Literature building and towards his old pick-up.

You remember when he got it, the powder blue paint job with white detailing being a choice from his father before he passed it down to Mingyu. It was a 1992 GMC Sierra 1500, and he was definitely too big to fit in the cab but he loved that old thing more than anything in this world. He learned how to drive in it when he was sixteen, and his father finally gifted it to him on his eighteenth birthday – you remember being half-awake, toothbrush still in your mouth when you started getting shaken like maraca when he came to pick you up for school the next morning. Your mom did not trust Mingyu to drive you both to school, but with Mingyu's puppy eyes comes a certain brand of begging that no one can say no to.

Granted, he almost crashed from excitement but you both made it safe and sound.

"Where are you taking me?" You ask suddenly, remembering nothing had been discussed the night he brought it up. He shrugged, opening the passenger side door and helping you into the bench seat.

"Just relax, okay? It's, like, a twenty-minute drive."

You struggle not to roll your eyes, settling into the felt cushion and sliding your tote onto the dash. You pop open his glove box, his collection of cassettes messily thrown in. You pluck out a random one, hearing him pry open his door and settle in his seat, the rickety door definitely needing a good wipedown with WD-40.

"Only you would have a cassette collection." You hold up his November Rain cassingle by Guns N' Roses, and he snorts inwardly. It was a senseless dig, because cassettes were all his car radio could read. It was either the cassettes or the staticky sound of the FM radio…so, pass.

"You're judging me, but I went out and found that En Vogue Funky Divas cassette for you. Remember, bidding on eBay is not good for you, sweetheart." He reaches into the pocket of his jacket, pulling out the still-wrapped cassette tape you'd fought some fifty-year-old woman for on eBay weeks prior. Your eyes widen, a huge grin spreading on your lips as you pluck it from his fingers, holding it to your chest.

"Oh, you love me, Kim Mingyu!" You squeal, and he rolls his eyes, reaching over you to buckle you in. You allow it, carefully peeling back the plastic wrap. Listen, you're a twenty-something in the twenty-first century, it's not that serious. (It is that serious, what did you fight that woman for if it wasn't to just keep it as a collector's item?)

"Hooked on Your Love should be side B." He says softly, shoving his key into the ignition as you crack open the plastic case. You nod, your smile still wide as you slip the cassette into the player, his hand moving to rest on your headrest as he backs out of his parking spot.

You ignore the flutter in your stomach, before the sound of It Ain't Over 'Til The Fat Lady Sings fills the cab. You nod your head along to it, before glancing over at Mingyu and seeing a small bandage across his cheekbone. Your hand instinctively floats up to it, your fingers stroking his skin gently as he pulls up to a red light.

"What happened here, Gyu?" He looks at it in the rearview, his lip jutted in a pout. "Kiss it better and I'll tell." You snort, "Yeah, right." "I'm serious! I'm injured, oh, I'm so hurt." He feigns distress, clutching his chest just as the light turns green. You roll your eyes, forcing yourself to face forward. The sun is setting, the light hitting Mingyu's skin just right as you will your eyes away.

"Seriously, Gyu. Did you get hurt?" "Nah. It was Media Day, the stylist wanted something rugged. I didn't personally get it and she didn't explain how a singular bandage would convey that, but it's also not my expertise. I just let her do what she wanted." He shrugs, and you hum in response as he peels it off.

The silence between you, again, is comfortable.

But the growing knot in your stomach at his proximity, the smell of his cologne on his jacket surrounding you, the way the sun is making him look borderline fucking angelic – it's suffocating. You sigh inwardly, leaning your arm on the door and resting your head against your palm. You nod along to the music, your eyes scanning all the streets to see if you can figure out where Mingyu is taking you. He wasn't a secretive guy, but you couldn't ignore the roaring butterflies in your stomach at the idea that maybe he…had something planned.

Mingyu loved to plan things for the two of you to do. However, with your dedication to journalism, his practice and games and his studies – everything was far more sporadic and spontaneous. You didn't mind, you loved spending time with him in any way – but you were both sentimental people in the way that planning things you both knew you'd like was far more enjoyable.

You feel your cheeks burn at the realization that people weren't exactly wrong in assuming the two of you were a couple. You hated to admit it to yourself, because it was like giving into false hope and delusion. Sure, you were never going to think that you weren't enough for Mingyu – you were. At the end of the day, he is just a man. A man who picks his nose, probably.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" Mingyu's voice tears you from your thoughts, ones so clouding that you didn't even realize the car had stopped moving, the ending notes of Hooked On Your Love playing through the cab. You pouted, before looking up at him and seeing the old arcade you used to frequent during freshman year. Your eyes widen, noticing that you're parked under the same old tree you always parked beneath.

"Gyu, we haven't been here since freshman year." "I know. I figured we could just have a good time because I'm not sure if I'll have time after the semifinals. Everyone's super pessimistic about the championships this year." He shrugs, killing the engine. You only nod along, clearing your throat as you realize how empty the parking lot is. For a Friday evening, that's unusual.

"Kind of empty, isn't it?" You mumble as he unlocks the door, not missing his smile in the side mirror as he slides out of his seat. You move to open your door, but he's already yanking it open, offering his hand to help you step down. Tugging your tote over your shoulder, you climb down and reluctantly pull your hand out of his as you shut the door.

"Did you know that museums pay you for displaying your work in their galleries?" He starts, draping his arm over your shoulder and pulling you close. You suck in a breath, a little too loud for your taste as you cough.

"Really? That's great, Gyu. I assume they shelled out a few hundred bucks, huh? I know I would for Apartment of a Lonely Soul. I'd display the shit out of that at my place." You scoff, wrapping your arm loosely around his waist. He hums, his fingers twirling in loose strands of your hair as you glance up at him. He has a mischievous smile playing on his lips as you both near the doors of the arcade. It's empty inside, making you dig your heels into the pavement.

"Gyu, maybe it's closed." You frown, but he raps his knuckles against the glass door in a pattern that reminds you of Hot for Teacher by Van Halen. You wait quietly, seeing your good friend Soonyoung turning the corner of the cashier's booth inside. He grins widely at you through the glass door, unlocking it quickly.

"Mingyu. Y/N." He greets, and you can't help but narrow your eyes as Mingyu pushes you forward through the threshold. He takes your bag off your shoulder and hands it to Soonyoung, who drapes it over his own shoulder before holding his hand out.

"You two…what did you do?" Your suspicion only makes Mingyu laugh, and you see him slide something, presumably money, into Soonyoung's hand before he turns his attention back to you. Soonyoung flips the sign to say CLOSED, the click of the lock making your eyes flit up to him. He only smiles, pocketing the money and strolling away, whistling the melody of Galaxy by Taeyeon.

"What do you wanna do first? Skeeball? Air hockey? Bowling?" Mingyu's hands on your shoulders are reassuring, the pads of his thumbs working soft circles into your trap muscles. You nibble on your lip, turning your head to look over your shoulder back at him.

"Did you rent this place out with the money the museum gave you?" You ask softly, trying to hide the subtle hint of disappointment in your voice. You had a horrible habit of insisting that Mingyu not spend money on you, something he brushed off time and time again. He peers down at you, a quirk in his brow as he smiles.

"Just pick a game, sweetheart."

You try not to show your increasing suspicion, your gut feeling telling you he's buttering you up for something as he guides you towards the bowling alley. The music playing in the arcade is louder than normal, and you try to focus on the sound of By Your Side by Sade playing through the speakers.

"Have they always played Sade? Last time we were here, I swear they were playing, like, Cascada and Keri Hilson." You look up at Mingyu, who just rolls his eyes as he makes you sit down on a bench in front of the bowling alley, kneeling in front of you and yanking your shoes off.

"You always focus this much on things that are so minuscule? We're at an arcade, alone. No lines, no screaming, no odd Dorito-Eating, Mountain-Dew drinking, Piña-Colada-Vaping gamers fighting us for our spot in the Galaga queue." He makes it all sound so magical, like the two of you didn't get a bunch of sixteen year olds kicked out several times the last few times you visited the arcade.

"Gyu–" "Just chill, okay? And if I have to guilt trip you, I will. I'm not above it." He says pointedly, slipping the bowling shoes over your socked feet as you huff. You cross your arms as he ties the laces, before his warm hands splay across your knees. He smiles as your legs jerk at the sudden contact, before giving them a gentle squeeze.

"Now, beat me in two frames and I'll get us tickets to that furry convention that I know you're going to want to write a piece about." He stands, tugging you up from the bench and towards one of the alleys.

And it's easy. It's so easy to forget everything when you're with Mingyu, watching the way his shoulders tense under the tight black t-shirt he's wearing as he swings his ball back perfectly. The way his thick thighs are hugged by the slim fitting jeans he was wearing, the black watch on his wrist distracting you from the way his fingers slid easily into the bowling ball…

You don't manage to beat him in two frames, or three. Or four.

You don't win a single game, your brain entirely too distracted by just how couple-y this all seemed. How boyfriend-like Mingyu was acting, as he took you all over the arcade. He didn't ever go easy on you, beating you in game after game – air hockey, three games of Street Fighter II. He even managed to scam you out of the few coins you managed to get out of the coin pusher, before pulling you over to the Skee-ball machines.

"If you lose, you're buying dinner." He says pointedly, gathering the wooden balls in his hand as you gape up at him.

"This is so fucking unfair, Mingyu! You literally play football!" You stomp your foot like a petulant child, only making him laugh softly. "But if I offer to go easy on you, you'll complain. So which is it? Do you want me to have a filling dinner or do you want to win the weasel way?" He tilts his head at you, brow cocked high on his face as you scoff, shrugging his jacket off your shoulders and shoving it into his chest, grabbing the balls from his hands. He slides the jacket on with a grin, watching the way you count the balls with your eyes. 7..8..9…Before looking up, your lip jutted out in a pout. "No way you just called me a weasel, Kim Mingyu." "Yes way. What're you gonna do about it, weasel?" He flicks the tip of your nose, making your brows furrow as you push past him to stand in front of the lane. He leans on Mrs. Pac-Man, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets as he watches you carefully. Your shoulders are too tense as you land a ball in the 40 zone, your elbows too stiff as another gracefully slips off the edge of 30 into the 10 when you turn around.

"Stop staring at me, I can feel the heat of your eyes on my back."

"Wasn't looking at your back, sweetheart." He chides, making you scoff and turn back around, rotating your wrist as you assume position. He steps forward slightly, sliding his arm around your waist and tilting you forward a bit. He feels your back stiffen as you suck in a breath, almost like he scared you.

"Mingyu!" Almost.

"You're too tense. This is a game of grace, Y/N. Just relax." He murmurs, his other hand wrapping loosely around your wrist. You can feel his hips pressed against you, but it's fully innocent – aside from where your mind goes. He swings your arm back before pushing it forward and you let the ball slip from your fingers. You're grimacing as you watch it, feeling your lips twitch as it falls perfectly into the 100 zone.

"You just got lucky." You mutter, feeling his chest move against your back as he laughs. "Yeah? Just luck, huh?" Your breath hitches as his hits the back of your neck, and you curse yourself internally as he drums his fingers on the expanse of your belly. Swatting his hand away, you push him back but he doesn't move away. In fact, his arm around you tightens, pulling you slightly closer as you twist your head to look up at him.

"Then those hundred points should count in my favor, shouldn't they?" You gape up at him, his smile all too warm and inviting as he winks at you, his finger coming to your chin and manually closing your mouth. "Focus, sweetheart."

He turns your face back to the lane, and you huff out a breath. "This feels like that meme of a broke guy holding onto his girlfriend while she pays for his shit." "I hold you all the time, it's never bothered you before." He shrugs behind you, and you feel him settle his chin on your shoulder as his other arm wraps around you, linking his fingers above your navel. You can't help but roll your eyes, the action the only thing keeping you grounded as you reluctantly swing the rest of the balls in. 50, 40, 40, 30, 10.

"Last one." He whispers, his fingers lightly squeezing the softness of your belly between them. You squirm, elbowing his ribs lightly. "Get away from me! I'm going to lose if you keep doing this." You whine, and he only giggles as he slides his arms away from around you. Huffing, you smooth your shirt and shake yourself off, assuming your position in front of the lane and swinging your arm back in the perfect slope for a 100…

…When you feel Mingyu's fingers poke at your sides, making you squeal and the ball goes barreling into the 30 zone.

"Mingyu!" You push his arm lightly as he laughs, grabbing your wrist to stop you from landing a smack to his shoulder. He pulls you into him, and you feel your stomach flip as you slap his chest. "You've been hanging out with Jeonghan, haven't you? And you have the nerve to call me a weasel?!" "You would've lost anyway, sweetheart. You've got 350 points on the roster, there's no way you're not buying dinner." He taunts you, his nose mere centimeters from yours as he smiles. You're silent, the proximity far too much to even let out a breath when you feel your lips twitch into a scowl.

"You're not playing fair, Gyu." "You're cute, honey. Now watch this." He lets you slip from his grasp, slipping another quarter into the game and receiving his share of the wooden balls. And you, like an idiot – watch him. You watch him land 100 after 100, only once landing in the 50 zone. 850 points, 950 if you count the ones he got for you. He looks over his shoulder, eyes peering down at you with a glint you can't place as you cross your arms.

"I think I'd like to try that new place on Sixth Street." He says proudly, making you scoff in disbelief as he throws his arm over your shoulders. You shove him away lamely, only feeling his fingers pinch your cheek as he cooed. "Don't be such a sore sport, Y/N. Skeeball is not your forte." "Neither are any of these other games, apparently." You grumble as he leads you through the arcade, his thumb lightly rubbing back and forth on your jaw. He hums, pulling you into him impossibly closer.

"You wanna win something?" He asks gently, and you shake your head. You can almost hear him smiling, because you're not looking up at him, no fucking way – when he tilts your jaw up to face him. "C'mon. What do you want to play? Pac-Man?" "No." "Space Invaders?"

"No." "Oooh, Sunset Riders?"

"Mingyu." You rolled your eyes as he leaned against one of the air hockey tables, keeping you close. Your lip was jutted in a pout, making him laugh softly as he enveloped you in a hug. Your hands pushed against his torso in an attempt to push him away. He sucks his teeth, looking down at you. Your eyes look guilty, and you can feel it sinking into your stomach as he analyzes you. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but you know the words that come out aren't what he's thinking.

"Tell you what, we can take pictures in the photobooth and I'll buy dinner." You hate how you instantly light up, your hands now fisting the fabric of his shirt as he rolls his eyes, not bothering to hide his smile. "See? How aren't you a weasel when you make me feel bad and now I'm the one paying for dinner?" "You said it yourself, pretty girls never pay." You reply smugly, your lips stretching into a smile as he scoffs. However, it seems like the world stills as he smooths your hair down, thumbing at your earrings – a pair he got you ages ago for your birthday – and mumbling.

"I did say that, didn't I?" He nods, before seemingly snapping out of whatever trance he was in and pushing off the air hockey table. You stumble back a bit, but your grip on his shirt is enough to keep you upright as his arm tightens around your waist. "Easy, pretty. Need you in one piece for these photos." "And dinner!" You manage to stutter out, making him shake his head as he pulls you near the booth. The two of you see Soonyoung and his coworkers lounging around the cashier's booth, casually chattering while passing around a baby blue dab pen. Neither you nor Mingyu say anything, but neither does Soonyoung as he catches your eye – and he makes kissing faces at you.

Enough that you stick your tongue out at him, the feeling of Mingyu's fingers sliding between yours is the only thing that brings you back to reality. The photobooth had been much bigger the last time you came here – or maybe Mingyu had been much smaller? He takes up over ¾ of the bench inside, and you scoff. "Where am I supposed to sit?" Mingyu glances up at you, shrugging as he pats his thigh. "Hop to." "Yeah right, Gyu. Make yourself smaller." "I'd make the booth bigger if I could, Y/N. Just not possible." He speaks as if he really cares that the two of you have outgrown the photobooth meant for children, shrugging his shoulders before patting his leg again. "C'mon, pretty." You sigh, making the mistake of looking over your shoulder at Soonyoung. He just smiles, wiggling his brows as he takes a rip from the pen before handing it to Minghao. Mingyu holds his hand out, and you take it to steady yourself before pulling the curtain closed (much to Soonyoung's dismay.) You barely perch on his leg, smoothing your skirt slightly when he snakes his arm around you and pulls you down on his thigh fully, scooting you up higher.

"Act like you know me, will you?" He teases, before his hand comes to sweep the hair out of your eyes. "Ready? Need lip gloss?" You grimace, crossing your arms as he tucks a stray curl behind your ear. "Did you just call me crusty?"

"No, but I did find your lipgloss in my car. It's in my pocket, the MyMelody one?" He shrugs, pushing your hair back over your shoulder and looking into the camera. You hesitate, before holding your hand out. "Give it here." "Is that how you ask?" "Can I please have my lipgloss that I bought with my six dollars at Daiso? Pretty please, Kim Mingyu, football superstar and future architect of my home because I'm your best friend and you love me?" Your monotone voice makes him bite back his laughter, his hand sliding into his jean pocket with ease before pulling out your lip gloss. You eagerly snatch it out of his hand, screwing the top open and pressing the applicator to your lips in the camera.

If you looked just an inch to the left, you would've seen Mingyu admiring you.

"Ready now, Miss Diva?" He squeezes your hip lightly, and you smack your lips together before shoving the lipgloss in his jacket pocket and nodding.

"Yep! What pose? Smile first?" You press the camera button quickly, and he nods. You lean back a bit, your head pressed to his slightly as you both smile. The camera counts down from eight, and takes the picture as you feel your cheeks start to hurt. "Remember that photo your mom has of us? Where you're winking and I'm holding up a peace sign over your eye?" He reminisces fondly as the camera begins counting down, and you snort before nodding, humming an alright.

The two of you pose for the camera again, your chest warming at his kissy-face on the screen. The camera flashes, and you look back at him, only to see him already holding up half a heart sign with his hand. You meet it, smiling in the camera again – only to see him smiling up at you.

"Mingyu, look at the camera." You say through gritted teeth, and he does so almost reluctantly, resting his temple on your shoulder as he smiles softly. The camera flashes for the last time, and you hear the strips print on the outside. You uncross your legs, pulling the curtain open to see Minghao sweeping in front of the cashier's booth as Soonyoung crunches numbers over the calculator, a pencil in his hand quickly scribbling on his yellow legal pad. You duck out, grabbing the strips as Mingyu follows suit. You hold one up to him as you analyze yours, your heart slightly sinking at how much of a couple you guys look like. Tonguing your cheek, you run your thumb over Mingyu's face, before glancing up and seeing him looking down at you.

"Don't like them, huh?" He says defeatedly, and you shake your head quickly. "No, no! I love them." You say softly, before shrugging your shoulders a bit. "I guess it's just odd that we look so much like a couple. No wonder people think we're dating." He nods inwardly, tucking his strip into his back pocket before stuffing his hands into his jacket pocket. "Is that bad? To look like a couple, I mean?" "Considering that we've been best friends since I shoved you on the playground twenty something years ago? I'd say so." You state, and he snorts. You miss the way he tongues his cheek as he leads you over to Soonyoung and Minghao, who both smile slightly at you. "So? How was it, to have the entire arcade to yourself?" Minghao leans against the cashier's booth, his eyes slightly red from the dab pen. You roll your eyes with a smile as Soonyoung lifts your tote bag over the counter. "Glad you guys got paid to stand here. Kind of nice and calm when someone rents out the entire place, huh?" You wiggle your brows, tugging your tote over your shoulder and slipping your photo strip into it.

Soonyoung nods, "It's nice to watch two idiots play a bunch of games that are rigged and somehow still win. I still have no idea how you understand those coin pushers." "Elementary, my dear boy!" You smile widely, and Mingyu taps the counter with a small smile. "Thanks, guys. I owe you one." He says softly, and both of the men behind the counter return the smile. Minghao follows closely behind as you both say your goodbyes, unlocking the door to a bunch of teenagers who are impatiently waiting with skateboards in their hands.

"Sorry, guys. We're closed." Minghao says as Mingyu instinctively grabs your hand, pulling you in front of him. You both worm out of the door as one of the teenagers scoffs.

"So dude and his girlfriend here can go in but we can't? Come on, we've been waiting for two hours!" The kid sneers, the group behind him making noises of agreement as you laugh inwardly. Minghao rolls his eyes, sighing as he calls over his shoulder for Soonyoung.

"You guys have a good night, okay?" He waves you off as Soonyoung pops up behind him, the two of you walking towards Mingyu's truck in the moonlight. Your shoes crunch a few leaves as you hear the gaggle of teenagers slip into the arcade, Soonyoung flicking the sign over to say OPEN as you make it to the car. "Thanks for tonight, Gyu. Even if I was a sore loser, I missed spending time with you like this." You admit softly as you both round the passenger side of the truck, his hand reaching for the handle with a shrug. "No big deal. I love hanging out with you, it's like number two on my hierarchy of needs. Second only to the absolute need to beat you at every game ever." He jerks the door open, offering his hand for support as you climb in. He smiles at you, "Still up for dinner? I really do want to try that new place, they have a drive-thru and we can stargaze or something." "Yeah, I'm down. I'll pay my share with the two coins you didn't scam me out of earlier." You roll your eyes as he only grins wider, shutting the door and rounding the car. You open the glove compartment again, fishing out Sade's Love Deluxe cassette as he jumps into his seat. He cranks the ignition without another word, buckling his seatbelt in as you trade the cassettes out. The ride is once more filled with comfortable silence aside from Sade's comforting voice seeping through the speakers. You find yourself sitting slightly closer to Mingyu than you had on the ride to the arcade, but it seems neither of you really care as he swiftly maneuvers the streets, pulling into the drive-thru for the new burger place everyone in your town had been raving about.

"What do they have?" You ask softly, unbuckling your seatbelt and leaning over Mingyu's lap. The attendant blinks at you, the warm smile on her face only deepening as Mingyu's hand hovers over your waist. "We have a really good swiss and mushroom burger if you'd like to try it? It comes with caramelized onions and the bun has garlic butter brushed on top! It can get super messy but it's borderline orgasmic." She nods her head, and you glance up at Mingyu, who is biting back his laughter at her animated persona. You roll your eyes, your hand resting on his knee as you shake your head.

"You still got those mints in the glove box?" You ask, making him snort as he looks over at the attendant. "Can we get two of those? Are your fries any good? Be honest." His hand splays across your hip, his thumb rubbing circles into the fabric of your skirt as you continue leaning into him. The attendant assures him that yes, our fries are great! "Care to add a milkshake? We often get couples like you guys asking for one to share, it's adorable." She beams, and you open your mouth to speak before Mingyu talks over you.

"Do you want one?" His fingers squeeze your hip, and you can't find any words so you just nod dumbly, the attendant rattling off flavors when Mingyu speaks again. "Vanilla is fine, she's one of those people that dips her fries in it." "You guys are so cute!" You can't bring yourself to say anything, and you feel your cheeks heat as Mingyu clears his throat and mumbles a thank you before fishing his wallet out to pay the girl. She bids the two of you a good night before sending you down the drive-thru, and you can't move from your spot damn near on top of Mingyu.

"I'm sorry if she made you uncomfortable by saying that." He murmurs, and you shake your head slightly, squeezing his knee. "Nah, don't worry about it. It was kinda cute, she seemed really excited about it." You force a laugh, before feeling Mingyu pat your hip.

"It's okay, Y/N. You don't have to pretend like you're okay with it. We're friends, yeah? That's all we'll ever be." You don't know why your chest tightens at the words that fall from his lips, but you only hum in response as you slink away from him. His hand on your hip brushes across your back as you make it to the window, another attendant smiling brightly as she hands your food out. "You guys are so cute! Date night?" "Ah, we're not together." Mingyu replies quickly, and you nod as the girl gives you a glance. A hint of something, maybe pity, in her eyes. It makes your stomach turn as you take the bag of hot food from Mingyu.

"You should be." She hands Mingyu the milkshake for you, and you take it from him as you give her a sad smile in return. She bids you both a good night, and Mingyu repeats it as you steal a fry from the bag and wave. He drives back into the street as you sneak another, before he glances at you.

"Yah! If you're going to sneak fries, at least do it with your seatbelt on!" He swats at you, crumpling the bag shut as you reach for the seatbelt and tug it on. You reach for the bag again as you click it in place, offering him one as he makes a left turn. He takes it between his teeth, the music playing softly as he speaks again. "There's a cliff that oversees the city. It's lowkey haunted but I like it a lot. Wonwoo found it sophomore year when he and Hansol got too high, he called me telling me he felt like he was going to fall off the Earth." You laugh, nodding along. "I remember, because you practically banged my door down trying to get Hansol inside when you've always had a key." "I couldn't find it! And it was three in the morning after the semi-finals, I was so tired I'm not even sure how I drove around for so long looking for them." He shakes his head, taking another turn before the road becomes carved dirt and gravel. He does a u-turn, parking on the cliff so the bed of the truck is facing the overview of the city. You snag one last fry before Mingyu rolls his eyes, turning the truck off with a sigh, before glancing over at you.

"C'mon, let's go sit." The two of you climb out of his side of the car, his hands carefully grasping your hips to help you down. He grabs the milkshake for you as you plop the bag of food into the bed of the truck, before climbing into it by nestling your foot on the tire and swinging your leg over the wheel arch panel. You stretch as he does the same, when you hear the thwip of him shaking off the blanket the two of you kept back here for nights like this. You fluff one of the odd cushions thrown in from random thrift store stops, waiting as Mingyu spreads the blanket across the metal of the bed before throwing the cushion down.

"Sit." He says, popping his old cooler and fishing out a bottle of water. "In case you choke." "You wish I would, don't you? You'd get all my belongings." You roll your eyes, taking the lid off the milkshake and resting it on the wheel arch panel. The two of you dig through the bag in silence, and you unwrap the wax paper from the thickest, greasiest burger you'd ever seen. You inhale deeply, your head lightly hitting the rear window as you sink your teeth into it.

"Holy shit." You groan, your eyes fluttering shut as you chew around thick mushroom bits, the sweetness of the onions coating your tongue as you look over at Mingyu – who is just shaking his head with a grin as he unwraps his own.

"Good?" "Fucking amazing, Gyu."

He seemingly agrees, a noise similar to a moan erupting from his throat as he sinks his teeth into the burger. You smile to yourself, fishing a fry out of the bag as he crosses his ankles. Neither of you say anything as you eat, and you wind up moving the milkshake between the two of you when he gestures one of his fries towards it, the last bite of his burger stuffed into his cheek. "I have a question." He speaks and you grimace.

"Swallow that first."

He rolls his eyes, doing as you say before turning back to face you. You reach out to his face with a napkin in your hand, wiping at the corner of his lip before shoveling the last of your burger into your mouth. "Why not me?" He asks, resting his head on the rearview window, and you stop chewing almost abruptly. You cough around your food, forcing yourself to swallow and take a sip of the water bottle he gave you. "What?" "I mean, it would work, wouldn't it? We've been friends since we were kids. I've seen you in almost every stage of life. We hang out constantly, we're like chopsticks. I'm never seen without you, and vice versa. So, why not me?" He shrugs, and you gape slightly.

"Mingyu, I don't think you're thinking very straight right now. I mean, again, we've been friends our entire lives. Why would we risk ruining that?" You mumble, not looking at him as he sighs.

"Is it ruining it? Are you saying you've never thought about it? The comments don't get to you?"

You look up to see him already staring at you, a quizzical look on his features as he scans you. He seems…tired. Mingyu never looks tired.

"I…Mingyu, I don't know. I guess? I mean…it's weird, isn't it? You've literally held my hair when I've thrown up. You've seen me so drunk I've done cartwheels down the street barefoot." You run a hand through your hair, a humorless laugh slipping through his lips before he sighs.

"I've also seen you graduate high school with me. I've seen you grow up, every single birthday I've been right there. I've stuck by your side my entire life, and that's never been out of anything but love for you. Whether or not it remains platonic is up to you." He looks away, looking up at the moon before clicking his tongue. "I've been in love with you for six years now."

You swear the entire world stops spinning at that moment. No cicadas chirping, no birds flying, hell, even you've stopped breathing. He keeps talking.

"It sounds like bullshit, especially when I've dated other girls. I guess a part of me thought that if I diverted from the feelings, if I ignored them and tried to redirect them, they'd go away. It was definitely a stupid thing to do, because I've hurt people along the way. I should've been honest from the beginning, maybe your direct rejection would've made getting over you easier and things would be different now." He shrugs, and you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. He glances at you, "You should take that." You pull it out, seeing Hansol's contact flashing across the screen. Groaning, you answer it and put it on speaker.

"What, Sol?" "Damn, my bad. I heard from a little bird that you went on a date with Mingyu."

Your eyes widen, and Mingyu runs his tongue over his teeth as he shakes his head. He scoffs, and you open your mouth to speak when your roommate pipes up again.

"Have you told him you're in love with him yet?" His head snaps up, and you groan, squeezing your eyes shut when Hansol speaks again. "Hello? Did you tell him yet or not, Y/N?"

"You just did, Sol. Fuck, I'll see you later." You don't wait for him to respond before you hang up, carelessly tossing the phone across the bed of the truck as you rub your face with your hands. You bring your knees to your chest, wrapping your arms around them and leaning your head back against the window. He hums. "How long?"

You sigh, nibbling on your lip as you peer at him through your lashes. He doesn't smile, doesn't offer you any comfort in his face as you rake your eyes over his features. Strong brows, soft eyes that have never held anything but support and love for you. Pink lips that spread over that perfect set of teeth every time he saw you, pink lips that mocked you and taunted you.

"Unless it's not true." He shrugs, tossing the trash from dinner into the bag it came in. You don't say anything as he moves it from between the two of you, opting to turn to face you. He crossed his legs, resting his hands in his lap. "I think a part of me always knew." You mumble, and he nods. His eyes are patient, thumbs twiddling in his lap as you sigh. "Yeah. I always knew, I just didn't want to come to terms with it. That's why Daewon and I broke up, you know." "Fuck that guy, he sucked anyway. And he's a ball hog, he can't fucking pass to save his life." Mingyu scoffs, making you smile inwardly. "Yeah, he does suck. But he was there, and he was a good distraction. We're both guilty in that sense, you and I. Something about hurting people along the way." You pull at a loose thread in the blanket, and Mingyu hums.

"We don't have to do anything about it if you don't want to." You peer at him through your lashes, tapping your foot lightly. "You don't?" He sighs, shrugging his jacket off to stretch his arms over his head. You follow the movement, your eyes glued to the muscle of his arms being pulled taut under his t-shirt. He leans his head back on the rear window, and you will yourself to scoot closer. He glances down at you, eyes full of defeat.

"Why didn't you tell me?" "Why didn't you?" "Touché." He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out a mint. He holds it out to you, and you take it gently as he takes another out for himself. He doesn't say anything as he unwraps it, but you attempt to make a joke anyway.

"Telling me my breath stinks, aren't you?" He snorts as you pop the mint into your mouth, and lean your head on his shoulder.

"So does mine, so I guess we're even. Plus, you asked if I still had mints." You chuckle as he reaches for your water bottle, taking a sip before he sighs again.

"So, what now? We just live with it?"

You put your chin on his shoulder silently, looking at him as he turns to face you. You don't miss how his eyes flicker to your lips, before he speaks again. "What if it doesn't work? What if–" "I don't plan for the negative parts of life." You interrupt, switching the mint from side to side. "And I don't know why you're even allowing it to seep in, that's not like you." He scoffs as his cheeks turn pink, your hand reaching for his jacket. You pull it off his lap, wrapping it around your shoulders as you swing your leg over his thighs. His hands dart to your waist to steady you, and you sit comfortably on his lap. Resting your head on his chest, you hum.

"Why tonight?" His hands wrap around you, pulling you slightly higher on his lap as he sighs. You look up at him, the blush on his cheeks only deepening as he looks away. "You have to promise me you won't laugh."

You snort, making him huff as you let the jacket slide down your shoulders, bunching around your hips. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you coo at the pout on his lips before nodding. "I promise."

"I was jealous." He mutters, and your fingers card through the hair at the nape of his neck. "I was jealous and it was impulsive but I don't regret it. I would blow any amount of money if it meant I get to spend time with you like this. I'd sell my soul if I had to." "Jealous? Of what?" He huffs, not meeting your eyes until you slide your hand onto his jaw, your thumb stroking his cheek gently. "C'mon, Kim. Tell me." "Don't call me that." He grumbles, and you can't bite back your smile as his eyes continue to avoid yours.

"What do I call you? Mingyu? Gyu? Baby?" You're taunting him, your hands holding his face in place as you brush your nose to his. "Mine?" His eyes flicker up to yours, the pout deeper still. "Yeah. That one." "Mine?" "Yours." "Maybe. Spill your beans, first." You pinch his cheek, making him roll his eyes.

"You said you were going to write the Spotlight of the Season for Chan." He murmurs into his chest, and you bite back the beginning of a laugh that starts to bubble up when he pouts. "I want you to spend time with me. You have to interview for hours for those pieces and that means he can make you laugh and smile and have your attention. I don't like it." The laughter you once felt in your belly dissipates, Mingyu's arms tight around your waist as you cup his face in your hands. He looks up at you, eyes wide and slightly watery as you swipe your thumbs under them.

"Mingyu, I spend all of my free time with you." "It's not enough. I need to live in your skin." "That's terrifying?" You snorted, letting out a short laugh as Mingyu buried his face in your neck.

"You said you wouldn't laugh." He whines, his lips brushing against your skin. You try not to jolt in his lap, his arms only tightening around your waist. "Stop laughing!" "I'm not, I'm not laughing! I promise." You pat his shoulder, before pulling his head back by his hair. "That's actually really cute. A little scary, the bit about living in my skin, but I understand."

His eyes scan your face, trying to find a hit of deceit. You lean forward, pressing your forehead against his. "Breath check." "Y/N–" "Nope, we've been doing this since we were teenagers. Does my breath stink?" He rolls his eyes, "No, Y/N. It doesn't."

You nod, before brushing your lips against his. His eyes widen, and he's pulling your hips flush to his as you smile. "No, no, no. Please kiss me, please." "So cute." You mumble, pressing your lips to his. He whimpers softly, the grip on your hips bruising as he kisses you back, his lips perfect and soft and addicting against yours. Your fingers tangle in his hair as you nip at his lower lip, a low groan from his chest as you slip your tongue into his mouth. You melded together perfectly, his every breath matched yours, the taste of the mint coating your tongue mixed with something just so Mingyu.

His warmth, his attention to detail. The way he teases you so lovingly, the way his hands make you feel like you're on fire even with the most innocent of touches. His soft sounds pouring into your mouth like honey, the way you can feel how hard he's trying to hold himself back from melting into you until he's had his fill.

And you hope he never does get his fill.

"Wait, wait."

Mingyu fights himself to pull away from your lips, and you can feel his heart thundering in his chest as he pushes you away. He looks a bit dazed, his thumb reaching to wipe the corner of your mouth from leftover lipgloss. You feel a bit of worry settle in your stomach, your hands moving to rest on his stomach as you nibble on your lip.

"Sorry, was that too much? I'm–" "No, no. You're…you're perfect. I'm just…" He trips over his words, closing his eyes and resting his forehead against your chest. "I don't want to ruin this before it's even started." You actually laugh this time, running your fingers through his hair and pulling him away from you. "Bro, you could never ruin this. I'll always want you, Gyu." "First of all, don't call me bro ever again. I will cry." He furrows his brows, pushing your shoulder lightly. You stick your tongue out at him, before pressing a kiss to his forehead. He pouts, bringing your face closer to his before kissing your lips gently, feeling you smile into it as you nip at his lip.

"Second of all?" You murmur, and he blinks, pushing you back slightly.

Mingyu huffs, his fingers dancing across your bare thighs before he yanks your skirt down slightly. "It's late. Hansol is probably wondering where you are." "He's not my father, you know." "He's your roommate, it's courtesy."

"So…you're not going to take me back to your apartment tonight?" Your voice is soft, and Mingyu's eyes widen as you tug at the collar of his shirt. He opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out as your fingers move to tug the hem of his shirt out from under his jeans. His cheeks flush in the moonlight as he allows you to untuck his shirt, your fingers slipping under the soft fabric and tugging at his belt.

"Y/N." "Just wanna see. Wanna feel you."

He rolls his eyes, his cheeks beet red as he lets you slip your hands up his shirt. You don't miss the way he shudders lightly as your fingers ghost over his skin. Pushing the fabric up, your eyes take in the expanse of his softly chiseled stomach, the dip between his pecs. You lean forward slightly, pressing your lips to the warm skin above his heart, earning a soft groan from Mingyu's throat.

"You're quite the temptress, you know." He murmurs, his hand moving to swipe your hair out of your face. You lean into his touch as he holds your face softly, his thumb toying with your bottom lip. You kiss it chastely, before he leans forward, capturing your lips with his.

His arm wraps around your waist as his hand tangles in your hair, holding you in place as he kisses you how he likes – slow, passionate, sloppy as he pushes your chest against his. Your arms wrap around his shoulders again, absently rolling your hips against his. Mingyu whines right into your mouth, only fueling the fire in the pit of your belly.

"Y/N." He sighs against your lips, but it comes out more breathy than it usually would. You don't respond, kissing him as his fingers push the hem of your skirt up further and further up your thighs. You can feel your underwear start sticking to you uncomfortably as his hands circle your thighs, pushing you harder against his growing bulge before he suddenly pulls back from your lips. "We're in public. We could get caught." "Star football player caught fornicating with his girlfriend on Lovers' Peak. More at eleven." Mingyu scoffs, pinching your thigh playfully. "Girlfriend, huh?" "I don't kiss my friends, Mingyu." You say pointedly, before gesturing at his hands high on your thighs. "I also don't let my friends take my clothes off." He sighs, "You could at least let me ask you. You're half naked on my lap and we're not even in the privacy of my bedroom." "Then take me home, Mingyu." You roll your eyes, tugging on his shirt. "Take me home and we can figure this all out there." He eyes you, making your own give him an expectant look.

"Will you spend the night?" "Yes." "Will I have to kick Wonwoo out?" "Yes."

You huff, tapping the watch on your wrist. You move to get up, but his hands on your thighs move to hold your hips, pulling you closer to him. Your hands grab his shoulders for balance, and he looks up at you with a shy smile on his lips. "Will you be my girlfriend? Please?" You grin, "Star Football player becomes an Omega on Lo-" "Nevermind." "No! Wait, please. I'll be your girlfriend, I will."

You kiss Mingyu before he can refute it, feeling his pout against your lips.

"Kiss me back, you twerp." "You called me an omega." "Would it be better if I said you're my omega?" You wiggle your eyebrows, and he scoffs, lightly smacking the outside of your thigh. From the blush on his cheeks, you can tell all is forgiven – but it doesn't stop you from kissing his cheek softly. "Take me home, baby."

"Y/N, I SAID I WAS SORRY. CAN'T YOU TELL HOW SORRY I AM?"

"You outed me to the love of my life." You mutter as you stuff your laptop back into your tote.

The weekend had passed, and you and Mingyu didn't have to worry about kicking Wonwoo out of the apartment – he'd actually gone on a date that night and spent the weekend at her apartment. Hansol obviously didn't question when you got home the next afternoon, but had been surprised at the deep frown on your face and how you avoided him through Monday afternoon.

"You're telling me Mingyu didn't feel the same?" Hansol's jaw dropped as you tongued your cheek, even bringing forth some tears. "No, Hansol." You grumbled, shoving your Spotlight of the Season paperwork into his hands. Hansol has a guilty look in his eyes as he groans.

“I’m sorry, Y/N.”

Hansol is pouting as you finish packing up your bag, trying your hardest to bite back your laughter. You glance over your shoulder to see him unwrapping a lollipop and shoving it in his mouth before opening his laptop. Smirking to yourself, you make your best attempt as a discontented sigh, shoving your bag over your shoulder.

“You’ll get my rec letter in, right?” “Yes.” “And you’ll proofread my column by tonight?”

“That means taking this home, you know how I feel about that.” He mutters, tapping his fingers on the blank cover page of your paperwork. You give him a pointed look as you cross your arms over your chest.

“You take it home and do it, or I’m telling the landlord that it’s not actually our neighbor smoking all that weed.” You scoff, and he sighs.

“Bunny, I said I was sorry! How was I supposed to know he’d react that way? I mean, the guy is practically all over you anyway!” Hansol huffs, and you’re opening your mouth to speak when you hear someone clear their throat in the doorway of the office.

Hansol winces, and you glance over your shoulder to see Mingyu leaning against the doorframe. He’s wearing a tight, white shirt and your favorite black jeans on him, with a watch you gave him a few years ago as a high school graduation gift. His letterman is flung over his shoulder and he’s spinning a football in his other hand.

He raises his brow at the silent scene, watching as you skirt around the desk and yank open the drawer, stealing two lollipops. Hansol doesn’t even argue, just sighs as he cowers behind his laptop.

“Should I be concerned?” Mingyu asks you as you near him, and you shake your head as you hold a lollipop out to him. Hansol is peering over the top of his laptop as a confused Mingyu presses a kiss to your hairline — but it’s not enough to make him suspicious about the weekend itinerary.

“I want my column reviewed by the time I get home, Hansol.” “Y/N, this is agony. At this rate, you’ll be home before I am!” “Now you know how I felt! Get to it!”

Mingyu snorts, shaking his head as you skirt out of the office. He bids a gentle goodbye to the younger man, who only sighs in response.

“You’re awful to that kid, you know.”

You smile as you wrap your hand around his bicep, unwrapping your lollipop as you shrug. “He taunted me with my recommendation letter! He said if I didn't confess to you in seventy-two hours, he wasn’t going to send my letter and I’d miss my opportunity at a great internship, Gyu.”

“So you should be thanking him, because technically you haven’t confessed shit.”

“I’m your girlfriend, I think that's enough of a confession.”

“Mmh.” He nods, biting back his smile as he slides his hand into yours, squeezing softly. “What do you wanna do? Practice was canceled, I have no upcoming projects. Wonwoo’s asleep on the couch at home, though, so my place is off the table.”

You glance up at him, huffing out a laugh as you shake your head.

“What makes you think I’m free?”

“It’s a Monday afternoon. You usually con me into buying you dinner, we eat in your bedroom. We watch movies before you kick me out because you say I snore.”

“Actually it’s because you sleep shirtless, and I was a wimp back then.”

Mingyu laughs heartily, letting go of your hand to ruffle your hair. You swat at his hand, scoffing as he wraps it around your shoulders and pulls you closer to him. You rest your head on the side of his chest, wrapping your arms around his waist as you look up at him.

“My place is free.”

“Mmh, maybe you can read me the Spotlight of The Season column you wrote about that guy.”

“Oh, that guy? You mean Kim Mingyu? God, that guy is so cool. Did you know he has omega eyes?” You feign excitement as you taunt him, making him roll his eyes and pinch your cheek.

“Tell me you didn’t put that in the column.”

“Are you crazy? Why would I expose my hot, sexy, cool boyfriend for being a down-bad simp? That’s just not fair to me, they already want you.”

“Yeah, well.” He sighs, his thumb gently stroking your cheek as the parking lot comes into view, his old truck shining in the setting sun. “I only want you.”

You don’t respond, feeling your cheeks warm as you make your way to the parking lot. He opens your door as he usually does, but lingers as you climb up and put on your seatbelt. He gingerly takes the lollipop from your lips, making you roll your eyes as he silently asks for a kiss. You give in, you’re sure you always will give in to those puppy eyes and pouty lips — when he pulls away and steals your lollipop.

“Easy.” He smiles as he shuts your door, leaving you to sulk into your seat as he rounds the car. He hops into the driver’s seat, your green apple lollipop lodged between his lips as he cranks the ignition.

“Read the column, I want to know what you chose to put in.” He speaks again as he pulls out of his spot, and you snicker to yourself as you pull your phone out.

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

You begin to read it calmly, ignoring the incessant buzzing of Hansol’s flooding messages.

NEW! Msg From: Sol ☀️👽 [4:32PM] dude [4:32PM] ur such a liar [4:33PM] i would say i hate u but im happy for u bro [4:34PM] i’m omw home tho

Msg To: Sol ☀️👽 [4:35PM] find somewhere else to go 🫶🏼

NEW! Msg From: Sol ☀️👽 [4:36PM] bro

SPOTLIGHT OF THE SEASON — NO. 97, KIM MINGYU. BY Y/N Y/L/N. FRIDAY, OCTOBER 10. 8-MINUTE READ | UPDATED: 5:39PM.

Author’s Note: Typically, I reserve the interview questions and responses for myself. However, I’ve decided to share this snippet in order to settle some rumors and ruffle a few feathers. I have also made this column a bit more personal, with the permission of my editor.

No. 97 on the field but No.1 in my heart — I love you, Kim Mingyu.

——————————————————————————————————

— INTERVIEW #53 —

Y: This is Y/N, starting Interview No.53 for Kim Mingyu, Spotlight column. Testing, one, two. KMG: Letting you know right now, I have to pee.

— INTERIM BREAK —

— INTERVIEW #54 —

Y: This is Y/N, starting Interview No.54 for Kim Mingyu, Spotlight column. Testing, one, two. KMG: [laughter] Y: Hello, Kim Mingyu. Welcome back to the Hawk Review Committee. KMG: Has the interview part always been this awkward? Y: Suddenly I’m your girlfriend and you forget how to talk to me? KMG: Babe, don’t put that in. We have to hard-launch before it gets published on Friday. Y: Honey. I love you. KMG: Okay, just a little snippet. Y: [laughter] Okay. Can I at least make those cheesy puns football girlfriends make? KMG: [laughter] Your world, baby. I’m just living in it. I love you.

KIM MINGYU has long been the subject of my articles. Long-winded columns full of my affections, hidden behind words far too long to be understood by the average mind. A lot of readers would call it hyperbole, would call it ‘purple prose’, but I consider my pieces about Mingyu to be the most authentic works I’ve ever written. There is something about enjoying the information I am spreading — to talk about somebody I care about, to air his successes and see other people enjoy who he is. To walk around campus and understand that though Mingyu may be my best friend, he is also a friend to others. He is a helping hand, he is smart and thoughtful.

In his college career, Kim Mingyu has made incredible Hawk history. He is the only quarterback to not be injured during a single game, and he and the Seoul Hawks are taking home the championship trophy come Saturday night. Be sure to buy your tickets from Jimin and Jungkook!

Kim Mingyu has been an inspiration to many, including myself. Take Apartment of A Lonely Soul: being displayed at the Museum of Arts, his piece has contributed to ending the stigma of allowing self-doubt to wallow in the mind and finding comfort in being alone and making decisions that may not seem feasible. I remember when I nervously asked him if he had submitted it to be displayed in the gallery — without a second thought, he replied: Why wouldn't I?

Kim Mingyu's unshakeable confidence has always brought comfort to others. He has time and time again shown that he is reliable, a pillar in our community. He has shown up for me countless of times — whether it is to soothe my damaged ego or celebrate my milestones, he is always there for those he cares about.

His mistakes are also something he takes in stride. He can admit when he is wrong and when he needs help — he’s come to my apartment for study nights that have left his head spinning. He called me when his car battery died on him last spring, and I walked six miles with our friends and jumper cables to wave down some random on the road. I remember how he made our friends sit in the bed of the truck, but sat me right next to him in the cab.

In tune with confidence, he wears his intelligence and care with pride. A true team player, a student that sets the standard and wonderful friend: there will never be another Kim Mingyu.

4K notes · View notes

colouredbyd · 24 days ago

Text

Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy!

cowboy!remus lupin x fem!reader

synopsis : a sunshine-soft baker moves to town, all ribbons, sweet talk, and a habit of staring a little too long at the cowboy next door. remus lupin tries to focus on his chores, but it’s hard when she keeps calling him remmy and baking him sweets. neither mean to flirt—but the heat’s been rising like bread in an oven, and something’s bound to give

warnings: NSFW, explicit sexual content, graphic language, strong sexual themes, dirty talk, sexual tension, suggestive themes, public or semi-public sexual encounters, alot of dirty thoughts, implied exhibitionism, explicit scenes of desire, lots of cum, eating out, oral sex, no penetrative sex, getting caught dry humping, spitting, fingering, eating out, panty sniffing?, making out, grinding, kinda riding? porn but with plot.

w/c: 5.8k

a/n: 100% inspired by this, all i can say is i should be ashamed for writing this...(to anyone who knows me: im sorry about the horse scene I COULDNT HELP IT)

part two masterlist

Remus Lupin swears he’s got self-control, the kind that’s been hammered into him by years of quiet mornings and grueling afternoons.

He wakes with the sun, hands steady and weathered, working the land like clockwork—feeding cattle, fixing fences, cleaning stalls, the rhythm of routine keeping the ache at bay.

Black coffee steams beside him, boots lined neatly by the door, shirts buttoned up and clean, a man shaped by order and slow, simple needs.

Not much stirs him anymore. Not since the war carved its scars deep into his bones, the kind of ache that settles like rain-soaked dust, dull and constant.

But then, you open your bakery—just two weeks ago—and suddenly, the world shifts beneath his boots.

The last thing Remus Lupin wants to do is lay blame—he’s a grown man, weathered by war and wind, with the calluses to prove it—but in a way, you’re the reason why.

The mere thought of you is enough to make this cowboy go buckwild.

It starts innocent, if only in theory.

He’s out in the field at dawn, meant to be feeding the cattle, fixing the fence, maybe even—God willing—cleaning the horse stalls. But the second your name crosses his mind, he’s gone. Useless.

He stands there with hay in his hands and a slack-jawed expression like he’s been shot in the chest with a buttercream bullet. Doesn’t even notice when the old barn cat winds around his boots or when the horses whinny for their breakfast. He just thinks about you.

And it’s always you.

You, with your little bakery nestled on the corner of Main and Maple, a bright splash of life in the dusty town.

You, wrapped in sundresses kissed by morning light, apron smudged with flour, humming soft songs as you tuck wildflowers into window boxes like secrets meant only for the breeze.

You, waving at every passerby like you’ve belonged here forever—even though you just arrived two weeks ago—and smiling at him like he’s the only thing worth pausing the world for.

It’s almost cruel, the way you’ve shattered him with nothing but kindness and sunlight.

Remus had rules once—wake before dawn, work hard, want less than a man can bear—but you slipped in with your sugar-dusted hands and your laugh like a promise, and now his quiet world is a storm. Because he can’t stop watching you.

Can’t stop craving the curve of your smile, the way flour dusts your cheek like a trace of sin, the softness in your voice when you greet him with that simple, “Morning, cowboy,” like you know exactly how those words strip him bare inside.

And what it does to him—God, it’s sinful, a temptation he’s only just learning how to fight.

You make his hands tremble, his mind stray into wicked places, and his mouth go dry with need. He’s stumbled over his own damn boots more times this week than he has in years, and every misstep is because of you.

The way you lean over that counter, offering him a piece of warm apple pie “on the house,” your scent mingling with the sweetness, setting his skin on fire.

The way you hum, soft and low, like a secret lullaby meant just to tease him. The way your dress sways around your knees, like you’ve never known a single touch that wasn’t hungry, like every inch of you is aching to be claimed.

Today, you slide a wrapped croissant into his palm—blueberry, he guesses, but all he can taste is the ghost of your fingers pressed to his skin, and he nearly drops it, heat pooling low and thick in his gut.

“Thanks,” he manages, voice rough like gravel scraped raw and worn down by too many restless nights and secret pains you can almost taste in the air between you.

You smile at him, warm and bright, like the sun itself had carved that grin just for him, a gentle blaze cutting through the cold edges of his quiet world.

“See you next Sunday?” you ask, voice soft but threaded with a promise that feels like it could burn through stone.

He tips his hat, trying to hide the way his ears bloom a shy, stubborn pink beneath the fabric, but you see it all—the way he’s unraveling just a little, like he’s been waiting for this moment more than he’d ever admit.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, voice low and steady but soaked in something fierce and fragile all at once.

And you know, with every fiber of yourself, he won’t. Even if it kills him.

Because Remus Lupin may be a man of quiet restraint, of slow mornings stretched thin with hesitation and a heart bruised and battered far beyond what any soul should carry—but for you?

For you, he’s already halfway gone, swallowed whole by the gravity of your presence, lost somewhere between the ache and the hope you stir deep inside him.

You don’t see him turn back after he walks away, but he does—just for a heartbeat, a breath stolen in the quiet chaos of his own racing heart.

Remus glances over his shoulder, jaw clenched tight, eyes sharp but soft all at once, catching one last fleeting glimpse of your silhouette framed in the window’s fading light.

You’re already moving, already weaving through the room with that effortless grace, already smiling at the next stranger who crosses your path, slipping away from him like the fragile morning light that dances through the leaves—too quick, too fleeting to hold onto.

He tells himself to stop thinking about the ghost of your fingers brushing his skin, the way your voice hums in his ears even now, a sacred hymn that refuses to fade.

He tells himself to forget it, to shove it deep beneath the weight of reason and restraint, but you linger in his blood like a whispered curse he can’t shake.

Meanwhile, miles away, before the sun even has the courage to rise, you’re waking with the world still wrapped in a lavender yawn.

The air holds that delicate chill of dawn, the kind that promises something new and untouched, and you slip on your short linen sundress, the fabric light as a sigh against your skin. A soft pink ribbon finds its way into your hair, tied just so, fluttering like a secret only you know.

You step out into the cool hush of morning, breath mingling with the mist that clings to the lake behind your cottage, where the world feels paused, sacred, and waiting.

The geese shuffle towards you, their honks soft and shy, and you coo at them with a sweetness that drips like honey from your lips—tossing cracked corn from your palm, murmuring, “You handsome little gentlemen,” and teasing, “Don’t be mean, Harold, everyone gets breakfast.”

In this stillness, this fragile quiet, you hold the whole world in your hands.

You like this moment—the solitude, the gentle promise it carries—because here, just here, you are the only girl in the world.

After the geese are fed and the lake has kissed your ankles like a shy hello, you follow the winding road into town, the sun barely half past seven but already spilling warmth across your skin, filling your chest with a sweetness that feels like it could burst.

“Morning, Miss Lily!” you call, your voice bright and light as you wave to the florist tending dahlias on her porch.

Her eyes crinkle with a smile, and she teases, “Well, don’t you look like a postcard—off to steal some hearts today?”

You laugh, adjusting the basket perched on your hip, “Just flour, I promise.”

She shoots back with a knowing grin, “Flour and trouble, more like.”

You wink and keep moving, bare feet gliding over the cobblestones like a secret only the earth knows — light, quiet, familiar.

The morning sun is already warm on your skin, and your soles are still damp from the pond, where you’d been feeding the geese just minutes earlier, ankles muddy, bread crusts tucked in your apron pocket. You’d kicked off your shoes to keep them clean and never quite bothered putting them back on.

Children dart past, chasing laughter through the square, their shrieks bright and wild.

You crouch without thinking, catching the youngest boy by the elbow before he trips on his own shoelaces. “Whoa, careful there, darling,” you murmur, fingers working fast to tie a double knot as he steadies against your shoulder.

He nods solemnly, wide-eyed, before beaming when you press a lollipop into his palm from your apron’s front pocket. “You’ll have to tell me if it’s too sour,” you tease, tapping his nose.

He scampers off with a sticky grin, and you turn just in time to see a little girl hovering near your skirts, shy fingers twisting in her dress.

You kneel again and offer her a warm smile, pulling from your apron a carefully wrapped chocolate chip cookie — tied with red ribbon, baked fresh last night, soft in the center just the way she likes.

“There you go, Hazel,” you whisper, smoothing her curls from her forehead. “It’s the last one, so guard it with your life.”

She giggles, cheeks pink, and runs to show her mother, cookie clutched in both hands like treasure.

Then it’s onward to the bakery—your pride wrapped in pink walls nestled between the apothecary and the old bookshop, ivy crawling up the windows like whispered promises.

Rose-gold lettering gleams softly above the door, lace curtains framing the scent of vanilla, sugar, and warm peaches that wraps around you like a hug.

The bell chimes as you step inside, the shelves half-full from yesterday’s labor: lemon loaves, rosewater scones, lavender honey buns waiting to be kissed by morning light.

You hum quietly, lighting candles and watering the violets on the windowsill, feeling the quiet pulse of this place you built with your hands and your heart.

And then—just like that, as if summoned straight from the reckless corners of your mind—he’s there.

Remus Lupin.

Striding through the dusty street like a dangerous fantasy you never dared dream. His boots scuffed and weathered from god knows what, the worn denim of his jeans stretched tight over hips that speak of muscle and sin, every damn curve making your blood race and your mind spiral.

His shirt hangs half-open, teasing the sharp angles of his collarbone, the warm, rough skin beneath dusted with dirt and sweat, as if he’s just come from wrestling something wild and primal.

His hat is tipped low, but when his eyes lift and catch yours through the glass, everything inside you snaps taut and wild.

You try to hide it—pretending to wipe the counter, fingers trembling and heat burning your cheeks—but it’s a poor disguise.

“Morning, sweetheart,” his voice drips with honey and something darker, low and smooth, and it hits you right in the gut like a shot of whiskey.

“Good morning, Lupin” you breathe back, syrupy sweet, though your body is humming with a different kind of hunger, the kind that curls in your stomach and drips heat between your thighs.

His ears flush pink, and you swear it makes him ten times hotter, the shy confidence battling with the raw, untamed man beneath.

He shifts the bag of apples in his hands, eyes flickering up to yours like he’s trying to read a secret only you hold.

“Brought you something,” he mutters, voice low and rough, like the words taste damn good on his tongue. “Apples. From the orchard.”

You tilt your head, smile teasing, “That’s sweet of you, Remus. What, trying to win me over with fruit now?”

He chuckles, a deep, gravelly sound that makes your skin prickle. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to come see you. You know, without looking like a damn fool just standing outside your bakery all day.”

Your breath catches. “Oh, so you’ve been watching, huh?”

He runs a hand through his hair, voice rougher now, like he’s barely holding himself together. “God, I—I don’t know how you do it, but you’ve got me—fuck, you’ve got me all tangled up.”

But all you can think about is the way those hands must grip—rough and sure—how they’d feel pressed against your skin, tracing the lines of your body as if memorizing every inch, every shiver, every desperate need.

How close he could get before the ache inside you explodes. The wild scent of earth and sweat and something raw and hungry clings to him like a second skin, and it wraps around you like a promise of sin.

Your smile is all sunshine and soft wickedness. “You keep doing this and I’m going to start thinking you like me.”

He pauses, blinking. “I—I mean”

You giggle and take the bag from his hands, fingers brushing once more.

“I’m just teasing,” you say, even though you're not, not entirely.

He nods, flustered, already backing toward the door like a man escaping a wildfire.

“Have a good day,” he manages.

“You too, handsome.”

You catch the way his shoulders stiffen, how he trips just slightly on the step.

And gods, it’s almost unfair—the effect you have.

But then again, you saw the way Miss Dervish from the tailor’s shop stared at him like she was ready to mount him like a broomstick right there on Main Street.

Remus Lupin really has all the ladies in town ovulating at the mere sight of him.

Truth is: the whole damn town is in love with Remus Lupin.

But only you get to see the way he looks at your mouth when you laugh. Only you get to make him blush like a boy.

And if he keeps showing up in those jeans, with that voice and that jaw and those hands that look like they could ruin and worship all at once—you’re going to forget how to bake entirely.

By midday, the bakery hums with warmth and chatter, full to the brim with townsfolk craving something sweet.

Your apron is dusted in flour and your lips are berry-stained from tasting jam. The sun outside is golden and bold, filtering through the windows like it’s falling in love with everything it touches—especially you.

You hum as you knead dough, hips swaying gently to the old French jazz playing on the radio.

There’s strawberry juice on your wrists and sugar under your nails. A tray of pies is cooling by the window, their scent thick and syrupy, while rows of rose-shaped butter cookies wait to be iced.

But something’s missing.

Chocolate.

And not just any chocolate—your favorite dark cocoa from the little cupboard at the Lupin farm, the one you tucked away weeks ago when Remus helped carry crates after the harvest fair. He’d told you to stop by for it anytime. So you do.

Not because of the chocolate, though. Not really.

You wipe your hands, untie your apron, and slip out the back door into the sun, your ribbon fluttering in the breeze.

The road to his farm is all wildflowers and bees, the kind of walk that makes you hum to yourself and twirl your skirt, completely unaware of what exactly you're walking into.

You spot him before he sees you.

Remus Lupin. On horseback.

And everything in you goes quiet.

He’s riding slow through the lower pasture, one hand on the reins, the other lifting his hat just enough to rake his fingers through his tousled hair before setting it back in place.

His shirt is undone even more now, clinging with sweat to the sharp slope of his chest, sleeves rolled to reveal those tanned, veined forearms that belong in sin. The muscles in his thighs flex under worn denim as he guides the horse in a slow, powerful trot, hips rising and falling with maddening ease.

You freeze, caught like a deer in the fading light.

His every move is a slow burn—the way he eases off that horse, boots landing heavy on the ground, the muscles in his arms flexing just enough to make your pulse slam against your ribs.

God, he knows exactly what he’s doing, and you’re helpless to look away, your mouth suddenly too dry to form the words you want to say.

Your thoughts spiral, filthy and urgent—how those hands might grip your waist, rough and possessive, pulling you flush against him so close you’d feel every breath, every beat of that steady heart beneath calloused skin.

You imagine the low growl in his voice if he ever lost control, thick and desperate, the kind that shreds all your carefully built walls down to nothing.

And then there’s that hat—the stupid, perfect thing perched on his head, begging to be yanked off like a silent challenge.

You want to reach out, fingers trembling, to drag it free and whisper the words you’d never dare speak aloud: fuck me, Remus.

But you don’t. You can’t. You just watch, helpless and aching.

His gaze locks on you, slow and deliberate, and your breath stutters, caught on the razor’s edge of something fierce and unspoken.

He steps closer, the scent of leather and sweat wrapping around you like a promise, shirt clinging to the lines of his back like a second skin, each movement designed to make your heart race and your mind spiral into sin.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and honeyed, amused like he’s got some wicked secret only you’re about to discover. “Didn’t see you there.”

You force a smile, too sweet, heart already stammering like a busted engine. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just came by for the cocoa.”

He nods, eyes drifting to the horse beside him, and then his hand lifts slow and sure, stroking the mare’s neck with a touch so gentle it makes your skin itch in all the wrong places.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, thick and warm, like a promise you’re not sure you want but can’t resist.

“Was out riding my favorite girl Dai.” His palm slides along the mare’s side, fingers curling like he’s tracing a secret, a sacred line.

“Weren’t you such a good girl, huh?”

And damn, the way he says it—“good girl”—it’s filthy, all slick sin wrapped in a whisper.

The way his fingers trail over Dai’s bridle, so soft, like he’s touching something precious, something he wants to own, to protect.

You try not to squirm, but your legs suddenly wobble, knees weak like you’re caught in a heatwave you didn’t see coming, and there’s this fire burning low between your thighs that has absolutely nothing to do with flour or sugar or any damn thing you should be thinking about right now.

His eyes flicker back to you, catching the blush flaming across your cheeks, and that twitch at the corner of his mouth tells you he knows exactly the kind of mess he’s making you into—helpless, hot, aching for a touch that hasn’t even happened yet.

“You alright?” he asks, voice teasing but laced with something deeper, something that makes your breath hitch.

You nod, way too fast, words catching on a tremor you can’t hide. “Fine. Just… warm.”

“Mm,” he says. “Bet you are.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rough, like a rumble that shakes your bones. “That’s my favorite girl,” he says, patting Dai’s neck again, “and I reckon you’re my favorite baker.”

You have never in your life wished more to be a goddamn horse than right now.

Because the way he says it, the slow slide of his gaze over you—like he’s already imagining running those rough hands down your back, the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin, whispering all the things he’d do if you let him—makes your insides twist and writhe in delicious agony, caught between wanting and knowing you probably shouldn’t.

But fuck, you want it. You want him. Every filthy, sinful inch of him.

And when he turns toward the farmhouse, his voice is casual, almost teasing.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go get you that cocoa. Unless you forgot what you came for.”

You definitely did.

But you follow him anyway, biting your tongue, wondering if you can survive five more minutes with this man in his boots and half-unbuttoned shirt and sinful drawl calling anything a good girl.

He walks ahead a few paces, and even from behind, he’s maddening—long legs, golden shoulders beneath that half-undone shirt, a slow, easy swagger that feels like temptation incarnate.

You try not to watch him. You try not to think about what his hands would feel like if they weren’t holding reins or flour sacks. You try not to imagine what his voice might sound like pressed right against your ear.

You fail. Miserably.

The air is warmer inside the farmhouse, thick with the scent of pinewood and tobacco, and your eyes need a second to adjust as you step through the door behind him.

But you don’t get far.

Your toe catches on something—maybe the edge of the rug, maybe a boot left by the door—and your balance tilts out from under you in one horrible, slow-motion stumble.

“Oh—!”

But he’s there.

In an instant, large hands catch you by the waist, grounding you before you even fall.

One arm wraps behind your back, steady and sure, and suddenly you’re pressed flush against him, breath caught between your teeth and heart thundering in your ears.

“Careful there, sweetheart,” he says, voice gentle, eyes flicking down to check you over. “Would’ve hated to see you hurt yourself.”

You laugh a little too quickly, palms resting on his chest for balance. “I—I’m okay. Just clumsy.”

He doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushes your waist without thinking, and it sends a spark right through you.

Your body is burning where he’s touching you. And his eyes—soft brown, full of quiet amusement—study your face like you’re some kind of puzzle he wouldn’t mind spending a few lifetimes figuring out.

Then, slowly, he lets go.

“Chocolate, wasn’t it?” he murmurs, stepping back and guiding you with a light hand on your lower back. “Think I’ve got just the kind you like.”

You nod, heart in your throat. “Y-yeah. The one with the orange peel in it.”

He smiles. “Knew it. Sweet with a little bite.”

You try not to read into that. You really try.

He leads you to a wooden shelf near the back of the kitchen, cluttered with old jars, dried herbs hanging in bunches, tins of tea, and a few blocks of dark chocolate wrapped in paper and tied with string.

He crouches to rummage through the lower shelf, muttering softly under his breath.

Meanwhile, your gaze wanders again. The way his fingers handle everything with such care.

And—damn it—the way the back of his shirt clings to his waist, damp with sweat, tucked just loosely enough into those low-hung jeans.

You’re not sure how long you’re standing there trying not to ogle him when he straightens up and hands you two wrapped bars.

“Right here,” he says, tapping one. “One with orange, one with cinnamon. Just in case.”

You beam, holding both to your chest. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He shrugs, easy. “Wouldn’t want you runnin’ out mid-pie. That’d be a tragedy.”

You turn to leave, already backing toward the door, your heart full and fluttering.

But before you go, you glance back over your shoulder.

“Thanks, Remmy,” you say softly, voice light and sweet, ribbon swaying behind you as you walk away, leaving him standing there with a tent in his pants.

Remus Lupin is a patient man.

But you’ve gone and made a mess of all that.

He hasn’t been able to sit still since.

The moment you left, the house felt too empty. The kitchen too quiet. Only the faint scent of orange and cinnamon lingered in the air—sweet, stubborn reminders of you—and Remus couldn’t stop staring at the counter where your fingers had just been.

He drags a hand over the back of his neck, pacing slow in his kitchen, heart pounding like he’s fresh out of a goddamn rodeo.

It’s the way you said Remmy again, all soft and sweet like the syllables were something you wanted to wrap in lace.

The way your fingers brushed his when you took the chocolate.

The way you stumbled and he caught you, hands on your waist for one second too long—and how he’s still not sure if that flutter in your chest was nerves or something else.

Something hopeful.

Something dangerous.

He leans against the doorframe, staring out across the sunlit fields, pretending like the quiet out there might calm the storm in here. It doesn’t.

He can still see you standing in the road, squinting up at him on horseback like you were about to fall on your knees.

Can still hear the breath you took when he slid off Dai and murmured good girl to the horse, his hand smoothing over her mane—and how your eyes never left his mouth.

He tells himself he’s imagining it.

He tells himself it’s the heat, the dust, the soft haze of summer playing tricks.

But his hands still ache from where they steadied your fall. His chest still burns from the way you smiled, like he’d given you the whole damn world for the price of chocolate.

And his thoughts—his thoughts are filthy, honey-thick, clinging.

You’re too sweet. Too soft. Too kind for the way he wants you.

He wants to press you up against the counter of that bakery, sugar and flour in your hair.

He wants to take that sundress off slow, like he’s unwrapping something too delicate for a man like him.

He wants to kiss your throat, taste your laugh, ruin your lip gloss.

And worst of all—he wants to hold your hand after.

Remus Lupin is a patient man.

But for you, he’s starting to lose the only good sense he has left.

Which is why, only a few hours after you left, Remus Lupin found himself walking into town like a man possessed.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a visit. Just being polite.

But his boots hit the pavement harder than they should, dust kicking up behind him as he strode past Mrs. Macmillan’s garden and the old chapel, not sparing a single glance for the women who giggled behind parasols or the way someone’s daughter nearly walked into a fence watching him go by.

He didn’t notice them. Not their perfume, not their waves, not their sun-warmed stares.

His eyes were fixed ahead—on the pink-tinged little building with ivy creeping up the sides and a wooden sign that read The Wildflower Oven. On you.

The bell above the door rang softly when he stepped inside, and he nearly forgot how to breathe.

There you were.

Bent slightly over the counter, piping delicate swirls of icing onto golden vanilla muffins, ribbons tied in your hair like you were spun from sugar yourself.

You were humming something soft, something dreamy and old, and when you glanced up—when your eyes landed on him, bright as sunlight through a summer orchard—you smiled.

“Hi, Rem,” you said, warm and easy.

Rem.

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

That little nickname, all familiar and fond and sinful in the way it curled off your tongue.

His heart gave a desperate lurch in his chest, and he felt—viscerally—the tight pull of desire low in his stomach. His belt was suddenly too snug.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he managed, stepping toward the counter as you finished your muffin with a final flourish.

“Didn’t expect to see you again today,” you said, licking a bit of frosting off your finger. “What brings you here? Another chocolate craving?”

He watched your tongue flick over the tip of your finger like you didn’t even know what you were doing. Or maybe you did.

Maybe you knew exactly how you looked, sunlight on your skin and icing on your lips, a walking fever dream of every soft thing he’s ever wanted.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice thick.

You laughed, and he knew he was done for.

You moved to grab a towel, but he caught your wrist before you could, gentle but firm, eyes locked to yours.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured. “I know I shouldn’t.”

But you tilted your head, curious. “Shouldn’t what?”

“This,” he said—and then he pulled you in.

His mouth met yours like he’d waited a lifetime. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t polite.

It was needy, hot, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you flush against him as he pressed you back into the counter, scattering a few napkins and flour-dusted tins.

You gasped into the kiss, your hands gripping his shoulders, and he groaned when your hips shifted against his.

The friction nearly undid him.

You were so soft, so warm, and he wanted all of you. Every kiss, every sigh, every inch of skin under that sundress he’d memorized with his eyes.

You whimpered when he kissed down your neck, when his hand slid beneath your apron and gripped your hip hard enough to leave heat in its wake.

“Remus,” you whispered, breathless.

He pulled back for half a second, just to see you—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, eyes wide and shining.

“I’ve been thinking about this all damn day,” he confessed, his voice rough with restraint he no longer had. “You’ve been driving me wild, honey. You walk around this town looking like that and expect me to act right?”

Your fingers slid beneath the hem of his shirt, making him hiss through clenched teeth. “Maybe I don’t want you to act right.”

That was all it took.

A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat as his mouth slammed back onto yours, hips thrusting forward on pure instinct.

The counter shook beneath the weight of your desperate bodies. The kiss deepened, savage and hungry. You clung to him like you’d shatter without his touch—maybe you would.

Slowly, deliberately, you lifted a leg and wrapped it tight around his waist, lowering yourself onto his rock-hard cock.

A guttural groan spilled from his lips as his hands crushed your waist, pulling you harder against him, grinding you with agonizing slowness.

“Shit, baby, can’t do that to me,” Remus groaned, voice thick and ragged against your mouth.

“I really fucking need you.” His hands tore at your dress, breaking the kiss to rip it off, then devoured your breasts with greedy fingers and mouth. He sucked your nipples hard, tugging like he needed to mark you as his.

You peeled your legs free and steadied yourself on the counter, tossing the dress aside. Remus freed his cock, rock-hard and leaking slick precum onto his jeans. Shameless, he stroked himself slow and steady.

“Keep ‘em on.” His voice was low, rough with need as he didn’t let you slide your panties off. Instead, he wrapped his arms tight around your hips and pulled you down so your back pressed flush against his broad chest.

With an effortless lift, he hoisted you up, spreading your thighs just enough with his free hand, pressing his aching cock right between them.

“Remmy…” you breathed out, tilting your head back to kiss along his sharp jawline, soft and slow.

His cowboy hat sat slightly crooked on his head, the worn brim shadowing his dark eyes—an irresistible invitation. Your fingers reached up, bold and trembling, and slowly you pulled the hat off his head, letting it slip free like a promise.

You lifted it carefully, the faint scent of leather and sun-soaked days lingering in the fabric, and slipped it over your own hair, the brim dipping low over your eyes, hiding your flushed cheeks.

Remus’s breath hitched, his eyes darkening with need as he stared at you—his hat on your head like a secret you were daring him to unravel.

You were officially trying to kill him. Remus Lupin—death by pussy. A noble death, really.

His hands clenched your waist tighter, hips pressing harder against yours. “Gods, you in my hat…” His voice was low, rough with want, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You moaned softly, heat pooling deep and thick between your legs, your voice barely more than a whisper, “You’re so big.”

“Shit, y-you’re squeezing,” he murmured, voice ragged as he looked down. Your hips moved gently, rocking back and forth, thighs curling tenderly around his cock that throbbed hard against your thin fabric.

You both gasped sharply the moment his cock brushed against your soaked, sensitive clit.

Remus couldn’t stop touching you, not if he tried. One hand toyed with the frilly hem of your panties, teasing and pulling, while the other wrapped snug around your heaving chest, fingers kneading and claiming.

“Spit on it, baby,” he growled low, heat dripping from every word.

You leaned your head down, eyes locked on the slick glistening wetness smearing your inner thighs, and without hesitation, spit right on the tip of his cock—just like he wanted—earning a deep, guttural moan vibrating straight through you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he cursed, pressing your thighs tighter together, trapping his twitching cock between them, moving just enough to drive you wild.

When he finally came, the bite he left on your shoulder was painful and possessive, hot and rough as he spilled his release all over the front of your panties.

He dragged the tip of his cock through the slick mess, spreading it, marking you thoroughly.

“What are you doing?” you blinked down at him, breath hitching. Remus knelt on the floor, hands sliding your legs apart and resting them gently on his broad shoulders.

“Cleanin’ you up.” His lips burned against the soft skin of your inner thigh, tongue flat and warm as it licked away every trace of his mess, slick and sticky.

His dark brown eyes, shadowed beneath furrowed brows and heavy lashes glistening with moisture, lifted to meet yours just as he reached your center.

Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, heart pounding in the quiet tension.

Remus wrapped his mouth around the stained front of your panties, sucking them clean with a slow, deliberate hunger.

His fingers trembled as they slid the fabric aside, revealing slick heat slicked with his cum underneath. He swallowed hard, lips curving into a satisfied grin pressed against your stomach.

“Can I touch your pretty pussy?” His voice was rough, desperate, a shiver running down your spine.

You nodded quickly, breath catching as his cold fingertips ghosted over your swollen clit.

A thick bead of spit fell from his mouth, slick and wet, coating your slick folds before he replaced his fingers with his tongue, warm and insistent.

Your hand dove into his hair, gripping tight as you pulled him closer, needing every inch of him against your burning heat.

His low moan vibrated against your skin, lips and nose grazing your clit, and damn—he could smell you, raw and intoxicating, making him lose himself completely.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he breathed, pulling away just long enough to praise you, hand already palming that aching, swollen cock again.

The pain only made him harder, the desperate urge to touch himself uncontrollable.

With a wicked glint in his eye, he snapped the elastic against your sensitive skin drawing a startled whimper from your throat.

“Rem, I’m gonna come!” you whimpered, that tight knot in your stomach about to unravel.

If his mouth wasn’t still buried between your thighs, you’d have caught the smug smirk spreading across his face.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he hooked a finger into the waistband and pushed your panties to the side, exposing you to the cool air—and to him.

His palm pressed firmly against your lower stomach, moving in slow, possessive circles until you cried out his name, the sound raw and needy.

“Sensitive, yeah?” he murmured, lips trailing soft kisses over your clit, making you jerk and shiver.

You tried squeezing your legs shut, but Remus was relentless—elbow hooking under your thighs to pry them open wide, resting your legs on his shoulders as he dove back into your slick heat.

“Please, Rem, someone could come in!” you gasped, attempting to push him away.

“Just a little more, baby,” he slurred, tongue flicking expertly around your trembling hole.

“Gotta come,” he muttered, sharpening the tip of his tongue and plunging it deep inside you, making you gasp and tremble with pure, desperate need.

He curled his tongue inside you before pulling back and spitting wetly inside, the slick fabric pressed against your pussy.

Your eyes snapped open as his fingers slid in alongside the soaked cloth, stretching you deliciously.

“Fuck, you’re sweeter than any damn pie,” he groaned, voice thick with need as he pushed himself up.

“Gonna cum all over this cunt.”

Hovering over you, your legs wrapped instinctively around his torso, clutching him tight. His cock slapped hard against your clit before he began grinding the swollen tip back and forth, moaning deep and loud.

Breath ragged, he sighed softly as hot spurts of cum dripped slick between your folds, the bunch of fabric trapped inside catching most of the mess.

“Fuck, fuck, such a good girl f’me.”

He let his whole weight collapse onto you, hands bracing on your shoulders to pull you impossibly close.

“So fuckin’ good, baby, best damn pussy in this town.” he muttered, words thick with filthy adoration, peppered with profanity.

Sliding down, he planted soft, worshipful kisses on your collarbone, trailing lower to your chest and stomach.

You grabbed your dress off the counter and fumbled to pull it back on, fingers trembling as you tried to find the sleeves.

“Here—c’mere, baby,” Remus murmured, stepping in to help, his hands steady where yours shook. He took his hat and put it back on his head and then guided the fabric up over your shoulders, smoothing it down gently before reaching for the ribbon that had slipped loose in your hair.

“Hold still, love,” he said, voice soft, almost fond, as he tied it back into place. Then he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips—slow, sweet, grounding.

Before you could turn away, his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He caged you gently between his chest and the counter, forehead dropping to yours. “You know,” he whispered, breath warm against your lips, “you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Your smile curved wicked. “Even right now?”

“Especially right now.”

You reached down, curling your fingers through his until his hand was yours again. Slowly, deliberately, you brought it to your mouth—and licked the remaining mess from his fingers, eyes never leaving his.

Remus Lupin was, quite officially, dead and gone for—completely wiped out at the sight of you licking his own cum off his fingers, the sweet angel baker of the town now standing before him as the most gloriously obscene vision he’d ever laid eyes on.

Yeah, Remus was absolutely, undeniably done for.

But then—

CRASH.

The bakery door slammed open with the force of a thunderclap, bell jangling like an alarm.

A deep roar of an engine echoed behind it, followed by the unmistakable snarl of tires on pavement and the lingering scent of leather and smoke.

And standing in the doorway, sunglasses low on his nose, helmet under one arm and a slow smirk tugging at his mouth—

Was Sirius Black.

“Am I interrupting?” he drawled, voice like trouble and sin.

#colouredbyd #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x reader smut #remus lupin smut #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin oneshot #remus x reader smut #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin hc #remus lupin fic #remus lupin headcanon #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin angst #cowboy!remus

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smileysuh · 10 months ago

Text

dark protector

🌙 starring. Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader

🔮 preview. “When I’m balls deep in your pussy, watching you writhe under me, listening to your pretty sounds- that will be the cherry on top of this birthday,” he explains. “Thank you for wanting to make me feel good, but- usually, baby, I like to be the giver.”

tw/cw. mentions of past relationship abuse/trauma/cheating, alcohol, bar fights, Cheol gets grazed with a knife, unprotected sex, dry humping, hand job, blow job, pussy eating, fingering, pleasure dom!Cheol, breast worship, dirty talk, praise, size kink/manhandling, multiple reader orgasms, groping, Cheol is a big muscled tattooed man, creampie, birthday sex, etc… I pet names: (hers) baby.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 14.2k

🍭 aus. tattoo/motorcycle au, nurse!reader, soulmates, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. The tarot deck used in the prologue is ‘The Wild Unknown Animal Spirit Guide Deck’ by Kim Krans. I had so much fun exploring a more spiritual-themed plot, the idea of soulmates and spirit guides and such :)

Prologue

It’s been six months since your breakup. Six months of self-work and healing practices. Six months of connecting with your spirit guides, hoping you can work through this dark period of your life and come out the other side.

You’ve just gotten off a long shift at the hospital, where you work as an emergency room nurse. Cleaning up other people’s messes makes you feel a little more whole every day, it shows you that while your wounds might be deeper than the skin, you have the resources to fix things that seem unfixable.

After a shower, you slump onto your couch, your hands reaching for one of your tarot decks. It’s as if you can feel the energy radiating off your spirit animal cards, and you remove them carefully from the box, holding them close to your chest.

“Spirit,” you say softly. “I think I’m finally ready to try dating again. But I’m scared. I’m scared I’ll end up in the same situation as last time, finding a man who needs to be fixed- I know my pattern is finding broken men, and I’m done with that. I need guidance. I need some sort of sign that will show up when I meet the right person.”

Part of your healing journey was writing down what traits you’d want in a partner. You’d made a list that included, ‘kind, smart, patient, stable, loyal, and protective,’ and you’d folded to your own physical tastes by writing ‘tattoos’ as well. You can’t help it, you like the way art looks on skin, and although all the tatted bad boys you’ve dated in the past have been assholes, you’re holding onto a hope that you can find a good man with tattoos. You know they’re out there, you just have to find one.

“Spirit, can you help me pull a card, and whatever animal is on that card could be a tattoo that my future significant other would have?” you ask. “Please don’t choose a lion or a wolf or something super common- I want an animal that is a little more unique, something that couldn’t just be coincidence… but, I mean, if my soulmate is meant to have a wolf then I guess I can make that work.”

You hate questioning your guides, hate putting boundaries on them. If your soulmate has a stupid, overdone tattoo like every other man with ink, then so be it.

Taking a deep breath, you begin to shuffle your spirit animal deck.

You’re not being too fast with your shuffle, you prefer to sit for a long time and wait for cards to pop out rather than force a reading with erratic motions. Focusing on your breathing, and your ask from the spirit, you wait patiently.

Soon, a card pops out, landing on the coffee table in front of you.

An Elk looks up at you, and you take a moment to assess the card before finding the guide book.

You flip to the Earth section, finding the Elk easily. There are a few keywords at the top of the reading, they say ‘Stable, resilient, headstrong, the father.’

Stable is a word you’d written into your boyfriend manifestation notes, and you consider that for a moment before reading further.

“The great Elk represents the Earth element in its masculine form. This means it provides underlying support and stability amidst life’s many changes. An Elk personality is fully established in themselves and knows their core values. They become known and respected for acting in ways that uphold those values. Sometimes the Elk’s ego can become inflated, but for the most part, they make damn good fathers, mothers, lovers, and friends. The world needs more elk energy.”

You think about the type of man who could be stable, whether that’s financially or emotionally. You’re hoping to find a man as set and in love with his job as you are- the kind of man you could build a future with. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been thinking about kids, and the note that Elk personalities make good fathers and lovers makes the feeling of hope stir within you.

However, the Elk - like the Lion and the Wolf - is a pretty common tattoo.

“I’m wondering if I should ask for a second card,” you tell your guides. “This deck has numerous animals connected to zodiac signs. Fish for Pisces, Scorpion for Scorpio… I know not all zodiacs have an animal correlated to them, so I won’t use this as a defining factor, but… maybe to make things even a little more specific, could you help me pull a card to represent the zodiac sign for my future Elk tattooed boyfriend?”

This feels like a lot. And you’re aware that there are only a few cards in this large deck that will actually connect to the zodiac, so you prepare yourself for a dud card.

You begin to shuffle, and this time, a card pops out even faster than the first. It’s face down on your coffee table, and you take a breath, willing this to be a sign.

When you flip the card, you find a lion staring up at you.

The lion is correlated with the Leo zodiac, and you swallow thickly, thinking about the traits generally connected to Leos. The words that come to mind are ‘confident, loyal, ambitious, and protective,’ two of which are traits you’d manifested.

You find your guidebook again, reading the top line of traits: “Patient, regal, a complete master.”

“The Lion is a master of the fire element and the living mascot of self-transformation. A lion personality dedicates their life to personal and spiritual growth. This dedication inspires some and intimidates others, therefore the Lion is respected by all but known intimately by few. Some mistake the Lion as hard to access or aloof, yet those with a keener eye know better. Lions are observant, stealth, and precise in their words and actions. They do not waste energy or resources. This card reminds us that self-mastery is available to all, no matter where our quest begins.”

You consider your reading as you put your deck away and head to bed. A Leo man with an Elk tattoo, someone who is patient, stable, headstrong, loyal, and maybe a little egotistical, but hopefully not in any ways that would be damaging to you like your narcissist of an ex-boyfriend.

You’re prepared to not find a man who fits this bill, but you feel a little better about narrowing down the traits you’re attracted to. Some people don’t believe in tarot, and while you can understand that, this reading has spoken to you in a way that you can’t quite explain.

There’s no timeline to the reading, and you won’t be restricting yourself waiting for a man with an Elk tattoo to sweep you off your feet, but it feels a little easier having some parameters.

When you fall asleep, you dream of a large man standing in shadows, Elk-like antlers protruding from his head.

One:

“Tell me again how you found out about this place?” you sigh, getting out of your best friend’s car to stare at the tattoo studio.

“God, I’ve told you a hundred times,” Sunmin rolls her eyes. “One of my sister’s boyfriend’s cousins’s boyfriends work here.”

“I’m going to need you to say that slower.”

“My sister’s boyfriend, Jeonghan, his cousin is dating one of the artists here, and he says they’re all super hot. And I figured, since your tarot cards told you a few months ago that you’ll find some dude with an elk, a tattoo shop is a good place to look for him.”

“Okay, but please don’t bring up the actual tarot,” you plead. “People judge me for that shit all the time.”

“My lips are sealed but my eyes will be wide open,” she grins.

The two of you enter the tattoo shop, and the air conditioning is a welcome reprieve from the hot summer outside. Your friend chats with the receptionist about her consultation with an artist named Vernon, and soon the two of you are being escorted deeper into the studio.

It’s an open plan layout, with small sections for each artist. Only one man is currently tattooing someone, and you suppose that since it’s the morning, they likely get busier as the day goes on.

There’s a large man who approaches you and your friend as you sit in Vernon’s section. “Hi! You must be Vernon’s ten o’clock consultation! I’m Mingyu. Vernon’s just chatting with our boss in the back, but he’ll be out pretty quick.”

“Hi, I’m Sunmin and this is y/n,” your friend introduces you. “We have no problem waiting.”

“Cool. I don’t have a client for a while, I can keep you guys company while you wait for Vernon if you’d like.”

“We’d love that,” Sunmin beams.

“How did you guys hear about us?” Mingyu asks, taking a seat on the tattoo artist chair.

“My sister’s boyfriend’s cousin is dating one of the guys who work here,” Sunmin explains.

“Is your sister’s boyfriend Jeonghan?”

You’re shocked the man was able to follow what Sunmin just said.

“Yup! That’s him!” Sunmin confirms.

“Love that guy,” Mingyu grins. “Yeah, I’m dating his cousin. He told me he’d tell others about the shop but I didn’t think he’d actually follow through with it.”

“Well, here he is, following through,” Sunmin laughs.

“So is this tattoo consult for you?”

Sunmin nods. “Yup! I’ve always liked ink, got a few small pieces, but I wanted something bigger for my thigh.”

“How about you?” Mingyu asks. “Any future tattoo plans?”

“Not at the moment,” you respond, gaze shifting to a door that leads to the office in the back. Two men have come out, they’re both quite handsome, dressed in oversized hoodies that obscure any ink on their torsos.

“I’ve actually been looking at elk tattoos,” Sunmin lies, “know anyone with anything like that?”

Mingyu opens his mouth to respond, but one of the men from the back is already approaching. “Hi, are you Sunmin?” he asks.

“That’s me,” your best friend beams.

“I’m Vernon,” the soft looking man smiles. Mingyu gets out of his seat, bidding a quick farewell before going back to his own section. As Vernon and Sunmin begin to talk about her tattoo plans, you find your eyes shifting to the man who must be the boss as he walks over to inspect the tattoo taking place.

He’s got a nice build, and you can see the outline of strong shoulders even from under his large black hoodie. He rolls up the sleeves, and you can see he’s heavily inked, but from a distance, you can’t make out any elk-like marks.

Sunmin had done her best to try to ask Mingyu about a tattoo fitting what your tarot had told you to watch out for, but you suppose you shouldn’t be shocked that your soulmate isn’t in the first shop you’ve gone into.

You relax against your chair, listening to Sunmin and Vernon talk.

You’ll do your best to find your Elk inked Leo, but you suppose you can’t rush the process.

Two:

You’re at a bar with friends when you hear a commotion just outside. As the designated driver of the night, you haven’t touched any drinks, and although it might not be anything serious, your emergency room nurse instincts kick in, drawing you to the possible danger as you quickly make your way to the front of the bar.

You catch the tail end of what’s happening, one bouncer chasing after some guy who’s booking it down the street, and another man being held back by a second security guard.

The man being held back looks enraged, and he manages to break out of the bouncers grasp- which is when you see blood on the back of his white shirt.

“Fuck that guy,” the injured man snarles, and when he turns, you catch a glimpse of his profile.

It’s the man from the tattoo parlour, the one you assumed was the boss.

While he looks extremely pissed off, you can’t help but approach. “Excuse me,” you say quietly, grabbing his attention. “You’re bleeding.”

“Am I?” He looks over his shoulder, grabbing at his shirt where the blood is. “Fuck, he must have grazed me.”

Must have grazed him… with a knife?

“I’m uh… I’m an ER nurse, do you mind if I take a look?” you ask.

“I’ll grab the first aid kit,” the bouncer tells you, darting back into the bar.

“I’m fine,” the tattooed man tells you.

“Then there’s no harm in me taking a look to confirm that.” You try to smile softly at him.

The man looks at you, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

“I think I was at your parlour last week, my friend had a consult,” you explain. “I’m y/n.”

He looks you up and down. “Seungcheol.”

You can see the anger and tension dissipating from his shoulders.

“Why don’t you take a seat on the curb and I’ll look at your shoulder?” you suggest.

Seungcheol sighs, but does as he’s told. He sits down, grabbing at the back of his shirt. You catch him wince as he tugs the bloodied fabric off, and you’re shocked at what’s revealed.

It’s not the slight gash that makes you take a step back, it’s the Elk head tattoo on the center of his spine, with large antlers tangling up toward the back of his neck.

“Is it that bad?’ Seungcheol asks, looking over his shoulder at you again.

“No, it’s not that.” You do your best to compose yourself, kneeling down to look at the wound, although your eyes keep going back to the Elk.

The bouncer returns with the first aid kit, and Seungcheol sits there quietly while you clean the wound. “You’re right that it was a graze, but I still think stitches would be a good idea,” you tell him.

“I’m not going to the hospital,” Seungheol responds while you press gauze to the wound, bandaging him up with medical tape.

“Why not?”

“I just don’t like hospitals,” the beefy tattooed man says simply.

You release a sigh. “Listen, I’m going to give you my number, and if there’s any sign of infection, call me, okay?”

“You said you're an emergency room nurse, right?” he asks, standing up when you finish with his shoulder.

“Uh huh.” Words evade you as you look at his chiseled chest, and you do your best not to be too obvious at the way you’re gawking at him.

“Aren’t you going to ask me what I did to piss off the dude with the knife?”

“It’s not important,” you respond quickly. “You identified it as a knife wound, and that’s all I needed to know.”

“I was in the emergency room one time, got stabbed by some kid outside a strip club, the nurses kept pestering me about the details. It’s one of the reasons I don’t like hospitals,” Seungcheol explains.

“Well, your business is your business,” you tell him. “All I care about is that your wound doesn’t get infected, and you take care of it if you’re not getting stitches.”

Seungcheol’s gaze feels hot as he stares at you, and then he pulls his phone out of his pocket, handing it to you. “Here. For your number.”

Your fingers are shaky as you type in your digits before handing it back to him, and you can’t help but notice the way your hands briefly touch.

“I need a drink,” Seungcheol says. “You coming back inside? I’ll buy you something, as a thank you for not pestering me.”

“No thanks is necessary,” you try to assure him, but Seungcheol is already reaching for your hand.

“Don’t fight this,” he tells you. “Let me say thank you in the way that I know how.”

You allow the big burly man to guide you back into the bar. He orders himself a shot of tequila, then turns to you expectantly.

“Uh, can I get an iced tea?” you ask.

“Not drinking?”

“I’m the designated driver tonight,” you explain. “My friends are over there-” you turn and catch your whole table of friends staring at you.

Seungcheol follows your gaze and smirks, offering your friends a small wave. “Okay, so you're a stay in your lane ER nurse, and you’re a designated driver.”

“That sums it up I guess,” you laugh.

“She’ll get an iced tea,” Seungcheol tells the bartender.

You like that he’s not pushing you. Some people pressure you to drink when you’re out, but you like to have your head screwed on straight on your shoulders. You never know when an emergency is going to happen, and your soul calling is helping people. On top of that, it’s nearly midnight, and you’ve got a shift in five hours that you need to be sober for.

“I’m trying to find red flags with you, you know?” Seungcheol says nonchalantly. “But so far, I’m not seeing any.”

“Maybe that’s because I don’t have any?” you suggest.

“I’ve been told I’m a walking red flag,” Seungcheol muses.

“Tattoos can be deceiving,” you point out, although, studies do show that people with trauma are more likely to be inked- all your ex’s have had tattoos, and they’ve all had dark pasts. You can’t help you type, and staring at the man with the elk on his back, you wonder if this is going to be just another repetition.

Your drinks are set in front of you and you watch Seungcheol down his tequila shot. He shakes his head out a little at the taste, and you appreciate the way his dark curls look with the motion.

“Anyways, you’re here with friends, I won’t keep you,” he sighs.

“Thanks for the iced tea,” you smile softly.

“Don’t mention it,” Seungcheol nods.

You mirror the movement, grabbing your drink and heading back to your table.

The moment you’re seated, all your friends erupt into chatter.

“Who was that?!” one asks.

“He was hot!” another friend notes.

“Wasn’t that the dude from the tattoo shop?” Sunmin questions, looking after Seungcheol. “Is he… bleeding?”

“Yeah, it’s the guy from the parlour,” you sigh. “His name is Seungcheol, and yes, someone tried to stab him outside.”

“Jesus!” Sunmin’s eyes widen. “But… he bought you a drink?”

“I just cleaned the wound and bandaged it,” you explain. “He insisted on getting me a drink.”

“Well… that’s nice, isn’t it?” one of your friends says thoughtfully.

“I guess.” It’s clear you don’t want to talk about this further, and your friends quickly go back to discussing something else, but you inch closer to Sunmin. “He has a tattoo.”

“He has a lot of tattoos,” she laughs.

“No, he has like… this big elk head and antlers on his back.”

“What?!”

“Don’t make a big deal out of it,” you warn her, not wanting her to raise her voice too loud so your other friends hear. You’re quite private about your spiritual leanings. Being a woman of science, and ER nurse no less, sometimes it feels like believing in fate isn’t something that works well with your job.

“We’re talking about this later,” Sunmin tells you.

“Yeah.”

You sit back, thinking about it.

Obviously your interaction with Seungcheol was short. He came off as a bit of a hot head, perhaps you’d even use the word brash- there was certainly a level of ego that radiated off of him as well, but, at the same time, he’s one of the most handsome tattooed men you’ve ever met.

You’d asked your guides for a sign, and tonight, the Elk had bared its antlered head.

Now it’s up to you to decide if you trust in fate, or if this is all just a coincidence.

Three:

You’re about seven hours into your eight hour shift. Having started at five am, after being a designated driver and getting your friends home at three, you’re quite tired. Things were very busy for a while in the emergency room, but for whatever reason now that it’s noon, things have seemed to calm down a little.

You’re just sitting in the nurse station with your coworker Joshua when your phone buzzes in your pocket. It’s an unknown number, and at first, you’re not sure if you should answer it.

Against your better judgement, you bring your phone to your ear, “Hello?”

“Is this the stay in your lane ER nurse who’s also the designated driver?”

You let out a sigh. “Y/N.”

“Yeah, you.”

“Hi, Seungcheol.”

“Hi. So, I tried to stitch up the wound when I got home, and I’m not sure if I did a good job.”

“You tried to stitch it up?” you ask, already exasperated. “Why didn’t you ask me to do it at the bar?”

“I just didn’t,” he says simply.

“Send me a pic of the stitches,” you instruct.

“One sec.”

You wait patiently, and Joshua catches your eyes. ‘What’s happening?’ he mouths.

You quickly mute your call. “Some guy I helped at the bar last night got grazed by a knife, he didn’t want stitches, but decided to try to stitch himself up this morning.”

“What the fuck?” Joshua laughs.

“Okay, sent.” Seungcheol’s voice makes you hit the unmute button, and you open your messages to see the picture.

Joshua rolls closer, staring at your phone. While Seungcheol’s broad muscular back is a bit of a distraction, the stitch up job on the wound is sloppy, and draws most of your attention.

“Seungcheol,” you sigh. “I’m going to say this in the nicest possible way. You might be a tattoo artist, but your stitching skills are sub par at best.”

The line is quiet for a moment, then you hear a chuckle. “Someone’s in a grouchy mood.”

Joshua’s eyes widen, and he looks at you for your response.

“You would be too if you spent all yesterday sleeping, woke up to be a designated driver for your friends, got home at three and had to be at work for five.”

“Oh… are you at work now?”

“Uh huh.”

“I shouldn’t bother you then,” Seungcheol says quickly.

“It’s no bother,” you assure him. “Look, I’m off in an hour. I’ll swing by to your shop to check out the stitching. Most stitches should be sewn within six to eight hours, we’re bordering on twelve- I just want to make sure there’s no infection.”

“You should just go home after work.”

“You should listen to your ER nurse and let her help you,” you retort, too tired to argue with him over this.

Seungcheol makes a groaning sound. “Fine.”

“See you in an hour.”

You hang up the phone and Joshua looks you up and down. “What’s his deal?”

“Honestly,” you sigh, “I couldn’t tell ya.”

Four:

You and Joshua often have the same shifts, and you carpool together to feel more green, so it’s Joshua who drives you to the tattoo parlour when you’re done work.

Seungcheol is waiting outside, arms crossed over his broad chest, and he eyes Joshua as the both of you get out of the car.

“Hey,” Seungcheol says as you approach, “who’s this?”

“My coworker, Joshua,” you introduce them, and Joshua has the decency to hold out a hand.

You hold your breath, releasing it when Seungcheol gives him a customary curt handshake.

“He’s your ride?” Seungcheol asks.

“Uh huh, is that a problem?”

“I just don’t feel comfortable having him around while you check out my shoulder, even if he does work with you” Seungcheol explains. “Listen, I’ve got a motorcycle and an extra helmet in the shop, how about I take you home after this?”

Both men look at you, and for a moment, you feel flustered and put on the spot.

You’ve never been on a bike before- but fuck it, you’re too tired to work through Seungcheol’s weird alpha behavior and territorial mentality about you having a male coworker with you.

“That works,” you agree. “Thanks for the ride, Josh.”

“Text me when you’re home,” he warns, pulling you in for a hug.

You can practically feel Seungcheol staring daggers at the two of you when Joshua pulls away and heads back to his car.

Seungcheol’s demeanor is a bit icy as he leads you into the shop. You notice Vernon and Mingyu. Mingyu even says a loud “Hi, y/n!” and you nod politely as Seungcheol takes you into the back office, closing the door.

“So, is that dude your boyfriend?” he asks, heading to the first aid kit already open on his desk.

“No, I’m not seeing anyone right now. My last ex, uh… he did a number on me.”

“Yeah?” Seungcheol takes off his shirt while you grab medical gloves to pull on. “Wanna talk about it?”

“I’m not sure what there is to say,” you admit with a sad laugh.

“Then you don’t have to say anything,” he decides.

“How about you?” you ask, softly prompting him to turn away from you on his spinny chair so you can assess the wound, gently removing the gauze.

“What about me?” he counters.

“Are you seeing anyone?”

“Nope.” He’s quiet for a moment. “My ex was a bit of a shit show too.”

“Well I guess we’re kindred in that at least,” you smile, leaning close to get a better look at his shoulder.

Seungcheol shivers slightly, and you think your breath on his throat must have set him off a little, but he stays silent. You notice his hands balling into fists on his thighs.

“I think your stitching can stay, but I’m going to clean your wound again and rebandage it.”

“Sounds good,” Seungcheol responds gruffly.

“While I’m doing this, do you mind if I ask about your tattoo? This big Elk?” You gently graze your surgical gloved pinky finger down his spine, and Seungcheol shivers again.

“Jesus, don’t do that,” he snaps.

“Sorry. It’s a pretty tattoo, I couldn’t help myself.” Your skin is heating with embarrassment, and you notice Seungcheol’s ears turning red too.

“I uh,” he swallows thickly. “My grandma was a tarot reader. She was always doing these readings, very connected to the Earth and shit. She used to tell me I had an Elk soul, like her. Something about spiritual guidance, protection, kindred souls or some shit. I’m not super into that stuff, but when she died, I kept having these stupid Elk dreams. Sort of felt like she was trying to communicate with me- if you believe in that sort of thing. Anyways, I figured if I got the tattoo, I’d feel closer to her, like she has my back.”

This is not the tattoo explanation you’d ever considered would come from a man like Seungcheol, and it takes you a few moments to register it and decide on a response.

“It sounds like you were very close with your grandma, I’m sorry that she passed.”

“It’s okay,” Seungcheol shrugs it off. “Shit happens.”

And just like that, he’s closing up again.

You wonder if you should tell him about your tarot connections, but you don’t want to sound like some crazy chick if you mention your spirit guides pointing you toward an Elk. Instead, you bite your tongue as you finish up his wound.

“All done,” you announce.

Seungcheol doesn’t say anything as he stands up and puts on his shirt. “What’s your address?” he asks, pulling out his phone.

You show him on the maps where you live. “Are you sure you want to give me a ride? Don’t you have… clients?”

“I can get you home and be back in time for my next appointment,” he assures you. “Think of this as another way of saying thank you for fixing me up.”

So far, he’s shown two love languages. He’s bought you a drink, and now he’s doing an act of service. He’d seemed hesitant on touch today, unlike last night when he’d been drinking, and you wonder what his history in relationships is like.

It sounds like you’ve both had shitty past experiences.

You just want to figure him out.

“Have you been on a bike before?” Seungcheol asks, grabbing a small black fullface helmet off a shelf of motorcycle memorabilia.

“No.”

“Are you scared?”

“More tired than anything else,” you admit with a laugh.

“Well, my Harley has a sissy bar, so you’ll be okay.”

You don’t even know what a sissy bar is, but you follow Seungcheol out to his bike anyways.

“Here, we can put your stuff in my saddlebag,” he explains, opening a large additional compartment near the back tire of his bike. “I don’t always ride with these, but for whatever reason, I thought it would be a good idea to have them on today.”

He helps you put your work bag in his bike, and then, he helps you with your helmet, his fingers delicately grazing your throat as he tightens the strap there.

“If anything is wrong, just tap my thigh,” he tells you, swinging a leg over his bike and starting the engine.

Even with layers of protection over your ears from the helmet, his Harley is loud. It purrs, like a lion, and you stand in a daze for a moment before he makes a motion for you to hop on.

You’re careful of his injured shoulder as you slowly get on the bike, adjusting yourself on the seat.

Seungcheol reaches for your hand, settling it on his hip. He opens his visor. “Ready?”

You nod.

He nods back, and the bike roars to life. He pulls out of the parking spot, and you hold on tighter, thankful for the additional padding of a safety bar behind your back- is this the sissy bar he was talking about?

You can’t dwell on motorcycle terms as Seungcheol gets onto the street, the bike moving even faster. The feeling of summer air is hot but pleasant on your skin as you ride between cars. You get the sneaking suspicion that Seungcheol is holding back on his driving-

You could imagine him weaving between vehicles and being a general menace on his bike, but with you on the back, he’s trying his best to be a gentleman.

You’re shocked at the trust you already have in this man. A man who a little over twelve hours ago, was a stranger.

You’ve never considered yourself an adrenaline junkie, but on the back of Seungcheol’s bike, everything else slips away.

You’re at your home before you know it, and you almost feel sad when Seungcheol pulls up to the curb. He motions for you to get off, and he joins you on the sidewalk a moment later, quickly helping you with your helmet.

“How was it?” he asks.

“That was super fun,” you tell him, beaming.

Seungcheol grins when he sees the expression on your face. “Glad you enjoyed it.”

“Listen, keep the helmet for now,” Seungcheol says. “I have your number and I know where you live, so I’ll come back for it.”

You feel your expression drop, and Seungcheol cocks his head to the side, concern written on his face.

“You good?”

“I just-” you swallow thickly. “Sorry, my uh- my ex used to say that to me. That he knew where I lived when I broke up with him. It felt like a threat, and it’s one of the reasons I had to move a couple of months ago.”

Seungcheol is quiet for a moment. “Fuck that guy.”

You nod. “Fuck that guy.”

Five:

You’ve had Seungcheol stuck in your head. After he’d dropped you off, it had been hard to sleep, your mind preoccupied with his answer about his tattoo. When you’d finally woken up hours later, you hadn’t been able to help yourself, you’d pulled out your tarot deck.

“Spirit,” you’d breathed. “I think I may have met him. The Elk. And even though you’ve given me the sign with his tattoo, I feel like I need more confirmation. I’m going to shuffle, and if this is meant for me, can you please give me a love card?”

There are numerous cards within the deck that talk about relationships, partnerships and new beginnings, and you’re hoping that one pops out.

You begin to shuffle, closing your eyes and taking it easy.

It’s about a minute before a card pops out. It’s upside down on your coffee table.

You take a deep breath, slowly reaching out to flip the card.

The Two of Cups stares up at you, and you don’t even have to open your tarot guide book to know what that means. It’s a card of unity, of partnership. Other than the Lovers, it’s one of the most clear relationship cards you can get.

You stare at it for a long while. The Elk may have been a coincidence. The fact that his own late grandmother had been a tarot reader may have been a coincidence. But pulling the Two of Cups, out of any other card, when seaking confirmation- this feels like fate.

Part of you wants to be extra sure and ask for the lovers card, but you also think this might be a good time to trust your spirit team. They’ve guided you twice now, and maybe you have to look inward.

Why are you so cautious that Seungcheol might be the one?

Are you ready for a new relationship?

You’d thought you were ready- and here you are, meeting a man who fits your type-

Maybe it’s the fact that he is your type that you’re worried. What if he turns out to be a dickhead like the last ones? You’re still holding onto a lot of fear. You want to protect yourself, which you validate as a legitimate concern.

But… are you going to spend the rest of your life frightened?

Or are you going to try to let go of those fears and learn to trust again, even if it ends up biting you in the ass?

The possible risk is heartbreak, but the possible reward is endless happiness.

Fate can only do so much, this is the part where your own actions will dictate the future.

Six:

“So, how’s that dude with the tattoos doing?” Joshua asks, taking a seat next to you in the nursing station when things have finally calmed down.

“Cheol? I uh… haven’t talked to him since he dropped me off at my place two days ago.”

“Is that good or bad?”

You shrug. “I’m not sure. We’re both busy people. I work here, and he owns a tattoo shop.”

“I guess that’s true,” Joshua nods. “Maybe you should call him and see how he’s doing?”

You quirk a brow at your friend. “What’s your angle here?”

Now it’s Joshua’s turn to shrug his shoulders. “No angle. I think, as your friend, sometimes it’s important to give you a little push. After all, your tarot said he’s your soulmate.”

Joshua’s one of your only coworkers who you’ve felt comfortable opening up to. He knows about all your spiritual inklings, and you’d filled him in on your whole Elk, Leo, Two of Cups fiasco yesterday.

“Fine, I’ll give him a quick call,” you sigh. “Strictly as a nurse who wants to see how the wound is doing.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Joshua grins.

You roll your eyes at him, fishing your phone out of your pocket.

Seungcheol answers on the second ring. “Hey.”

“Hi, how are you doing?” you ask, putting him on speaker phone. Joshua might be encouraging you to do this as a friend, but you know better than anyone that he also loves some good tea.

“Doing okay.”

“And your shoulder?”

“Good as far as I know… why? You worried about me?” You can hear the grin in his voice, the fact that he’s loving the concern you have for him. “I’ve had worse, you know.”

“I’d just hate for it to get infected,” you sigh.

“Look, if you want to do your due diligence as a nurse and everything, how about you get drinks with me and assess it yourself?” he suggests.

Joshua grabs your thigh, eyes widening, waiting on what you’ll say next.

“We could do that,” you respond.

“Sounds good, when are you free?”

“I’m off tomorrow.”

“How do you feel about eight o’clock?”

“That works,” you nod.

“I’ll pick you up at eight then, and bring your helmet.”

You find yourself smiling. “Will do.”

“It’s a date. See you then.”

“Bye, Cheol.”

Your heart is racing as you hang up the phone, and Joshua immediately repeats Seungcheol’s words, “It’s a date.”

“It’s a date,” you respond, jittery at the idea.

“Some guys are assholes and say ‘let’s hang out,’ but this one says ‘it’s a date.’”

“That’s a good sign,” you insist.

“A very good sign,” Joshua agrees. “If this dude ends up being the one, I might just have to get into tarot.”

Seven:

You’re surprised to find yourself playing nighttime mini golf with Seungcheol on your date. “What happened to drinks?” you ask as he pays for your tickets and grabs your clubs from the attendant.

He shrugs. “Figured you’re a nurse so you might not wanna get on my motorcycle after I had a few drinks, also the fact that you were designated driver last time I saw you at a bar- I thought this might be more your style. But, I’ll warn you, I’m not going to go easy on ya.”

You laugh, pleasantly surprised at how astute this man can be. “I think this will be fun.”

“Me too.”

Seungcheol’s wearing black jeans and a charcoal v-neck that shows off his strong shoulders. He’s the epitome of your type: a bad boy with tattoos. Yet, when you begin to play, he’s shockingly patient.

“Let me show you how to hold the club,” he suggests on the second hole, waiting for you to nod before he steps behind you and wraps his body around your own. “Feet positioning is key.” He also gently adjusts your hands, and your heart leaps in your chest when he breathes against your throat. “It might take some time to get used to,” Seungcheol warns, “so don’t beat yourself up if it doesn’t come naturally.”

You hit the golf ball, and it goes a lot closer to the hole than your first shot had.

“Did it take a while for you to get into mini golf?” you ask.

“Nah, I was always a natural,” he teases, flashing you a wink before he takes his own shot.

You admire the way his shoulders look with his back to you. “So what got you into being a tattoo artist? Into having your own place?”

“Well, my grandma passed, and she left me a pretty big inheritance. She always thought I could succeed as a tattoo artist, but before that I was stuck doing blue collar type shit. I think, the money was her final way of telling me to follow my dreams. I’m kind of obsessed with ink, if you haven’t noticed.” He holds out his arms, which are littered with patchwork. “How about you? How does someone get into being an emergency room nurse?”

“I just like helping people,” you explain. “When I was a kid, I broke my arm falling off the monkey bars. I’d always been scared of hospitals, but the nurse who helped me in emergency was an angel. She made it less scary, and when it was over, I realized I wanted to be just like her. When people come into the emergency room, it’s never fun. It’s frightening, and cold- and I want to be there for people who are going through that, to be a warm, friendly face.”

“My grandma had a light worker's soul too,” Seungcheol nods. “That’s what she always called it anyways. She wasn’t ever officially trained, but in her later years she got into herbal medicine. Anytime I was sick it was lemon and garlic chicken noodle soup with bone broths and the works- always made me feel a lot better.”

“She sounds like she was an amazing woman.”

“She was,” Seungcheol agrees. “I don’t know you that well yet, but I think she would have liked you.”

You grin. “Is that an important trait you look for when taking girls to mini golf?”

Seungcheol lets out a laugh. “It should be. My last ex wouldn’t have fit the bill, and at the time, I thought that was okay, but it didn’t end well.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“I’ll talk about mine if you talk about yours,” he suggests. “You said your last boyfriend was a creep when you broke up, threatened to come to your place and shit, he sounds like a piece of work.”

“He was,” you sigh. “I’ve got this thing for big tattooed men, bad boy types. It always leads to me getting my heart broken. He would tell me I was the one and everything, but I found out he was cheating on me with some waitress at the bar he used to go to all the time.”

“So what I’m hearing is… I’m your type.” Seungcheol flashes you a wink and you roll your eyes at him. “I’m just fucking with you. I’m sorry to hear that. Cheaters are the fucking worst.”

“Sounds like you’ve experienced something like that too.”

“Looks like both of our ex’s were cheating fucks,” Seungcheol says. “I know it’s a red flag to talk shit about your ex or whatever, but some ex’s deserved to be talked bad about.”

You nod. “A hundred percent.”

“Did you think you were going to be with your last one forever?” Seungcheol asks after a moment.

“I thought so.”

“Me too with mine, I was just about ready to get her a ring.” He frowns, looking down at his golf ball. With a sigh, he easily knocks it into the hole. “Well, this is just the way life happens I guess.”

It’s clear you both have very similar wounds. You’re shocked at how easy it is to talk about this with Seungcheol. Some people say not to talk about ex’s on dates with new people, but this almost feels therapeutic. You understand Seungcheol better, and you’re sure he understands you too.

It’s promising to know he thinks about the future, that he’s ready to settle down, not all men are.

Maybe you’re both in the same boat with all of this, and that’s a hopeful thought.

Eight:

Seungcheol can’t seem to get you out of his head.

He’d never thought of himself as a particularly superstitious man. His grandma had been spiritual, and he’d always loved that aspect of her. He’d enjoyed doing tarot readings and making all sorts of elixirs with her in the garden. She’d told him he’d be a successful tattoo artist, she’d seen it in the stars, and while she’d been a big part of making that premonition come true, he wonders what else she might be right about.

Seungcheol’s grandma had always told him he’d end up with a healer like her. A doctor, a psychiatrist, a nurse- she wasn’t very specific, but she’d said his soul would call in a light worker when the time was right.

He feels drawn to you, his little emergency room nurse, designated driver, light worker.

It’s been such a short amount of time, but there’s something unexplainable about the way he feels.

“You look distracted,” Mingyu muses, coming to join Seungcheol outside the tattoo parlour where he’s puffing on his vape.

“Just thinking.”

“About your birthday party tonight, or that girl you brought through the other day?” Mingyu presses, grinning as he bumps his shoulder against Seungcheol’s.

Seungcheol can’t help but sigh at his friend’s prying ways.

“Look you don’t have to tell me anything, but summer is almost over and you need a backpack. My angel has been surrounded by testosterone motorcycle rides for months, and we’d all love another girl to be part of the group. You should invite her out tonight.”

Of course Mingyu’s coming at this from an angle of having a girlfriend. He and Wonwoo are obsessed with their ‘little angel,’ and Mingyu’s always talking about the joys of being in a relationship. It can get somewhat tedious for Seungcheol.

“Don’t you have a client soon?” Seungcheol sighs.

“Point taken, I’ll leave you be,” Mingyu says, patting him on the shoulder.

As soon as his friend is inside, Seungcheol pulls out his phone. He thinks about what he’s going to say to you, before typing out an easy, “Up to anything tonight?”

He’s shocked by how quick your response is. “It’s Sunmi’s birthday this week so we’re celebrating tonight since it’s Saturday.”

Seungcheol’s mood drops, and a moment later, you’re calling him.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi,” you respond. “How are you doing?”

“Not so bad.” He wants to tell you that it’s his birthday tonight, wants to try to convince you to come, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to guilt you, doesn’t want to mess up your plans. “What’s up?”

“I just… I know we’ve only gone on one actual date, and I only met you a week ago, but… I just want you to know, when I go out tonight, I’m not going to be hitting on anyone or anything.”

He’s taken aback for a moment. “I wasn’t really worried about that.”

“Okay! Good! I just- I know with your ex and everything- and I just, I figured I’d clarify, even though we’ve only been on one date, I’m a one guy at a time kind of girl.”

He respects that you’re so direct about this, and he appreciates your loyalty. You really are a good person.

“I’m a one girl at a time kind of guy,” Seungcheol says finally. “Glad we’re on the same page about that.”

“Me too.” He can hear your smile, and it makes his heart swell.

“Anyways, I’ll let you go. Have fun tonight.”

“I will, bye, Cheol.”

Nine:

You’re having a great night. The drinks have been flowing, and you’re having a fun time celebrating Sunmi’s birthday. Things are fuzzy in the best way- until you hear a familiar voice say your name.

You turn to find your ex standing close to you at the bar, and your heart sinks in your chest.

“It’s been a while,” your ex states.

You can’t even find the words to speak, suddenly getting drunk seems like a horrible idea.

You’ve just started to feel safe again, to feel stable- you’d thought being out with your friends, you could let loose, but now your ex is here and your heart is beginning to race.

“Have you been drinking?” your ex asks, coming to stand closer to you at the bar top, where you’d been sipping a gin and tonic.

“I, uh-” your words catch in your throat, and you swallow thickly. “It’s Sunmin’s birthday.”

Your ex nods, and when you look toward your table, you see Sunmin gaping at you.

Turning away from Sunmi, your ex addresses you. “Is she still a huge bitch?”

“I-” you want to defend your friend, but you feel frozen. You can’t think- you’re completely overwhelmed, and you can hear the blood rushing in your ears, your heart like thunder in your chest.

“We need to talk,” your ex says next. “Come outside with me.”

He grabs your arm, and then a hand wraps around yours. You turn to see Sunmi standing there, glaring at your ex. “What do you think you’re doing?!” she asks.

“Y/N and I need to have a chat outside,” your ex sighs, being very dismissive.

“She doesn’t have to go anywhere with you,” Sunmi insists. “Honey, do you want to go with him?”

You quickly shake your head, moving closer to your friend for safety.

“She doesn’t know what she wants,” your ex rolls his eyes, tightening his grip on your arm to the point where it almost hurts.

“We’re going to the bathroom,” Sunmi insists, somehow successfully tugging you away from your ex.

“Run away, but I’ll be right here to talk to her when you’re done.”

It feels like a blur as Sunmi races you to the woman’s washroom. “Y/N,” she helps you to the sink, looking at your face. “Are you okay?”

“I-”

Sunmi pulls you to her chest, hugging you deeply. “We’re going to sort this out,” she promises.

“How?” You feel like crying. All the emotions come flooding back, the fear, the helplessness-

“We’re going to call Seungcheol.”

“What?” You’re in shock. “We can’t do that!”

“We can, and we will. Men like your ex only respond to other men. We’re calling him. Give me your phone.”

Reluctantly, you hand Sunmi your cell, turning on the sink to splash your arms with cold water.

“Hi, Seungcheol?” There’s a pause. “No, this is Sunmi. I’m out with y/n, we’re at a bar on Elm and fifth street, her ex just showed up- okay, okay, yeah, we’re in the bathroom in the back.”

She hangs up and you look to her for an explanation.

Your friend lets out a sigh. “As soon as I said your ex was here, Seungcheol said to give him five minutes. I’m going to keep you here and he’ll come get us, okay?”

You nod. “I’m sorry to ruin your birthday.”

“Honey, you’re not ruining anything,” she assures you, pulling you in for another hug.

You hold back tears while you wait with Sunmi, and in no time at all, there’s a knock on the bathroom door. Seungcheol pokes his head in, and you see his expression drop when he sees you.

“What happened?” he growls, coming to join you.

“Her ex was trying to drag her outside-” Sunmi tries to explain.

“He touched you?” Seungcheol asks, anger laced in his words.

You nod, pointing to your forearm.

“Grabbed is more like it,” Sunmi breathes.

“Okay,” Seungcheol nods. “Okay, I’ll get you out of here. Just hold onto me and we’ll get out of here.”

You nod again, allowing Seungcheol to gently take your hand. He guides you out of the bathroom, and you huddle close to his side as he walks you through the bar- you almost think things will go smoothly when your ex steps in front of you.

“Who’s this, you’re new boyfriend?” he asks, venom dripping from his words.

Seungcheol stops in his tracks. “So you must be the dip shit ex.”

“Say that again, asshole,” your ex growls, eyes narrowing.

“You must be-” Seungcheol broadens his shoulders, “the dip shit ex.”

Your ex releases a laugh, and then he’s taking a swing. It feels slow and fast at the same time, Sunmi tears you away from Seungcheol, who dodges the punch easily, only to land a blow to your ex’s stomach-

“Y/N! Sunmi!” Mingyu’s voice appears out of nowhere, and suddenly two strong arms are wrapping around you and your friend. “Outside!”

Mingyu keeps you close as he gets you and Sunmi out of the bar while a commotion ensues in your wake. Four motorcycles are pulled up on the curb. You recognize Vernon, and there’s another man you’ve never seen before.

“Cheol’s starting shit,” Mingyu tells his friends quickly.

“We heard your ex was here?” Vernon offers, giving you a sympathetic look.

“He threw a swing at Cheol when I got inside,” Mingyu tries to explain. “Y/N, we’re going to get you out of here, Wonwoo pass me the spare helmet from the saddlebag.”

“What about Seungcheol?” you ask, watching the men fuss.

“He can take care of himself,” Mingyu assures you, helping you put on the helmet.

“Cheol will meet us at our place,” the new man, Wonwoo, says. “When he gets hot like this, he doesn’t drive very safely.”

“Trust us,” Mingyu pleads. “We just gotta get you out of here, your ex made the first swing, and nothing good can come from this now.”

You turn to Sunmi and she squeezes your hand. “It’s okay, get out of here. I’ll text you what happens.”

You can’t even think as Mingyu gets onto his bike and you awkwardly take the seat behind him. You can’t comprehend how things happened the way they did- how fast the altercation had been before your ex had taken a go at Seungcheol.

As you leave the bar, heart thundering in your chest, it’s the most you can do to try to slow your breathing, your body still carrying the trauma that you’d endured with your ex, the wound you’d thought was healed now torn open.

Ten:

“Are you sure this is okay?” you ask as Mingyu covers you with a large fluffy blanket on his couch. “I mean- you just said your girlfriend is four months pregnant and sleeping in the other room-”

“It’s fine,” Mingyu assures you.

“I’m sorry if I ruined your night.” You’d found your ability to speak again once you felt safe and in Mingyu’s apartment, and now, you can’t help the anxiety bubbling inside of you. You feel like a burden- and it’s an all too familiar feeling from your time with your ex.

“You didn’t ruin it, we were almost done anyways,” Wonwoo notes.

“Are you sure?”

“Y/N, deep breaths,” Mingyu tells you, sitting on the couch next to you, offering your calf a reassuring squeeze.

“Is Cheol going to be okay?” you ask.

“He’s going to be fine, that man has never lost a fight,” Mingyu explains, smiling softly.

In the distance, you hear an engine revving, and Wonwoo sighs. “There he is.”

Not even five minutes later, Seungcheol is practically bursting through the door. His eyes find you on the couch, and you’re quick to stand, allowing him to envelop you in a hug. His heart is racing in his chest, he’s clearly panicked, and when he pulls away, he looks down at you with wide eyes.

“Are you okay?” he questions, cupping your face as if checking you for injury.

“I’m okay, are you okay?” you retort.

“Just a few bruised knuckles,” he assures you.

You find yourself laughing, and as you laugh, your eyes well up with tears. Now that he’s here, you finally feel like you can take a deep breath, and he’s quick to tug you back to his chest as you cry.

“I’m going to give you a moment, then I’m going to take you home,” he tells you, hand smoothing up and down your back.

You stay in his arms until you feel a bit better, and when you pull away, Mingyu is offering you a tissue. You clean yourself up, say your goodbyes, then Seungcheol walks you out with the spare helmet in hand.

He doesn’t say anything on the way down, but at the bike, he hands you his fullface. “Want you protected,” he tells you, grabbing the bucket helmet from your grasp.

You nod, putting on the helmet and allowing him to help you fasten it up.

You’re quiet as you both get onto the bike, and Seungcheol adjusts your hand to his hip, squeezing gently.

The bike roars to life and you take off.

It’s a different feeling to be on a motorcycle while still a little drunk, and you find yourself throwing your head back to look up at the night sky.

You’ve seen the stars before, but on the back of Seungcheol’s bike, it feels like you're experiencing them for the first time.

You lose track of time doing this, and the ride is done sooner than you’d like when he pulls up to your building. “Come on, baby,” he says softly, helping you take off your helmet. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

He holds your hand, helping you with your keys to get into the apartment complex. The elevator ride is quiet, but his hand is a reassuring constant, warm and large wrapped around your own.

He’s never been to your place, and you feel a little self conscious as you open up your door. It’s a modest apartment, one bedroom- there’s really nothing to be insecure about, but you think maybe your anxiety from the bar incident is just making you a little crazy.

“How about you sit down, and I’ll get you some water?” he suggests, helping you to the couch.

You kick off your high heels, curling up on the cushions while Seungcheol putters around your kitchen. He already looks like he belongs here, and for a brief moment, you can forget about your ex.

Seungcheol rejoins you on the couch, handing you the cup. “Here.”

“Thank you.”

You sip on your water, trying to breathe properly again.

Seungcheol gives you the space to unwind. He doesn’t pester you with questions about the altercation with your ex at the bar, and you’re grateful for it.

“You’re not hurt, are you?” he asks finally.

You shake your head, your eyes dropping to his hands. “You’re hurt though.”

“Just bruised knuckles,” he assures you.

“There’s blood,” you insist. “I’ll-”

“Tell me where your first aid kit is and I’ll grab it.”

You direct him to the cupboard in your bathroom, and he returns with it, setting the case onto your coffee table.

“How’s your shoulder?” you ask as you take out the tools you’ll need.

“Almost better, I heal fast,” he says softly.

It feels good to focus on his wounds rather than your own, and you gently clean the scrapes on his hand. His right fist is pretty badly bruised, and you do your best to treat it. Then you begin to slowly wrap his knuckles, taking your time. Two wraps around his wrist, diagonal across the top to his pinky, under the hand, to the pointer, diagonal-

It’s a nice repetition of motions, and when you’re all done, you lift his hand to your lips, gently pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “All better.”

You look up at Seungcheol, and he stares back.

Then, he slowly moves in, carefully watching your expression. He stops just an inch from your lips, and you can feel his breath on your face. He’s waiting for you to make the final move, for you to be the one with control.

With one last look at your beautiful, dark protector, you close the distance.

It’s a soft kiss, not the kind of first kiss you’ve ever had before. Seungcheol doesn’t immediately try to dominate you like men in the past have, he lets you set the pace. You lean in closer, grabbing his shoulders to stabilize yourself as you deepen the kiss.

Seungcheol’s arms wrap around you, and it’s a somewhat awkward position on the couch like this, so he simply pulls you onto his lap.

You lose yourself in the kiss, allowing all your anxiety to dissipate while you enjoy the safety Seungcheol provides.

After a while, Seungcheol pulls away, and you’re both breathing heavily.

“How… how do your knuckles feel?” you ask.

He laughs, looking down at his hands. “I might black out my fingers when this is all healed,” he admits. “I get into too many barfights. My grandma used to say it was the Leo in me.”

“The Leo in you?” you repeat, heard thumping wildly in your chest.

“Yeah, I uh…” he lets out a soft chuckle, “I didn’t wanna pressure you to come out or anything after I heard you were at a friend’s birthday party, but it’s sort of my birthday today.”

You’re frozen for a moment. “Happy birthday.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re a Leo,” you say again.

“Uh huh. You’re not about to tell me some weird zodiac rule about our signs not being compatible, are you?”

“No, it’s not that.” You take a deep breath. Just a short time ago, you’d decided not to tell him about the Elk tattoo meaning, and now here you are, about to tell him everything.

You’re not sure if it’s the adrenaline from the bar situation, or the slight tipsyness, but you think fuck it, if he could tell you about his tarot loving grandmother, you can tell him about this.

“A few months ago, I did a reading,” you begin to explain.

“A tarot reading,” he clarifies.

“Yeah. And I asked my guides to show me a spirit animal card that would be a tattoo on the person I’m supposed to be with. The card came up as an Elk- and before you tell me it’s a very common tattoo, I know it is, which is why I asked for further clarification with them telling me the zodiac of this person too-”

“And they said Leo,” he breathes.

You nod. “Then, when I met you, the Elk lined up, but I still wasn’t sure, so I did another reading on us, and the Two of Cups came out, it’s a love card. So with those two cards, and now the fact that you’re a Leo-”

“Is this your way of telling me you think I’m your soulmate?” Seungcheol grins.

“God, I should have guessed you’re a fucking Leo,” you roll your eyes.

“Don’t be rude,” he tuts, gently pinching your hip. “If it’s any consolation, my grandmother always told me I’d end up with someone in the medical field, and you’re an ER nurse.”

“She really said that?” you ask.

“Uh huh.” Seungcheol’s gaze dips to your lips then back up again. “I wonder if she saw this future.”

Your heart melts. After your last relationship, where the lovebombing came on fast, you’d promised yourself not to get burned by that sort of thing again- but here you are, falling for Seungcheol way quicker than you ever have with anyone else in the past.

Even so, something about this feels so right.

You let out a breath. “One time with the Elk may have been coincidence. Two times with the Two of Cups card was a little odd. But three times with your Leo Zodiac-”

“I guess the question is, do you believe in fate?” Seungcheol moves closer.

“I think you know that I do,” you laugh.

Seungcheol’s hands squeeze your hips, and he doesn’t say anything else as he brings his mouth to yours.

You kiss him eagerly, wrapping your arms around him, pressing your chests together. His tongue glides against your own and it feels like magic- there’s a bulge growing in his pants, and you can’t help but begin to grind down against him.

Seungcheol releases a small groan and it’s music to your ears, prompting you to apply more pressure to his cock when you wriggle against him.

With a sigh, Seungcheol pulls away. “Baby,” he says softly, “you’ve been drinking and I don’t want to take advantage tonight-”

“I swear that whole situation with my ex sobered me up,” you admit. “Besides, maybe I want to give you a birthday present.”

“A birthday present?” he repeats with a chuckle.

You nod. “Cheol, I haven’t even kissed anyone in months- I’m already practically drenched from making out, you won’t make me wait even longer, will you?”

He studies your face, and you can see the moment he folds. “We can do this, but at any point if I think you look drunk, we have to stop. I don’t want you to regret this being our first time.”

“I could never regret this,” you promise, leaning in to press your lips to his throat.

Seungcheol throws his head back, his fingers digging into your hips again. The low moan he releases tells you that he has a sensitive neck, and you enjoy simply teasing him for a minute while you mentally prep yourself for what’s to come next.

You do want to move on, and this is one of those steps.

You’re not afraid of it. You had been frightened about intimacy with someone new, but Seungcheol makes you feel more safe than you’ve ever felt in your life.

You want this.

You shift a little on Seungcheol’s lap, reaching down to cup his cock with your palm.

Seungcheol swallows thickly, his hands smoothing up and down your hips. “Are you sure?” he asks. “You don’t want me to take care of you?”

“It’s your birthday,” you point out. “And you took care of me at the bar, I think it’s my turn to show some appreciation.”

He doesn’t argue with you, and you can feel the tension leaving his shoulders. He lets out a deep breath. “I know it’s early,” he says, “but… if we do this, I don’t want any confusion. I want you to know that you’re mine, and I’m yours.”

“Honestly? I’ve been yours since practically the moment I saw you take your shirt off so I could clean your shoulder wound.”

Seungcheol releases a chuckle. “Really?”

“Uh huh, you make me fucking feral.”

He lets out a groan of appreciation. “It’s been hard to control myself too. That day at the studio, when you touched my back tattoo- I was so close to breaking. Wanted to throw you onto my desk and make you feel good.”

You imagine what that would have been like, and it makes you moan. “Why didn’t you?”

“I could tell you had a past, and I didn’t want to scare you off,” he admits. “I’ve been… trying to be a good boy.”

Your bad boy trying to be good to make you comfortable. You really hit the jackpot with Seungcheol.

“Cheol, I’ve told you I have a thing for bad boys,” you tease.

“So maybe I should take control right now,” he suggests with a grin.

“Let me suck you off, and then you can take control,” you tell him, pulling away. “I’m going to get on my knees now.”

Seungcheol watches you slip onto the floor infront of him, and your hands find his belt. You try to focus on your task of getting his pants off, but you enjoy sneaking glances at him, seeing his pretty face as he tries to keep composure.

He lifts his hips to help you tug his jeans down, and his cock slaps up against his lower abdomen, hard and already leaking.

He’s a decent size, somewhere between six and seven inches, and his cock is as girthy as the rest of him. You lick your lips, grabbing the base so you can adjust him toward your mouth as you lean in.

“No teasing,” Seungcheol warns, voice softening when he says, “please.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar,” he laughs, reaching out to stroke your head.

You slip the tip of his cock into your mouth, swirling your tongue.

“And that’s the teasing I was talking about,” Seungcheol muses. “Feels good though.”

You sink further down onto him, beginning to suck as you move up and down.

“Fuck, that feels even better,” he groans.

When you were with your ex, blow jobs were an expectation, and because of that, you never really enjoyed them. There’s something powerful about doing this of your own volition, about making the conscious choice to pleasure Seungcheol.

You close your eyes, getting lost in the motion of providing this for him. Hallowing your cheeks, you suck hard when you’re near the tip, and Seungcheol groans loudly, shifting further down on the couch so you’re not bent over him in such an awkward position.

“You’re good at that, baby,” Seungcheol says. “But there’s only one birthday present I’d enjoy more than this.”

You let out a “hmm?” sound, an inquiry.

“When I’m balls deep in your pussy, watching you writhe under me, listening to your pretty sounds- that will be the cherry on top of this birthday,” he explains. “Thank you for wanting to make me feel good, but- usually, baby, I like to be the giver.”

Your pussy throbs at his words, and you increase your speed on his cock, letting out a moan of appreciation.

“Yeah? You like that?” he asks. “Say the word, baby, and I’ll make it happen.”

You pull off of him, your hand smoothing up from base to tip to pump him while you address your beautiful dark protector. “I just want to make you feel good a little while longer.”

His expression softens. “Making me feel really good.”

You grin, returning to your task.

Seungcheol’s hand is gentle in your hair. He caresses you while you suck him off, never applying pressure or trying to get you to deep throat him. It’s an ever constant, soft touch, and you’re shocked at how much of a gentleman this heavily tattooed, bar fighting, Leo can be.

“Baby?” His voice draws you from your thoughts. “I know I said you could say the word and be done, but- this feels too good, and I don’t wanna bust the moment I begin to fuck you.”

You pull off of his cock with a pop, smiling up at him. “Okay.”

“Okay?” He lets out a shaky breath and grins. “Where’s your bedroom, gorgeous?”

“Right there.” You point at the door adjacent to the living room.

“Come on, baby, it’s my turn to take care of you.” He helps you to your feet, pulling his pants back up, and you’re shocked when he throws you over his uninjured shoulder, carrying you to your bedroom while you erupt in a fit of butterfly fueled giggles.

Seungcheol lays you softly onto your bed, staring down at you. He takes in your silky shirt and your dress pants, you like to be more classy when you go out, to keep up with your reputation as a nurse.

The two of you are very different people. He’s black ripped jeans, plain tshirts and tattoos. And you’re classy outfits, scrubs, and a healer’s touch. Somehow, even with these differences, the two of you work. Like Yin and Yang, complementary forces, light and dark.

“Can I take these off for you?” he asks, tugging at your pant leg.

You nod, watching the way he begins to undo your button and zipper. He’s slow with his motions, precise. It’s not a rush to get you naked, it’s an enjoyed exploration, and you love the way his eyes glow when you lift your hips to allow him to pull the fabric off your lower half.

“You’re so pretty,” Seungcheol muses.

“Yeah?”

“That day you were in my shop with your friend, doing a consult with Vernon- I was trying to act like I was watching my newest apprentice work, but… I kept looking at you. And then, outside the bar, when you showed up again-” Seungcheol shakes his head, his hand smoothing along your leg gently. “Baby, you’re going to turn me into a believer.”

“Invisible string theory, perhaps,” you grin.

Seungcheol chuckles. “If that’s what you want to call it.”

He takes off his own shirt, and you watch the way his muscles move under his skin. He’s littered in tattoos, patchwork on his arms and chest. There must be a hundred small to medium sized tattoos, and you want to know the story behind each and every one.

But there’s a time and a place for that, and right now, you’re eager for something else.

Seungcheol gets on top of you, and you immediately thread your fingers through his soft dark hair, pulling his lips to your own.

Your free hand explores his muscular shoulders, careful of the bandage still on his bar wound, and you’re practically tingling with how attracted you are to this man.

He kisses you deeply, cupping your face while his other hand braces him to the bed over top of you.

Your legs wrap around his hips, pulling him closer, and he grinds against your panty clad core.

The pressure on your clit has you moaning, and Seungcheol responds by kissing down your throat. He licks at your collarbone, and then his hand moves from your cheek to your shirt. “Can I take this off?” he asks.

“Uh huh, there’s a tie at the back.”

Seungcheol pulls off of you, and in one motion, he flips you onto your stomach. His warm hand smooths over your shoulder, toying with the tie there.

You hold your breath in anticipation as he begins to undo the corset style back of your slinky top. He leans over you, pressing a kiss to the nape of your neck that makes your body erupt in goosebumps.

You enjoy the way he takes his time with your shirt, and he slowly helps you slip it off. You’re laying flat on his bed, your tits pressed to the comforter, while Seungcheol explores your back with his hands. He traces the curvature of your sides, pressing kisses along your spine. Soft curls tickle your skin, and you’re grinning like the Cheshire Cat at how good this feels.

Seungcheol flips you over again, and his gaze dips to your exposed breasts. “You’re so pretty,” he muses, gently groping your chest, his thumb grazing over your nipple. You watch him swallow thickly, and then he’s leaning over, taking the sensitive bud in his mouth while you tangle your fingers in his curls again.

With his mouth on your breast, his free hand slips down your body, and he tugs your panties down just enough for him to access your core.

Two digits rub between your pussy lips and you feel him smile against your nipple. “You weren’t lying about being wet, baby.”

“Would never lie to you,” you breathe out shakily.

“No?” He circles your clit and you moan loudly.

“Never,” you repeat, pushing your hips up toward his hand, needing more friction.

Seungcheol rewards you by slipping both of his digits into your wet core, pressing his palm to your clit as he begins to finger fuck you. He sucks on your breast while he does this, and you’re lost in the sensations he provides.

“Fuck, Cheol-” you whimper when his teeth graze your nipple, your pussy clenching tight around his fingers.

“Wanna make you cum,” Seungcheol says, pulling away from your breast to look down at you.

“Then make me cum,” you respond, nodding at him.

Seungcheol presses one last kiss to your lips and then he shifts down the bed, pulling his fingers from your core. He gets onto his knees at the foot of the mattress, dragging you toward himself and pulling your panties off.

He spreads your thighs. “So pretty,” he muses. “Everything about you is so fucking pretty.”

Your skin heats, it can be hard to take a compliment, but something tells you that Seungcheol will get you used to this kind of praise.

He leans forward, eyes meeting yours as he presses a kiss to your clit. You jolt at the small contact, releasing a shaky breath.

No one has eaten you out in months, and your core is already throbbing with anticipation.

“Gonna take care of you,” Seungcheol promises, and you know that this promise extends far past the sexual setting you’re in right now.

He moves forward again, capturing your clit in his mouth while his digits easily slip into your pussy again.

You throw your head back, enjoying the sensation of him worshiping your cunt. He’s gentle with his motions at first, kitten licking your sensitive bud. You know he’s getting used to your sounds, figuring out what pressure works, what you enjoy, whether thats sucking, or more gentle stimulus.

“Feels good,” you tell him. “Like the way you crook your fingers.”

He responds by applying more pressure to the ‘come hither’ motion he’s making, and you release a whine at how good it feels.

“Just like that,” you whimper.

He sucks your clit harder too, and you moan louder, hips bucking toward his face.

Seungcheol’s free hand finds your lower abdomen and he pins you to his bed, keeping you still while he works on your pussy.

You can feel your walls clenching around him, and Seungcheol releases a groan of pleasure. It adds to your own feeling of euphoria that clearly he’s enjoying this. He hadn’t been lying when he said he’s usually a giver, and the fact that he doesn’t see this as a chore has you able to enjoy it fully, unlike certain past experiences where men had to be begged into eating you out.

Sex with Seungcheol - even foreplay like this - feels so natural. You’re not as in your head as you usually are, with his nonverbal communications and moans, you can be certain he’s enjoying this as much as you are, and it gives you the confidence to give yourself over completely to the pleasure.

Sex should always be like this, you realize.

There’s no pressure, no worrisome thoughts, it’s just two souls connecting physically in a way that’s mutually beneficial.

Having not been eaten out in a long time, it’s not surprising that you’re extremely sensitive, and Seungcheol works you all the way to the edge before you can even comprehend what’s happening.

“Cheol-” you whimper, threading your fingers in his hair, “I’m gonna-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence, he sucks harshly on your clit, and your words become moans as your orgasm surges through you.

His hand on your abdomen keeps you steady as he works you through your high, sucking on your clit until your legs are shaking on his broad shoulders.

Seungcheol pulls away, and you open your eyes to watch him wipe the back of his mouth, licking his fingers clean.

“Still want this?” he asks, hooking his fingers in the waistband of his jeans.

“More than anything,” you smile.

A moment later, Seungcheol is as naked as you are, and he gets between your thighs again, lips returning to your own. He doesn’t immediately slip his cock into you, instead, he grinds against your core, teasing your sensitive clit and driving you wild.

You kiss him eagerly, threading your fingers through his hair and groping his muscular shoulders, enjoying the feeling of him despite the need growing inside of you.

You’re reminded again that there’s no rush.

You can take pleasure in this without feeling like you need to be getting fucked to be worth something.

You’re a hundred percent sure that if you’d told Seungcheol you’re not ready for sex, he would have stopped, cuddled you, and not taken it personally. There’s this feeling that Seungcheol is going to be around for a long time- and as crazy as it is with how short of a time you’ve known him, you know that your connection runs deeper than your physical attraction.

Seungcheol shifts slightly, grabbing at his cock. You bite at your lip while you wait for him to line it up with your core, and you break your kiss, panting. Your eyes meet as he slips the head of his length into your wet hole, and you both groan at the feeling.

“Fuck,” Seungcheol moans, sinking in inch by inch. “You feel so fucking good.”

“You feel better,” you retort, kissing his cheek and nuzzling his nose.

“Impossible,” he grins, burying his face in your throat as he begins to fuck you.

You claw at his shoulders, crying out with each thrust. He fills you so well- he has probably one of the biggest cocks you’ve ever taken, and the way he stretches you out is like heaven, like he was made to be in your pussy.

The sounds he’s making are unlike any other pleasured noises you’ve ever heard.

Nothing has ever felt this right.

Seungcheol’s uninjured hand finds your own, and he laces your fingers, squeezing you reassuringly as he fucks you harder, his speed increasing.

His lips are hot on your neck, and it feels delightful. You love just laying back and taking everything he’s giving you. He’s so big, like a warm, weighted blanket covering your form.

Your toes are already curling at how deep he’s hitting, and your thighs shake desperately around his hips.

“Cheol-”

“Yes, baby?” he asks.

“You just- fuck, this feels so good-”

“You deserve to feel good,” Seungcheol tells you. “You work so hard for others, I’m lucky I get to be the guy working for you.”

Your heart swells at his words. Past boyfriends’ haven't ever truly appreciated how hard it is to be an emergency room nurse. You spend your whole shift taking care of others, and that high pressure, intense mentality bleeds into your personal life. It's a sweet relief to be the one on the receiving end, to relax and know that you can fully give yourself up to the pleasure and desire you feel, without feeling obligated to return this favour with future sexual gratifications.

Seungcheol’s lips meet your own, and you get lost in him, moaning desperately as he works your pussy open.

His thrusts slow, and he stays completely still inside of you for a moment, then pulls away.

“Can you shift onto your side for me?” he asks. “One leg straight on the bed, the other thigh pulled closer to your chest.”

It’s a position you’ve never tried before, but you trust Seungcheol, and you’re quick to adjust. You lay half on your side, one leg stretched between his knees while you bring your other toward your breasts.

Seungcheol’s warm hand finds your thigh, and he helps bend you, his free hand guiding his cock to your pussy again.

When he pushes in this time, it feels even deeper, and you let out a squeak at the stimulation.

“You like that?” he asks, hand moving from your thigh to your breast, where he gently pinches your nipple.

“So deep- I feel so full-” you whimper.

Seungcheol only grins, and he’s an absolute vision in this position. He’s practically on his knees, and his chest is all exposed and gorgeous. His tattoos are beautiful as he massages your breast with one hand, the other on your thigh, anchoring you while he fucks you.

You’re not sure if it’s the sideways angle or what, but he’s hitting a spot that has your toes curling tight, your pussy clenching.

“Fuck-” you moan.

“Shit, I should have asked this before-” Seungcheol says, voice shaky, “do I need to pull out or-”

“I’m on birth control,” you assure him. “You can cum inside.”

“Fuck,” Seungcheol groans, rutting into you even harder.

“Kinda want you to fill me up,” you admit.

“You’re way too sexy, baby, holy shit-”

You can tell your words are doing a number on him, and it makes your core throb with pleasure.

“Can you rub your clit?” he asks. “Want you to cum with me. I hate cumming alone.”

“Yeah.” Your hand slips between your thighs awkwardly, and Seungcheol decreases his pace to give you a chance to catch up to his pleasure.

His movements are slower now, more precise, his cock hitting that spot deep inside that has you crying out again.

“You look so good like this,” Seungcheol tells you. “My pretty little nurse.”

For some reason, his words just do something to you, and your core throbs even harder. “Cheol, I’m close-” you warn him,

“Tell me when you’re almost there and I’ll go fast again.”

You focus on the sight of him, on the tattoos and muscles, his strong features and the pretty dark curls. His small groans egg you on, and you’re at the edge in no time, giving him a nod. “Okay-”

He releases your breast, using both hands on your leg now to steady himself as he fucks you stupid, your whole body jolting with each motion. You let out a desperate whine, rubbing your clit even harder-

“Fuck, fuck-” Seungcheol groans. “Feels so fucking good- fuck, cum with me, baby, cum with me-”

You moan in response, your core clenching down desperately on his cock as your orgasm explodes through you. Your whole body shivers with endorphins, heart racing in your chest.

Seungcheol throws his head back, releasing an extremely sexy groan as he cums with you, fingers digging into your skin as he thrusts slowly and deeply, working you through your orgasms.

You rub your clit until you can’t take it anymore, tearing your hand away.

Seungcheol slumps forward, stilling completely, and you greedily grab at his shoulders. He collapses half on top of you, and you thread your fingers through his hair, panting hard.

His forehead rests against your own, and you both just try to catch your breath.

You’ve never felt connected to someone the way you feel connected to Seungcheol in this moment. It’s all consuming, and it makes you emotional as you come down from your high.

Seungcheol must notice your shaky breathing because he opens his eyes and looks at you. “You okay, baby?”

“I’m just-” you swallow thickly. “I don’t know-”

You can’t voice it, can’t voice the way you’re feeling. There are so many thoughts swirling around in your head, so many past traumas rearing their ugly faces and making you second guess yourself-

“I’m yours, and you’re mine,” Seungcheol breathes, pressing a kiss to your lips. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And just like that, he can clear all of your anxieties, as if he was able to read your mind and see your fears.

You’ve always been drawn to bad boys, to men who you envision as some kind of dark protector- and now, you think you’ve finally found the right one.

☀️ mlist + an. Thank you so much for reading! this fic is written in conjunction to my other story 'crossroads,' read more about Mingyu, Wonwoo, and their y/n here

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🔮 preview. Seungcheol’s thrusts get faster, and he rests his forehead against your spine while he rails you into the blow up mattress at a campsite where anyone could walk by. His baby fever is at an all time high, and he’s fucking you like a man who means every word he’s saying.

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, sex in a campsite, exhibitionism, staying quiet during sex, pussy eating, fingering, large/muscled/tattooed Cheol, quickie, baby fever, dirty talk, breeding kink, praise, breast worship, etc…

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 2.6k I teaser wc. 180

🌙 starring. Choi Seungcheol x afab!Reader

bonus

It’s been just under a year since you started dating Seungcheol, and through him, you’ve found a family. Many trivia nights, and bowling excursions have been spent with Seungcheol, his friends, Sunmi, her sister, and her sister’s boyfriend Jeonghan. Once you’d met everyone face to face, it had been much easier to track Sunmi’s convoluted explanation of her connection to the tattoo parlour, and it’s been a joy to become so close with so many wonderful people.

Sunmi’s sister’s boyfriend, Jeonghan, is cousins with Mingyu and Wonwoo’s girlfriend, who’d had a beautiful baby girl this past January, and now, it’s the baby’s first summer. You don’t mind the shift of hang outs to be more baby inclusive, and now, you find yourself at a campsite with the whole gang.

While everyone is quite enamored with the little baby girl, Haesoo, no one is more obsessed than your boyfriend Seungcheol. You always get to see him coddling her while out and about as a group, but in the past three days at this campsite, you’ve contracted a serious case of baby fever.

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ittybittyfanblog · 6 months ago

Text

Error 404: (Self-Aware!AU, Sylus Edition) – Pt. 8

Summary: A LADS self-aware!AU featuring Sylus and a player. That’s it, that’s the plot. Tags: player!reader x sylus, fem!reader x sylus, reader x lads, self-aware!au, strong language, suggestive themes, again with the slight smut phew, angst on top of more angst, no comfort... yet (or ever? hmm much to ponder about) A/N: Imagine if I leave it here lmao Also, I've been listening to White Ferrari on repeat while editing this chapter. I'm not saying that you should too while you're reading, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Oh, and Angel by Massive Attack. Trust me, it's gonna come up. (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵)

Pt. 1 - Pt. 2 - Pt. 3 - Pt. 4 - Pt. 5 - Pt. 6 - Pt. 7 - Pt. 8 - Pt. 9 - Pt. 10 - Epilogue

The cold tiles of the bathroom floor wreak a shiver through your body.

You’re curled up in front of the toilet, barely upright after another round of puking what little bile is left in your stomach. Cold beads of sweat dot your forehead and every breath feels thin, ragged, like you’re trying to gulp air through a pinhole. The chill seeps under your skin, leaving you shuddering involuntarily between dry heaves.

You make the rookie mistake of tilting your head ever-so-slightly to rest against the cool porcelain, and the miniscule action threatens to send the room careening into another violent spin. A wave of nausea hits you and you desperately gnaw on your bottom lip to prevent yourself from gagging.

You feel like absolute shit.

There’s something lodged inside, sinking deep into the pit of your stomach. A poison, a corruption—heavier than the excess of alcohol still clawing its way through your system. It isn’t the simple penance for overindulging, no; it’s darker, rawer, less perfunctory than the remnants of last night’s events.

It churns inside you, leaving an acrid, metallic taste on your tongue and a dull ache behind your eyes.

The buzzing of your phone reverberates beside you, a relentless vibration against your thigh. It hasn’t stopped since the moment you clawed your way out of bed and staggered toward your porcelain waste bucket. You weren’t supposed to bring it along with you—it should’ve been left abandoned outside of this room, far from this bleak sanctuary. This… this disgusting aftermath of your revelry.

Unfortunately, it’s practically an extension of you now. A limb, almost. Or worse, a crutch—something you lean on so habitually, that the mere thought of its absence feels like an amputation.

“S-sorry,” you release a shaky breath, tears pricking your vision, unbidden. Unwelcome. “Sorry.”

Another vibration. You can picture it clearly in your head: the worry marring his face, the exasperation in his eyes.

You retch.

––––

The red takeout box from Panda Express sits in front of you, its contents lukewarm and forgotten for the better part of the hour. You barely remember ordering it—actually, now that you think about it… Did you even order it yourself? Your memory’s a little hazy, just like everything else today. And last night.

Sylus’ voice crackles through your phone, propped precariously against a half-empty mug of tea on the low table.

His presence, as always, manages to fill the room, though this time there’s a palpable tension in the air since you opened the game. His initial greeting had all the warmth of a parent catching their kid sneaking in past curfew. The moment his image blinked into view, you could see the battle in his eyes.

On one end, he simmered with ire, almost ready to boil over. On the other, he looked like he’d gladly claw his way out the screen just to tuck you into bed and personally force-feed you the food you’ve been ignoring for the past forty minutes.

“Eat it,” he grouses, a hint of steel sharpening his deceptively calm tone. The worry beneath it feels like it could strangle you.

(And if it could, it probably would—if he has any say in it.)

You whine, burrowing deeper under the blanket, folding yourself into a sad, uncooperative ball on the couch. “I will. Eventually.”

“Eventually?” he echoes, the incredulity clear in his voice. “Do you plan on eating it soon as it becomes inedible, or is this a test of endurance?”

With a sigh that feels like it’s pulled from the depths of your soul, you poke halfheartedly at the lid. The smell of grease and fried food wafts out, making your stomach churn. Whether it’s from nausea or hunger pangs, you can’t tell.

“It smells like regret,” you mutter, swallowing the lump rising from your esophagus.

Sylus snorts, and you can tell it slipped out before he could stop it. “Considering the state you’re in? Can’t say I’m surprised. But you still need to eat, kitten. You can’t run on stubbornness alone.”

“I’m doing fine so far,” you argue weakly, knowing you’re not convincing anyone. Your body feels like it’s been put through the wringer—limbs heavy, muscles crying in protest, a pounding headache that refuses to let up.

“Fine,” he repeats, dry as ash. “You can barely hold yourself up, but sure, let’s call that fine.”

You finally flip the box open, revealing a mess of something fried and vaguely brown. The smell hits you harder this time, and you salivate something odd. “I don’t think—”

“Eat,” he cuts you off, voice firm, brooking no argument. “You’ve done well with the tea, but now you need something to fill you up.”

“I can think of something else I’d like to fill me up,” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop yourself.

A beat of silence, and then Sylus’ tone shifts—a touch amused now, but it’s edged with a deliberate weight that makes your skin prickle. Uh-oh.

“Sweetie,” he says slowly, almost indulgent, “if you’ve got the energy to make jokes like that, you’ve got the energy to eat. Be good, and I’ll make sure you’re properly rewarded once you’re feeling better.”

You laugh, breathless, trying to mask your nervousness from the subtle innuendo. Obediently, you pick up the plastic spork beside the carton. “You’re really selling this hard, huh.”

“I’m not here to sell it,” he sighs, voice losing its edge, but there’s still a firmness to it. “I’m here to make sure you don’t pass out. One bite. Start there.”

You spear a piece of shrimp hesitantly. It looks harmless enough, but you lift it like it might bite back.

You take the tiniest nibble.

It’s greasy, salty, and absolutely meh—but it doesn’t immediately trigger your gag reflex, which in itself feels like a small victory.

“There,” he says, his satisfaction palpable. “See? You survived.”

“Barely,” you shoot back half-heartedly, though the corner of your mouth twitches.

“I’ll make sure to congratulate you later for your heroic recovery,” he says wryly. “Now another bite, sweetheart.”

You make a reluctant noise but comply, munching slowly. He hums in approval. When you glance at the screen, his expression has mellowed—the severity giving way to something almost tender.

You look away quickly, swallowing hard; though you're not sure if it’s because of the tiny morsel of food or from the heavier something that's lodged in your throat.

The sound of your chewing is slightly amplified by the silence that comes after. You’re afraid to break it first.

So Sylus does it for you. Once he’s decided you’ve had your fill of the fried rice.

“Would you like to talk about last night?”

You bite the inside of your cheek. “What about last night?”

A long pause.

“We don’t have to,” he says quietly. “I’m just saying that if you want to, you’ve nothing to worry about.”

The sincerity in his voice makes your chest tighten. You press your lips together, unsure of how to answer. There’s discomfort; the unease brought by your own self-consciousness.

“I—uh—” You start, fumbling for the right words. “I didn’t mean to… make things weird or anything. I don't usually get that wasted,” You sigh, blowing a stray hair out of your face. “I’m sorry you had to see me like that.”

“The only thing you did wrong last night was ignore my messages,” Sylus murmurs, his tone a little admonishing. “Making me worry about your well-being.”

You glance up, catching the affection in his eyes. He gives you a slight smile, relieved to finally have your attention fully on him.

You scrunch the blanket in your fist, fiddling with a loose string. You want to say something. Anything. But you can’t seem to summon the courage.

Finally—

“You don’t think…” you hesitate, voice small. “You don’t think it’s– that I’m… too much trouble?”

He tuts softly, the sound playful, with hints of something fond. Comforting, almost. So you hold his gaze, even if it’s a little harder than you’d like it to be.

Sylus looks at you with something so… endearing that it’s almost painful. “You’re perfect. My little troublemaker,” his eyes burn a little brighter. “Mine.”

The words hit you like a wave—soothing, gratifying. Staggering.

Oh, you want to believe him. You want to lose yourself in his words, to give in to the feeling of being cherished, of being seen. You don’t think you’ve wanted anything as much as this.

But turmoil wages a war inside you, and you’re stuck between the pull of letting yourself believe and the sharp reality of your situation.

The futility of it all.

It makes you hurt, deep inside, in a way you don’t know how to fix.

––––

The package you got from the lobby is nondescript. Unassuming. The kind of box that could contain anything from kitchenware to – you don’t know, maybe a desk lamp? You turn it over in your hands, squinting at the lack of clues of its content and its sender.

Did you order something and forgot?

Payroll was over a week ago, and you’re aware of your irresponsible tendency to pile everything that catches your eye onto an online shopping cart just to tempt yourself into buying shit you don’t need, but you’re pretty sure you’d remember spending money on… whatever this is.

It’s not until you’re back in the privacy of your apartment, scissors in hand, that the mystery begins—and promptly ends.

The contents spill out, leaving you to blink owlishly at the mess of shredded wrapping paper and its pièce de résistance: a nine-inch monstrosity of a dildo, hot red in color.

The… thing is practically a weapon, its twisting ridges and intimidating girth looking more like something you’d need a user manual for. Or a fucking exorcist, you distantly think in rising panic.

“Uhh…” The sound tumbles out, an embarrassing mix of confused and gobsmacked. “I don’t remember—?”

Ping!

Your phone chimes before you can finish, and you slowly turn your gaze towards the screen, a sinking feeling beginning to form in your gut.

The message is short. And oh-so-smug.

Ah. Just in time.

The realization dawns on you, and your cheeks burn hot enough to fry an egg. “Sylus!”

What? Even in text, his tone carries that infuriating slyness you can practically hear from a mile away. You’ve earned it.

Your mouth works uselessly for a moment before words could spill out, clumsy and agitated. “Earned what?!”

A little treat for being such an obedient little thing while you were recovering, remember?

“Holy shit,” you wheeze. A half-hysterical giggle bubbles up your throat as you hold the draconic cock far from you as if it’s gonna attack at any second. Fuck, it might. “This is almost as big as my forearm! The hell am I supposed to do with this?”

What do I expect you to do with it? Sylus’s reply comes almost instantly, the weight of his insinuation almost coming across as mocking. I thought that was obvious.

You didn’t think your face could go any redder, and you’re sure you resemble a fucking tomato right at that moment. “Sy-Sy, this is—” You gulp, glancing at the toy with wide eyes. “fucking massive. It–it has… it’s got scales!”

Ah, so you’ve noticed the craftsmanship. Quite exquisite, isn’t it?

“E-Exquisite?” you sputter, voice soaring at a higher octave. “This looks like it came out of Alien or something! I’m pretty sure it’s gonna start moving on its own…”

Only if you press a button.

Your brain short-circuits, and you frantically examine the thing for telltale signs of any hidden mechanization.

There’s a short lull, laden with barely restrained amusement. Then: Relax, sweetheart. It’s not going to bite.

You let out another – nervous – laugh, gingerly setting the large toy down as if it might explode from its sheer audacity. “I hate you.”

No, you don’t, Sylus counters without missing a beat. But I do appreciate how flustered you’re getting. Go on, sweet thing—tell me how it’s too much for you. I could listen to that all night.

You let out a strangled noise, burying your face in your hands. “You’d love that, wouldn’t you.”

Mmh, you know me so well.

You sigh, the gravity of what’s inevitable setting in. It was like fighting a losing battle.

Something the both of you knew right from the start.

(You are my angel)

“I-It hurts to put in,” you whimper, body trembling as sweat clings to your flushed skin. Every muscle feels taut, coiled tight with both anticipation and a flicker of fear. “p-please…”

“We have the rest of the night, little dove. We’ll take it slow,” Sylus whispers, his voice a velvet caress in your ear, warm and grounding. “I’m right here.”

His words melt into you like cloying liquid, wrapping around your resolve like a sensual embrace.

(Come from way above)

“Again.”

“I-I can’t,” you sniffle, the words breaking into short, shaky gasps as your chest heaves. The remnants of your last orgasm still ripple through you, the one he’s ripped from you mercilessly.

“You can, poppet,” he coos, the endearment sliding over you like cool mercury. “Give me one more, yeah? Want to see those pretty eyes rolling for me.”

The thought alone has you shivering, his tone dripping with enough heat to stir something molten from within you.

(To bring me love)

The air hangs unbearably hot, almost suffocating. Every nerve sings, alive with the memory of his ministrations—though he’s never truly touched you, has he?

It doesn’t matter. The line between what’s real and what’s not blurs further with every passing moment.

Your body burns, and yet you crave more, more—the pulsing ache of your stretched walls only feeding the gnawing hunger that builds inside, like an unrestrained beast.

You blink sluggishly; your vision swimming as pleasure courses through you in heavy, dizzying surges.

Has he bewitched you? You’ve become insatiable, ravenous—monstrous in your desire. For him. For the addicting high only he could give, and teasingly dangle just out of reach.

It’s too much. It’s not enough.

How…? He’s nothing but a voice, incorporeal, yet he commands you completely. Your hands, your movements, your very breath feels as if it belongs to him. They follow his instructions without hesitation, carving paths of fire and electricity across the bare expanse of your skin.

“More?” Sylus rasps, and the edge in his voice sends a thrill down your spine. There’s something feral in his tone, and it brings you an almost animalistic sense of glee to know that he isn’t unaffected by all of this any less than you are.

“More,” you beg, raw and needy. He groans in response.

“Good, so good for me,” he hisses a litany of praise that sounds so much like a curse. “My good girl. Mine to break, mine to ruin.”

Your back arches as you cry out; muscles locking, mouth falling open in a soundless scream as both agony and ecstasy crash over you like a tidal wave.

(Love you, love you, love you, love you Love you, lo–ve you, love you, love you … Love you, love you—love you, love you…)

––––

"My cousin's getting married tomorrow."

You say it with an air of nonchalance, your voice light, as if you’re just commenting on the weather.

Sylus doesn’t respond right away. His usual quick wit is conspicuously absent, replaced by a silence that stretches long, settling into the room like a beam of sunlight from your window. The continuous whirr of the electric fan and the droning of the news anchor on TV fill the space instead, in place of conversation.

You don’t force it. Instead, you wait patiently until it bends under its own weight and breaks.

After what feels like minutes, his voice cuts through the quiet; neutral and impassive. "Where's it happening?"

"A little chapel in Downtown Orlando, near Lake Lucerne. Nothing fancy. They’re keeping it small."

He nods, his gaze distant. Somewhere you can’t follow. "Just close family?"

"Yeah," you murmur, your fingers absently tugging at the fraying hem of your cardigan. "And a few friends. My mom’s going, along with her new husband. They sent me photos of the setup earlier—it’s pretty."

Sylus hums. “Would you have gone, if it weren’t so far away?”

“Yeah,” you answer automatically. “Yeah, ‘course. But I’m here, and they’re there. So I could only send my regards.”

Maru pads into the room, brushing against your leg before bumping his head insistently against your shin. You scoop him up, ignoring his soft meows of protest, and cradle him in your lap.

“She’s been planning it for months,” you continue, scratching behind soft cat ears. “Way before she got engaged. She’s one of those people who just… knows. Knows what she wants, knows how to get there. All mapped out, down to the finer details.”

In the corner of your eye, you see a faint smile ghosting his lips. It doesn’t reach his eyes. "What a luxury,” he remarks, almost wistfully. "To pave your life so easily, just like that."

There’s something unspoken behind his words, something heavier than a passing comment.

"Do you think about it?" His question startles you—not just its suddenness but the way his gaze locks onto yours, intent and searching, like he’s trying to read the answer in your face before you could even utter a word.

You blink. "... About what?"

"Marriage."

You hesitate. The question feels delicate, like a soap bubble floating in the air, fragile enough to burst at the slightest touch. "Sometimes," you admit. "But not like she does. It's always been more of an abstract idea, I guess."

He doesn’t speak.

"I don’t know," you say softly, “if it’s something I could ever want. Or if it’s even meant for me."

Your voice falters, and the rest is left unsaid, though it lingers in the air, amidst the silence.

I don’t think about it, no. Not if… if it’s not with—

You stop yourself before the thought takes flight, tampering it back down.

Sylus leans back, his gaze flickering away. "It’s a commitment," he says eventually. "One that requires a lot of thought. I understand."

He doesn’t elaborate, and for a moment, you almost consider leaving it there. But something in you—persistent, prying—urges you to press just a little further.

"What about you? Have you thought about it?"

There’s an imperceptible shift in his expression; the faintest furrow between his brows, a shadow of uncertainty crossing his features.

"Perhaps not in the way you're thinking," he says quietly, almost to himself. "Sometimes I wonder what it means. For someone like me." He hesitates, glancing at you, an uncharacteristic vulnerability in those deep pools of red. “For…”

His words hang unfinished; you feel its hollowness pushing down on you, as though they bore meaning neither of you can bring yourself to name.

You feel it settle in your chest, vacant and aching, like an absence of something. Gone before it even began.

––––

It dawns on you on a regular Saturday evening, as you're (clumsily) peeling potatoes for dinner, and Sylus is dutifully recounting the events of his day to you like your very own talk show host on late night cable.

It creeps up at you—not in an explosive burst of clarity, no. No fanfare, no earth-shattering epiphany. It’s quieter than that, like the tides under the moon, rising unnoticed until you’re already ankle-deep.

Maybe it’s always been there, tucked into the corners of your mind, hidden in the spaces between the teasing banter and the way he watches you when he thinks you’re unaware. A whisper that you refused to acknowledge, too afraid of what it would bring.

You must have known, even then. Right from the start.

From the way it feels when he says your name—softly, reverently, like it’s a privilege to utter it so freely.

From the way you ache when he waits for you to finish a thought, as though every word you speak is something worth treasuring.

And it’s in the way he knows you better than you understand yourself, filling your silences with meaning so you don’t have to.

You love him.

You know how this ends.

––––

Coming down from a mind-numbing high is always an experience, a short state of nirvana; this time no different from the rest.

For a fleeting moment, everything feels infinite—a small eternity suspended in pleasure. Petite mort.

But then reality hits you once again, and the pleasure vanishes like smoke.

It leaves you feeling utterly spent. Empty. The silence crashes back in like a tsunami, heavier than before. The stillness wraps around you like a suffocating shroud.

The sound of your shallow breathing, the oppressive white noise, the distant hum of the city from outside your window… These are your only source of life. There’s no warm touch to ground you. No arms to pull you close. No sweet nothings to piece you back together. Just this. Just you.

You had known. You always knew.

This was it—the price of wanting something you were never meant to have. For surrendering yourself to something that exists only in fragments and pixels, bound by lines of code and a screen you can’t cross. You delude yourself into thinking it’s worth it, that these fleeting moments of bliss outweigh the quiet wake of devastation it leaves behind, every time.

And yet—

A choked sob breaks past your lips, shattering the silence. It tears out of you like something primal, something you can’t control.

Your body folds in on itself, naked and trembling, your arms banding across your stomach like you’re trying to hold something broken together. The sheets beneath you feel clammy, disgusting, but you pull them tighter anyway, desperate for something to hold on to.

It hurts all the same.

“Talk to me,” Sylus whispers urgently. There’s something jagged and desperate about it. “Please. Tell me how to make it better.”

How could you?

What words could bridge this chasm between you? How do you explain a hurt so uniquely yours, so tied to the fragile intricacies of a body he doesn’t have, of feelings that lead to nowhere?

How do you describe the way it breaks you, knowing that he’s oh-so close, yet still—yet always—out of reach?

How do you describe the weight of being too human in moments like this?

You press your forehead to your knees, heart in your throat. You don’t know how to make him understand.

“I can’t,” you whisper into your knees, voice cracking under the weight of what’s left unsaid.

The next morning arrives with the muted glow of daylight filtering through the blinds, but it does nothing to lift the oppressive tension in the room. You don’t mention last night. You don’t even glance at the lit phone screen.

Sylus doesn’t bring it up either—not directly. But you feel him. The weight of his attention clings to the edges of the silence you’ve imposed, like static crackling just beneath the surface.

You keep moving. It doesn’t matter how; you make yourself busy. Work has never been more engrossing as it does at that very moment, and you hurl yourself into the thrilling world of emails, spreadsheets, and Teams meetings like you’re vying for the spot as best employee of the month.

His impatience is impossible to ignore. It presses against you, insistent, like a gasp of breath waiting to be released. But you don’t give him the chance.

At some point, his voice drifts from the speakers, low and clipped, but careful; as if he’s reigning in his emotions, afraid to scare you further away.

“Are you going to talk to me?”

Your fingers hover the keyboard. For a moment, the mouse cursor taunts you, as if it's also impatiently waiting for an answer.

Sylus thinks the silence you leave him suspended in is deliberate, even cruel.

He doesn’t push, not immediately. You hear the faint noise of the game’s background music, the tinkling piano keys, a reminder of his presence.

When he speaks again, his tone is softer, laced with something almost… pleading. The change in his tone doesn’t ease the tension; it makes it worse.

“I can’t help if you shut me out, my heart.”

Still, you offer nothing.

The air feels brittle, stretched too thin, like glass just before it shatters. You can almost hear the first cracks forming, spidering between the two of you.

He doesn’t speak again.

The day drags on in an uneasy rhythm. You move through the hours like a ghost, and Sylus remains silent. But the quietness pulses with disconcertment; a build up without release. The quiet isn’t peaceful. It’s the kind that crackles like a frayed wire. It collides with your refusal to confront it.

And so it goes: you avoid, he waits, and the distance between you grows.

––––

You’re at a crosswalk on the 4-A highway intersection, surrounded by a sea of pedestrians, the incessant hum of the metropolis vibrating beneath your feet as if the very ground you walk on is alive.

The moment your gaze lands on a couple just ahead of you, everything seems to quiet down, like a fuzzy FM radio station on mute. You see them, caught in their own little world, oblivious to the noise and rush of the city.

The woman’s laughter is light—happy. Her hand in his, secure and relaxed. The way she looks at him… it’s familiar, almost. Something you recognize.

The man beside her moves with a subtle grace. His presence is undeniable, but it’s the way he watches her, something soft and devout in his gaze, that draws you in. He’s tall, his sharp features and posture elegant—and somehow, it fits perfectly beside the smaller figure pulling him effortlessly against the throng of people.

Without warning, the unnamed man’s features shift into something more distinct, and the woman turns into the reflection you see every day in the mirror.

It’s not the couple before you that you see anymore—it’s you, against Sylus’ chest, his silvery-white hair stark against the dark fabric of his clothes. You imagine his red eyes, those sharp features, the quiet strength of his presence wrapping around you, like it’s where you belong.

You're lost in the fantasy—the way it could be, if the two of you existed in the same world, side by side. His hand around your waist, the shared intimacy, the profound joy. Just the two of you against all odds.

A smile starts to tug at the corners of your lips, but before it can fully settle, the harsh blare of a car horn shatters the illusion.

The world rushes back around you. A teen bumps into your shoulder, pushing you forward. The vision of them—of him—dissolves, leaving you in the busy street, once again just another face in the crowd.

––––

Everything falls apart one afternoon.

You confront Sylus, words spilling out before you can stop them. You don’t know what drives you—bravery, desperation, or maybe the crushing weight of hopelessness that has finally stripped you of your fear.

“How’s she?”

His brows furrow. “Who?” He looks genuinely thrown, and for a second, you wish you could take the words back.

When you finally say her name, his expression shifts. It’s quick—a flicker of something you couldn’t catch before he schools his features again.

“Why do you ask?” There’s an undercurrent to his voice now, his tone wary, eyes searching yours. “I try to avoid any interactions with her if it’s not needed.”

He pauses; then his gaze softens, though there’s still a guardedness to it. “Are you… worried?”

You shake your head, frustrated with yourself, with him, with all of it. “It’s not—It’s not that.” You don’t know how to put it into words.

How can you explain the knot in your chest? The envy—not for reasons he thinks… or maybe for exactly those reasons. Maybe he knows. Maybe that’s why he’s looking at you like that, imploring and cautious at the same time.

“You have her,” you finally say, and the words fall flat, bitter on your tongue.

Sylus’ eyes flash, sharp and unyielding. “And you and I both know who I’d rather have.”

Now, isn’t that the crux of it all?

Your throat closes up, a hard lump that you can’t swallow down. “I don’t know how you could,” you manage, though it rings hollow in the dead air.

“Don’t.” His voice is harsh now, rougher than you’re used to. Frustration bleeds through his usual composure. “Don’t act like you don’t feel it.”

You bite your lip, your gaze darting away. He calls your name, and there’s something raw in the way he says it, like it costs him something just to say aloud.

You choke out a laugh that sounds more of a sob than anything. “I don’t know where to go from here. It was fun at first, but now… It’s just sad.”

He frowns, and for a moment, there’s a boyishness to the expression, an innocence to his vulnerability. It stirs something deep in your chest.

He opens his mouth, no doubt ready to ask why—why now, why this? Why are you unraveling in front of him, like this?

But you don’t give him the chance.

“I love you, Sylus.” You admit, barely above a whisper. The words fall heavy between you, a confession and a wound all at once.

Sylus stills.

The silence fills the room, but his eyes—those soft crimson—speak volumes. His jaw tightens, hands clench into fists, but there’s no real surprise in his face. He’s always known.

“I know,” he tells you.

There’s something ancient in the timbre of his voice, like it’s been torn from the deepest part of him. And for a moment, neither of you moves.

He feels it—the way you’re slipping through his fingers. Every word you say feels like a step away, less of a standstill, more a surrender, and he… he’s never felt more powerless than he does in this moment.

(And isn’t that just grand? You’ve always had this uncanny ability to make him feel things he’s never felt before. He just wishes it wasn’t like this—wishes it wasn’t slipping into something he can’t hold onto.)

He doesn’t know what to say or do, doesn’t know what could possibly alter the trajectory you’re both hurtling towards. But the thought of losing this, of losing you, is unimaginable.

“I love you,” he says, rough and uneven, like the admission physically hurts. “In ways that terrify me. Do you understand?”

Your eyes widen, and he sees it—the flicker of hope. Fragile and fleeting, but there. Your gazes lock, and the world stops.

For a moment, there’s no sound, no movement—just the two of you standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying.

“I want—” His voice cracks, infinitesimally, but it echoes in the void between you. “I want to hold you. To wake up next to you. To touch you in all the ways that matter, not just in words and binary. I want to be what you need.”

You know what’s coming.

“But—”

The word lingers.

“But you can’t,” you whisper, finishing what he couldn’t.

Sylus looks at you, his red eyes burning with an intensity that feels heartbreakingly human.

You’ve reached another impasse, and it feels like the final one. The air between you is thick with words unspoken, promises that can’t be made. It’s not anger that lingers, nor is it blame. It’s something quieter. More agonizing.

A resignation.

And yet, even in this fragile moment, a piece of you—of both of you—refuses to let go. To what could be, to what never will.

––––

Your mom’s voice rings bright through Facetime, a faint blur of words as she gives you the rundown of the events from your cousin’s wedding. The dress (An elegant Oscar de la Renta boat neck), the cake (A three-tier red velvet, a little on the sweeter side), and the vows (“Oh, you would’ve cried, honey!”).

You try to listen, but your attention keeps drifting away. She notices, of course.

“You seem more preoccupied lately, dear. Boy troubles?”

It’s a simple question, but it lands differently. Her voice is too light, too casual, like she’s asking if you’re still eating your vegetables.

She doesn’t seem to acknowledge how far the distance has grown between you, how many years have passed where you stopped expecting her to understand. You’ve wanted her to notice, to see the parts of you she never asked about. The changes in you, whether small or monumental. But she never did. And you stopped waiting.

You chuckle tiredly.

“Yeah, mom. Boy troubles.”

Tagging: @xxfaithlynxx @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @yournextdoorhousewitch @sunsethw4 @stxrrielle @mangooes @hrts4hanniehae @buggs-1 @michiluvddr @ssetsuka @imm0rtalbutterfly @the-golden-jhope @beomluvrr @milkandstarlight @bookfreakk @ally-the-artistic-turtle @sapphic-daze @sarahthemage @cchiiwinkle @madam8 @slownoise @raendarkfaerie @sylusdarling @luminaaaz @greeenbeean @vvhira @issamomma @shroomiethefrogwhisperer @blueberrysquire @lovely-hani @fiyori @peachystea @slyfoxtsu @tinyweebsstuff @i2sannie @aeanya @sylus-crow @queen-serena88 @xthefuckerysquaredx @rayvensblog @poptrim

#love and deepspace #lads #lnds #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #sylus x reader #sylus x you #lads x you #lads x reader #sylus x non mc reader #love and deepspace fic #self aware au #sylus qin

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cuteandhughesy · 4 months ago

Text

Couldn’t Make It Any Harder╰┈➤ LD29

summary: you and leon draisaitl hate each other. point blank period. your best friend, lauren and her fiancé—as well as leon's teammate—connor are sick of it. they conjure up a plan that ends with you and leon sharing a rather passionate kiss. after that, you can't tell how much you and leon actually hate one another, but with lauren and connor’s wedding coming up, you both have no choice but to try and get along.

[word count] 18.9k

a/n: i’ve been saving this idea for the right player and as soon as my brain put leon with this plot….it was a done fucking deal. i’m so obsessed with this idea, and I hope you guys enjoy it as much as me ❤️‍🔥

🎵 couldn’t make it any harder by sabrina carpenter, you're so vain by carly simon, don't leave by snakeships, haunted by beyoncé, false god by taylor swift, + no i'm not in love by tate mcrae

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the crunch of the nut between your teeth echos through your skull, the slightly sweet taste accompanied by the perfect salty aftertaste wrapping around your tongue and attacking your tastebuds. you chew the beer nut slowly, like you're savouring each one you toss in your mouth like it's a game.

after all, it is a game. maybe not the actual eating part, but the part where you keep your eyes trained across the dimly lit bar, gaze never filtering from his as he too tosses individual beer nuts in his mouth.

you're waiting patiently for him to crack—pull a disgusted face, which inevitably he will do. because leon draisital hates beer nuts almost as much as he hates you. you know leon's distaste for the bar snack only because you heard him say the very first time you met 4 years ago, ironically in a bar.

your friend, lauren insisted that you had to meet her boyfriend's teammate—the infamous leon draisaitl. you let her drag you out to a local edmonton bar, one that was too dark and smelt like leather. you let her hype leon up like he was a trophy—like he was going to be your new best friend. but leon was not a trophy. he was pissed off, and when you smiled at him, he scowled in response. and when you tried to give him a handful of beer nuts as a piece offering, leon said; 'I fucking hate those things.'

you tried to chalk it up to a bad night, or maybe even a shitty week. but as months passed, leon never changed. he hated you. if he wasn't completely avoiding eye contact with you, he'd roll his eyes. if you were in the same room, he'd make sure he was across it and far away from you. if leon was anywhere near you, he'd make sure you knew he didn't want to be there. so in return, you decided you hate him more. and oh god, as the years have gone by has that hatred brewed and constricted into an endless loathing and bickering cycle.

slowly, you grab another beer but between your red painted finger nails—red because it's leon's least favourite colour—and bring it up to your lips. you let it rest there for a moment, testing him. is he going to do the same thing? is leon going to play the copy game? just as slow as you, leon reaches into his own jar of beer nuts on the other side of the bar, his much larger fingers bring a single nut up to his lips.

your lips part, and you toss the nut into your mouth. leon does the exact same. you chew as slow as you can once more, savouring the combined flavours because that means leon has to do the same, and you know it must be torture.

and that makes you smile.

just when you think you're going to have to repeat the whole process, there's the smallest pull of disgust across leon's face, and he takes a large gulp of his beer to wash down the nut.

your grin smugly, and without breaking eye contact, you raise the entire jar of beer nuts to your mouth and down the entire thing. you chew happily, and then look away with a satisfying feeling low in your belly.

you spin off the bar stool, fully intending to slink through the crowd until you find one of your friends and then force them to dance with you to take your mind of the german red flag across the bar. but as soon as you spin, you're meeting the eyes of lauren soon to be mcdavid—also known as your best friend.

you jump, a hushed curse passing through your lips as you clutch your thumping heart.

"what are you eating?" lauren asks like she didn't just send your stomach down to your ass. her blue eyes dart over your shoulder to briefly look at the empty jar before she curiously looks back at you.

you're still chewing the mouthful of beer nuts you just shoved in your mouth like a deranged chipmunk. "beer nuts." you say, although it sounds more like deer guts through your full mouth.

but lauren hears you perfectly fine. "beer nuts?" she asks, "seriously? are you and leon playing that stupid game again?" the words beer and nut combined together never fails to send a shiver through your best friends spine—mostly because she knows their tied to leon and your hatred for one another. and then when she remembers that her best friend and her fiances best friend hate each other, she gets another shiver and the whole thing repeats itself.

you swallow the remainder of food roughly, "it's not a game to me," you huff ludicrously, "he's the childish one that feels the need to copy every single move I make—"

"alright," lauren sighs, cutting off the ramble that was surely about to happen, "I get it. i've heard it enough times now, I think I could recite it for you—I'll save you the breath." her tone isn't serious, but you know your and leon's hatred upsets her.

you sigh softly, falling back against the backrest of the bar stool. lauren slips into the empty seat beside you, flagging down one of the bartenders and ordering herself another sex on the beach. once she's done, she turns to look at you. "are you guys going to be able to get along for the wedding?"

the wedding in question is her own—a wedding in which both you and leon where apart of. as much as you love your best friend, and you're looking forward to the royal wedding of the hockey community, you've also been dreading this summer for the exact same reason. and that reason being having to be apart of the same wedding party as leon fucking draisaitl.

your eyes dart back across the bar, and you find that leon is already looking in your direction. he's not alone now, connor and one of connor's childhood friends are sitting with him—chatting and laughing like they have no care in the world. once your eyes meet, leon looks away.

you roll your eyes before looking back at lauren. "if there's no beer nuts there, everything should be hunky dory."

the dig at leon doesn't go unnoticed by her, and lauren sighs again. "y/n, i'm being serious." her and connor's wedding is just under two weeks away, and she honestly didn't think she'd still be dealing with the bickering between you and leon—but here she is, stepping on eggshells around you both.

you frown and run a hand through your bouncy hair. guilt laces through you, "you're right, i'm sorry. I know it's important to you, and i'm trying my best but god, he just...frustrates me so much." you laugh like it's a joke, scratching at your arms as if you're trying to crawl out your body. "I feel like my body is on fire when he's around."

lauren nods emphatically, leaning against the side of your body like she's giving you a hug without arms. "I know it's hard but please, just try. for me."

lauren was one of those girls who has been planning her wedding since she came out the womb. when she was 10 she already had one of those scrapbooks that detailed everything she wanted included on her big day. she's been planning the entire wedding without a planner simply because she wants to. that combined with her clothing brand, you know lauren has enough stress on her plate without having to worry about you war with the german superstar.

that's also a reason you told her not to worry about your birthday that falls in a few days because you knew she had enough to worry about, and planning your party like she does every year needs to be the least of her worries. but you caught her ordering custom balloons two days ago, and you knew you shouldn't attempt to stop her. once lauren has her mind set on something, it's hard to change it.

reluctantly you nod, and a slow smile begins pulling at your lips. your wrap your arms around your small blonde friend, resting your cheek on the top of her head. "of course. i'll be good."

even though leon is the problem, your brain reminds you rudely. you ignore it though, because that's the last thing you should say to her right now.

you feel lauren relax in your arms, but not completely which makes you a bit anxious and feel even more guilty. "thank you." she pulls away, grabbing at your hands and pulling you both off the bar.

the tender slides her drink on the bar top, which connor had already paid for (praise that nhl money), and lauren downs the entire thing instantly. "let's go dance—this is my jam!"

"usher is your jam?" you laugh curiously, letting her bring you out into the heart of the dance floor.

she nods like it's obvious. "oh yeah," lauren's sarcasm is clear, "scream is actually going to be my first dance song."

you cackle your usual loud laugh, falling into lauren's arms as you both dance along to the upbeat bass. "you're such loser!"

"I know!" she smiles, spinning around so fast that her hair smacks your face. "but you love me!"

hours later, after connor has ordered you an uber and sent you home, him and lauren slide into their own. he can tell something is weighing on his fiancés mind by the silence lingering between them, gnawing on the skin of her thumb which she only does when she's anxious.

"hey," connor starts softly, "what's wrong, babe?"

his question is the final nail in the coffin, and immediately lauren is whining, falling against his shoulder dramatically. "what are we going to do?"

"what?" he questions, wildly confused. connor slips his fingers through lauren's straight hair, twisting the strands around his index finger to create little ringlets.

she huffs. "about leon and y/n."

connor's hand stills in her hair. "what about them?"

"connor, seriously?" lauren stresses, sitting back up straight as she turns to look at her fiancé like he just suggested they should call off the wedding. "they hate each other."

"they don't actually." connor laughs, pulling her back into his side. lauren goes easily, but her shoulders are still tense.

"they do." she whines again, "and i'm scared it's going to ruin our wedding. I know y/n, she'd never do anything to hurt me on purpose, but leon brings out this side of her and she just looses control." lauren's bottom lip wobbles as she finishes, and connor spots it immediately.

"hey, it's okay." he whispers, kissing her head. "why don't we like...stuff them in a room and make them sort out there differences. leave them for an hour or two and let them figure it out." connor laughs like it's funny, because for the most part his suggestion was a joke.

but lauren freezes, blinking at connor as she registers the idea. slowly, her lips turn up in a smirk. "actually, that's a great idea."

—

"hey!" lauren's cheery voice automatically makes you suspicious. this close to the wedding and a more than chipper tone is the recipe for disaster. she continues, her voice grainy through your phones speaker. "can you do me a huuuuggggee favour?"

there it is. you laugh gently, sitting up from your previously slouched position on your rather uncomfortable love seat, pushing the fraying knit blanket off your legs. "what's up?"

you can hear her smile through the phone. "okay so i'm totally running late at my hair appointment, and I have the wedding chef coming over in 20 for some menu items for the rehearsal dinner, but i'm not going to be there."

your brow quirks curiously. "okay? what do you need from me?"

"I need you to just be there and make sure he gets settled," lauren says, "I'd ask connor but he's on the other side of town. i'll be there as fast as I can. If you could do this for me you'd be the best bridesmaid ever."

"alright," you chime easily, getting of the leather cushions underneath you. "i'll head over now."

"perfect," she says, sounding suspiciously smug. "you know the code! I can't thank you enough, this will be great."

your brows pull tightly and create a dimple in the middle of your forehead. before you can ask her why she's acting so weird, lauren rushes a goodbye and the line goes dead. you blink in surprise, chalking up her behaviour to pre-wedding jitters.

you toe one some flimsy sandals before grabbing your keys and sunglasses, making your way down to the lobby of your apartment building.

the air is warm, and smells like summer. you drive with the windows down for the entire ride to lauren and connor's condo, the air whipping through your hair and warming your skin.

once you arrive at her place, lenny greats you excitedly, tiny yips leaving his wiggling body as he licks your exposed skin—no doubt getting a salty taste of your fake tan. "hey buddy," you greet just as happily, baby voice in full affect, "I missed you my boy."

your phone pings with a text from lauren, 'I've got some menu samples in my beside table. can you grab them once you're there."

you respond quickly and then put your belongings on the crispy clean kitchen island—lenny at your feet as you move. he almost trips you twice, but he's so oblivious and happy with his tongue half way out his mouth, that you don't even care.

you quickly make your way down to her bedroom, pushing open the door and padding inside the carpeted room. you stifle through her beside table, but the only thing you find is a tangled pair of headphones, random hair ties and way too many sleeping masks.

you frown, but figured lauren just misspoke. you round the end of the bed and to connor's nightstand. like you expected, connor's nightstand is freakishly organized. everything has its own compartment—even the condoms for fucks sake.

behind you, lenny's ears perk up and just as quickly he springs out the room, leaving you alone and more than anything, confused. where are the damn menu samples? you scan the room quickly, hands on your hips as you try and think of where your best friend would stick them. the sound of socked feet approaching have you spinning to face the door. lenny bounds back in first, and then leon appears.

"what are you doing here?" he asks, face nothing but taken back.

you cross your arms, "what are you doing here?"

"I asked you first."

"you're so annoying, oh my god," you groan dramatically, and it makes lenny bark before he's running back out the room. soon enough, you think, you'll be following him. you continue, "i'm helping lauren. she needs me to get some menu samples and then wait for the chef."

leon chuckles like he's in on some joke you've been left out of, his hands tucked causally into the front pockets of his jeans. you grimace at the sight because it's way to hot out to have your legs fully covered. "well I'm here to do the exact same thing. except connor asked me."

you scoff. "lauren said he's on the other side of town and can't be here. that's why she sent me."

"funny," leon scoffs a laugh, "because connor said the same thing about lauren—hence why i'm here."

you drops your arms to your sides ludicrously, looking at leon with the upmost displeasure on your face. "okay, well clearly someone fucked up—you, most likely," you pause and leon rolls

his eyes. "but let's just find these menus so that we can both leave. I don't want to be in a confined space with you for any longer than necessary."

"awh, you're so sweet." leon says, voice dropping with venom and sarcasm. he walks further into the room, movements casual as he brushes straight past you, his bare bicep bumping your shoulder. "you can't find the menu's?"

"no," you stress, following him as he makes his way to connor's beside table. "and I already checked in there."

leon checks anyways and that has you rolling your eyes. "okay, well you're awful at looking for things, so double checking is necessary."

"double checking is necessary," you mock, voice all high pitched an annoying.

he sends you a look over his broad shoulder, "are you done?"

you don't answer, turning on your heels and walking over to the built in book cases that line the entire wall. the shelves they're packed, mostly with aesthetic looking pieces that are so shiny and white they make your head hurt. you begin poking through the collection of books, searching for the menu samples—huffing quietly to yourself anytime you remember that leon is also in the room.

he makes his way over to the book shelves as well, opting to look through the case on the opposite side of the open door. he is still too close for your liking, but you're not going to start that argument. you can't see him past the door, and you can only hear him mutter curse words to himself as his search is unsuccessful.

"why don't you just text lauren and ask her?"

you scoff, "why don't you just text connor?"

"my phones in the car."

"and mines in the kitchen."

"are you seriously that lazy that you can’t go down the hall and get your phone?" he asks incredulously, looking at you over the edge of the door, book shelf long forgotten.

you laugh. "of course not! I just don't feel the need when we can just look ourselves."

leon goes to take a step towards you, because he knows that you’re not looking properly through the books on that side, and he bumps the door, sending it to shut with a dull thud.

your breath hitches as the code system stares back at you. "you better know the code for that."

"why would I know the code?" his eyes find yours, looking at you like you've just suggested world war 3.

you try to open the door, but much to you dismay it's locked. you're locked in a room with leon draisaitl. "no," you whine, jiggling the handle more aggressively in hopes it decides to magically unlock. obviously, it doesn't.

"jesus," he huffs, "relax."

"oh, i'm sorry!" you look at him wildly, "i'm just a little bit upset about being trapped in a room with the spawn of satan—my apologies for trying to get out."

"spawn of satan?" he repeats, words laced with what you're pretty sure is amusement. it makes your blood boil. "don't call yourself that, y/n."

"you must have a death wish."

"oh, I must."

you squint pointedly, lips twitching in a frown. "whatever." you mumble dismissively, turning heel and making your way back to the perfectly made bed in the middle of the room.

leon watches as you sit down on the corner of the mattress, bringing your feet up and resting your arches on the frame of the bed. you're not wearing socks, and your toenails are painted navy blue. he notes that you must've worn some sort of flip flop.

you catch his eyes and scowl. "what?"

"should you really be sitting on their bed? rubbing your feet all over a frame that probably costs more than your monthly salary."

"would you prefer I do jumping jacks?" you question even though you're not wanting an answer. "hate to break it to you draisaitl, but this isn't the first time i've been in this room. or on this bed."

leon snickers, walking towards you. "right, yes I forgot that lauren is cursed with spending time with you."

you roll your eyes and don't say anything.

he continues. "they'll be here soon."

"not soon enough."

this time it's leon who doesn't respond to your condescending comment, but instead slumping down in the sherpa oversized chair in the corner of the room. he picks up one of the table books, some kind of chanel picture one, and begins flipping through the pages.

everytime he flips the page, much louder than necessary, you sigh in exasperation—which only eggs him on.

5 minutes later you hear two sets of feet padding down the hall, and your eyes widen, shooting off the bed so fast that you almost trip over your own feet.

"y/n?" the muffled voice of lauren calls curiously on the other side of the bedroom door. "leon?"

"we're in here." you say, jiggling the handle again for good measure.

"how'd this happen?" connor is the one asking, his voice laced with what can only be described as amusement.

leon joins you at the door. "the door shut obviously."

"no," you correct quickly, "leon's clumsy, big body knocked into it. trapping us." you stress wildly, eyeing the man in question with displeasure.

his brows raise in faux excitement. "you think i'm big?"

your eyes roll again—you won’t be surprised if they get stuck on the next round. you turn your attention back to the closed door, "guys, what's the code so we can get out."

neither lauren or connor answer. your brows pull, arms crossing roughly across your flowing summer top. you can hear their hushed whispers through the door, which only raises your and leon's suspicion.

finally, lauren says, "actually, I think you guys should stay in there."

leon blinks hard. "what?"

"yeah, sorry repeat that, I don't think I heard you right. because it sounded like you want us to be stuck in here together." you add, body feeling hot and itchy as the situation comes to light. or maybe it's just because leon's standing close enough that is cologne is all you can smell—practically choking you at this point.

connor's sighs, "you guys need to work it out."

your eyes flutter in disbelief, and you take a step closer to the door like it's going to change something. "okay, how about we do that somewhere else?"

leon hums in agreement which makes you scowl.

"no." lauren huffs, her voice determined. and you know, like usual, once she has her mind set, she's not going to change it. "in our room. with no escape."

after their conversation in the uber a few days ago, lauren and connor decided that yes, they were actually going to get you and leon together and force you to reconcile. it was actually connor who said they should separately tell you that they needed help with the chef and the menu samples, and then while you were distracted trying to find them—which were actually in the kitchen, not the bedroom—they would shut you in the apartment.

so when they showed up, ready to shut the front door that's unlock didn't work if it was locked from the outside, they were surprised to find neither of you in sight. thanks to their coded bedroom, you'd been already trapped.

to which they say, tomato tamoto.

"this is ridiculous." leon huffs in annoyance, reaching out to tug on the brass door handle. the action annoys you, even though you were close to doing the same.

lauren laughs like it's a joke. "no what's ridiculous is ruining a wedding because you two can't stop lunging for each others necks." her voice is firm, definitive as she continues, "so you have an hour and by then you better be friends. or friendly. whatever."

"you can't serious." leon's laughing is laced with disbelief, not even sparing you a glance as he stares down the wood paneling of the bedroom door.

"deadly." she says, "see you guys in an hour. we're gunna run some errands." her voice slowly begins to fade, walking away and leaving you.

"I thought that’s what you were just doing," you call out.

"we lied."

soon enough you and leon are enveloped in the silence, and once lenny's little nails click down the hall, you are left completely alone.

you exhale a scoff, turning away and practically stomp back to the bed. leon watches you move with an unreadable expression, but you’re too busy throwing yourself down onto the bed to notice.

the blankets puffs around you. its own of those feathered ones that poke you once it starts getting wear and tear, and that makes you more annoyed that it should. but you chalk that up to already being baffled by being trapped in your best friends bedroom.

leon's voice breaks through the quiet room, "well now what?"

you sigh, sliding up onto your elbows to send him an unimpressed look. "don't you know, leon? this is the part where we get out the tea set and play!" the faux smile on your face quickly drops as you finish, and that makes leon rolls his eyes with agitation.

"you're ridiculous."

you don't say anything and send him one more exaggerated grin. you flop back against the mattress. it's actually a heavenly bed besides the blanket, which thankfully hasn't poked you yet.

the first 30 minutes is nothing but silent. the only sounds coming from the air conditioning unit humming lowly through the vents and the blanket shuffling under your body as you squirm. you can't help it, the silence is eating you alive.

"can you stop moving so much?"

you make a show of moving even more as you sit up on the bed, shuffling down to the edge and letting your legs dangle over the end. "i'm a bit restless, you know being trapped in a room with nothing but you and your loud breathing."

leon's brows furrow. "I don't breathe loud."

"you do," you confirm, "it's fucking annoying."

"ah," he chimes, "like your sporadic limbs."

"that's a big word, leon. have you been studying the dictionary like the bore you are?"

he breathes a scoff, "you wish I was a bore, y/n. that way you wouldn't be so obsessed with me."

"obsessed with you," you repeat, laughing, "you are so full of yourself!"

leon stands up, and your face falls, watching him through hooded lids as his jaw ticks, eyes pointed in your direction. just when you think he's going to walk closer to you, he turns, looking through the bookshelves like he hasn't done that already.

you swallow roughly, staring the his back as he moves—slowly—reading the spines of designer books and hockey novels. his tight t-shirt is doing him all the favours, wrapping around his body in a perfect fit to display the muscles he's worked hard on. sometimes, you forget leon is an athlete rather than just your friends friend, and you’re always crudely reminded by his bulging biceps or his abs in the summertime as he lounges by the pool—seeing him like that is a rude awakening.

thinking about leon's abs, dripping with water while he lounges poolside has you feeling a bit funny, and you blink. hard. pulling yourself out of your own head. oddly enough, your mind trickles to lauren and the many times she's referred to abs as washboards.

you sigh gently. getting into a verbal ring with her finances best friend is the last thing she needs to be dealing with right now. a rush of guilt washes over you, and as not only her bridesmaid but her closest friend, you know you need to abide her wishes and figure your shit out.

"leon." you say his name firmly.

he looks at you over his shoulder, one of his eyebrows raised in question as he waits for you to continue.

"we have to stop fighting. for lauren."

leon turns his body completely, facing you. "you think I don't know that, y/n?"

you huff. "I never said that you didn't, leon. but this is my best friend's wedding."

"and mine."

"god, do you always have something snarky to say back?" you ask, exasperated. "this is exactly what we can't be doing. at least i'm trying, leon. ugh! you drive me insane.

his eyes widen slightly, taking a subconscious step closer to you. "and you think you're just some angel?"

you shake your head, shooting off the bed until you're standing—a subconscious attempt at trying to give yourself some leverage. "I think that you're stubborn and can't accept my ideas."

"and what 'Ideas' might those be?" he asks, mockingly.

"we need to pretend to get along," you pitch, voice still laced with venom and irritation. "if we can't get over this thing between us, then we have to fake it. you have to pretend like you can at least tolerate me—that you can stand to be in the same room as me without ripping me a new one."

his expression is unreadable, jaw tight and eyes unmoving as he looks down at you. then, slowly, his gaze changes. "you want me to act like you don't drive me insane?"

your face falls slightly at his tone—a tone that has a weird feeling bubbling low in your belly. you nod.

leon purses his lips, looking away from your face to take a deep, long inhale like he's trying to clam himself. it's making you feel woozy. he looks back at you, something like frustration clouding his expression. "you want me to just pretend that you don't make me want to argue every little thing you say? like everything little thing you do frustrates me in ways I cant explain?"

your lips part, searching for words that aren't there. the way leon is looking at you, with so much tension and frustration has you faltering. you've never been speechless in his presence, and leon knows that—he sees that—and takes the opportunity to continue.

"have I finally got you to shut your mouth? or do you want me to keep going?"

your breathe hitches, a wave of heat flushing over your summer tanned skin. the way his gaze is unwavering and so intense has your blood pumping so hard that the only thing you can hear is the heavy breathing between you.

"please," slips out of your mouth before you can stop it, the plea whiny and surprising to you—desperate.

leon exhales shakily, but the sound is just as desperate as the breath that gets caught in your throat. he lunges towards you, one hand sliding through your hair and tugging while the other finds the dip of your waist, dragging you against him as he kisses you.

his lips caress yours hungrily, sucking and licking along the plump flesh almost instantly. it's hurried and messy and intoxicating. both your your panting is combined, mixing with breathy groans and clashing of tongues and teeth. it's dirty and it's sure as hell needy.

and maybe it’s because you haven’t been with a man in years, or maybe it’s simply because you’re annoyed with the situation. but you want leon.

he grunts into your mouth, fisting your hair hard enough to illicit a whine from you. your hands, which were previously stationed over his torso, running over his shirt like a mad woman, slide into leon's hair, feeling his soft locks between your fingers—painted red nails scratching against his scalp.

his hands cascade down your body, wrapping around the backs of your thighs. before you can register what's happening, leon hauls you off the ground and drops you down against the feather filled duvet.

everything is hurried between you and leon, including the continuing kiss. his hands are running all over your body—up your thighs as he hovers over you, sliding under your summer top and feeling your soft, supple skin. and you're not any better, squeezing his arms and holding his face.

there's a burning tension between you, like there always is, expect now your irritation and frustration is channeled into a kiss—a hot, messy exchange that is leaving you so turned on.

leon's lips trail over your jaw, nipping and suckling along your skin like he can't get enough of your taste. you're withering against him, gasping as his lips travel down your neck, finding your pulse point and sucks.

the beeping sound echos through the room, barley audible over your panting and low moans, but you both hear it. the door is about to open. you pull away from one another at lightning speed, leon getting off the bed completely as he swallows thickly.

you run your hand through your messy hair just as the bedroom door opens, revealing a curious looking connor and a hesitant looking lauren. they're both eyeing you, but it's connor who speaks first. "so? can we count on you guys behaving?"

you blink before looking over at leon. but he's not looking at you, only at connor as he nods once—firmly. then leon walks out of the room, brushing past his teammate and fiancé without so much as a second glance at you.

you gulp, a million emotions clawing at your flushed chest.

lauren still looks unconvinced, raising one of her perfectly plucked brows in your direction—eyeing your slight pant and hazy eyes. "everything go okay."

"yeah," you nod, the smallest scoff leaving you. "and if it didn't, we can just pretend." the word feels like venom on your tongue. there's a part of you that thinks what just happened between you and leon was all pretend. a regretful moment that was nothing more than a source to channel pent up frustration and years of anger.

it meant nothing. leon still hates you. and you...don't know what the fuck just happened.

—

like you suspected, lauren throws you a birthday party. a surprise one at that, even though you knew exactly what was going on when connor texted you and asked you for help on picking out flowers for the rehearsal dinner.

bad distraction on his part, because lauren ordered the flowers for the rehearsal dinner two weeks ago while you were beside her. you went along anyways, and even acted surprised when everyone jumped out from different areas of the mcdavid/kyle condo.

lauren squeezes you tightly, "happy birthday!"

"thanks," you hug her back just as tightly, "I told you that you didn't need to do anything like this. I would've been happy with some wine and reruns of friends."

she rolls her eyes fondly, guiding you further into the crowded home. "I know you would've been, but I certainly wouldn't have." and that's the most lauren thing she could've said, and it makes your smile grow wide.

there's a lot of people here, you note. mostly mutual friends and connor's teammates and their significant others. it's decorated beautifully, with all your favourite picky foods laid out on the island and a makeshift bar along with it.

people greet you enthusiastically, wishing you a happy birthday as you make your rounds through the party, lauren at your side—who you're pretty sure is already halfway to hammered.

mikayla nurse gives you a bear hug, which she always does, and darnell follows suit. "happy birthday!" he says, pulling back and taking his original seat on one of the barstools against the stark white island. ryan nugent hopkins and his girl do the same, all of you flowing into easy conversation.

mikayla is in the middle of talking about something funny her oldest did before her and darnell left, when your body ignites. it's an odd feeling, but one you're used to at this point. subtly, your gaze shifts down the island and that's when you see him.

leon is leaning on the counter causally, fingers running along the neck of a beer bottle as zach hyman and him talk about whatever it is they're talking about—frankly, you don't care to know what their discussing.

you haven't seen or heard from leon since your kiss 3 days ago. you weren't expecting to feel so many emotions after getting kissed by your mortal enemy, but you are. you think it probably has to do with how he just up and left afterwards, like he couldn't give a fuck about you, which in hindsight he probably doesn't. he never has, your brain reminds you.

as if he can feel your state, his eyes flicker to yours. leon's expression changes, so subtle that it's almost unnoticeable. his fingers still on the beer bottle. you look away just as quick as you looked, turning your attention back to the group in front of you—nodding along like you know what they're in the middle of talking about.

you need a shot. or 6.

and shots you have. lauren is the one who starts it, like usual, insisting that the birthday girl needed a celebratory shot of tequila. then that turned into two, and then three and before you know it you can barley feel your limbs. you're loose, and happy and very much drunk.

it makes being in the same room as leon more tolerable for the mere fact that you keep forgetting he's there. it's only when he laughs too loudly, or someone says his name in your vicinity that you find yourself searching for him. not without immediately cursing yourself for it though.

it's nearing 2 in the morning when lauren grabs on to your arm, her expression hopeful and excited. "oh my god," she slurs, "we need to go swim."

you gasp with enthusiasm. "yes! oh my god, lauren I love you so much—what a good fucking Idea."

everyone has left by now. going home to their kids and going to sleep. the thought makes you feel a little down, because the only person you're going home to is damon fucking salvatore. ah, yes the old birthday depression moment. but thankfully lauren snaps you out of it, dragging you out of the apartment and down the hall to the rooftop.

the heavy metal door clicks open, revealing the blue light of the large pool. it smells so good—like summer—and you groan. "oh my god, yes!"

neither you or lauren bother stripping, and you jump into the pool fully clothed. the water splashes therapeutically as you are submerged under the warm water. it feels amazing, and you kick your legs until you're breaking through the surface.

lauren giggles, treading her hands over the waters surface. "it feels so good."

"I know," you agree quickly, eyes fluttering in bliss.

"lauren." connor's voice is stern, but there's a hint of amusement there that he only saves for his fiancé and her drunk shenanigans. "we're not supposed to be out here at night. let's go."

you didn't even notice he followed you guys out here and you blink in surprise—you also giggle, which has connor sending you a sharp look.

lauren makes a fart noise, but lets her fiancé help her out of the pool. water drips off her clothes like a waterfall, soaking the pavement under her feet. connor ushers her back to the door, saying something that you can't quite make out before leaving you alone.

the water is sobering you up a little, but you're still tipsy enough that everything feels like silk. you dip your head back, soaking your hair and covering the tips of your ears.

you're floating, listening to the muffled sounds of the city night life below. its peaceful, and you think you could stay out here forever. your eyes are only fluttering closed for a moment, and when you open them again you see leon.

he's watching you, hands on his hips from the side of the pool—looking anything but amused. you hadn't even noticed him come out, but you also didn't notice connor so that doesn't mean anything.

too drunk to be scared by his sudden appearance, you just laugh, swimming into an upright position and facing leon. your tank top is sticking to your skin uncomfortably, and if you were sober you'd probably be having a sensory overload.

"get out of the pool" his voice is demanding and unarguable.

you lazily shread water, blinking the pool sting out of your eyes. "why would I do what you ask me to?"

leon scoffs a half hearted laugh, looking away from you momentarily. when he meets your gaze again, you’re still grinning—a little up to no good smirk that has leon gulping. "don't be annoying," he says, "get out before something happens. like connor said, you're not supposed to be in here."

"oh wow is that a threat, mr. drasitail?" you laugh.

he tongues his cheek, "you're drunk."

you toe the rough side of the pool and gently kick off, sending yourself back floating through the water. "tipsy, but sure." leon's shoulder deflate in what's surely annoyance, and he runs a hand over his face. even drunk, you know you're being difficult, but you're not going to give up that easy. "you know, you can't annoy me today. it's my birthday."

leon licks his teeth slowly. he tries to keep his eyes off you and your completely see through tank top as you glide through the water, but he can't help himself, gaze flickering back to you. "I wouldn't have to annoy you if you'd just get out of the pool."

your shoulders drop. "you're such a buzz kill," you grumble, swimming to the edge of the pool once again, right in front of leon. your hands grip the edge, and you blink up at him with wet lashes. "can you at least help me out?"

he gulps, adam's apple bobbling under his stubbled skin. "legs broken or something?" he mumbles with something unknown lacing his tone—doubt, disbelief, want—as he looks into your wet eyes.

you ignore him, raising your palm in his direction and wiggling your fingers. for a moment the action sends you off balance, and you begin slipping backwards. leon’s eyes widen, twitching is if he's going to reach out and grab you, but you catch yourself before he can.

he huffs again, gaze darting between your hand and daring eyes. “don't leave me hanging on my birthday, leon,” you say.

"it's not your birthday anymore, y/n." leon deadpans after a moment.

you pout and he sighs, closing the distance between you and taking your slick palm in his. just before he pulls you out, you use the leverage to tug his arm down towards you, sending leon off balance and into the pool next to you with a loud splash.

he breaks the surface at record speed, looking at you with what can only be described as frustration. he splutters, wiping his face of chlorine scented water droplets. "seriously?"

you bite your tongue in an attempt to mask your growing smirk, "you looked hot."

"thanks," he mumbles playfully, shoulders dripping under the water as he treads.

"don't flatter yourself." you huff, momentarily stopping your own feet from treading water to nudge his leg under the surface.

a beat passes. the sounds of rippling water and heavy breathing the only things to be heard between you.

leon breaks the tension, voice gruff. "are you going to get out now?"

you shrug, and your chin dips under the surface. "are you not going to ask me how my birthday was?" ask comes out in a slur, and it makes leon's jaw tick.

"if I do will you get out of the pool?"

"yes." you grin softly, chin submerging once again.

"okay." he hums, looking very much unimpressed. "how was your birthday?"

your grin deepens, "it was good," you say, "got everything I could've ever asked for."

"mhmm," he hums, brow raised curiously, "and what did you ask for? one of those grow your own boyfriends?"

you laugh, the sound forced and very much sarcastic. "just a dart board with your face on it, actually."

he blows out some air, very amused, "ou good one." then like a child he shakes out his hair, water sliding off his strands and spraying you.

"hey!" you shout, turning your face away from the water attack.

"relax," he chimes, "you're not going to melt."

you look back at leon, a look of amused disbelief flashing over your features as your lip tugs upwards. "maybe I will. I am a witch after all."

leon hesitates, something he rarely does. he wants to look away, your wet lashes and pink lips too intense—too tempting—but he forces himself to to hold your unknowing gaze. "you're something."

your mouth parts, "you're something." you repeat, voice all high pitched and mocking as you splash some water in his direction, the small wave hitting his chin.

he licks onto his lower lip, watching your smile grow as you wait for his next move. just when you think you're not going to get a rise out of him, leon moves. he grabs your ankle under the water, so quick that it makes you squeal, and pulls you against his chest.

the laughter that had previously been bubbling up and past your lips comes to a sharp halt, and you’re left blinking in surprise as your body intertwines with leon's. you're both completely clothed, but it feels like your stark naked. the heat between you is implausible, chest heaving and breathes mingling.

his hand grips your knee firmly before he releases—but he’s not done. leon fingers skim up your thigh, so gentle that it's ticklish. you want to squirm, but you're too scared it will end the tension filled moment. his palm runs over your hip, feeling your soaked jean shorts under his palm.

your breath catches, the sound just gentle enough to reach leon's ears. his eyes dart to your wet, plump lips and he feels himself twitch. when his eyes meet yours again, you swallow, arms slowing down in the thread.

"are you going to kiss me and then leave again like nothing happened?" you don't have time to curse your drunk tongue, because leon answers almost instantly, voice surprisingly smooth and clear, but still deep enough to have your stomach swoop.

"you want me to do that?" he asks you, pushing some wet hair off your shoulder, further exposing your sun kissed, freckled skin.

you lick your bottom lip. "depends what part you're talking about."

his eyes dart back down to yours lips at the sight, watching as your tongue swipes along your lip. your faces are so close that the tips of your noses are almost brushing. you're practically panting, wrapped around leon like a koala as he threads water for the both of you.

you could be staring at each other for 20 minutes, or twenty seconds. you're unsure. time has gone completely still, slowing down like sticky molasses as you and leon exchange longing, needy stares.

your mouth opens, ready to beg him once again, but he unwraps you from his body, hands finding your hips and lifting you out of the pool. you blink, shock and confusion flashing on your face as leon sits you on the edge.

he doesn't look at you as he pulls himself out of the pool effortlessly, but you watch him. his biceps flex under his once light gray, soaked t-shirt, and if you weren't so overcome with frustration and confusion you'd be blushing.

he gets up on to his feet, "let's go, y/n." leon's tone leaves no room for argument, and he's already waking towards the heavy, metal door that leads back to the condo complex.

you scoff, getting up onto your own feet. "dick," you mumble to yourself, lips tugging down in a frown and gaze pointed as you watch leon's retreating figure.

you don't know if he hears your curse, but if he doesn't he doesn't turn around to dispute with you. you could be annoying, jump back in the pool and make him drown in his own frustration. but you don't. you're tired, shocked, angry and most of all, embarrassed.

—

"y/n!" lauren says your name happily, and tipsily, stumbling over to you through the party bus and practically falling into your lap. she smiles, thrusting a shot of some white liquor in your direction, "do this shot with me!"

you smile and that's when you notice she's got the same liquor in her shot glass—a gift from alannah hyman. it's milky white and says bride in script on the side in big, sparkly letters.

you take the shot from her, "are you trying to get me drunk before we even get there?"

she nudges it closer to your mouth, a giggle spilling past her painted lips. "well it is a wedding party! so yes."

fondly, your eyes roll which only makes lauren squawk. you send her a real smile before bringing the glass to your mouth and tipping it back, downing the shot of what you know know is vodka, in a huge gulp.

your grimace, body doing a funny little shiver as the liquor coats your throat and warms your skin. the air conditioning isn't a match for the humid july night, and you're practically dripping with sweat. actually, everyone on the bus is dripping with sweat, but most of them are already so tipsy that it doesn't matter.

when lauren told you in addition to separate bachelor and bachelorette parties she was going to throw a joint one, you were a little hesitant. I mean, you love your friend and will do anything to make her happy—so you bit your tongue—but the idea of having to spend even more time with leon has your blood curdling, especially after the whole pool indecent a few days ago.

once again, you haven't seen leon since the almost kiss in the pool, which has you feeling even more embarrassed than before. you're not sure what's been unlocked with leon, but since your actual kiss in lauren and connor's bedroom almost a week ago, there's been a funny feeling lingering in your head.

you're not sure what it is, or how it makes you feel. all you do know is that it makes you hot and nervous and angry all at once. so really, nothing has changed.

so today, you'd been feeling extremely anxious. you thought about reaching out to leon—having his number saved from many years of being in the same random group chats—but you decide against it. after all, he's clearly not interested in fixing the hostility between you, and you're not going to be some desperate, submissive girl who just backs down and lets him win. absolutely not.

when you were all piling onto the party bus, leon nowhere in sight, you couldn't help but feel a rush of excitement (and maybe a little disappointment, but you don't even admit that to yourself). when you casually asked connor about it in passing, he looked at pointedly, "he's got some shit he needs to figure out with his agent, so he's going to meet us there."

you couldn't even hide your eye roll at that. you think the real reason he's not traveling on the party busy is because he probably just didn't want to get forced to dance on the stripper pole in the middle of the bus—he's so boring.

the bus comes to halt outside the bustling club, and everyone inside cheers. so loudly it makes your cringe a little, but you digress. lauren wraps her arm around yours, bringing you both off the bus and into the modern, sleek night club.

the music inside is instantly deafening, some kendrick lamar song that you've heard on the radio for three months straight. you're already feeling buzzed from the shot in the bus, and the one you did at connor and lauren's before your ride came.

"hey!" connor comes up behind you both, wrapping his arm around his fiancés waist as he speaks over the music. "we've got a table booked on the platform, so I'm gunna get up there."

lauren grins, placing a smacking kiss against the corner of his mouth. "okay," she shouts, "we're gunna dance."

he nods with one of those reserved-for-only-lauren grins before leaving you both, making his way through the crowd with the bachelor party.

lauren shakes your arm excitedly, "let's get a drink and then fucking dance, baby!"

you easily get lost in the feeling of the music and the warmth of the crowd. you and lauren dance together for what feels like hours, downing shots and sipping cocktails until way past the achy feeling starts in your feet. other girls from the bachelorette party join in, all of you screaming along to lyrics and dancing against one another like silly, drunk college kids.

leon walks into the club around 10, exhausted and wanting nothing more than to go home. for days he's been flustered and angry, brain scrambled with a mess of thoughts—working overtime and keeping him up at night. the meeting with his agent ended almost two hours ago, but he needed time to collect himself before joining the wedding party.

before seeing you.

connor's brother spots him first, calling his name in a sing song voice that instantly has leon peeking up, plastering on a smile as he climbs the stairs of the platform. the boys begin chatting his name like a group of seagulls, gathering the attention of many lingering bystanders in the night club—it makes leon shiver with discomfort. but thankfully, no one notices.

he's never been a fan of crowds, or attention, but being one of hockey's biggest stars quickly had him getting used to it. bars and clubs though, they will never be his thing.

someone thrusts a beer bottle in his hand, and he takes it greedily, popping off the cap before taking three large gulps. the foam coats his lips, dripping down his chin before he wipes it away.

the platform overlooks the face floor. it's secluded enough to feel private, but still open enough to not feel like you're missing out on the fun. leon finds himself looking through the crowd, beer bottle handing loosely in his grip as he searches.

it's not hard to find you, or any of the girls for that matter. you're all wearing variations of white and cream, which glows blue in the black lights scattered around the club. you're dancing against lauren, hands up in the air as you sway and sing along to some mainstream pop song leon has never heard.

you're covered in a sheer layer of sweat, making your tan skin glow. you look happy, and so tempting. as if you can feel his stare, your eyes find his. as they meet, your movements falter, and your face drops.

leon swallows roughly, pushing off the balcony and forcing himself to break eye contact. his blood feels like it's boiling, burning him from the inside out. he forces another mouthful of beer down, turning his attention back to some of connor's childhood buddies, easily sliding into their conversation.

your teeth clench as your eyes linger on the place leon was just stood, watching you with an unreadable expression. everything feels too constricting now, too warm. it feels like his eyes are still on you—even when you turn back to lauren and she starts doing a terrible rendition of the sprinkler. you can't shake him.

so when a large hand wraps around your waist, and an attractive man appears behind you, you don't stop him. he's not super tall, and his hair is so dark it's almost pure black. clean shaven, with soft hands and smelling like smoke and whiskey.

he's nothing like leon, and that makes you grin. you allow yourself to get wrapped up in the man, dancing with him like your life depends on it. his breathe is warm against your ear, "you're really sexy." his fingers dig into your arm, almost too roughly.

but you smile regardless, "you use that line on all the girls?"

"can't give away my secrets." he grins. his smile is nowhere as nice at leon's though. the man licks onto his bottom lip slowly, "wanna get out of here?"

you hum thoughtfully, looking around the crowded dance floor. when you meet mystery man's eyes, he's hopeful, and it makes you sigh regretfully. "sorry, i'm here with my friends."

"ah."

"yeah," you nod, "thanks for the dance but clearly we're not on the wavelength here. i'm gunna get back to them." you turn, but before you can disappear back into the heart of the dance floor, he grabs your arm.

leon is practically burning as he watches you dance with the short, finance looking bro from the platform. his teeth are aching from how hard he's clenching, and he's pretty sure the glass bottle is about to crack in his palm.

he's angry. he's in disbelief. he's fucking jealous. leon has never felt this level of jealousy before, and he's not even sure if that's what it actually is. it's a white hot fire stick, poking at his chest until he recoils.

you're laughing. and smiling. the guys hands low on your back and running over your hips. a few nights ago that was leon touching you there, and that only fuels his frustration. he watches the two of you talk, a hesitant look on your face that has his stomach dropping.

he stands up straighter, shoulders rigid. leon's scowling at the mystery guy, whispering in your ear as he says whatever shitty pickup line leon has no doubt the dudes used on multiple woman in this club.

then you start walking away, and relief begins to trickle in his bloodstream. unfortunately it doesn't last long, because when the guy reaches for you, grabbing you arm and tugging you back towards him, leon sees red.

you squeak at the feeling of the man's hand on your bicep, squeezing you hard enough that you can feel it in your bones.

"we can keep dancing," he tells you, firmly, "i'm not some dick who's going to act like getting rejected is a personal attack."

you tug your arm away, "i'm sorry, but i'm done dancing right now. it was nice meeting you."

the man's laugh makes you shiver unpleasantly. "you got a boyfriend or something? is that why you're acting like a-" his words are cut short as leon's fist flies, hitting him across the face in a quick, hard punch.

you gasp, a sickening crack echoing in your ears as his knuckles connects with the guys nose. he grabs it, blood seeping through his fingers and dripping onto his blue button up.

leon's not phased, flexing his fingers causally—like he didn't just punch a random guy in the face.

"oh my god," you shout, rushing forward to check on the guy and his obviously damaged face. the crowd stops all around you, whispering and pointing at the scene like it's a movie. your mouth opens, shocked, looking between the mystery guy and leon. "what the fuck!"

leon huffs, sending you a sharp glance before turning on his heels and pushing through the crowd. it feels like everyone is looking at him, judging him, and it has him feeling breathless. angrily, he shoves the doors of the nightclub open, stepping out onto the sidewalk and taking a deep breathe.

he rubs the back of his neck roughly, a curse leaving his lips. leon feels embarrassed about letting his emotions take control like that, but the anger seeing that guy grabbing you—pulling you—has his embarrassment fading away, replaced with fury.

the air feel nice, even though the july air is humid and thick, it's much better the the stuffy club. leon walks to the stone half wall that frames the greeny along the club, taking a seat on the lip with another rough sigh. he's only alone for about a minute before the club doors swing open, and you come storming out.

your eyes are wide—frantic even—searching the sidewalk until your eyes land on him. that's when your face falls, arms crossed defensively as you stare at him.

leon swallows, shrugging his shoulders. "is he hurt?" he asks, even though he already saw the answer.

"his nose is broken." you deadpan.

"good." he hums, checking his knuckles quickly. ones split, but he'll fix it later.

you laugh in disbelief, "good?"

"yeah," he confirms, eyes finding yours again. you've stepped closer in the time he was looking at his hand, and you look even angrier up close. "he shouldn't of touched you like that."

you shake your head. "I can handle myself."

leon snorts. "clearly not, y/n."

you make a scoffing noise, arms tightening further across the white dress wrapped tightly across your chest. "I was actually having a good time," you start, voice firm but tinged with something else, "but thanks to you, my night is ruined."

"I know you y/n," he deadpans, standing up from the wall, "your idea of a good time and his idea of a good time is vastly different. he was going to try something." leon walks closer to you, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he doesn't know what to do with them.

the tone of his voice, so frustrated, has you shocked. the audacity of leon to be upset with you after he punched a poor guy in the face is beyond you. your arms uncross, falling against your hips with a smack. "and so what?" you question, "what's it matter to you? why do you care?"

your voice has gotten louder, more venomous. it makes leon laugh roughly, looking down you with cynicism. "why do I care?" he practically shouts, reaching out and almost touching your exposed shoulder. "you're..." leon stops himself, a gentle curse leaving him. he huffs loudly, running a hand down his face in a slow but rough way.

a moment passes. cars passing and honking down the street, club music vibrating the concrete below your heels. your eyes don’t leave leon's figure, which is practically vibrating with emotion.

you swallow, voice much more quiet when you say, "I'm what?"

"ungrateful." he grunts.

your lips pull into a frown as the bridge of your nose begins to string. "screw you." with one more furious look in his direction, you turn heel, shoes clicking on the pavement as you make your way back to the nightclub's entrance.

you're so angry. it's fuelling your blood stream and stopping your feet. your arms cross again, eyes pinched as you turn back around. you're not done with him yet. "do you ever think about things before opening your mouth?"

leon looks shocked momentarily, but he recovers quickly. he shoves his hands into his jean pockets, nodding slowly. "yes."

"oh really?" you ask, "like when?"

"I thought about not answering your question just now."

"oh grow up!"

"i'm grown."

"really?" you ask wildly, "is that why you punched a guy in the face?"

"a guy who deserved it!"

"for dancing with me?"

"for touching what's not his."

that has you faltering, leon's words hitting you like a slap to the face. he knows that what he just said was possessive—uncalled for. he has no right to say that to you, you're certainly not his to claim. it's the jealously getting the best of him and wanting to make you feel how he's feeling.

and it worked. guilt tickles your skin and pales your face, looking back at leon with a straight face. you feel like you've done something wrong by dancing with that guy—like you've done him wrong. "oh, okay then," you start, voice timid and so gentle that it has leon faltering. "who's am I? please enlighten me."

he knows he can't keep going down this route with you. he'll regret it. leon takes a slow, deep breath, shaking his head. "i'm not playing this game."

that's rich, you think, considering he's the one who starts all these stupid games you find yourself unable to untangle yourself from. you can't help but laugh with false humor, "oh but you love games!"

"y/n," leon sighs tiredly, "stop."

connor comes bustling out of the club, and much like your expression and wandering eyes from 5 minutes ago, he's looking for leon just like you had. once he spots you in a stand off, leon's jaw tight and your eyes misty, he all but stomps up to the both of, face painted and livid. "are you guys seriously fighting? on top of everything else that happened tonight. I thought you guys stopped this fucking shit " he looks at you, still frustrated, "lauren is going to be pissed, y/n."

leon steps towards his friend calmly, despite his firm tone, "it's not y/n’s fault." he says definitively, a flash of protectiveness flashing over his face.

connor blinks, confused, looking between the pair of you. his jaw is tense, tendon popping under his beard as he tries to clam himself down. seeing his best friend punch a guy in the face for seemingly no reason, which obviously made his fiancé upset, combined with walking out and catching the two of you arguing when you'd already told lauren everything was squashed between you and leon, has connor spinning.

leon continues, "we're fine."

"are we?" you question, pettily.

connor shakes his head, a breathless laugh leaving him. the tension between the two of you is undeniable, and it doesn't matter what you say—you're arguing and leon's fight has ruined the night. "leon," he starts, eyeing his friend firmly, "you need to go. both of you. drive y/n home and while you're at it, make sure this shit between you gets sorted. for good."

"okay." leon nods after a tense moment, fishing his keys from his pocket and walking down the sidewalk. he glances back at you, "let's go, y/n." he doesn't sound angry anymore, but he is still very definitive with his tone.

it has you moving, following behind him timidly, arms crossed tightly and tears fall freely down your cheeks. the damage has been done. your drunk and tired. that combined with your argument, and connor's scolding has you feeling very guilty and emotional.

leon unlocks his porsche, the beep echoing through the back parking lot of the night club. it's the car he's always had ever since you've known him, and you always mockingly call it his, 'big fancy sports call', everytime you see it. yes, it's a porsche but not a sports model—leon never corrects you though.

but you stay silent behind him, the only sound coming from you is your shoes on the ground. it has leon pausing. he attempts to glance at you quickly—sneakily—but as he catches the sight of your glistening tears under the moonlight, everything shifts.

the sight makes him swallow down the immediate rising guilt and regret that threatens to make its way out of him, halting his movements by the passenger door of his car. you sniff, eyes downcast.

it sends a pang through his heart, sighing softly as he faces you fully. "come on."

your chin trembles and you shake your head. he watches as you dig through top of your dress, pulling out your phone from where it rested beside your boob. you begin thumbing the screen, unaware of how your boob is now practically spilling out of your dress, sitting perfectly plump and bulged in a way that makes leon shift.

"i'm ordering an uber," you mumble, blinking through tears as you try to navigate the uber app.

"no," leon breathes, opening the passenger door with an echoing click. "you're not getting in an uber while you're drunk and alone."

you roll your wet eyes. "connor would let me."

"i'm not connor."

you pause, eyes flickering up to meet leon's. he gestures to the open car, a pleading look in his gaze. not in the mood to fight any more, you sniffle, turning off your cell before dragging yourself to the passenger seat.

leon's shoulders slump in relief, moving to the side so you're able to get into his car properly. once you're seated, leon shuts the door and rounds the front to the driver's side, where he lets himself in.

you keep your eyes forward as he starts the car, letting the engine roar to life as he clicks his seatbelt into place. he glances at you gingerly, "put your seatbelt on."

you sigh but do so. once he hears the dull click of the buckle, leon releases a tension filled sigh, shifting the car into drive before slowly pulling out of the parking lot and onto the road.

you really wish you could stop crying, but controlling your emotions have never been your strong suit—fighting with leon for years because he didn't smile at you one time is enough proof of that. your quiet hiccups are heard throughout the car, too tired to attempt to mask them. your arms are crossed again, like you're trying to hug yourself. your chest shakes with every breath, inhale or exhale, as your continue to cry, eyes trained out the windshield.

you won't look at him. you can't look at him. you're embarrassed and still a little angry, and you've given leon enough of your range of emotions in the past week that he's probably sick of then by now—more than he normally is.

the car slows at a red light, the rumbling of the engine coming to a quiet hum as the car completely halts. leon taps the steering wheel with two fingers, licking his teeth as he glances at you. "why are you crying, y/n?"

his words bring another round of tears to your eyes. you huff, sniffling away your running nose. "because."

"just because?" leon pushes gently, eyes flickering back to the traffic light to check its status. still red. he looks back at you, bathed in the red glow. "c'mon, help me out a little bit here."

the sincerity of his voice makes you frown. in that moment you're in desperate need of an outlet, someone or something to talk to in hopes that your tears will stop. and right now, you don't care if that person is leon, especially with the way he's looking at you—despite his deadpanned expression, there's still a softness underneath it all.

you nod, as if you're convincing yourself to confide in him. with another sob and trembling breath, you say, "lauren is going to hate me now."

the lights changes to green, and leon blinks, turning away from you and shifting the car into drive. a moment passes before he sighs softly, shaking his head, "she's not going to hate you." he says, glancing at you quickly.

"i've ruined the night." you counter, bringing your knees up to your chest to cradle yourself. your dress shifts, sliding dangerously high on your thigh, and the sight has leon internally cursing, he licks onto his bottom lip, forcing himself to look away from your soft skin.

"you didn't ruin anything," he reassures you, "I was the one who got all...angry and punched that guy. trust me, lauren will be okay. you'll be okay." leon pauses, eyes flickering away from the deserted road and over to your tear stained face. "besides, how could anyone ever hate you?"

your lips part and you shift your head to look at leon. his expression in unreadable, but he barley lets you analyze it because he's turning his attention back to the road. finally, you find your voice. "you hate me."

leon shifts gears, and he does it so smoothly that you don't even jolt in your seat. that also means you don't look away from his side profile, eyes pointed and curious as you await his response.

"I could never hate you, y/n." he swallows, adam's apple bobbing under his stubble. leon doesn't look at you yet. he can't.

"that's a lie," you mean to sound firm, but your words come out nothing short of a whisper. your brows pull tightly, confusion etched across your forehead. "because you do hate me."

that makes leon falter, glancing over to you after he shift into a different lane. "do I?"

you don't answer, mostly because you're unsure what kind of response leon is looking for. you tear your eyes away from him, looking back out through the windshield and keeping your gaze trained on the pavement as it disappears under the car.

leon sighs to himself, running a hand through his messy hair. he eyes you again, but you're still not looking at him. your face is tight, but you've stopped crying for the most part, only the occasional tear that slides over your salty tight skinned cheek. a flash of fear comes over him—what if you're too uncomfortable with what he said to cry?

leon curses. the last thing he wants to do right now is make you feel worse. his eyes trail over your body as he hits another red light. your legs are still pulled up, hands wrapped around your calves like you're cradling yourself. it makes his heart sink, but then he sees it. your nails.

the usual flame red you wear is replaced by a neutral colour, accompanied by white french. his mouth opens before his brain can catch up, "taking a break from the red?" leon's words have you blinking, looking back at him curiously. his eyes flick down to your hands, "your nails."

"oh," you hum. you hadn't even known that leon had noticed the little red nail detail you've been committed to for years. the colour you'd pick solely because leon didn't like it. thinking about it now makes you feel a bit silly, but something about leon mentioning it has you feeling fuzzy. "yeah," you clear your throat, sliding your hands between your thighs shyly, hiding them from his sight. "lauren wants us all to have french tips for the wedding."

"that's a shame," leon sighs, stepping on the gas as the light changes. "you look good in red."

"you hate the colour red." you say quietly— cautiously.

"doesn't mean I hate it on you."

a beat passes as you sit with that confession. your drunk brain has a difficult time pacing the pieces together, brows furrowed in confusion as you keep your eyes trained on leon. you breathe a laugh that sounds like a scoff. "why are you being so nice to me?" you question, "is it just because im upset?"

"not just because you're upset," he replies quickly, "i've been enough of a dick to you to last a lifetime. and I know how important lauren is to you, and how much you want to fix this thing between us before the wedding so she's happy." leon stops himself, swallowing roughly as he looks back at you. "i'm trying my best to start fixing it."

"what is this thing between us?"

his thumbs strokes the leather wrapping around the steering wheel, "whatever you want it to be."

you make a funny noise. "what kind of answer is that?"

leon can't help the way his top lip twitches, the smallest grin threatening to take over. "the right one for how drunk and upset you are."

"I don't like that answer either."

that does make him smile. "I know you don't."

silence fills the car after that. you let your legs fall back to the ground, feeling much more relaxed then when you first got in. and leon notices out of the corner of his eye, which makes his shoulders drop in relief. they ache slightly from how tense he'd been, but he can't even think of that right now.

not when you start to talk, voice curious and gentle. "how come you hit that guy?"

he sighs lowly, not taking his eyes off the road as he flicks on his signal, car turning into the parking garage of your apartment complex. you blink in surprise—leon hadn't even asked for directions once. he remembers where you live.

"when you're upset, it's makes me crazy," he starts shamelessly, hands tightening around the wheel as he recalls the scene at the nightclub less than an hour ago. "and tonight, when that asshole grabbed your arm and the tiniest flash of distress crossed your features, I didn't even think." leon looks at you quickly, meeting your intent gaze. it makes him look away just as fast. "not only was I jealous but I was so fucking angry that I just lashed out."

he pulls into an empty parking spot, which is thankfully a few steps away from the elevator. leon shifts the car into park before he looks at you again. when he sees the slow smile on your face, his stomach swoops.

before he has a chance to question why you look so...pleased, you begin to talk. "wait, you were jealous?" you ask him, eyebrow raised curiously.

leon's neck feels hot, and he forces himself to laugh, even though the sound comes across awkward. he rubs the back of his neck and looks away from you, which only makes you giggle. "okay, let's not dwell on it." he mutters.

"oh my god," you tease, "big tough leon draisaitl was jealous."

"y/n."

"this is amazing"

his eyes twinkle with amusement. "i'm trying to apologize," leon tells you, the smallest smile pulling at his lips.

"I know," you grin, "I never thought this day would come! should I get my phone out and take a video of this? post it on my story so everyone can see?"

leon rolls his eyes fondly as you laugh, head falling back against the head rest as you look at him. you obviously are just teasing him, and that has leon's heart strings tugging. "are you done?"

"with this?" you question, knowingly, "never."

the smile that follows that is different, one of those smiles that you only save for lauren and when you're talking on the phone to your family. leon almost wants to get his phone out now and snap a picture of you—because he's never seen anything more beautiful.

—

the muskoka air bnb is beautiful. so much so that it doesn't even feel real. it's decorated in white, with lots of neutral florals and greenery that line not only the main house, but the multiple guests house littering the property.

connor and lauren had flown the wedding party out yesterday, and you had been so exhausted from travel, as well as trying to not stare at leon for the duration of the flight that as soon as you arrived you passed out.

since leon drove you home from the night club a few days ago, there's been a major shift. you'd seen him a few days afterwards at a dinner hosted by lauren's parents for the wedding party and family, and obviously he attended. there was a part of you that thought he'd ignore you like he always did, but he actually smiled at you. a half grin from across the room as he held a champagne flute that made your stomach flip.

and then two days ago, the day before traveling to muskoka, leon texted you. you were in such a shock from seeing his name flash across your screen, that you almost forgot to answer him. after 30 minutes you finally responded to his message, asking if you wanted a ride to the airport tomorrow—to which your answer was thanks. that be great, leon :)

immediately you cringed at your own message. it made you feel like a school girl with a highschool crush who was trying to come across casual but was miserably failing—wait, are you a school girl with a highschool crush who was trying to come across casual but was miserably failing? just as immediate you pushed that thought away, storing it on the back burner to later dissect.

this weekend is not about you or the sudden butterflies in your stomach when you think about leon—who a week ago, you thought couldn't stand you. you're still not sure if he even likes you, despite everything. so yeah, back burner it goes.

when you woke up today, much closer to the afternoon than the morning, you'd be in for a surprise when you walked down the hallway of your designated guest house and saw leon standing in the kitchen, sipping coffee while scrolling through his phone. shirtless.

"oh!" you practically squeal, jumping around and covering your eyes with a hand. you knew that you'd be sharing the guest house with some of the wedding party, you just didn't think it would be with him.

he laughs, clicking off his phone and setting it on the island. "i'm not naked, you don't have to hide."

you peek through your fingers first and see him looking at you, palms flat against the counter as he leans into it, mug sat in the space between his hands. when you catch sight of the sweat pants—although hung dangerously low on his toned hips—you drop your hand. "you just caught me off guard." you swallow.

he grins, all syrupy and slow before pushing off the counter. leon stalks over to you, and the closer he gets the more nervous you feel. just when you think he may stop, he walks right past you, hand brushing your wrist. "lauren and connor need us ready for 1:30 for something. connor's brother and jenni are already outside." he calls back at you, stalking down the hallways.

you had to wash your face in freezing water to calm yourself down from that interaction—mostly caused by leon’s shirtless torso, but that's neither here or there. you slipped on one of your white cocktail dresses, because even though leon didn't say what was happening, you knew it was the welcome party in the garden.

leon wasn't in the kitchen or the living area when you emerged from your room, thankfully, so you had another few minutes to calm down while you made your way across the property. guests have already started to arrive by the time you sneak up beside lauren, greeting her warmly while she beams at the sight of your face.

you help her make her rounds and tidy up whatever she feels needs it while people mingle, snacking on hors d'oeuvres and sipping alcohol under the july sun. when you get a free moment, you nudge her side to get her attention, "why didn't you tell me leon was in my house?"

she frowns slightly, "he is? thought he was in the other one but I guess not." before you can get her to elaborate on that, one of the waitstaff comes over, whisking her away to deal with whatever snack debacle was occurring.

you spend a few hours mingling with everyone, sharing laughter and drinks happily. you've never been to muskoka, and you can't help but appreciate how beautiful and scenic it is. lauren and connor couldn't of picked a better spot to get married.

on instinct you hear lauren’s laugh echo through the garden, and you spot her almost instantly. your best friend has never looked more beautiful or happy since you've known her. connor stands beside her, the two of them in their own little world. he's whispering in her ear which is the reason for her laughter. you love them so much.

your eyes begin to prick with tears, and you quickly look away before they can fall. you grab a napkin hurriedly, bringing it up to your lower lash line so it soaks up your salty tears. thank god you're alone right now, because it's so embarrassing.

"oh no," leon's says from a few feet away, eyeing you with a mixture of curiosity and amusement. "you're crying."

his voice cutting through the silence makes you jump slightly—when did you get so jumpy around him?—and you turn to look at him, a small bubble of laughter leaving you. you sniffle, balling up the napkin in your palm, "I know. i'm a mess."

he shakes his head, a half smirk, half frown on his face. you don't even know where to begin trying to understand what that means. leon walks closer, taking the napkin right out of you palm and throwing it in the small garbage underneath the long buffet style hors d'oeuvres table. "what's got you emotional?"

on cue lauren laughs again, and you sigh dreamily, glancing the happy couples way. "they're just so in love. this place is beautiful, lauren and connor are beautiful and i'm just...so happy for them."

leon watches you for a long moment, brows furrowed slightly as he listens to your confession. when you look back at him, there's new tears in your eyes, happy ones but laced with a longing you hadn't realized you possessed. leon's gut pangs with something all too familiar as you look up at him. he can't help but wonder if for years you'd been too worried about trying to get him to like you in some capacity that you'd been too busy to look for what you need. what you want. what you've always desired: to feel loved.

the way you're looking at him now, no trace of anger or resentment in your eyes, makes him feel comfortable—complete. it's then that he knows that yes, you'd been too focused on leon's stubbornness when it comes to you, to notice that he never hated you. not at all.

he gives you a closed mouth grin, reaching to wipe away the tear that's pooling under your lashes. "you'll get it too, y/n. love."

your lip twitches, and his eyes on you feel so intense you have to look to the ground. "think so?"

he guides your face back up. "I know so." leon swallows gently, eyes darting down to your lips just like they had in the pool many days ago. your lips part, nothing but a hitched breath coming out. he licks along his lower lip, "i'm sorry, y/n. for everything."

and you know he means it.

dinner time comes quickly, sneaking up on you. leon weighs heavy on your mind as you shove garden salad in your mouth—the conversation today, his shirtless torso, the way he notices your nails, the way he touched you in the pool, the way he kissed you. even the way he eats damn beer nuts.

you try and distract yourself with the conversation flowing all around you, stretching down the long dining table under the warm fairy lights dripping from the trees. but your mind always drift back to him. leon. leon. leon. the man who hasn't left your mind since you met him years ago, is still the man who you think about today.

it doesn't help that he's sitting diagonally from you, your eyes catching every few minutes like there’s nothing else to but to look at one another.

you need a cold shower and a long nights rest. and leon, you brain taunts you.

after desert and another hour of mindless chatting, everyone starts heading home and packing in for the night. tomorrow would be a long day of rehearsals and last minute prepping for the wedding on the following day.

you practically run back to the guest house, stealing one of two showers before any of the other house guests have a chance too. the water is relaxing, and helps ease the tornado of thoughts and unwanted questions in your mind.

whatever you want it to be.

you're glad you have a room to yourself because you don't want to put pyjamas on. you crawl under the covers completely naked, sighing as your head hits the pillow.

leon. leon. leon.

hours pass, the guest house bathed in the sound of water lapping against the stoney shore. sleep doesn't take you, leaving you tossing and turning like a child. you huff, reading the small alarm clock on the wooden beside table: 2:17 a.m.

you slip out from under the sheets and grab one of your oversized shirts, pulling it over your frame before making your way to the door. you're hoping some water and a change of atmosphere will help you feel a little sleepy. you toe down the dark hallway until you round into the kitchen.

the image of shirtless leon, leaning over the island this morning flashes through your mind. you shake your head, sighing again before going to the cupboard and grabbing a mug.

you fill it with the brita in the fridge, and then you drink it slowly, doing your best to calm your restless limbs and even more restless mind. after a few minutes you put the mug in the sink and make your way back down the hallway.

one of the bedroom doors creaks open, and you falter. even in the dim light, you'd recognize him. leon looks at you, curious, one brow raised the highest fraction taller than the other. he's shirtless again, which makes you swallow.

"hi." you mumble dumbly.

"hey."

you walk further down the hall, right by your bedroom door which before this moment, unbeknownst to you, is diagonally across from his.

you watch leon's eyes dart down to your legs, trailing up your soft skin and reaching the hem on your not so long t-shirt. his eyes linger there, and you flush. "sorry, I," you stutter, "wasn't expecting to see you. or anyone really, at this hour."

he finds your face. "don't apologize."

you nod, clearing your throat again. you've never been at a loss for words in leon's presence, besides the moment right before your kiss over a week ago, but right now you're rendered speechless.

"you okay?" he questions tenderly, assessing you.

"yeah," you say, thumbing down the hall in the direction of the kitchen. "couldn't sleep, so just had some water."

he nods once, "ah."

"are you okay?" you ask him.

leon blinks, nodding again. "yeah. just had to use the bathroom."

"ah." you repeat his earlier words, and his mouth twitches.

"yeah." he mumbles.

you breathe, "well, I should probably try and sleep. it'll be a long day tomorrow."

"yeah, me too." he say, but it doesn't sound convincing. leon eyes your legs again.

you squeeze your thighs together, a small gasp leaving your lips. the sound has leon's eyes snapping up to your face. you reach behind yourself blindly, finding the handle of the door knob. "goodnight leon."

"night." he says, turning the knob of his own door and pushing it open.

whatever you want it to be. the words taunt you as you look at leon's back, muscles pronounced and tempting. your mind is still racing with the unknown—your body on fire—and this interaction didn't help at all.

you're desperate for answers.

so before his door closes, you step forward. "leon?"

he pauses, pulling the bedroom door back open. not fully, but just enough so he can lean on the trim. "yea?"

you shutter as you inhale, fingers itching as you try and keep your hands to yourself. leon's skin is glistening. pecks and chest covered in a neat spread of hair that trails down his abs and disappears below those stupid low rise sweatpants. focus. you force yourself to look back up to his face.

whatever you want it to be.

"what would you of said the other night in the car if I was sober?" you ask him, "when I asked you what are we, you said whatever I want us to be."

leon remembers the conversation all too well. it plays on a constant loop in his head and it has since he dropped you home that night. "yeah, I did." he confirms lowly.

"so what's the real answer?" you swallow gently, "what would you of said? if I asked you right now, what would you say?"

a moment passes.

leon huffs, eyes finding the worn wood of the house as he rubs the back of neck roughly. he meets your eyes again—your curious, hopeful gaze. "I don't know." he says.

"you don't know?" you repeat slowly—hesitantly. like your testing out the sound of it on your tongue. a flash of sadness washes over your face, and leon feels awful.

he steps back into the hallway, "I don't mean it like that, I just..." he trails off, breathing deeply.

you don't give him the opportunity to finish that thought. your arms cross over your chest, a defensive stance that makes leon frown. "how come when we first met you didn't smile at me?"

the question catches him off guard. not because he didn't know the answer, but because he hadn't realized it had been in your mind. leon didn't realize that you noticed that when first time you met, he didn't smile back at you. heat flushes his chest and neck, "y/n..."

the look on his face has you stopping. he looks almost distraught, and that's not at all what you were expecting. there was a part of you that thought leon didn't even remember that first meeting. the solem look on his face suggests otherwise.

"please," you breathe, arms falling as you step closer to him. "I need to know what I did that made you so upset that you couldn't even smile. it's been years of racking my brain, desperately trying to understand what I did-"

"I couldn't smile because I was scared." leon cuts you off firmly, gaze pointed.

"scared?" you repeat curiously. "scared of what?"

"y/n." he says your name again. almost pleading with you.

you reach out, letting your nails trail over the side of his bicep. you blink up at him, "leon, please."

a beat passes.

"you had the prettiest smile i'd ever seen," leon mumbles, so quiet that you almost don't hear him. "that's what scared me. because I knew I would do anything to see it again, and from that moment I knew I had no control when it came to you." he shakes his head, a breathy laugh breaking the tense moment. leon meets your gaze, “I still don't have control around you and it scares me to this day."

your core flutters, and your heart thumps wildly. you lick your lower lip. "yeah?" you question softly.

"yeah."

leon watches as you take another step towards him, your chest pressing against his. you push up onto your painted toes, hands curling around his torso to balance yourself. he's practically panting as he watches you, nose bumping yours as he starts leaning down into your space.

"loose control, leon." you whisper sensually, nails digging into his flesh. "I want you to loose control with me."

leon kisses you hard, hands flying to your waist to keep you pressed against him. your mouths part, tongues swiping over one another as the kiss turns deeper—hotter. it's even better than the one almost two weeks ago. more intimate and more passionate.

you sigh into his mouth, hands sliding up the front of his chest and wrapping around his neck, pulling him into you even more. his fingers squeeze the fleshy part of your hips before travelling farther down, cupping the round of your ass and giving it a firm squeeze. then he drags you even further up his chest, and you can feel him hardening against your core.

"you have no idea how long i've been waiting for you," he mumbles into your mouth, grip sliding down your thighs painfully slow.

you whine as leon kisses you again, lifting you off the ground and wrapping your legs over his hips. the new position has your bare core resting just above his member, and just knowing that has your hips jerking.

leon's hands trail under your shirt, which is now almost completely exposing you, smoothing over your ass. he makes a growling noise, and in that moment you know he's discovered you're without panties. "you're gunna kill me." he mumbles, nipping your bottom lip and then soothing the sting with his tongue.

your hands run up through the back of his head, messing his hair. "leon," you pant, nipples pebbled and hard where they rest against him. "I need to feel you."

he doesn't answer you—not with words. his hands squeeze the meat of your ass again and spin you both around, slowly to not startle you, and walk you into his room. it's completely dark in there besides the single stream of moonlight through the window, leaving a barley there streak of light across the pillows.

leon blindly finds the bed, and once he feels the mess of blankets against his knees he lowers you to the mattress. he hovers over you, eyes flickering over your flushed face so intently—so tenderly. you sigh, a small smile blossoming on your kissed out lips.

it makes him follow suit, the two of just smiling at one another for what feels like the first time. slowly, one of leon's hands finds the side of your face, cupping your jaw while his thumb runs along the hallow part of your cheek soothingly. "you okay?"

your heart clenches, and you lean into the warmth of his palm. your eyes flutter as you nod, "yes. are you?"

"better than okay," he whispers, leaning in and reconnecting your lips. this kiss isn't hurried like the others. this one feels like molasses, slow and sweet and you can't get enough.

leon’s hand trails down your face, over the pulse point of your neck and down your t-shirt covered torso. he pays extra attention to your boobs, tugging and palming your nipples until you're arching into him.

when he reaches your hip bones—the edge of your shirt—he curses, pressing an open mouthed kiss to each side of your hips, and then another one right below your navel. your breath catches, watching as leon’s eyes flicker up yours—so close to where you want him.

leon smirks, kissing the inside of your thigh delicately. "what do you want from me, baby?"

the nickname makes your hips jerk, a breathless moan leaving you involuntary. leon's smirk deepens, hands sliding up your thighs and pushing them further apart, displaying your glistening bare pussy.

"I want you to touch me," you mumble desperately, hands fisting the bedding under you like your life depends on it.

"speak up baby." leon taunts, blowing air on your warmth.

you jaw goes slack as you squirm and wiggle against the mattress. "I want you," you swallow roughly, "to touch me."

he licks his bottom lip like he's in front of a five course meal, "good girl." leon mumbles before licking a firm strip up your pussy, tasting and spreading your sticky arousal. you gasp loudly, too loudly for sharing a house with other people, when he sucks on your clit.

leon hums at the sound, and it vibrates through your folds in a way that makes you shiver. his hands massage the meat of your thighs as he devours your pussy, keeping you spread open for him.

your panting, back arching off the bed as your core flutters pathetically. "i'm close." you whine, fingers threading through leon's hair and tugging his roots.

leon slurps your arousal, sucking your clit deliciously. just when you're about to teeter off the edge, he pulls away from you. his chin and lips are drenched in your juices, and when he smirks you just about melt.

"I wanna see your face when you cum," he admits shamelessly, already beginning to remove his sweatpants. his hard cock springs free, thick and red as it brushes against his stomach. as if leon couldn't get any more sexy, he's got the perfect cock as the cherry on top.

you bring your bottom lip between you teeth, watching him shamelessly. he catches your gaze, "take your shirt off."

and you do, quickly, like you can't take it off fast enough. you throw it to the floor and leon climbs back over your body, pressing tickling kisses against your neck that have you giggling and squirming.

"you're beautiful." leon hums, pressing a deep kiss to your mouth. you can taste yourself on his lips and tongue, and that makes you moan. he pulls away, forehead resting against yours, "I don't have a condom."

you shake your head, "i'm clean. I haven't been with anybody since—" since I met you.

you don't need to say it. leon knows. "me either." he kisses you again, chaste. "and i’m clean, if you’re sure?"

"yes," you tell him, "i've never been more sure of anything."

he smiles, lining his aching tip up with your sticky entrance. slowly, leon eases into your warmth. you both sigh shakily, mouth agape as leon's cock slides further and further into your pussy.

"holy fuck," he moans, "you feel so good."

you whine, wrapping your legs around his lower back, keeping him as close as possible. the feeling is electric and like nothing you've experienced before. it's years of tension, frustration, unspoken words and secret longing combined, and it feels like heaven.

leon begins rolling his hips into you, a slow pace that has your toes clenching and pussy oozing. your back arches off the bed, hands sliding up his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades as he rocks into your heat.

he curses lowly, the band in his stomach tightening as his impending orgasm nears. "your pussy feels so fucking good wrapped around my cock."

"oh my god, leon—mhpm." you mewl, walls fluttering and squeezing as he continues his now feverish pace. the bed begins to creak from the movement, a sound that surely gives away exactly what you and leon are up to. but neither of you care.

"fuck," he grunts, grabbing your leg and hiking it further up, almost holding it flush to your chest. the new angle is exactly what you needed, leon's tip kissing that spongy spot inside you repeatedly.

"i'm gunna cum." you whine, hands sliding around to his front, cascading up his chest to wrap around his neck. "don't stop." you beg desperately, jaw going slack at a particularly rough thrust.

"you like that?" leon asks, eyeing your pinched eyes and flushed face. he pushes on the back of your thigh, stretching you open even more and more. you shout, mumbling yes over and over again. "yeah?" he teases.

he thrusts into you three more times and you cum. you exhale breathily, falling back against the bed as your limbs go weak. your skin feels like it's on fire in the best possible way. leon's jaw goes slack, hips jutting into yours as he reaches his climax.

the feeling of him filling you up with his cum, pumping into into you softly with lazy thrusts has you cumming again, much softer than your first orgasm, but still powerful enough to have you whining.

your eyes flutter closed, exhaustion creeping into your bones. leon breathlessly kisses the line of your jaw, and then your cheek, then your nose and finally your lips. you smile into it, holding his face to yours tenderly.

"you okay?" he whispers, pushing some hair off your sweaty forehead.

you hum, kissing him one more time quickly. "yeah." you say, "i'm definitely tired now."

he grins fondly, dick twitching where it's still sheathed inside you. slowly, leon guides himself from your warmth, watching as his cum spills out your hole and drips onto the bedding. it’s truly a sight.

he curses, already half hard again. you giggle, and leon swears he's never heard a more precious sound. he cleans up your shared mess gently, pressing kissing against your skin every few seconds. it's so comforting and soft it has you falling asleep.

when leon finally climbs back up the bed, he pulls you against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. he pulls the blanket over your naked bodies, and kisses your forehead, so softly that you barley feel it. "go to sleep, y/n."

and you do.

—

you take a deep breath, letting the muskoka air fill your lungs completely before you let yourself exhale. the night sky is full of stars and constellations, adding to the already perfect night.

you can hear the chatter of the last half of rehearsal dinner from up the house, lauren's laughter finding your ears like it usual does. you're both cacklers, and connor often dubs you two as the cackle twins.

the dinner has been beautiful, as expected. speeches made you tear up and laugh at the same time, and the food was so delicious is made you moan.

you woke up this morning before leon, the sunshine streaming through the open curtains and caring him in golden light. seeing him so soft and tender was everything, but the unknown of everything between you still lingers in your chest.

yes, you had sex. yes, you kissed again. but what does that mean?

you left before he woke up.

the day had been so busy with you helping lauren and getting ready for rehearsals, that you didn't see leon again until the dinner. seeing him made your heart race, and skin heat. leon looked so handsome in his suit, hair styled and casual smile on his face—chatting with connor from across the table.

you thought you could handle your feelings and emotions through the duration of dinner, but that changed as connor made his toast—a stupidly perfect toast about love that made you think of leon.

you caught his eyes through it, and he sent you a sad smile. it breaks you. you're scared of the unknown, and you want him so badly. but not knowing what leon wants is torture, and frankly it’s holding you back.

so once all the toasts are done and dinner conversation is in full swing, you slip out of the house and make your way down to the waters edge. hoping to collect yourself. the sound of the water and the crickets are soothing as you look out on to the lake. you wrap your arms around yourself, taking another deep and much needed breath.

the sound of someone walking on the rocks behind you makes you spin around, white silk dress swaying around your thighs at your sudden movement.

"hey," leon says gently, hands shoved in his pant pockets. he's no longer wearing his jacket, he must've ditched it before coming out to find you.

"hey." you parrot.

he comes up next you, arm brushing yours. "you okay?"

you hum lightly, nodding once. "just taking a breather." your emotions betray your body as your lip quivers, a wave of fat tears rolling down your cheeks.

leon spots them instantly, rounding to your front to look at you properly. "hey," he starts tenderly, brushing some loose hairs away from your face, "why are you upset?"

"i'm just...emotional." you mutter pathetically, shrugging your shoulder.

leon frowns. "about the speeches?"

"yes," you say, "no. I don't know."

he clicks his tongue, tucking your hair. his touch makes you shiver. "what about it is making you upset?" leon asks, words patient and curious.

you shake your head, wiping at your tears with the back of your hand. "it's stupid," you laugh half-heartedly, "and I really should get back inside and be present! this is about lauren and connor, not me-"

"hey," leon stops you, "no. lauren and connor are fine. it's just me and you right now, okay? what's going on that head."

that's a good question. what is going on inside your head. for years you believed that leon hated you. you were certain of it. you two would always bicker and fight, couldn't be in the same room without it getting hostile. but the past few weeks something has undeniably changed.

you sigh, voice wobbly as you begin to speak. "for years, you only looked my way if you wanted to argue."

leon frowns, reaching out to cup your jaw. "that's not true." he says with determination, brows pulled so tightly that you'd be surprised if the indent between them isn't permanent.

"it is," you huff, "and sometimes I think that's still the case." a new wave of tears and doubt well in your eyes, heart thumping against your ribs wildly. "you hate me, leon."

a moment passes, leon looking down at you with an unreadable, almost sad expression. your words couldn't be farther from the truth. leon didn’t lie when he said he never hated you. it always been the opposite for him. "okay, sure," leon starts, "I hate you."

you gulp, eyes never leaving his.

leon continues, "I hate that I know your favourite necklace was gift from your grandma when you turned 18. I hate that I know you fiddle with your rings when you're nervous, and that you'll do anything for lauren and your friends, even if that means putting up with my terrible fucking attitude. I hate that I know your favourite lipgloss is bubblegum flavoured, and that your dream pet is a snake but there's also something about them that scares you. I hate that I made you hate me, because I sure as hell have never hated you."

you sniffle, shifting on your feet as his words warm your skin. you've never told leon about yourself, but yet he knew you well enough to know them. he knows you. you knows where you live, and your nail colour. he knows you cross your arms when you get defensive and that you love beer nuts.

"then why?" you ask gingerly "why did you act like you did?"

leon doesn't say anything. his jaw ticks, teeth clenched so hard that it hurts. leon's other hand comes up to your face, caressing your tear stained skin in his calloused palms. his lips part, tongue sliding along his bottom lip. "because I love you."

you blink. "what?"

"I love you like crazy," leon repeats, a breathy laugh following. "I loved you since you walked into that bar with lauren, all smiles and wearing that pretty yellow dress. sure, you scared me but you also intrigued me. when you started fighting with me, which was warranted, there was a part of me that hated it, but another part of me loved it because it was the only time you'd give me the time of day."

his thumbs smooth over your rosy cheeks as he continues, "so i'd argue with you and fight with you because I knew that would make you look at me and talk to me. and i'm so sorry. i'm sorry that I hurt you and embarrassed you and gave you all these mixed signals the past two weeks. i'm sorry that I was falling in love you more and more each day and didn't say anything until now."

"you love me?"

leon must think you're feeling skeptical about his confession, because his thumbs still on your cheeks and his face falters. "i'm not fucking with you."

"you love me." you state.

"yes," he breathes, "i've never not loved you."

"leon."

"I know. i'm sorry."

"leon...stop."

"you can hit me or smack me or drown me in this lake if that helps. i've been awful to you and then sending you mixed signals when it's the last thing I wanted to do. I got greedy with the sex and kissing but-"

"kiss me." you interrupt firmly, sliding your hands up his stomach and resting your palms flat against his pecks

"what?" leon breathes, blinking hard as your words register in his head.

"you heard me, leon," you smile, "kiss me. now."

and he does. leon kisses you with nothing besides tenderness and pure love, lips caressing and sliding along yours in a way that makes your knees feel weak. your hands slide around to his back, squeezing his muscles firmly as he continues the kiss. his tongue slides along yours, sending butterflies down your body. you pull away, both of you breathless and so in love.

"I love you too, leon." you smile, pressing another chaste kiss to his plump lips. "and I forgive you, if you can forgive me too."

he shakes his head, "there's nothing for me to forgive."

leon kisses you again, picking up right where you left off. his hands slide down your body, down to your lower back as his thumb glide over your tail bone in a soothing, gentle motion. the kiss doesn’t last nearly long enough, and you whine when he pulls away.

he grins, squeezing the flesh of your ass. "we should probably go back inside. lauren might bite my head off if I steal her best friend away any longer."

"are you sure we can't just go have a quickie first?" you ask playfully, fiddling with the hairs at the base of his neck.

he shakes his head in disbelief, a fond smile pulling at his face. "you're a freak."

"at least i'm not a freak who hates beer nuts," you tease, poking his stomach, "but forces himself to eat them."

leon wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side as the two of you make your way back up to the house. "ah, but you see, I did it for the greater good."

you snort. "and what greater good was that?"

"getting the girl."

—

follow up part here

#🤍⊹˚₊ cute and hughesy fic #leon draisaitl imagine #leon draisaitl fic #leon draisaitl x reader #leon draisaitl smut #nhl smut #nhl fanfic #nhl fic #nhl imagine #hockey smut #hockey imagine #hockey fanfiction #nhl x reader

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slut-for-free-will · 2 months ago

Text

eltingville club headcannons (x reader)

✿˖˚ ༘𐙚 > // my headcannons for the boys + if they were romantic with you. I tried to make it relatively gender neutral on your part, but Bill is written as x fem reader.

wordcount: 4933

rating: medium -> mature-ish (some parts are freaky *cough bill and Peter DiNunzio*)

warnings: unhealthy relationships (ESPECIALLY Bill), themes of child neglect, cursing, misogyny, Bill Dickey, Pete Dinunzio

Jerry

Jerry’s grades are decent, mainly B’s and B+’s, an occasional A.

His parents aren’t really present in his personal life.

Use to get bad anxiety as a kid, especially when his parents fought.

Who am I kidding Jerry still gets heavy anxiety.

Horrible poker face.

Before he even knew your name, the slightest glimpse of you would make his cheeks tingle and butterflies flood his stomach.

When he’s nervous his palms will HEAVILY sweat (When you first start dating, you can’t hold hands bc they’re lowkey slimy)

His room is clean-ish, no garbage overflowing his trash can or anything, but Jerry’s not very organized.

Papers of loose ideas, DnD dice, pencils, and the occasional figurine or magazine litter the floor.

He also liked eating snacks in his room, but he got lectured by his mom upon getting ants and was forced to stop.

The first time he knew you were coming over he PANICKED.

When you went into his room you were surprised — Jerry didn’t seem like such a clean and orderly person.

His bookshelves are crammed with fantasy books, though (he's been dying to read them, but has trouble focusing on pages of a book; most of the time he vies for watching TV and movies)

Thank god you didn’t open the closet — a flood of figurines, comics, magazines, books, plushies and everything else under the sun would have buried you both.

Speaking of plushies, Jerry sleeps with them. They crowd his bed.

And he didn’t invite you to enter his room, you just sorta stumbled in there accidentally (if you had waited for an invitation it would never come — he was way too nervous to offer you into his room).

I feel like his love language would be words of affirmation.

As much as live action is cool, Jerry loves 2D animation much more.

Pretty insecure about sharing his ideas for stories and whatnot. He's nervous about getting insulted — even something small is enough to keep him awake at night.

When you first let him tentatively share a new concept for a DnD plot and praise him for it, his brain short circuits.

Now he's way more than just head over heels. He’s like. Soul and mind over physical plane of existence if that makes sense.

He would die for you, is what I’m saying.

If you have any story ideas/paracosms/OCs, he would LOVE to hear you yap abt them. Since you’re both creative, you might just hang out and worldbuild together.

Loves reading high fantasy books to you

If you read to him his heart would explode (I'm not joking) (this also helps him read the books he's been meaning to get to)

Will actually die if you take him to a ren faire. Will fade to dust if you dress up with him.

If you weren’t into DnD, Jerry would want you to get into it SO BADLY. But he would never push you (even offhand interest would make his heart backflip)

Loves to put inside jokes you two share into his DnD plotlines as easter eggs for himself (even if you aren’t at the club meetings 99% of the time)

Speaking of being there…

He doesn’t like it when you hang around the club (or if you’re even in close proximity with those freaks) and absolutely bars you from following him to their sessions.

The closest you’ll get is maybe a walk to Bill’s front porch.

Most of the time, Jerry does anything he can to avoid you and the members of the club interacting.

Despite all your love for each other, he wouldn't try and stick up for you if you were bad-mouthed by the rest of the club members.

Jerry probably wouldn't tell you what they're saying, either.

He gets so scared you'll stop liking him because of his company, maybe become a victim of their attention, or possibly even leave him.

And god forbid if you ever broke up.

He'd fall into a deep spiral of depression, but wouldn’t ask for help or try and get back together.

Jerry’s one to self blame and retreat inwards; every time you'd get into an argument, he would find some way to lay the blame on and/or isolate himself.

You have to apologize first.

Josh

Gets good grades, but has to put in effort. His family values education quite a bit.

Cat person (would probably dress up his cats if he had any)(his family doesn’t have pets).

Blind as a bat without his glasses, and takes good care of them.

Josh is actually a pretty organized person. His room itself is quite clean, but his desk is cluttered with everything from candy wrappers to half-built figurines.

Uses emoticons instead of emojis.

Listens to podcasts most of the time. In terms of music, he doesn’t really have a set music taste. He says he loves whatever you’re into, though.

On occasion, he’ll stay up late, but Josh is pretty good about having a normal sleep schedule.

Hella scared about opening up personally, but yaps to death about whatever sci-fi thing he’s interested in.

Josh has a few main interests (Star Trek, Star Wars, Stargate, etc.) but beyond that, his outer interests change every week.

One day he’ll be reading a series about warring aliens, the next giving a ted talk on several different space technologies.

Probably reads a lot – and fast, too. (If the club found out about this they’d call him a nerd) (but they’re ALL nerds so that insult doesn’t really go anywhere)

Josh the typa guy to kick his feet and blush into his pillow like an anime girl when thinking about you.

Also the typa guy to think about his parents funeral at 2AM in the morning and start sobbing.

When you first meet, you’re in the library, browsing for a book.

You overhear loud whispers — insults, laughter, and angry comebacks.

As you inch closer, you spot four figures jeering in between the bookshelves. You can’t really recognize them from your spot, hidden amongst the books, but you realize they’re… making fun of someone.

It’s not long before three of them shuffle off, leaving one behind.

You emerge from your place between the shelves, ask if he’s alright.

It’s honest and sweet.

Josh has never been talked to like that.

Soon enough, you’re thriving in his dreams – swooping in to save him from the club’s torment. As time drags on, the club’s appearances in his dreams lessen – instead, it’s just you, you, you.

He asks to hang out often; he’s a quality time fan (can get clingy, expanded upon later)

Josh will get elated if you let him vent – or even just listen to anything he says. All you have to do is just sit there, really.

He’s bothered by comments on his physical appearance, but they don’t typically get to him as much as they used to.

You, on the other hand – your comments would have an effect. He'll brush it off, but think about it later (and by think, I mean have an existential crisis).

Josh gets really insecure when he’s around you.

And he spirals easily; it’s hard for him to keep a cool head.

If you leave him for a moment while hanging out in some public place, a rush of thoughts will flood his head (What if you abandoned him? What if you don’t like him anymore? What if this relationship is just one big joke, and he’s the butt of it?)

You find yourself having to reassure him that your relationship is legit.

Hangouts can be anywhere from your room, to his room, to the park, to honestly even the grocery store.

Prefers being able to see your face — wouldn’t go to a movie theater with you (unless they’re playing some movie he’s really excited to see).

Would love you forever if you gave him a collectible that he’s missing in his collection.

Josh doesn’t get a lot of praise or things he likes in his life – even the smallest passing comment gives him something to smile at for the rest of the week.

He can get really clingy, though. Like SUPER clingy.

He wants to spend as much time as he can with you — every possible moment he has, spending time with you is amongst his top three things of stuff he wants to do.

Josh calls you at least once a day, walks you to every class (even if it makes him late), and wakes you up in the middle of the night through a call or text to ask if you’re ok (he had a dream where you got hurt).

Like Jerry, he doesn’t want you hanging around to the club — but his feelings are way more extreme.

He despises, DETESTS you being anywhere within 100 miles of any of them.

Josh keeps your relationship a secret for as long as possible, and frequently makes up excuses to tell both you and the club to not hang out.

If you end up finding out about the club? Fine! But don’t expect to be invited to any meetings, EVER.

If the club finds out about you… good god.

They’ll probably see if they can get you and Josh to break up, doing anything from spreading rumors to pulling pranks to even staging a “He cheated on you!” scandal.

But you never will break up.

Josh wouldn’t (couldn’t) allow it.

Pete

HOLY MOLY does this boy have BAD BAD BAD grades

Just barely passing his classes, and his parents don’t really care that he’s highkey struggling.

Uses class to mess around, catch up on sleep, or do anything that’s not classwork.

Sometimes has insomnia, other times he’s out like a light and sleeps like a log. No in between.

Complete lack of sleep schedule. Goes to bed anywhere from 11pm to 5am.

I side with the Pete-snores-when-he’s-asleep truthers. He probably mumbles too.

Fan of insect torture as a kid (never grew out of it)

Probably has 5 or 6 siblings and doesn’t get much attention, leading to him locking himself away in his room watching his disgusting movies or hanging out with the club.

Either way, Pete has a lot of free time – the most by far out of the club members.

He likes music he can play loudly (i.e rap and heavy metal).

Won’t do house music, though. He claims “any music that don’t got lyrics ain’t fuck’n music.”

Has a fake drivers license that says he’s 21 (it’s so obviously fake, though)

Pete relates a lot of things in his daily life to horror movies (i.e stalking through the streets of an unsuspecting neighborhood, the pale streetlights a temporary respite from the shadows that ravage silent suburbia is basically him as Michael Myers about to kill some bimbo bitch)

He could talk at great lengths about various assortments of snacks to eat upon viewing different categories of horror movies for exclusive experiences.

You maybe met on the bus — it was your first day at this new school, and you’re blissfully unaware of all the social workings of .

God when you stepped on that stupid, yellow, loud ass, hot and sweltering tin can on wheels, it was over for you.

Pete laid his beady little eyes on you, he went dead silent, right in the middle of terrorizing the freshmen behind him with his gory recollections of whatever blood-soaked film it was.

When you sat in the bus seat directly in front of him, he lost it.

Did you know who he was? Were you aware the neighborhood horror-porn maniac is sitting behind you? And did you know how mouth-wateringly, drop-dead gorgeous you are?

It was all a downhill tumble from there; Pete heaves himself up as the bus starts moving, making remarks about your physical appearance.

Before long it’s now romantic advances like gifts, confessions, reminders that he knows where you live.

And even if you try and change seats he’ll force his way to sit somewhere near you and continue his odd serenade of you.

So now, with this new obsession, Pete will take “bathroom breaks,” consisting of him strolling down the halls, trying to figure out which classes you have and when.

Soon enough, he’s memorized your entire schedule and will pick spots to wait for you that will ensure you two see each other.

The romantic tension is really getting to him. Is it getting to you?

While you can’t escape Pete in school, he can’t escape you, ever.

You infect his dreams, whisper into every aspect of his life, and Pete can’t even watch a goddamn horrible slasher flick without seeing you in place of the final girl, covered in blood, screeching in terror (before promptly having to rub one out).

Honest to god I have no idea how you two would end up together.

Best guess? You go watch a movie (alone, if this is to play out correctly) and that freak ass club ducks into the theatre, hoping to creep into the seats and watch whatever knockoff film was showing, free of charge.

They can’t see shit as the lights click off and the screen turns black, so somehow Pete ends up filing into the same row as poor, unsuspecting you.

From there? Can’t say; perhaps he notices you before you notice him. Maybe he just stares in disbelief for a moment – I mean it’s you, the person who rules his dreams and his mind (and might possibly like him).

Then maybe he gets a bit bolder, lets his hands to the talking, and you sit there and take it because you know you like him back and then he grabs your chin, rough and hungry, and closes in and the two of you are-

Man, who knows.

Love language? That’s a hard one. I’m thinking “wild card” — you have no idea what he’s gonna do for you and when he’s gonna do it, but whatever it is, it’s thoughtful.

And MY GOD is his room RANCID.

There's like mystery wet spots and piles of trash and dirty clothes everywhere.

And crumpled tissues. Let's not think about those right now.

He doesn’t even bother to clean it the first time you come over either. You just have to stand there awkwardly while Pete rants about this one obscure horror film that copied this other obscure horror film.

His parents don't really ask him to clean his room basically ever, and Pete has ZERO sense of personal hygiene.

Showers like twice a month. Maybe thrice if he can muster up the want.

Pete likes cold showers. He also likes eating ice cream, outdoors, in the middle of winter (“It won’t fuck’n melt!” he insists, knee deep in snow).

OH, and Pete’s not really that nice to you.

Mainly because he thinks it’s great entertainment to have someone to subject his little spurts of malice upon.

But also, because he doesn’t really know how to convey affection — all he’s learned in the romance sector is from a constant bombardment of his… taste in movies.

If you squirm at gore just know one of your dates is gonna be Pete sitting you down and making you watch a movie among his top ten most horrid tapes. Possibly in some secluded area.

And? And? This ANIMAL loves sneaking up behind you and giving you a scare. Constantly.

If you flinch he’ll laugh a bit, but leave you to scowl at him

But let out a noise and jump? GOD he will tease and tease you forever. And it’s guaranteed he’ll spook you more often, too.

Pete does a lot of things to elicit a reaction — commenting on your body, scaring you like mentioned above, saying absolutely profane shit that makes your cheeks heat instantaneously, when he leans in and whispers what he wants to do to you.

And on occasion, he’ll make threats. Just vague, “I know where you live,” type shit (no duh, you know where he lives too), but sometimes he’ll step a little too far, insinuate a little too much.

But listen – he’s not all bad. Pete does some nice things for you.

Just bet if you ever get bullied, some nauseating note(s) filled with immensely graphic, highly nauseating threats will be nailed to your terrorizer’s front door (fake blood may be included).

Movie dates are typically at your house (both you and Pete prefer it), but he will outright lie to your parents, and maybe even you, about what movie(s) you’ll be watching.

Sometimes he’ll show up unannounced, banging at your window for you to open up in the middle of the night.

On occasion, when he knows your house is gonna be deserted for a bit, he’ll go into your room and snoop around, maybe just lay on your bed.

But uh… Pete gropes. He really does.

It’s like an addiction; it would be easier to prove what comes after death once and for all than make Pete to get his fucking mitts off you.

He’s also into biting. But much less than groping, thank god.

Pete doesn't care if you're around the club (he actually enjoys seeing everyones reactions, especially Bill's, when he rubs it in their face that he's dating this smoking hot, absolutely stunning human being).

If you were being hit on by another person though, I doubt Pete would get jealous or try to defend you. Hell, he might even like seeing you squirm in discomfort.

The longer your relationship drags on, Pete’s intrusive thoughts regarding you become increasingly more disturbing.

One of these days he’s gonna make these depraved fantasies a reality.

Bill

For some god awful reason he has straight A’s without even trying.

Does his mom care when he brings home yet another test he aced? No.

Bill correlates a lot of subject matter with characters, from comics, plots of shows, or whatever else. He can memorize tons of material with minimal effort, while simultaneously keeping up that think-about-comics-24/7 mindset.

Lazy as hell — never does chores or anything he doesn’t have to.

THE bare minimum guy.

Can’t have any pets because he wouldn’t take care of them; irresponsible to the point he could kill a cactus.

His eyesight isn’t as bad as Josh’s, but still takes the care to clean his glasses and avoid getting them scratched up.

His damaged eyes partially because he read comics after bedtime way too much as a kid, flashlight under the covers and everything.

Master of cutting corners when it comes to anything — speedruns his homework, does every other problem/question if he can get away with it, and can’t be bothered with double checking anything he ever does.

I bet he got night terrors and nightmares when he was little — some of his nightmares still traumatize him to this day.

In terms of hygiene, he’s pretty bad at it (duh). Not as bad as Pete, but still, bad.

Showers only at his mom’s orders (once a week, maybe twice).

Bill’s closet is a big copy and paste fest — nothing disturbs the endless sea of graphic tees, dark colored jeans, and flannel shirts/blazers.

Except that one suit that he wore to some distant relatives funeral when he was thirteen. He hasn’t worn it since, but debates using it for some cosplay.

Bill would subtly violate a person’s boundaries, and then brush it off as a joke when he’s called out.

Going off of my “Bill is smart” headcanon, and how his mom doesn’t care for education, he could have done a lot of things, but the lack of value put on education caused him to not give a shit about going to college or whatnot.

Throwing insults at people, media concepts, anything is a favorite of his.

Will find some way to hate on something, no matter how good it is (too long, too boring, not enough naked women)

On my life Bill listens to Weezer. Probably Radiohead too.

Disclaimer: below is fem!reader x w*lliam. Srry boys and other💔

You gotta be insane to want to date Bill Dickey.

You have to have a complete lack of self worth and respect.

I mean where does the attraction even come from? He’s repulsive, abusive, narcissistic. Who would even like this misogynist? (me me me!)

But you are clueless when you first meet. The school’s big, and you’re not too familiar with everything.

Maybe you haven't seen him getting bullied and shoved around just yet.

You approach him with honest, innocent intentions: you’re lost and need to get to your next class.

“He doesn’t seem like he’s a bad guy” is what you’re thinking when you spot him, leaning against a locker and thumbing through a comic book (oh, how wrong you are!)

So you tap on his shoulder and ask him if he knows which direction Mrs. Green’s English class is.

And of course, Bill takes it as something else – a helpless, normie bitch is interrupting his happy world of imagination, asking him for help (to mock him or throw herself at him, he can’t figure out)

He immediately snaps back, commenting how of course you wouldn’t know where your class is, damn woman.

Maybe he insults you some more, stating how you shouldn’t even be in school anyways, idiotic bimbo.

And how do you react?

You stumble off in shock – blaming your burning face on his degradation and not the fluttering in your gut.

But alas, soon enough you find yourself needing major help on some complex subject, whatever it is, so you ask the teacher if they have any recommendations for tutors.

Of course, Mr. top-of-the-class Bill Dickey is first on his list.

So now you’re being tutored by Bill, whose ego is stoked like an inferno at the chance to not only be around a pretty girl for an hour, but get to basically call her stupid every second of the way.

80% of the time he keeps his distance, the two of you sitting across from each other in a quiet corner of the library, but on occasion, when you just can’t get something right, he will march over there, wrestle the pencil out of your hands, and do it for you (you note to yourself that’s the best way to make Bill come over to you).

Holy shit his face is so red when he’s done leaning over you and mansplaining (fuck, you smell good) and you pretend not to notice, blaming his reddened face on anger, frustration.

But some part of you wonders if he likes you the way you like him.

Soon enough, your tutoring becomes a highlight of your day (same with him, but he’d never admit it).

Truth be told, Bill’s a pretty bad teacher, but he can be really funny, relatable, and at least you’re getting somewhere.

He even introduced you to some good comic series (without him actually knowing, you just picked up a copy of whatever he was reading at your local comic shop. What was it, Moe’s? Bo’s? Either way, everyone was staring at you freakishly from the second you walked in to the second you stepped out.)

Sessions are always in the library, but he fantasizes about taking it further, going to his house or yours.

Sometimes he wonders what your room would look like (by sometimes I mean MANY times).

But Bill despises you.

You are literally ruining his life.

You have no idea what you do to him – always looking so fucking innocent, entirely unaware of how you sink your teeth into his heart every time you smile, wave, say “hi” in the halls.

He didn’t really know what a cocktease was – till he met you.

He can't stop thinking about anything to do with you; your body, your voice, your lips. The way you laugh at his jokes and not him, how you come back no matter how many times he berates you.

It’s like you own him without even raising a finger.

He finds his grades dropping because he can’t pay attention in the classes you share — he watches you brazenly like some starving dog watching a butcher’s shop.

He gets worse and worse at tutoring you because he’ll lose his train of thought, completely enraptured by the thought of how fucking easy it would be to simply lean in and smash his lips against yours.

For fucks sake, Bill shouldn’t think so much about a girl; you’re just a carbon copy of all the other whores running around this shitty planet.

He, the man, rules you, not the other fucking way around.

But when you show up in his dreams as a seductive member of his crew, spread out and needy for him, his head is whirling and he loses his typically smooth composure (in his fuckass dreams! really?!)

But he wakes up before anything can actually happen, putting him in a foul mood.

He’s shaken out of it when he takes a cold shower.

Now Bill’s simultaneously angry, shameful, and excited whenever he goes to sleep.

If you ever show up for the club, he’ll scream and shout in protest.

And if you somehow worm yourself into a session? GOD it is torture for Bill.

How the hell is he supposed to get anything done when the girl he LOVES hates is sitting right across from him, getting hit on by Pete.

Needless to say, Bill would be a bit more abrasive during that session (partially in hopes you’ll get scared off, but also because he gets so worked up around you)

Please please PLEASE do not confess to Bill.

He would never confess to you either, but that's not the point.

I mean gosh, imagine how BAD it would be:

In the back of the library you’re packing up, just having finished a (now useless) tutoring session.

You blurt that you love him.

You have feelings of romantic attraction towards him.

There's a brief pause that drags on, and on, and you can’t tell if Bill’s gonna reply at all (he's having an internal meltdown; the only reason he’s not blushing is cause he’s sheet white out of shock)

You’re on the verge of running away, moving schools, never showing your face in public ever again when he just says, “yeah.”

Or maybe he laughs in your face.

Your relationship? More of an ownership, an ego boost for him.

Bill makes you do a lot of things for him, even if he’s more than capable of doing them himself.

But he ensures you don’t stray too far – he wants to see you doing whatever menial task he ordered you to do.

Talks about you incessantly to anyone who will listen.

It’s mainly bragging, though. Even though he treats you like shit, Bill will somehow work your name into every single conversation and club meeting.

And also he WILL beat up anyone who badmouths you (verbally. Bill can't fight for his life)

He’ll also defend you online like crazy (what a sweetheart!), but all with his army of alt accounts.

Hardly even says “I love you,” or anything of the like.

You don’t really go on dates either – Bill just keeps you around and forces you to follow him wherever he goes.

Also HE approaches YOU, not the other way around.

One time you tried to ask if you could hang out and he didn’t speak to you for a few days (didn’t even make himself seen. If you did interact, it’s him making some misogynistic, cruel comment towards you)

Believe me, Bill was probably way more miserable than you were.

He's a MASSIVE freak for physical touch, and majorly touch starved.

Even thinking about skin on skin contact makes him salivate.

Bill will shiver if your hands simply brushed.

Never holds your hand in public but GOD he wants to. Dreams about it all the time (speaking of dreams, you still show up in them. Every time he wakes up, his sexual frustration grows)

He'd love to just. Lay on you. Whether it be lying face down, head between your tits, or draped across you, it doesn’t matter.

Either way, his inward battle of misogyny and emotion has to fizzle out sometime soon.

Once you’re finally in a stage in which he’s more comfortable with the idea of having a… “girlfriend,” he’s gonna start touching.

I swear his hands will never leave your body, touching, groping, brushing.

He doesn’t care for hand holding in the romantic sense so much as the he-gets-to-touch-you-and-show-everyone-that-you’re-HIS sense.

Walking through the halls? Hand interlocked with yours. Sitting next to each other in class? Hand on your thigh. Standing side by side at Joe’s? Probably has his arm draped across your shoulders or resting on your hip.

And Bill likes unexpectedly grabbing you.

HARD.

You’ll be walking side by side in a public space and his fingers will just sink into your flesh with enough force to bruise (this freak gets so turned on if you squeak or squeal in reaction)

I have no idea what compels you to stay with him.

If you guys fight (probably often), he's never gonna say sorry. He’s definitely one of those people who will never admit they’re wrong

He's always gonna find some way to shift the blame on you.

But maybe it’s the fact that he's the only person that you have. He’s isolated you from your friends without you even noticing, and hasn't even realized what a wreck your life is now.

Break ups end with you or Bill crawling back to apologize to one another.

Mostly you. Almost always, it’s you.

#the eltingville club #welcome to eltingville #eltingville x reader #eltingville x you #bill dickey x reader #bill dickey x you #jerry stokes x reader #jerry stokes x you #josh levy x reader #josh levy x you #pete dinunzio x reader #pete dinunzio x you #pete dinunzio #jerry stokes #bill dickey #josh levy

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ghostedgwen · 2 months ago

Text

hear it in the silence | j.potter

note : I've been writing this for about three days and it has concluded on 11.6k word count, which is crazy. But with such a fleshed out plot, I couldn't just wing it on about 2k words for my standard fics, and I didn't fancy having more series on my plate so here's one very long fic for JP to celebrate 800 followers further and cope with my own grief lol - enjoy.

warnings : grief and death, terminal illnesses - losing family members, reader had abusive parents and left her in debt, questionable themes of jp taking advantage of reader's predicament, fake marriage trope, just overall angst and lots of sad stuff but it has good moments slipped in between

James Potter feels like his whole world had crumbled apart, terminal Dragon Pox was the diagnosis. It was already too much he has to deal with his parents being sick but then, they ask him to assure them that when they leave, he wouldn't be alone. And you, you with your piling debt and threatening letters from Gringots can only fall into despair when the two grieving paths cross - and a deal is struck. He gets a wife, and you clear your tab.

You two are dancing in a snow globe, 'round and 'round, and he keeps the picture of you in his office downtown . . .

Diagon Alley smells like burnt sugar, star-anise, and smoke. You can no longer tell which scent is yours.

The oven’s been on since four. The air is thick with the scent of puffing pixie pies, their blue-glazed crusts still gently sparkling in the cooling racks. You rotate a tray of warm wandwood scones with steady hands and an aching back, ignoring the familiar twinge in your wrist - a brewing injury from years of kneading dough without proper rest.

The enchanted glass dome that displays your bestsellers glows faintly with golden sigils - today's highlighted treat is a fresh batch of Honeyduke-inspired fire-fudge croissants that puff steam in satisfying curls. A chalkboard near the till scrawls out notes in overly chipper handwriting:

Please don’t tap the jar of Charmed Cherry Tarts - they bite. Broomstick Biscuit special ends at sundown. Please remind ____ to eat.

You erase that last one quickly with the back of your hand, smudging away the concern Essie must’ve tucked into the notes.

The debt letters - from Gringotts, from old family contacts with clenched fists and colder curses - sit unopened in a toffee-colored cauldron bowl beside the register. They hum faintly. One of them pulses like a cursed wound, red wax seal still unbroken. The goblins have stopped pretending to be courteous - not that they ever were.

You left the last one unopened.

The wards above the till flicker as your morning protection spell resets, casting a soft violet shimmer across the room. It catches in the sugar that dusts your counter like frost. You stare at the floating menu quill scratching out the day's specials and feel absolutely nothing.

Until the door creaks open with the distinct jingle of spell-silver bells.

You nearly jump - but it’s just Essie, your apprentice, dragging her broom in behind her and mumbling under her breath. Her hair is twisted into a half-up knot with sugar pearls tucked in like constellations, and she’s wearing her favourite pink cloak with scorch marks at the hem.

"Morning," she yawns, flicking her wand to float the Fanged Brioche into the window display.

You nod, already elbow-deep in kneazle-cream batter for the batch of Custard Cauldron Cakes you need for the lunch rush. "Morning."

She eyes the cauldron bowl with the debt letters. "They sent more?"

You don’t answer, just tap your wand against the iron mixing bowl and watch the batter stir itself into stiff peaks.

"You know," she starts carefully, "there’s a program at the Ministry for -"

"No." Your voice cuts too sharp. You soften, slightly. "Just get the Skyberry Tarts prepped. I’ll open the register."

She mutters an understanding, "Alright, alright," and you hear her charm the stove to a low simmer as she sets to work.

The till clicks open. You count the galleons and sickles. Barely enough for rent.

The display case glitters as the floating pastry charms adjust themselves, casting brief illusions of glowing stars and festive flickers. Some customers come just for the theatrics. Most leave without buying.

It cycles on, one spell after another. You don’t notice the time pass - just the deepening ache in your legs and the strain in your voice from offering smiles like empty potion bottles.

By the time the shop thins out and the wards reset for the evening, you can barely feel your feet. The sun creeps low through the frosted windowpanes. You lock the door with a flick of your wand and collapse against the back counter, sliding slowly to the floor.

You lean your head back against the wall. Close your eyes.

The bakery smells like cinnamon and burnt hope.

And for a long time, you don't move.

The sign swung lazily in the breeze, a battered little thing that proudly read Back in 15 minutes in slanted gold script. You exhaled hard through your nose before disappearing into the back kitchen, apron strings snapping against your hips.

Essie was already wringing her hands by the cooling racks, her face creased in the worried way you had learned to dread.

“You can’t keep pretending it’s going to get better,” Essie said quietly. Her voice was soft, too soft, like she was afraid of shattering something already cracked to hell.

You yanked open the icebox a little too hard. The bottles clattered. “We’re fine,” you said shortly.

“We’re not.”

Essie shifted from foot to foot, casting a nervous glance toward the front door. “I heard from Malkin’s this morning. They’ve been getting letters too. The kind that come with curses stitched between the lines.”

You slammed the icebox shut and pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, willing the hot burn behind them to settle. It didn’t.

“Do you think I don’t know that?” you snapped. “Do you think I don’t know exactly how deep in it we are?”

Essie took a cautious step forward. “Maybe you could - could ask someone for help. You have. . . friends, don’t you?”

A bitter laugh escaped before you could stop it. Sharp and ugly. “No, Essie,” you said, voice low and shaking. “I had parents who gambled away everything. I had parents who drank themselves stupid and died brewing potions they weren’t qualified to touch. And now I have a bakery that barely scrapes by, a name no one dares trust, and debts that have more teeth than half the werewolves in Knockturn Alley. I don’t have friends.”

You swallowed hard. “I don’t have anyone.”

The silence that followed was worse than shouting could’ve been.

In the front of the shop, the door had creaked open.

Neither of you heard it - not over the ringing in your ears, not over the slow collapse happening between you.

But James Potter heard everything.

He hesitated on the threshold, the smell of vanilla and spellfire curling around him. He knew grief when he felt it - raw, ragged, clinging to the curtains and floorboards like cigarette smoke. It was the same cold weight that sat heavy on his chest these days, whispering things he wasn’t ready to name.

He thought about leaving. Thought about pretending he hadn’t heard the way your voice broke like that.

But his feet stayed rooted to the ground.

In the back, you exhaled sharply, dragging your hands down your face before smoothing your hair back into something that almost looked composed.

“I’ll take the rest of the deliveries,” you said, voice scraped raw but steady. “You stay here. Lock up when you’re done.”

Essie nodded mutely.

You stepped back into the front of the bakery - and stopped cold.

James Potter was standing there, unmistakable even in the simple navy robes, hair sticking up at every angle like he’d flown there backwards. He looked up from the display case with a polite sort of blankness - just another customer looking for a pastry.

For a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

Of all the people to walk into your bakery today - it had to be him.

You pushed a smile onto your face.

Professional. Untouchable.

If he recognized you, he didn’t show it - facial expression mastered over years of pulling pranks, he feigned innocence.

“What can I get you, Auror Potter?” you asked, voice calm, hands smoothing over your apron as if you could scrub away the tremor in your fingertips.

He didn't bother asking how you knew him - everyone did at this point. Starchaser James Potter quickly climbing Auror ranks, or whatever rubbish the Prophet blurted out these days.

James blinked at you, thrown for half a second - there was something familiar about the curve of your mouth, the sharpness of your gaze - but he shook it off.

Just a tired girl behind a counter.

Just another place he would leave behind when the real world came calling again.

“I’ll just have whatever’s hot and butter-y,” he said, flashing an easy, careless smile.

You nodded, turning toward the shelves without another word, heart hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

The waiting room hummed with too-white light and antiseptic silence. James stood still for the first time in hours, though the tremble in his fingers betrayed him. His Auror robes were still singed from the mission he'd cut short, boots flecked with soot. He looked like he was ready to duel a dragon, but his wand was jammed too tightly into his belt, and his shoulders sagged beneath the weight of something heavier than duty.

He couldn’t sit. Couldn’t stop moving. Each tick of the wall clock pressed deeper into his chest. The healer’s door opened once - then twice - and still, not for him.

The world dulled at the edges. Muffled. Like he was underwater, ears clogged, vision blurry with the ache behind his eyes. He didn’t realise he’d stopped breathing until someone said his name.

“Mr Potter?”

He followed the Healer into a room where the walls felt too close. Too still. Her voice was calm - rehearsed, maybe. She said words like progressed, like untreatable, like comfort-focused now.

His mother and father had advanced Dragon Pox. The magical immunity treatments had failed. There was no cure.

They had months left. A year, if they were lucky.

James didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The sound in the room went static. The lights above buzzed like flies in his ears. The floor rocked like it might fall out from under him. He just stood there, barely nineteen, freshly graduated, a job he hadn’t even warmed into yet - and now this?

He left without remembering how.

He returned the next day.

Euphemia was pale, but smiling. Her hands had thinned, bones showing where soft skin once was, but she still reached for him like he was her world. Her room smelled like lavender, and there was a vase of sunflowers on the window ledge, yellow as his childhood.

“Don’t look like that, sweetheart,” she murmured, “we’ve had a good run, haven’t we?”

James tried to laugh, but it cracked in the middle.

“We’re not afraid, James. Not really,” she went on, voice low and steady. “We’ve had each other. We had you. You’ve given us everything.”

He shook his head, blinked hard. “Mum - ”

“What we’re afraid of is leaving you alone.”

She said it so simply, it cleaved something open in him. All his carefully stacked defences. All his grown-up bravado, tearing at the seems and ripping out stitches.

“We won’t rest easy knowing you’ve got no one left. Not when you've always carried so much. You never let it show, but we know. You’ve always been the light in our lives. We just want to know someone will carry that with you.”

He tried to brush her off. Said he had the boys - nevermind that they were all scattered around the world, all thirsty to find their purpose in this world and its brewing war. That he was fine. But she reached for his hand and stilled him with a look.

“Someone to come home to, James. Someone to stand beside you - not because they have to, but because they want to. You deserve that.”

James knew his parents' concerns too well. He's gonna be inherting that big manor, all to himself - with no one to come home to.

It lodged in his chest like a spell misfired. Her words, her softness, the knowing way she held him in her gaze. He nodded, but it felt like a lie. Because how could he promise her something like that?

How could he find love in the shadow of goodbye?

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

The manor was too quiet. Every corridor echoed. The portraits whispered too softly to hear. Grief sat heavy on his ribs, like wearing a crown too big, too heavy, for a boy still learning how to carry himself like a man.

He still had the traces of his youth, barely smudged by an adulthood stamp. He's still the same boy in red robes running through darkened halls with his brothers as their laughter echoed, followed by the loud sound of dungbombs going off.

He walked the halls until his legs ached. Stepped outside when he couldn’t breathe.

The night air bit at his cheeks.

And then - her voice.

Not real. Just a memory. Echoes from earlier in the week. From a tucked-away bakery in Diagon Alley.

“I don’t have friends. I don’t have anyone.”

He hadn’t meant to overhear. But now it's stuck on him like a gum he had stepped on during a stroll - he could get rid of it but that would require effort that he didn't manage.

You voice was stuck in his head.

It was sharp and tired. Raw and ragged.

He remembered her now - vaguely. Head Girl. Two years above. Always quiet. Always watching. She hadn’t looked at him like he was anyone special. And when she spoke, there’d been something in it he hadn’t known he needed until now - someone else falling apart.

Someone else with no one left.

And maybe - maybe two desperate souls can help each other out.

The bell above the bakery door chimed, soft and familiar, but you didn’t look up right away. Your hands were dusted in flour, wrists deep in dough. It was nearly noon, and you'd barely had a sip of your tea. The day had been steady - enough customers to keep you occupied but not enough to keep the intrusive thoughts out.

Your shoulders ached. Your back was killing you. (girl, same)

You muttered a quick greeting without turning around. "We’re out of treacle tarts. And the jam puffs won’t be ready for another hour."

A pause.

Then -

"That’s alright. I didn’t come for pastries."

Your hands froze. Not because you recognised the voice - not immediately. But because of the tone: uncertain, careful.

You looked up.

James Potter was standing just inside the bakery, hands stuffed into the pockets of his trousers, hair a mess, robes too nice for this part of town. There were shadows under his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time he’d come in.

The last time. Which had been. . . what? Two days ago?

He looked out of place. But not like a prince slumming it. Like someone who didn’t know where else to go.

"You again," you said, more confused than anything. "If not for pastries, come back for what, then?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "Sorry. I know this is strange. I just - can we talk?"

Essie, hovering by the front counter, raised an eyebrow at you. You waved her off. "I’ve got it. Go get started on the almond wands."

Essie didn’t argue. Just wiped her hands and disappeared into the back - she'd surely ask about it later.

You turned your gaze back to him. Folded your arms. "Alright. Talk."

James took a breath like he was about to dive into something very cold.

"I need a favour. A big one."

You blinked. "You need me to do you a favour."

That was the last thing you expected from James Potter.

He smiled, grim and lopsided. "Yeah. Mad, innit?"

You didn’t return it. "What kind of favour?"

"Marriage."

The silence that followed was so complete you could hear the oven ticking behind you.

"Pardon?"

He took a step forward. "Not - not real marriage. Not like that. Not at first. I just. My mum. She’s sick, both my parents are. Really sick. And she asked me - well, she wants to see me settled. She wants to know I won’t be alone."

You stared at him like he’d grown a second head as he scrambled to explain himself.

"You don’t even know me."

"I know enough," he said quietly. "I know you’re proud. That you’re hurting. I heard you, the other day. You and your friend, in the back."

Your stomach dropped.

"You were eavesdropping?"

"Not on purpose," he said quickly. "I just - heard you. And something about it - about you. It stayed with me."

You looked away. Heat prickled at the back of your neck. Shame, and something else. Something heavier.

"So what? You figured we’re both miserable, might as well be miserable together?"

James smiled faintly. "Something like that."

You should have laughed. Or told him to leave. Or hexed him, maybe - blacklisted him from your bakery for such an incredulous proposal.

Instead, you said, "And what do you get out of it? Besides ticking a box for your mum?"

"I'll handle the debt - you’d live at the manor during it," he said. "You’d be safe. Comfortable. No debts. No dodgy landlords knocking on your door."

"And in return?"

He met your gaze. "We pretend. Just for a bit. We give my parents the peace of mind they deserve, just before they go."

A long pause.

You looked at his hands - tucked into his pockets, knuckles white with pressure. He looked exhausted. Raw around the edges. Just like you.

You didn’t say yes. But you didn’t say no, either.

He stepped forward and slid something across the counter.

A small piece of parchment. Just his name and an address, perhaps a place to owl. His handwriting neat and surprisingly careful.

You didn’t pick it up.

He nodded once. "Think about it."

Then he left, the bell over the door chiming again like a punctuation mark.

You stood there long after he was gone, arms folded tight across your chest, heart thudding loud in your ears.

You looked down at the name.

James Potter.

You didn’t throw it away.

The letter comes just after dusk.

It’s marked in red wax, the goblin seal pressed so deep into the parchment that it’s cracked the paper. You don’t open it right away. You don’t need to. You already know what it says.

You read it anyway.

Final Warning. Immediate repossession scheduled.

Your hands shake. The bakery’s quiet - too quiet - and the ticking of the old brass clock on the wall sounds like thunder. Upstairs, a leak drips steadily into a teacup you’ve stopped bothering to empty. It’s all falling apart. Bit by bit. Month by month.

You’ve sold nearly everything of value. You haven’t bought new robes in a year. You haven’t paid yourself in longer.

You sit at the kitchen table, still in your flour-stained apron, and stare at the parchment like it might change if you just will it to. It doesn’t.

Essie finds you like that. She’s still in her coat, scarf looped once around her neck. Her wand glows faintly as she steps into the back, eyebrows raised.

Then she sees the letter.

You don’t say anything. Just slide it across the table.

There’s a long silence.

“You’re not sleeping,” she says, not unkindly. “And you look like you’ve not eaten properly in days.”

You press your hands to your face. The tears hit before you can stop them - stupid, useless tears that burn your eyes and your pride alike.

“I’ve tried everything,” you whisper. “I’ve given everything I have, and it’s still not enough.”

Essie doesn’t interrupt. She lets you break. Quietly. Without judgment - like she always did, she's younger by a year but you feel as is she's decades matured than you.

Then, she says the one thing you’ve been trying not to think about:

“Maybe it’s time to take the offer.”

You freeze.

“You could do worse than a Potter,” she continues, setting her bag down. “And it’s not like he’s a stranger. Not really - and more than anything, his offer makes sense and it's not for shady reasons.”

But he is, you want to say. James Potter is a ghost of your childhood, a flicker of a memory too golden to have ever been yours. You haven’t seen him in years, and even when you did - you were just someone in the corner of his world.

He wasn’t supposed to remember you. He wasn’t supposed to come into your bakery. He wasn’t supposed to hear you like that.

But he had.

And he offered you a lifeline.

You don’t answer Essie. You just nod, once, and disappear up the stairs to your flat.

The letter is short.

You write it with trembling fingers, the ink blotching in one corner.

If your offer still stands, I’d like to discuss it. - ____ ____

You don’t sleep that night, either.

The café sits at the edge of Diagon Alley, just before the shadows of Knockturn begin to creep in. The windows are fogged, the booths are cloaked in perpetual half-light, and no one looks too long at anyone else.

You arrive wrapped in your thickest cloak, wand strapped at your thigh. The moment you step inside, you see him.

James Potter - sitting in the back corner, hood drawn up, still managing to look unmistakably like himself. Like autumn sun and lightning storms. Like a boy who’s never known real fear until now.

His eyes meet yours.

You sit across from him. The booth is too small, too narrow - your knees almost touch beneath the table. Neither of you orders anything.

You clear your throat. The words feel heavier now, weighed down by everything they mean.

“I’ll do it,” you say.

There’s a pause.

And then James exhales - not quite relief, not quite gratitude - something older, something heavier. The tension leaks from his shoulders, from his jaw. You realise he’s been bracing for a no.

“You’ve no idea what this means to me,” he says, voice low.

For a second, you think he’s going to reach for you. His hand twitches on the table, and your breath catches - but he pulls it back.

Then, from inside his coat, he pulls a neat scroll of parchment. Tied with a green ribbon. Thick and official-looking.

You blink.

“Is that - ?”

“The contract.” He grins, boyish and almost sheepish. “I wrote it up after I left the bakery. Had a feeling.”

“You knew I’d say yes?”

He shrugs, leaning back in the booth. A flash of something wicked glints behind his glasses.

“Call it intuition.”

And maybe he’s arrogant. Maybe he’s mad. Maybe you are, too.

But as your fingers close around the parchment, warm from his coat, you feel something almost like air in your lungs again.

A beginning.

Even if it’s the strangest one imaginable.

You arrive in a clean cloak, wand tucked tight in your sleeve, palms sweating despite every calming draught in your cupboard.

The manor looms quietly under the twilight - not cold, not cruel. Just. . . still. The way ancient places are. As if the walls remember everything.

James opens the front door before you can even knock.

“Alright, Head Girl?” he murmurs, and there’s that grin again, lopsided and golden, like this is all just a grand joke between the two of you. You elbow him gently.

“You’re lucky I don’t hex you for that,” you mutter.

But your smile stays.

"Relax, you look great, they'll love you." You pretend that your stomach didn't flip at the compliment. It was probably just to ease your nerves, not much to it.

You’ve rehearsed this story to death.

You were two years above him at Hogwarts. Head Girl. Known for your strict patrols and your no-nonsense duels with some Slytherins. He was a fifth-year nuisance, always in detention. You didn’t even remember him.

Not until he walked into your bakery, two years after you graduated, and said, “Your treacle tart’s going to ruin my life.”

You’d raised a brow. Told him you weren’t interested in love-struck boys with sugar on their lips. He’d come back anyway. Every week. Every Sunday without fail. Talking about literature, Quidditch, philosophy, muggle poetry and how you made the best almond croissants in London.

You tried not to fall. But the story goes - you caved.

It’s soft. Sweet. Just plausible enough to pass as truth.

And tonight, it has to be.

Euphemia Potter is already halfway to the door by the time you step inside. Her cheeks are flushed with excitement, hair pinned up with little golden combs. She’s wearing something soft - silk, maybe - in forest green.

“So you’re the one,” she says, eyes crinkling, voice like warm honey. “Our Jamie’s treacle tart.”

You blink then laugh, it was a real one - the opener was too silly. “That’s me, apparently.”

Fleamont’s footsteps echo from the hallway - slower, but steady. He gives you a long look, then smiles as he extends a hand.

“Didn’t expect him to fall for a baker,” he admits, voice gravelly, “but I respect a man with good taste - and we Potter men are known to have exceptional ones.”

They welcome you in like you’re already part of the furniture. Like you’ve always belonged - which is weird given how everything in the manor screamed luxury.

You knew he was rich and it was no secret that the Potters were influential - and he is to inherit everything, but you didn't really expect this.

You grew up far from all of this, and this might be your first time witnessing such grand luxury.

Now, dinner -

You talk about pastries, your best-sellers, your Hogwarts days. You even pretend to distinctly remember James in the corridors - “a menace in too-big glasses, always running away from trouble.”

They laugh. You laugh.

And each time, it cuts deeper. Because it’s not a performance to them -

It’s not a deal. It’s not debt.

It’s real.

You excuse yourself after pudding. Say you need a bit of air.

James joins you seconds later in the garden, stuffing his hands into his pockets like a boy again. You could almost laugh bitterly - even their garden screamed luxury.

“You alright?” he asks, quiet.

You shrug, eyes scanning the dark blooms around the gravel path. “Didn’t expect them to be so. . .”

“Lovely?”

You nod. “Real.”

“Yeah,” he says softly, and his arm brushes yours. “They are.”

He offers you his arm, gentlemanly and a little cheeky. You take it, because you’re supposed to.

But you don’t lean in.

You don’t think you could bear to.

Not tonight. Not when they believed every word.

You find James in the greenhouse, having been told by the house elf where he was so early in the morning. The morning hues were yet to bleed out, barely a sun peeking out but it was already bright.

It’s quiet, soft with the scent of damp soil and blooming citrus. Golden light spills through the glass, casting long shadows across the stone floor. He’s tending to something leafy and stubborn-looking when he hears your footsteps.

He doesn’t look up right away. Just says, lightly, “You’re early.”

You shrug and nod at him, “You’re always early.”

He turns to you then, wiping his hands on a cloth. There’s something different in the way he watches you - not amused or teasing, just steady. He nods toward the bench behind him -

“Sit.”

You do, without asking. And that’s when he pulls it from his pocket - a small box, velvet red and obviously old.

Your heart stutters.

He opens it, not with a dramatic flourish, but carefully. Like it presenting something heavy, yet important.

Inside, a simple gold band with a red gem in the middle glows under the greenhouse light. Thin. Elegant. The faintest shimmer of enchantment woven into its metal - and the gem that’s glistening like magic.

“It was hers,” James says softly. “Mum’s. She told me she’d like it to go to someone good.”

You blink. The weight of it hits before the ring even touches your skin, a family heirloom passed to every Potter bride.

You manage, “Then you’ve picked the wrong girl, Potter.”

He shakes his head. Smiling - not his usual grin, but something smaller. Truer, you wonder if how many of those he’ve had since the diagnosis.

“No. I don’t think I have.”

You reach out but he moves the box away from your touch, you frown as you watch him pluck it out, carefully moving as he slide the ring onto your finger.

It fits too well. And for one horrible second, you want it. Want this. All of it.

You look down at your hands. Then up at him.

“How are they?” you start, but the words catch.

James nods slowly. “Dragon pox. Started last year. Dad’s got it now too - not as bad, but. . .”

He trails off, sits beside you on the bench, his head hanging low in defeat.

“There’s no cure. Just potions to ease it. Mum’s pretending to make peace with it. But I think she knows.”

Your throat feels tight. You don’t touch him - can’t - but you shift closer, just enough that your knees almost touch.

“I’m sorry,” you say softly, hoping your sincerity was bleeding into those two words. You keep your eyes on him, seeing how familiar he look - he looked like you with all the weight on him.

He breathes out. “They’re everything. And they asked me. . .” He hesitates. “They asked me to promise that when they go, I won’t be alone, they’re amazing and just want what’s best for me, I think they’re just holding on to see me happy.”

You understand then - what this is, so much deeper than a boy wanting to appease his parents. It’s a son who wants to give his parents peace.

There was a moment of silence, you turn away to not keep staring at him. Eyeing the plants.

“What about your debt?” he asks, careful not to make it sound like a threat, a burden for a burden.

You consider staying silent. But the ring on your finger glints in the light, and for the first time in weeks, you feel like you can breathe.

“My parents made a mess,” you say. “Gambled everything away. Stole from the shop. Wrote my name on too many contracts and disappeared. I’ve been trying to pay it back ever since. The bakery keeps me fed, but barely.”

You glance at your lap, willing yourself not to sound too pathetic. Despite laying out all the

“I didn’t think I’d make it,” you admit.

Unsure what to say, he just swallowed the forming lump in his throat. Then he decided to part his lips, - "You're really strong, ____. You didn't deserve any of that, but you're still here."

You laugh a bit, nudging him with your knee. "Guess we both are - must come with being Gryffindors."

A long, quiet silence stretches between you.

It’s not uncomfortable.

The engagement announcement happens that night over dinner - nevermind the fact it wasn't all romantic how you got the ring on your finger.

James was the picture-perfect excitement, grin so wide you almost thought he was genuine about wanting to marry you.

James, lifting his goblet - cleared his throat. "Mum, Dad, we're engaged."

You almost smirk, he did not even make some grand speech. He just dropped it like that - that is so him.

Euphemia gasps like it’s the best news she’s ever heard - and perhaps it was. Fleamont claps James on the back - he sat at the head of the table and to his left was James - you sat next to him.

But Euphemia reaches for James’s hand over the table, and you can tell something’s bothering her - a look of worry paint over her wrinkled features.

“Just tell us this isn’t because of us,” she says. “What we said. About wanting to know you’d be alright.”

You glance at James. He hesitates - he appears to be losing it - the smile faltering and he seems like me might burst, at the reminder.

So you step in, a hand on top of his that rested on his thigh under the table, you didn't think much of it but he was shocked.

“It’s not because of that,” you say, voice even. “He didn’t pressure me. He’s been. . . kind. A gift I didn’t expect while I was struggling.”

Your words were true, you weren't lying and James could tell, he moved his hand to intertwine it with yours under the table, willing himself to be grounded by your warmth and your touch.

He exhales, exaspherated.

You meet Euphemia’s eyes and say, “I’d be proud to marry him.”

She smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at.

Fleamont raises his glass. James is quiet beside you - his grip tightened just slightly.

You don’t look at him.

You move in the next morning - the Potters were very eager to welcome you in as a housemate, Euphemia already discussing what tea to have with you every afternoon as that dinner progressed.

You felt warm all over, they were kind people - you somewhat felt goof to be giving them the peace they deserve, even if it is under deceit.

There’s only one trunk. Your life condensed into canvas and charm-bound compartments.

James carries it easily. Leads you up the stairs to his room - soon to be yours too.

You glance around. Quidditch posters, books on dueling theory, the faint scent of broom polish and pine. It is unexpectedly organized, with his personality - you expected a mess.

He clears his throat, feeling a bit awkward with how you eyed his room - his childhood room. “You alright sharing?”

You drop your trunk at the foot of the bed. “I’ve been through worse,” you say dryly. “Sharing a bed with a man is the least of my worries.”

He laughs, nodding slightly. “So I’m not even a little bit intimidating?”

You raise an eyebrow, turning to give him a look. “I still see you as that troublesome fifth-year. You’re a little boy to me, Potter.”

James scoffs, deeply offended. “I’ll have you know I’m an Auror now. Very manly. Very brave. Very capable.”

You wave him off. “Yeah, sure.”

“Need me to prove my masculinity? I can take my shirt off. Show you the Quidditch captain physique. Maybe throw in some Auror combat moves.” James wiggled his eyebrows and you just laugh at him - shaking your head.

“Merlin, please don’t.”

He grins, but it fades slowly, leaving something quieter behind.

Then the night finally came, the time to actually share the bed - that gryffindor red bed.

There’s space between you. But it’s warm - and you could feel him right behind you, backs turned on each other as if facing each other would reveal things you dared not discuss yet.

Still, it's warm.

Not love. Not yet.

But maybe something like safety.

The invitation arrives tied in a red silk ribbon, dropped onto the breakfast table by a smug little owl who barely waits for a scrap of bacon before flying off again.

You stare at the embossed lettering. Your name in fancy script. An invitation to a Hogwarts friend's wedding. Someone you haven't spoken to in years - not really. Someone who belonged to a life you thought you’d buried somewhere between unpaid invoices and final warnings.

Hariett Selwyn.

James plucks the card from your fingers before you can shove it away - he inspected it.

“A wedding?” His eyebrows lift, and he reads it aloud in a falsely posh accent, smirking. “How charming. Perfect opportunity to show off my beautiful fiancée.”

You groan, reaching for your tea like it might save you - ignoring the compliment, safer to do so. “I’m not going.”

“Come on,” he says, already leaning back in his chair like the decision’s made. “It’ll be fun.”

“Fun,” you echo dryly.

He grins, utterly unbothered. “We’re supposed to look like a real couple, aren’t we? Consider it . . .practice.”

You narrow your eyes. “I have nothing to wear.”

James shrugs like he’s been waiting for you to say that. He waves his wand lazily and a box appears, neatly wrapped, on the table between you.

“Handled,” he says with a wink.

You blink at him. At the box. At him again.

He has that shit-eating grin, you almost worried it was gone - James Potter now 18 years old with the weight of the world on him, he still has that youth in him after all.

“You’re insufferable.” You tell him without any bite to it.

“Thank you. Open it.”

Inside: a dress. New. Beautiful. Silky under your fingertips, clearly expensive - but not loud or garish. Thoughtful. Something you might’ve picked yourself, if you ever let yourself dream that way anymore.

You’re blinking too much. You cover it by rolling your eyes and muttering something sarcastic. James just smiles, infuriatingly pleased with himself.

You arrive at the wedding together - and you might as well be walking into a fairytale.

James is devastating in tailored formal robes, hair artfully messy, glasses gleaming. And you - you barely recognize yourself in the mirror. The dress fits like a second skin. It catches the light when you move.

When James looks at you, there’s a flicker in his expression he doesn’t bother hiding. You swallow all the butterflies down as if you could flush them out -

James Potter is straight out of a dream, no wonder girls swoon at the sight and mention of him.

People flock to you the moment you step inside. Champagne glasses pressed into your hands. Laughter and perfume and old, blurred memories swirling around you.

“You two look so in love!” someone coos, squeezing your arm. Probably in your year, you can't recall.

“About time someone tamed James Potter,” another one laughs - maybe another Gryffindor? Who knows.

James plays his part flawlessly. Arm around your waist. Whispered jokes in your ear. Smiling like you’re the only person in the world. Like he’s been waiting years just to be standing here with you.

At first, you fake it. Smile, laugh, nod in all the right places.

But the longer the night goes on - the easier it becomes. The lies sit lighter on your tongue. The champagne warms you from the inside out. For a few hours, it’s almost frighteningly easy to believe in this story you’re telling.

When the music changes, James holds out his hand with a theatrical bow -

“May I have this dance, Miss Treacle Tart?”

You roll your eyes but place your hand in his anyway, snorting at the name.

The floor tilts under you slightly - too much champagne, too many lies - but James steadies you without a word. His hand fits at the small of your back like it belongs there. His other hand twines with yours, easy and sure.

He twirls you under the soft golden lights.

You forget yourself for the berifest moment.

Forget the debt. The bakery. The past nipping at your heels like wolves - how everything has changed for the worse since Hogwarts.

For a dizzy, dangerous heartbeat, you forget where you end and he begins.

You laugh - breathless, lightheaded - and when you look up, you catch James already looking at you.

Soft. Something terrifyingly earnest in his hazel eyes. Right, they're hazel, so warm - the color of late autumn, all gold-flecked green and fading warmth, like the last good day before winter

The song ends. You pull away too quickly, mumbling something about needing air, needing another drink, needing space - just to put a distance between you two before it all collapse.

James lets you go without comment, just watching you with that same unreadable look -

Later, across the room, you feel his gaze again - heavier this time, more sure.

Your heart stutters traitorously in your chest. You tell yourself it’s just the champagne, you never did hold your liqour well - memories of your sixth-year, first time trying Firewhiskey, playing in your head.

You woke up in the Gyffindor common room on top of one Sirius Black, he had teased you relentless about how you quite literally passed out on him - said it was the first time a girl has thrown herself on him without getting a snog out of it.

You of course shut him up with a hex.

The bakery smells like sugar and cinnamon and something warm you can’t quite name. You’re behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair twisted into a messy bun, a smudge of flour at your temple you haven’t noticed yet.

You’ve only just reopened for the morning rush when the doorbell jingles - and there he is.

James Potter, grinning like he invented sunshine - or like it pours out of his ass.

He leans against the counter like he belongs there, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, hair as artfully messy as if he planned it. His glasses catch the morning light. He looks maddeningly pleased with himself.

You pretend you don't see him - but it never works.

He pretends you aren't pretending.

The girls by the window definitely see him.

You catch it out of the corner of your eye - the sharp gasp, the hurried whispering. You brace yourself.

Sure enough, a girl (eighteen? nineteen?) edges closer, clutching a pastry box like it might shield her. “You’re -” she breathes, wide-eyed, “you’re marrying him?”

You glance lazily over at James, who wiggles his eyebrows at you, utterly shameless.

You sigh dramatically. “I know. I still don't believe it either.”

The girl giggles and practically skips back to her friend. You see them both collapse into chairs by the window, whispering furiously.

James presses a hand to his chest, mock-affronted. "You wound me," he says loudly enough for half the bakery to hear. "Here I was thinking you were the lucky one."

“Oh, absolutely,” you say, without looking up from the till. “A real catch, Potter. Just what every girl dreams of. A boy who can't iron his own robes and thinks treacle tart is a balanced meal.”

"Oi," he says, affronted. "I've improved. I even have investments now."

"Mhm. I'll believe that when you can go a week without blowing something up in the kitchen."

James turns toward the waiting crowd like he’s hosting a press conference. "For the record," he announces, "best baker in the Alley. Also my fiancée. Did I mention that? Fiancée. As in, tragically, devastatingly off the market."

You throw a dish towel at his head.

He catches it one-handed, still grinning.

The bakery hums around you - the low chatter, the clink of silverware, the golden morning pouring through the windows - and for a few minutes, it feels almost terrifyingly easy. Like this was always meant to happen. Like there was always a version of the future where you ended up here, with him, like this.

James lounges at the end of the counter, watching you work.

“You look happy,” he says after a minute, voice lower, like he doesn't mean for anyone else to hear.

You blink at him, hands deep in the pastry case.

"I am," you say, and it's mostly true. "Feels good. Being here again. It's. . . grounding."

James smiles, soft and crooked, observing you as you continue to work. So natural, so in your habitat.

You clear your throat and reach for a new box. “We're famous now, you know," you tell him, more to fill the sudden quiet than anything. “Top gossip on Witch Weekly.”

James snorts. “Let them talk. They’re just jealous.”

"Of what?" you ask, deadpan. "Your charming humility?"

"My undeniable sex appeal, actually," he says, winking.

You roll your eyes so hard it’s a miracle you don’t sprain something.

Somewhere between boxing up an order and wiping the counter, you lose track of him. You hear a suspicious rustle near the pastry display.

You whirl around just in time to see James, mouth full, cramming a stolen tart into his pocket with the guilty look of a five-year-old.

"James Fleamont Potter!" you gasp, brandishing a wooden spoon like a weapon.

He backs toward the door, laughing so hard he nearly trips over a chair.

"You’re banned!" you call after him, chasing him halfway onto the street. "Banned for life!"

"See you at home!" he calls back, victorious, scattering powdered sugar in his wake.

You stand in the doorway, hair flying loose, apron dusted in flour, laughing in spite of yourself. Your heart is still racing, from chasing him out or something else - you dared not wander there.

The kitchen at Potter Manor's kitchens was all warm light and drifting flour when he found you.

You were kneading dough on the marble counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pinned back, lips pursed in focus. You barely glanced up when he entered, dusting flour off your palms like you had every right to be there. Like you always would be.

James lingered in the doorway a moment longer than necessary. Watching you with a look you didn’t catch - soft around the edges, almost shy. Like he still couldn’t quite believe you were real. Like he thought if he blinked, you might disappear.

A wife, he hasn't really thought of that. He just got out of his Gryffindor robes and rucked it away, never to be worn again - it's all too fresh, a wife. . .

Finally, he cleared his throat.

"You know," he said, voice too casual to be anything but deliberate, "I was thinking we could bake something together."

You arched an eyebrow, skeptical. "You? Bake?"

He clutched his heart in mock offense. "I’m a man of many talents, I’ll have you know."

"You’re a menace," you said lightly, turning back to your dough. "And you’ll ruin your kitchen."

"Our kitchen," he corrected without missing a beat, flashing a grin so boyish you didn’t have the heart to argue - right.

You wiped your hands on a cloth and sighed, pretending to think it over. "And what exactly did you have in mind, Potter?"

He shifted his weight awkwardly, running a hand through his messy hair, not that that ever worked in his favour. "Something for my parents. I. . . I’ve never really done that before. Baked for them, I mean. Thought it might be nice, you know, for once."

Something warm flickered in your chest at that. The sentiment, awkward and sweet, was so very James. It softened the place inside you that had been hardened by necessity, by all the pretending.

"Alright," you said, gentler now. "Let’s do it."

He lit up, the way only James Potter could - sudden and breathtaking, like a boy seeing Christmas lights for the first time - you ignore how your stomach flipped.

You rolled your eyes but laughed anyway, nudging a mixing bowl toward him. "Start by cracking the eggs," you instructed, biting back a smirk.

James nodded solemnly - then immediately dropped half a shell into the batter.

You both burst out laughing, rich heir James Potter couldn't even crack an egg properly into a bowl after years of intricate Potions classes.

Somewhere down the line, flour ended sprinkled all over his messy hair.

"Right," he said, laughing breathlessly as you swatted him with a tea towel, "this is war, then."

"You started it!" you accused, dodging another cloud of flour he lobbed your way.

"You called me a menace."

"You are a menace."

He lunged for you, and you shrieked, ducking under his arm and grabbing a handful of flour to throw back at him. It puffed into his hair, turning it an even more chaotic shade of white, if that were possible.

"You’re going to regret that," he said, grinning wide and reckless.

"Big talk for someone covered in flour, Potter."

He chased you around the kitchen island, both of you laughing so hard you could barely breathe. When he finally caught you, it wasn’t with the triumphant crow you expected, but with a gentle touch - his hands settling lightly at your waist, holding you still.

You froze. Not because you were scared. But because it was so easy. Too easy.

Your chest rose and fell, your pulse a drumbeat against your ribs.

For a moment, neither of you moved - just staring at each other like there was something settling in between. You neglect to notice how his lashes are painted white now, he blinks at you.

James’ smile faltered, slipping into something softer,, you pray to all your ancestors to calm your hammering heart in fear that he would hear it.

"I like seeing you laugh," he said, voice low.

You swallowed hard. "Don’t get used to it."

His mouth tilted in that familiar lopsided way. "Bit late for that."

You turned away under the pretense of rescuing the now-forgotten batter. Your hands shook just slightly as you picked up the whisk, you clear your throat.

James didn’t push. Just stood nearby, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him - you both pretend like you didn't get assaulted by the flour man.

"You ever bake anything before?" you asked, trying to sound casual.

He leaned on the counter, grinning. "Does nicking biscuits from the kitchens count?"

"Absolutely not."

"Then no."

You laughed under your breath. "Hopeless." Yep, you both were.

"And yet you’re letting me help," he pointed out.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. "That’s because I’m benevolent."

He nodded solemnly. "Saint-like, really."

You hid your smile as you handed him the whisk. "Beat that until your arms fall off - put all that quidditch and auror manliness to work."

"Yes, ma'am," he said, giving you a ridiculous salute before setting to work - slopping batter across the counter within seconds.

"You’re a disaster," you said, half fond, half exasperated.

"Disaster’s just another word for creative genius," he said breezily.

You rolled your eyes and bumped his hip with yours. He laughed and bumped you back, and you ended up side by side, shoulders brushing, working together.

Somehow, it didn’t feel strange at all.

Later, once the pastries were cooling on the rack - a little lopsided, a little burnt at the edges - you leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching James lick a smear of batter off his thumb.

You fought yourself from watching how his tongue darted out to lick it off, feeling your cheeks grow hot.

"You’ve got a bit on your nose," you said, pointing - distracting yourself from the image of him licking the batter off.

"Where?"

You stepped closer, hesitated, then reached out and wiped it away yourself.

His eyes stayed glued to you and for one charged heartbeat, neither of you spoke - like the world decided to pause so you can once again just look at each other, everything remains unsaid.

You cleared your throat and stepped back quickly. "There. All sorted."

"Thanks," he said, a little hoarse.

You turned away, fiddling with the edge of a tea towel. "S’pose you didn’t do half bad, for your first try."

"High praise coming from you," he said, mock-gravely.

You shot him a look over your shoulder. "Don’t let it go to your head, Potter."

"Everything goes straight to my head, actually."

You rolled your eyes again, but there was no heat behind it.You watch him pat his hair and the flour on it creates a veil of white in the kitchen, you laugh.

It was then you heard a soft noise behind you.

You turned.

Euphemia and Fleamont were standing just beyond the threshold, watching the two of you with matching expressions - fond, unbearably gentle, a little misty-eyed.

Euphemia had her hands clasped to her chest, her smile wobbly around the edges. Fleamont was clearing his throat, pretending not to be emotional and failing miserably.

You felt your chest twist sharply.

Because in that moment, it didn’t feel like pretending at all.

It felt terrifyingly, achingly real.

You straightened a little, brushing your flour-dusted hands on your apron, but Euphemia only shook her head, eyes shining.

"Don’t stop on our account," she said warmly. "It’s lovely, seeing the kitchen so full again."

James ducked his head, looking uncharacteristically bashful. You bit the inside of your cheek, willing yourself not to cry.

"We’ll leave you to it," Fleamont said, giving James a meaningful nod before steering Euphemia gently away.

The kitchen felt too quiet once they were gone.

James scratched the back of his neck. "They like you, you know."

You huffed a laugh, blinking fast. "I can’t imagine why."

"I can," he said simply.

The inevitable was happening, the Potters were getting worse - Dragon Pox was not something one could just power through for so long, they were bound to break down.

They've done so well holding it together for James, for their dutiful son who did everything to make it seem like he wasn't breaking down with them.

As they got worse, so did he. You can only watch as the entire family crumbles down, too afraid to pick up the pieces yourself and put them back together.

You still saw yourself as an outsider, an actor in a role - forced to play.

Instead, you resorted to helping him assist his parents. Nevermind that the house elves were there, you wanted to lend a hand. He lets you.

He feels oddly at peace when you'd sit by Euphemia and Fleamont's bed, talking about how your day has been at the bakery while they listen in. Too weak to stand up.

He watches as you take Euphemia's hand in yours and his mother's eyes fill with fondness.

Like you were the daughter they never had.

James felt something heavy settle in his heart as the days dragged on that they remained in bed, being fed potions to maybe help them regain mobility.

After three days, they were better - not healed or cured from it, but just better. Enough to get out of bed, to have dinner altogether as a family again while you all pretend death wasn't just outside the manor doors.

After those three days of dread, wondering if that was the end - you found James in your bedroom. Sat on the floor, leaned against the bed with his head hanging low.

The room looked like hell, like a bludger was set loose and it made efforts to ransack everything. Only your items remained unharmed, you heave a sigh at the sight of him so defeated.

You decided to sit beside him, distance closed. Your shoulders right next to his and he flinched at the sudden contact.

He made a move as if he was gonna say something and you stopped him. "Don't be sorry, a simple spell can fix all of this," you shake your head and bite your lip, feeling the tears build up.

It was hurting you. So much, and you were just a pretend daughter-in-law, you could only imagine what he's feeling.

He's only 18, and his whole world is falling apart before his very eyes. You probably didn't have the right to cry, this pain wasn't yours.

Then complete silence. You looked around the room to asses more of the damage, it's almost unrecognizable. Like a battle had taken place.

"You're a good son," you tell him quietly in the dark, "they're very lucky to have you.

He laughs, void of humor. "A good son wouldn't lie to his parents just to ease his guilt. A good son would go to the ends of the earth to find a cure."

You felt the tears escape then, his words hurt for so many reasons. He doesn't see himself the way you and his parents saw him, too deep in his regrets.

"That's not - " you breathe out shakily "You're a good son for giving them hope. For giving them peace. Although this is a lie, the fact remains that you have me."

He was quiet for a moment, then he turned. In the dark, you see jsut how tired his eyes are, his cheeks glossed by tears. "I won't always have you."

You were unsure now. Would another lie be better? Would another scam on top of the damned deal patch all this up and wrap it neatly in one big bow?

You decided against it, you only give him a sad smile. He doesn't say anythign after that, a whole minute passes as you looked at each other, everything unsaid still hanging in the air.

Then, swiftly, he shifted his body and his lips were on yours. Your shock rattled your whole body, barely processing the fact he was kissing you as you began replying.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t careful. It tasted like grief, and salt, and something desperate you didn’t want to name - his hands grabbed you like you were a lifeline to hold on to.

You let him, you kiss him back like you were answering it all. All the questions he would throw at the void. Why me? Why them? Why now?

You kissed him like you were able to calm the brewing storm inside him. Then he pulled back, heaving as he desperately gasped for air. You were the same, lips swollen and eyes glossed.

You didn't realize you were crying in the kiss.

He retracts his hand, holding his head like a madman. "Merlin, I'm sor - "

"Don't," you dared not let him apologize, because that would make it a mistake. And it wasn't, not to you - at least.

"Don't apologize. Don't explain," you tell him.

You understand, to some extent, why he did it. But there was no need to unpack it, it was the least of your priorities. You threw yourself at him to hug him, that was a first.

He hasn't really had that - something he didn't know he needed until he got it. He broke down in your arms like a man come back from war, he lets you hold him together while his edges were crumbling to dust.

"I'm here, James."

The garden had always been Euphemia's favourite place in the manor, she used to tend to it every day - James has taken over in her absence.

Even now, when her hands trembled too much to hold a trowel, when her legs ached too much to carry her beyond the cracked stone path, she still insisted on sitting outside - breathing in the crisp afternoon air, the fading scent of late blooms clinging stubbornly to the hedges.

You wiped your palms against your skirts, smearing soil across the fabric, and pushed to her feet. You had been kneeling in the dirt for the better part of an hour, stubbornly trying to coax life back into the frostbitten flowerbeds.

Another lost cause, probably. But there was something oddly comforting in these small, foolish acts of hope.

"Come here, darling," Euphemia called softly, her voice a thin thread against the quiet.

You brushed hair out of your face and crossed the grass. The sun caught in the pale wisps of Euphemia's hair, haloing her like a painting. Euphemia patted the bench beside her, and you sank down wordlessly.

Euphemia's hand - delicate - found yours. Her thumb brushed over your knuckles in a slow, steady circle. You couldn't remember the last time someone had touched you so gently, a mother's warm touch.

"Promise me," Euphemia said, voice almost inaudible. "Promise you'll stay with him."

Youblinked, throat tightening.

"He's always carried so much," Euphemia continued, her gaze far away, as if watching something only she could see. "Too much. Even when he was a boy - always looking out for his friends like the leader - he even gave us the gift of another son, our Sirius - "

You stay quiet. Yeah, the runaway Black has been visiting as well. If he knew the deal between you and James, he didn't say anything. Only exchanging greetings and thanking you for caring for his adoptive parents.

News of his adoption was no secret to all of Hogwarts. He was a Marauder, another headache for the Prefect that you were, four troublesome third-years, and then you were Headgirl and catching him snogging girls after dark.

He's changed a lot. Tattoos, longer hair - lots and lots of rings. But you also saw how he looked defeated. He's losing his parents again, how tragic.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The lie hovered at the back of your throat - Of course, I promise — but it stuck there, heavy and sour.

You couldn't do it. Not again. Not to her, and not right now - it was all too much.

The words tumbled out before you could stop them.

The money. The debt. The arrangement you two agreed on to be made because you were both was desperate and selfish and terrified. The fake love you had branded around like it was actually yours to hold.

You poured it all out into the trembling space within the garden.

When you finished, you couldn't meet Euphemia's eyes. Shame burned down your spine like a lash, throbbing.

But Euphemia only smiled. A wise, old glint in her tired eyes and it undid you. Tears falling even more now. She knew.

"Thank you for being honest. But if I may - it stopped being fake long ago, dear. For the both of you."

Your heart twisted, sharp and aching.

You covered your face with your hands - and then, without thinking, buried your head against Euphemia's shoulder. Like a child. Like you hadn't allowed yourselfto be vulnerable in years.

And Euphemia stroked her hair, murmuring nonsense, the way mothers do - holding you like you were hers, and you fell apart even more.

Your voice cracked open on the words you had never said aloud, even when they clawed at your ribs in the dead of night:

"Thank you," you whispered, choking on the sound of it. "Thank you for being the first mother I ever had."

None of you saw him.

James had come to call you for dinner.

But now he stood frozen just beyond the hedge - the golden light of the dying day catching on the frames of his glasses, painting him in shades of grief and awe.

He had heard everything.

Every word.

And for the second time in his life, James Potter didn't know how to move forward. Didn't know how to carry it all.

He just stood there, heart splitting open silently inside his chest, as the girl he had fallen in love with cried quietly against his mother's shoulder - not for herself, not even for him, but for a family she was terrified to lose.

It happened days later, when the worst of the storm had settled - when Euphemia managed a frail smile again, when Fleamont grumbled weakly about his porridge being too bland.

You were in the kitchen, elbows deep in soap and dishwater, when James leaned against the doorway. Arms crossed. Watching you like he had all the time in the world.

The elves could've done it - but you wanted to do something more than just exist within the walls of Potter Manor. A future daughter-in-law waiting to be.

"Come out with me tonight," he said.

You blinked at him, suds dripping from your fingertips. "James - we can't leave your parents - "

"We won't be too far, just the gardens," he interrupted gently and you frown at him.

"Is this about the," you look over your shoulders to see Fleamont cradling a tea between his hands on the counter. You lower your voice. "The kiss?"

"What"

You shake your head. "You don't have to make up with me for that, I told you it was truly fine - "

"Just say 'yes', you stubborn woman," he laughs a bit at the end but he was pleading.

You pressed your lips together, searching his face. No jokes despite his boyish grin. Then you gave in, no word needed to be said as he let out a satisfied hum.

The garden was transformed.

Hundreds of tiny candles floated in the air, bobbing like fireflies. The table was small, intimate - just two chairs and a scattering of wildflowers in jam jars. The night air was cool and sweet, stitched through with the scent of late summer roses.

"The elves were the rewal MVPs for this by the way," he commented, grinning. You snort.

James pulled out your chair with a dramatic bow. You laughed, cheeks warming despite yourself, and sat down.

There was a picnic basket between you. He opened it with a flourish - and there, tucked carefully inside, was your favorite pastry from your own bakery. The lemon tart you always made fresh on Sundays.

You blinked. "You stole from me."

"Purchased, actually." He grinned. "You're very expensive, Miss Future-Potter."

You rolled your eyes, but your heart felt so full you were surprised it didn't spill out your mouth and drop to your lap.

You ate under the stars - swapping stories, teasing, laughing - like it was the easiest thing in the world. No performances. No pretending.

Just. . .you and him. It felt very real now, after the kiss was a date in the gardens - you can only guess that his parents were watching from the drawing room window.

Halfway through, James pushed his chair back and stood up. For a dizzy moment, you thought he was going to fetch more food - but then he turned to you and, without hesitation, dropped to one knee.

The world tilted.

You stared at him - at the way the candlelight caught the gold in his eyes, at the way he looked more sure, more himself, than he ever had before.

"This time," James said, voice steady, reverent, "I'm asking for real."

No contracts.

No debts.

No saving each other.

"Just me," he said, reaching for your hand. "Just you."

You covered your mouth with trembling fingers, tears blurring your vision. You didn't trust your voice, so you just nodded. Hard. Over and over as he caressed that ring.

You felt like you could choke from happiness but finally, you found your voice -

"Yes," you answered, laughing through the tears.

James surged up, caught you in his arms, spun you once under the floating candles - avoiding tipping the table over. You were both laughing, crying, a little broken, a little mended.

Maybe the world was ending - maybe winter was coming fast and cruel - but right now, right here, you could pretend it was only this.

Only James.

Only you.

And it would be enough.

It is a small thing - nothing like the grand celebrations that the tabloids expected and theorized soon as they heard that the esteemed Potter bachelor was to be wed -

They called it a wedding to look out for, with the Potters being rich and all, but it turned out to be an intimate gathering. One that you prefered very much.

Euphemia is wheeled into the garden, bundled in soft blankets, a wreath of tiny white flowers tucked into her hair. Fleamont sits beside her, his hand resting atop hers, their fingers still finding each other after all these years.

The air smells of lilies and earth and late spring - the world on the cusp of summer, trembling at the edge of something new.

You walk down the aisle alone, lilies cradled carefully in your hands, heart rattling against your ribs like it might break free. Had Fleamont been strong nough, he would have been with you - he said so himself.

Friends sit at the front, close friends of James from Hogwarts - a few of the Gyffindor girls from his years, you managed to invite your Headboy counterpart and his wife, the Longbottoms, there was even Essie, your greatest friend who stuck through the hardest times.

Essie winks as you pass. You mouth her a ‘thank you’ as she wipes her tears away, happy to see you finally in the light after so long in the dark.

Sirius stands beside James, ridiculously overdressed in formal robes, grinning like he knows a secret he’ll never tell.

Remus lingers just a step behind them, hands clasped neatly, a rare and quiet warmth in his gaze, behind him was also Peter who just looked happy to be included.

And James - Merlin, James.

He looks like every good memory stitched into one living, breathing thing: black hair wild in the breeze, glasses catching the light, suit fitted perfectly to his frame.

When he sees you, the whole world shifts slightly off its axis. For a moment, it’s just you and him, like it always was meant to be.

You reach him, hand trembling when you slip yours into his. He squeezes gently, grounding you, steady and sure.

The ceremony is short. Sweet.

No grand speeches. No crowds. Just the two of you standing stubbornly in front of everyone you love, hearts bare and open.

James says his vows like he’s carving them into the very bones of the earth, voice low and rough with feeling. "You came to me in the quiet, and you stayed. I will never forget that."

You barely make it through your own. The tears come halfway through, thick and hot, making the lilies in your hands blur into nothing but white and green smudges.

When you slip the ring onto his finger, you are shaking so badly that James has to guide your hand, thumb brushing your knuckles, steady and patient.

When the officiant says, "You may kiss the bride," James doesn’t wait.

His hands cradle your face like you're something holy - and he kisses you like a man who has finally, finally found home.

There are cheers, and petals tossed high into the air, and Sirius shouting something wildly inappropriate that makes everyone laugh through their tears.

Later, under the flowering arch, Sirius gives a toast - half a roast, really - about how he 'he never expected a troublemaker Marauder to marry a proper Headgirl who always gave them detention, but he supposed it was fitting as both became Heads in their last years' and "Prongs here got himself a Head Girl, although older, eh? Guess you like 'em more mature, mate!"

You laugh so hard your ribs ache. James presses a kiss to the side of your head, rolling his eyes at the implication, murmuring something only you can hear.

Probably to insult Sirius.

There are tiny cakes, charmed lights strung between the trees, plates passed hand to hand. The air is heavy with lilac and laughter and the stubborn kind of joy that refuses to be dimmed by grief.

You dance barefoot with James under the golden wash of the lights, your dress trailing behind you like a whisper.

The grass is cool beneath your toes, the sky wide and open above you. James spins you once, twice, until you are dizzy with it, until all you can do is clutch his hand and laugh into his chest.

The world feels soft. Real. Precious beyond measure.

Euphemia watches from her chair, smiling like she is imprinting the whole thing onto her soul. Fleamont squeezes her hand. She leans her head against his shoulder and closes her eyes, a small, satisfied sigh leaving her lips.

It isn’t forever.

But for now, it is enough.

And for once - enough feels like a miracle.

. . . And you understand now why they lost their minds and fought the wars, and why I've spent my whole life tryin' to put it into words.

end. masterlist | married life snippets ask

#james fleamont potter #james potter #james potter marauders #james potter x reader #james potter imagine #marauders #marauders era #hp marauders #marauders x reader #harry potter #harry potter marauders #harry potter marauders era #don't blame me

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byoldervine · 1 year ago

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Foreshadowing Ideas

• Character themes/motifs. I’ve heard of one writer who tries to give each character their own theme for similes, metaphors, descriptions, etc so there’s like a theme to the way they’re portrayed. You could use that to foreshadow notable secrets about the character that will later be revealed, or if at any point they’re disguised then you can use that to tip off the reader that they have the same motifs and so might be related/the same person

• Tiny details hidden in lists. Say the MC was trying to work out the identity of a bad guy, who we know was wearing a red shirt on the day of a big bad event. A few chapters later, MC is checking around their best friend’s room to find them, with the place its usual mess with discarded takeaway boxes, the bed unmade, a red shirt left on the floor that could use a good sweep. The red shirt might not click with all the readers, but those who register it upon their first read will eat it up

• Inconsistent behavioural patterns. Once we have a good idea of what a character is like, having them act out of character can set off alarm bells and make us question what’s occurred to make them act this way. Let the other characters register it too, if it’s reasonable that they would, but let them ultimately brush it off quite quickly to keep it subtle. Or just call it right out, whichever you prefer

• Unreliable narrators. Let one character say one thing and a second character say another, even if they both ultimately agree on the same thing but get one or two small details wrong. Ideally do this two or three times in order for the reader to know it’s not just a mistake in the plot but an intentional inconsistency, but even if it’s only done once and it’s taken as a mistake it’ll still slot together like puzzle pieces in the end and they’ll be kicking themself for dismissing it

• In-universe red herrings. If you’re going to add red herrings as foreshadowing, it’s helpful if the red herring aligns with the intentions of someone person aware of the upcoming plot twist who’s trying to control the narrative. Say the plot twist was the reveal of a mysterious character’s identity to be the best friend of the MC, the best friend might have deliberately thrown the MC off their scent by planting suspicions in the MC’s mind that a different character was the mysterious character’s identity all along. This is less about foreshadowing the actual reveal, of course, but rereads will be a punch to the gut when everyone realises that all this misinformation and red herring business came from someone trying to cover their own ass rather than coming from misunderstandings or multiple other random sources

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sixeyesonathiel · 3 months ago

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holy week’s about to start, but i can’t stop fantasizing about yandere!gojo with a servant!reader who’s been his shadow forever so take this filth ive written on a whim<3 (if you've seen this earlier with a different age difference, no you didn't. did my best to reword/change everything because i changed the age tho kek, also made this more filthy as promised😼)

cw: heavy dubcon, yandere themes, manipulation, gaslighting, 3 year age gap, power imbalance, explicit sexual content (fingering, pussy slapping, nipple play, edging), dacryphilia, degradation/humiliation, corruption/dumbification, forced commitment, pseudo-sibling complex (not incestuous, just deep emotional bonds from shared childhood), 18+ only, minors DNI.

you’re his servant, three years younger, bound to him since your mother’s milk fed you both—her role was his wet nurse, his caretaker, tucking you into the same nursery, her lullabies stitching you to satoru like thread. you were his shadow in the gojo estate’s cold sprawl—a scrawny kid trailing his steps, offering him sticky candies, giggling when he’d lift you to reach the high shelves. he was the six eyes heir, a lonely boy with hair like starlight, locked away from the world. you’d crawl into his bed during storms, whispering stories to chase his fears, not knowing you were his anchor. he’d pat your head, call you his lucky charm, and you’d beam, too young to see the hunger in his eyes. it was innocent then—your adoration, his protection, a bond like siblings but not, woven from shared nights and secrets.

now you’re grown, or trying to be, with dreams of kyoto—books, freedom, a life beyond bowing. you tell him you’re leaving, voice small but brave, thinking he’ll pat your head like old times. satoru’s not that boy anymore. he’s taller, sharper, a god in human skin, his blindfold hiding eyes that could burn worlds. he leans against a pillar, smirking like you’ve told a joke. he asks for three days to “give you a proper goodbye.” you think it’s sweet, a nod to your childhood. you’re so fucking naive. he’s not saying farewell—he’s raging against you daring to take what’s his. you. his everything.

the night before your train, the bathhouse is a fog of steam, your shift damp, clinging to your thighs like a second skin. you’re rinsing your hair, humming, when the air thickens—electric, heavy. satoru’s there, lounging against the cedar wall, blindfold gone, his eyes a crazed blue, pupils dilated but still searing, like twin oceans swallowing the light. his white shirt’s half-open, collarbone sharp, hair damp, sticking to his forehead like he’s been pacing, plotting. his lips curl, boyish but venomous, a predator playing soft.

“you’re really gonna ditch me?” his voice is low, almost pouty, but there’s a razor in it, slicing through the steam. he steps closer, barefoot, silent, and your heart stumbles. his scent hits—clean, like rain and sugar, dizzying.

you try to laugh, to keep it light, like when you’d steal his mochi. “satoru, it’s not like that. i just… i wanna study, see things. you get it, right?” your words falter under his stare, those eyes—blue fire, pupils twitching, crazed but not lost. they pin you, strip you, like you’re glass.

he tilts his head, a silver strand falling over one eye, and his smile tightens, lips thinning. “you don’t sound convinced, pretty thing.” his hand lifts, slow, deliberate, catching your wrist. his fingers burn, too hot, and your pulse races under his thumb, betraying you. “think you can just walk out? after all i’ve done for you?”

“done for me?” you echo, voice catching. the steam’s choking, your shift’s too thin, and he’s too close, towering, his shadow eating yours. you step back, but the wall’s there, cool and slick against your spine.

his grip slides to your elbow, firm, pulling you flush against him. his chest is hard, warm through his shirt, and his breath brushes your cheek—mint, heat, sin. “you were mine from the start,” he murmurs, lips grazing your ear, sending shivers to your core. “all those nights, your stories, your sticky little hands. you think that was nothing?” his free hand slips under your shift, tracing your thigh, slow, teasing, until your breath hitches.

you should push him off. this is satoru—your satoru, who’d carry you when you fell, who’d sneak you sweets—but not like this, not with his fingers climbing, brushing the damp cotton between your legs. “satoru, stop,” you whisper, but it’s weak, trembling, and your thighs part, just a fraction, traitor to your will.

he laughs, soft, cruel, his eyes glinting as his pupils pulse, blue blazing like a storm. “stop? oh, sweetheart, look at you.” his finger presses against your core, light, testing, and you gasp, knees wobbling. “already wet through this flimsy thing. what kind of good girl dreams of leaving then soaks herself for me?”

“i’m not—” you start, but his finger slips past the fabric, grazing your slit, and your words choke into a whimper. he’s watching, always watching—jaw tight, lips parted, a flush creeping up his neck like he’s barely holding on. the boy you loved is there, but twisted, hungry, his beauty sharper, meaner.

“not what?” he taunts, sliding one finger inside you, slow, deliberate, curling just enough to make you clench. “not mine? not desperate?” he steps closer, pinning you with his hips, and his cock’s hard against your thigh, straining through his pants. “you’re a fucking mess already, and i’ve barely started.”

tears prick your eyes, hot, spilling fast, and he groans, low, animal, leaning in to lick a stripe up your cheek. “fuck, you’re gorgeous when you cry,” he breathes, voice fraying, like your tears are his drug. his finger moves, slow, deep, and you’re trembling, heat pooling where he’s stretching you. “makes me wanna break you, pretty thing. wanna see how many tears you’ve got left.”

“satoru, please,” you sob, clutching his shirt, damp cotton twisting under your nails. your body’s screaming—too much, not enough—and he’s everywhere, his breath hot, his touch burning. you’re barely even an adult, barely anything, and he’s unraveling you like it’s his right.

“please what?” his voice drops, mocking, and he pulls back, eyes blazing, pupils wide but still blue, crazed, endless. “please stop? please more?” his thumb finds your clit, circling, and your hips buck, chasing the ache despite the shame clawing your throat. “you’re humping my hand like a needy slut. think kyoto’s got this? think anyone else can make you this dumb already?”

“no,” you gasp, and it’s true, god help you—he’s carved himself into you, every soft moment now a blade. his finger curls deeper, joined by another, stretching you, and you bite your lip, tears streaming as the burn twists into need.

he coos, soft, sickening, his free hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your tears. “aw, poor thing, crying so pretty for me.” his voice is honey, but his fingers thrust harder, slick sounds loud in the steam. “you don’t need dreams, sweetheart. you need me, don’t you? always have.” his lips brush yours, a tease, then pull back, leaving you chasing air.

“i just… i wanted—” you try, chasing what’s remaining of your reason, but his thumb grinds your clit, ruthless, and your words fracture into a moan. his smile’s gone, replaced by something darker—jaw clenched, eyes wild, like you’ve hurt him.

“wanted what?” he snaps, yanking his fingers out, and you whine, empty, hips twitching. “wanted to leave? to forget me?” his hand slaps your pussy, sharp, sudden, and you cry out, the sting melting into heat that makes you clench around nothing. “look at this greedy cunt,” he sneers, slapping again, harder, watching you jolt. “making a fucking mess all over me. you disappointed me, you know that?”

“i’m sorry,” you sob, frantic, nails digging into his arms. your tears are rivers now, and he drinks them in, his tongue darting out to taste your cheek again, a low groan rumbling in his chest. his fingers plunge back in, three now, brutal, curling against that spot that makes you see stars.

“sorry’s not enough,” he growls, but his voice cracks, raw, like he’s the one breaking. “you did this to me, you know. all those years, following me, needing me—fuck, you think i wanted to crave you like this?” his thumb’s back on your clit, circling fast, and you’re trembling, so close it’s painful. “you’re mine, pretty thing. say it.”

“i’m yours,” you whimper, voice raw, and his eyes soften, just a flicker, before they harden again, pupils pulsing in that crazed blue sea. he kisses you then, hard, possessive, teeth clashing as he swallows your sobs, his tongue claiming every corner of your mouth like it’s his territory.

“good girl,” he purrs, pulling back, lips wet, swollen. “but you’re still a filthy little thing, aren’t you?” his fingers slow, teasing, keeping you dangling, and you whine, hips grinding against his hand. he slaps your pussy again, twice, three times, each one meaner, and you’re keening, slick dripping down your thighs, pooling on the floor. “won’t you look at this?” he laughs, mocking, holding up his hand, glistening with you. “you’re soaking me, sweetheart. what a dirty fucking mess.”

“satoru, please,” you beg, voice breaking, and he coos again, sickeningly sweet, his free hand sliding to your chest, yanking your shift down to bare your breasts. his eyes darken, pupils twitching, and he leans in, latching onto your nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing.

“fuck, these are perfect,” he mumbles against your skin, tongue flicking, and you arch, moaning, oversensitive. he pulls back, eyes locked on yours, and his voice drops, filthy, reverent. “your mom fed me, you know—gave me her milk. and now here i am, sucking on her daughter’s tits like a starving man.” he bites down, just enough to sting, and you scream, soft and broken, as he laves over the mark. “kinda poetic, huh? full fucking circle.”

you’re babbling now, incoherent—his name, please, more—lost in the heat, the pain, the way his fingers fuck you relentless, thumb grinding your clit until you’re teetering, body taut. “satoru, i can’t—i’m gonna—”

“not yet,” he snarls, yanking his hand free, and you wail, empty, aching, hips bucking into nothing. your knees give, but he catches you, pinning you to the wall with his body, cock hard and leaking through his pants, pressing against your belly. “you don’t come ‘til i say, you hear me?” his voice is low, fraying, and his eyes—still blue, but crazed, electric—bore into you, daring you to disobey.

“i’m sorry, i’m sorry,” you sob, frantic, hands scrabbling at his chest, his shirt wet with your tears, your slick. his skin’s fever-hot, muscles tense, and his breath’s ragged, hitching like he’s fighting himself.

he leans in, forehead to yours, damp hair sticking to your skin. “you’re not sorry yet, pretty thing.” his voice is soft, dangerous, and his hand’s back, four fingers now, stretching you wide, palm slapping your clit with every thrust. “but you will be. gonna fuck you ‘til you’re too dumb to want anything but me.”

you’re gone, body seizing, babbling nonsense—satoru, please, need you, yours—and he’s murmuring filth, fractured, unhinged. “that’s it, fuck, look at you—gushing like a whore for me. think your silly books can do this? think anyone else can wreck you like this?” his fingers twist, relentless, and your cries echo, too loud, obscene in the cedar haze.

“no one,” you choke, and he rewards you with a kiss, softer this time, but still possessive, tongue tracing your teeth like he owns them. “only you, satoru, please—”

“damn right,” he growls, and his face shifts—jaw tight, eyes blazing, a flush painting his cheeks like he’s burning from the inside. “you’re mine—every fucking breath, every drop of you.” his fingers slow, dragging out the torment, and you’re begging, hips grinding, voice shot. he slaps your pussy one last time, so hard you scream, and you clench, leaking down his arm.

“come for me,” he finally rasps, voice raw, like it’s torn from his soul. “come all over my hand, show me you’re my good fucking girl.” and you do, shattering, gushing, body convulsing as you soak him, slick dripping to the floor. you’re babbling—satoru, yours, love you—words spilling without sense, and he fucks you through it, cooing how perfect you are, how you’re his, lips brushing your tears like they’re gold.

you’re limp, panting, but he’s not done. he kneels, yanking your shift higher, and licks a slow, greedy stripe up your thigh, tasting you. “fuck, you’re sweet,” he groans, eyes meeting yours—still blue, crazed, but softer, sated. “gonna eat you proper later, sweetheart. but not yet.” he stands, his tongue flicks your nipple again, teasing, and you whimper, oversensitive.

then he’s pulling you into his arms, strong, too strong, like he’s scared you’ll vanish. “you’re not leaving,” he says, quiet, final, his breath hot against your hair. “not tomorrow, not ever.”

you don’t fight. you can’t. a week later, a ring glints on your finger, his clan’s crest cold against your skin. he calls you his fiancée, voice dripping pride, and you smile, because he’s satoru—your satoru, who gives you silk, sweets, his endless obsession. you don’t need kyoto, or dreams. he’s burned them all to ash, and you let him, because he’s all you know.

#౨ৎ — flash reports #gojo satoru #gojo smut #gojo x reader #gojo x female reader #gojo satoru x reader #satoru gojo x reader #satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #gojo satoru x you #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x fem!reader #jjk smut #reader insert #jujutsu kaisen smut #jujutsu kaisen

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momo-yandere-writings · 2 months ago

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I decided to make this ghost incredibly desperate. He yearns and he’s so pathetic.

Yandere Short Stories:

The Love From the Dark

Yandere Victorian Ghost x Fem Reader x Author Fiancé

TW: toxic relationship, character death, descriptive MURDER, body horror and decay, suicide (mention), horror elements, Yandere themes, unhealthy relationship dynamics, PATHETIC MAN, delusional behavior, and themes that should not be romanticized in real life

The sun’s rays momentarily blinded (your name) as the moving van turned the curve up the hill towards their destination. The wind from the open window tousled her hair with its invisible fingers. A smile now painted on her face from its soothing ministrations.

This was a fresh start… one her fiancé, Clayton, insisted they take together. The Victorian home would give him the perfect inspiration to defeat his writer’s block and finish his horror book… all because the house was rumored to be haunted.

“It’s rumored to be crawling with paranormal activity. Not to mention it was a steal! It has the perfect environment for me to write a horror book. Are you not supportive of me?” Clayton’s words replayed in her mind like a tape on an endless loop.

The couple hardly spoke to one another anymore, Clayton was so consumed in his writing that he almost didn’t exist in reality anymore save for driving, sleeping, or eating.

(Your name) constantly walked on eggshells around him in order not to tip the delicate scale of their relationship towards separation. She’s been with him for so many years that she couldn’t imagine a life without him. Even though he was no longer a man she recognized.

Ten minutes later and their van finally made it to their new home… and it was the creepiest looking house she’s ever seen. Some of the grey paint was peeling on the sides and all the surrounding trees were still barren despite the season being spring. Not to mention the large murder of crows that snuggled their little black bodies on the roof.

“…this place looks like a haunted house out of a paranormal film. I’m not sure if this is a good idea-“ but she was instantly met with a scoff.

“I don’t want to hear it. This is for our future and for my book.” Clayton rolled his eyes at her concerns. “It’s only for a few months, then we can move somewhere else. It’s not like ghosts are actually real. It’s just the perfect ambience for a horror book, plus the study has a view of a cemetery on the plot.”

(Your name) glanced at the house once more, its eerie presence caused a shiver rolled down her spine.

Yet there was a familiar feeling that crept into her mind. Why did it feel like she’s been here before?

The moment the couple entered, they were shocked to the core. The interior was in perfect shape. It was almost as if they entered a Time Machine back to the early 19th century.

Yet what caught (your name)’s eye was the giant portrait of a woman who looked identical to her in the grand living room right above the fireplace.

She walked forward and gently placed her hand on the fireplace, her fingers traced the smooth stone in wonder. Not a spec of dust lifted onto her finger tips.

That portrait wasn’t just similar to her appearance, it was eerily her exact appearance. It was an uncanny coincidence. One that made her stomach do summersaults to the point of queasiness.

“Clayton… I don’t think we should be here.” She expressed worry once more, but he loudly clicked his tongue in disagreement.

“Tsk. It’s probably just a coincidence. You’re looking too much into it.” He then brushed past her to head up the stairs. He was determined to claim that study. He had seen its grandiose design on the realtor site prior to purchase. It even overlooked the entire manor. Whoever built this home must have been loaded.

(Your name) frowned. She just couldn’t understand why her fiancé had changed so much. He was now married to work rather than about to marry her. She was so lonely within her own relationship and that made her even more depressed.

She studied the grand room one last time a frown on her face when she noticed a different portrait that had its face torn apart. Someone must have had a fit of anger when they did that from his damaged it was.

(Your name) shook her head clear and decided to explore. Maybe this house wouldn’t be so bad…

Yet if she glanced in the corner of the room, she’d notice the eyes of the destroyed portrait in the corner had moved.

“(Your name)?” A raspy, masculine voice heaved. His voice scratchy and low like he hadn’t spoken in ages.

Black liquid oozes from the eyes of the portrait like tears. His wife came home… she was finally home.

(Your name) felt sick to her stomach when she saw every single room had a portrait of her likeness in it. There was no way it was a coincidence now. This was intentional.

She felt an overwhelming feeling bubble in her stomach. It was a kind of feeling that pray felt when it sensed a predator. She needed to leave. She needed to get out of here right this second.

Knock. Knock.

(Your name) knocked on the door of Clayton’s study. Her hands trembled a leaf in a strong wind. She was so scared… she needed comfort and reassurance more than anything right now.

“Clay? Clay I’m scared.” She stated outside the door.

Her fiancé didn’t answer. Her shaky hands quickly, went to hold her arms in order to soothe herself. The anxiety began to painfully, squeeze her chest.

“Clay? I’m serious. This house… something isn’t right here. There’s so many portraits. Can we please leave? Please-“

The door opened so fast, a gust of wind blew her hair back a bit. Clayton’s cognac eyes were filled with annoyance as he glanced down at her.

“Seriously? I’m writing right now, the writer’s block is finally gone. Can’t you do this attention seeking behavior some other time?” Clayton’s words were spat at her like the venom of a snake.

“Clay, I’m not lying. Please. I’m scared-“

“I don’t have time for this. I have a book to write. Why don’t you go to bed and I’ll join you after a bit, hm? It’s just a few months here so you’re going to have to deal with it.” Clayton waved her away with a flick of his left hand. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. And I doubt someone would make so many portraits that look like you.”

Before she could get in another word, the door slammed shut on her face. A frown now etched on her soft features.

She just wanted a hug and to be told it’d be okay… she hadn’t meant to annoy him.

She turned on her heel to walk away so Clayton didn’t hear her sniffle. She hated when she cried in front of people… especially when she knew he wouldn’t comfort her.

The lights flickered on the walls as she walked past. The entity lurked in the hall by the study.

“Don’t cry… don’t cry…” his raspy voice was as soft as a breeze. “Don’t leave me.”

(Your name) picked a room on the west wing of the house to have to herself. She was still upset about that argument with Clayton. He still had locked himself into his study like a petulant child despite the clock on the hand that hit ten o’clock at night.

She had found a portrait of a woman that looked like her in every room and expressed she was terrified yet Clayton brushed her concerns off like the typical horror movie protagonist. He insisted the paranormal didn’t exist and this was all merely a coincidence. That his priorities lied in the completion of his horror book.

Did she really mean so little to him? That writing meant more to him than his own fiancée? Haven’t she didn’t wanna think about it too long because it would only made her more upset.

She crawled into the soft queen sized bed, the curtains to her canopy kept her shaken form concealed to anyone who may past by… not that there was anyone else here but Clayton. And he was locked away in the study in the east wing.

(Your name) felt herself waver before the first few tears finally began to fall. She just couldn’t understand why Clayton had become so selfish. Was she not lovable anymore? Had she done something to make him uninterested? She just wanted to be loved again like she used to be.

An hour went by before she cried enough tears to nearly drown herself in a river of dreamless sleep.

Yet before everything went dark, she felt something icy cold cradle her face I a reverent manner. Had Clayton come to check on her? She knew he still cared deep down. That he wouldn’t let her go to bed lonely as he had in the last few months.

At least that was what her sleep addled mind allowed her to believe. It was a poor attempt of self comfort on her part, but she was too groggy to find falsity in that thought.

She let sleep take her as its prisoner once she assured herself of the who owned those cold hands. A foolish move on her part.

But those hands did not belong to her beloved Clayton… no. It was the shadowy hands of something far more sinister.

“It is you…you’ve finally come back to me.” That raspy voice echoed through the room. “I won’t mess up this time. I’ll be a good husband. I’ll take care of you…”

If only she had went with her gut feeling… Clayton’s hands were never cold.

(Your name) woke up to her body being wrapped comfortably in blankets and a glass of water on the bedside table. Two tabs of acetaminophen were even placed next to the crystal glass cup. A soft smile lit up her features.

Had Clayton laid with her for a bit like he used to? Oh she had missed those times so dearly. Maybe there was hope for them. He hadn’t been thoughtful in ages…

She happily accepted the glass of water and pain pills before she began to get around. She should make breakfast for them to show her appreciation.

Meanwhile, Clayton had fallen asleep in the study. His brown eyes slowly opened to wake up to the giant portrait of a woman that looked like (your name).

Hadn’t he covered that blasted picture up with a blanket?

He rose up to cover it once more but he noticed a paper placed on the desk written in furious red calligraphy. A writing style one would see in the 19th century rather than modern time.

Do not cover up my wife.

Wife? Who on earth wrote that?

Clayton glanced at the portrait once more, the smallest hint of unease hit him before it was gone.

This home was only for a few months. At least until his rough draft was finished. There couldn’t possibly be such a thing as ghosts, right?

He heard a knock at the door and saw his fiancée’s smiling face.

“Can we have breakfast together? It’s been a while since we’ve enjoyed a simple meal.” (Your name) smiled at Clayton who sighed.

“Maybe once I’m done with this page.” Clayton replied coolly. His amber eyes flicked back over to the writings that were scribbled on various sheets. “I’m very busy with the book.”

“…I understand.” (Your name) tried to mask her discontent with a reassuring smile, but if Clayton were to actually pay attention, he’d notice how strained the smile was. “I hope to see you soon.”

Their relationship had finally approached its finality and Clayton wasn’t even aware that the straw was about to break the camel’s back.

(Your name) waited a few hours in the morning for Clayton to eat with her. The warm food eventually went cold as she was met with disappointment once more.

A hiccup fell from her lips before she could stop it. A sob soon followed. There truly was no hope for this love to bloom again. The flowers of love were dead at last.

Yet in her frustration, she was unaware of the entity observed her from the shadows. A giddy gleam in his beady black eyes.

His wife… she needed him. And he wouldn’t let her down this time.

“Don’t worry, my love… I’ll make sure you love home and never want to leave me. You’ll never cry again.”

Clayton heard a clicking noise out in the hall. A sigh fell from his lips in annoyance. Did (your name) not understand he was busy? Wait… he promised to have breakfast with her.

Clayton turned his head toward the grandfather clock and cursed. It was nearly eight at night! Had he truly lost himself in his own little world for that long? He couldn’t imagine how upset his fiancée was…

He went to the door to open it but the handle wouldn’t budge.

Click. Click. Click. Was it locked from the outside?

“(Your name)? I’m sorry I didn’t come down for breakfast but you don’t have to lock the door.” Clayton rubbed the bridge of his nose. This wasn’t normal for her. She would never be this petty.

Click. Click. Click.

“(Your name) I’m serious. Open this door!” Clayton began to toggle the door hand even harder but it wouldn’t budge. It was almost as if the doorknob had been welded rather than locked. “(Your name)?! (Your name)-“

“She can’t hear you.” Clayton whipped his head around when he heard a raspy voice in the room with him. The hair stood up on the back of his neck when he realized he was the only person in the room.

“Who’s there?” Clayton hissed, his cognac eyes wildly searched the room. “Show yourself.”

Clayton jumped when the flames in the fireplace jumped to life. The flames nearly licked the carpet before it. What in the world?

“I don’t think someone like you could possibly comprehend what I am… so why don’t you take a seat for me, Clay.”

Before Clayton could spit out a retort, the floorboards suddenly came to life and slid him forward toward the armchair by the fireplace like a slide on a playground. What? This had to be a dream…

“You’re not a very good man.” The ghost told him. “You remind me of myself when I was alive. I was also so selfish and stubborn.”

Clayton wasn’t able to utter a word before an invisible force slammed him down to sit in the vintage recliner. The soft, mustard yellow fabric did little to calm him as the flames danced more violently in the fireplace. Ghosts weren’t real… he’s never believed in them before.

“I asked you to politely take a seat, but you seem to be the kind that has to learn the hard way.”

Clayton watched a shadowy, masculine form in the corner of the room as the figure made his way over to stand before the fireplace. His shadowy hand grasped the fire poker and stirred the wood.

“I was once a work oriented man. A wealthy merchant back then. I thought this beautiful house was all it would take to keep my lovely wife happy…” the entity continued to stir at the fire in thought. “She was so lovely, you know. So loving and kind. I took her for granted.”

Clayton could only listen in shock as the entity sighed. The ghost set down the fire poker to gently trace over the portrait of the woman who looked eerily similar to (your name).

Clayton felt a lump form in his throat. (Your name) had been so worried about those portraits and he had brushed her off. God he wished he had listened.

“My beautiful wife… it’s my fault she left me.” Bang! The entity suddenly slammed his fists into the wood above the fireplace. “She took her own life, all because I made her feel so lonely! But… but she returned to me.”

Clayton’s blood went cold as the temperature suddenly dropped in the study. What did the ghost mean by that? Was (your name) in danger?

“Listen, (your name) and I didn’t mean to disturb you. I think we will leave-“

Clayton didn’t have time to scream before the fabric of the recliner wrapped around his face and applied pressure. His fingers clawed at the wool fabric in vain.

“Leave? You’re not taking my (your name) away!” The entity hissed. Clayton soon felt more pressure held to his face and even around his throat. His hands clawed desperately at air. “This isn’t anything too personal, you’re just in the way of me reuniting with my beloved.”

Clayton felt his eyes roll back as he kept trying to fight the entity. He would never get the chance to apologize to (Your name). To tell her that he loved her. To hold her one more time and feel her kisses. He didn’t want to die. Not like this.

“Your body will do. Oh it’s been so long since I’ve had a body… I’ll take such good care of her this time. She’ll never be lonely again!”

Clayton felt his world go black, his heart finally stopped. The entity then released Clayton, the body flopped onto the floor with a thunk.

The entity stroked the purplish hue away from Clayton’s face. The entity soon hummed “here comes the bride” as he dug his shadowy hands into Clayton’s mouth to enter.

“My wife… my beautiful wife. We’re together again now.”

(Your name) stirred awake when she felt a hand touch her face. Her eyes slowly opened to see Clayton’s familiar silhouette.

“Clay?”

“Shh… go back to sleep, darling.” Her face scrunched up a bit in confusion. Darling? Clayton never used pet names. He always said they were childish.

But she didn’t argue when she felt a body beside hers in the bed. Clayton’s lean arms pulled her close as a nose buried itself into her neck to deeply inhale her scent.

“I missed you… I missed you so much.” He murmured into her skin before he pressed a few kisses to her neck. Yet they felt strangely cold.

“I missed you too.” She held his hand. A few tears slipped down her cheeks like a leaky faucet. “So much…”

“Shh… I’m here now.” Clayton whispered into her skin. “And I’ll never leave you alone again. I swear.”

She smiled as she let his honeyed words comfort her. It was so nice to finally be held again.

A shame this wasn’t Clayton. That he was the lonely entity that possessed this house that finally had its wish come true… a second chance.

(Your name) hummed as she made breakfast. The smell of bacon and fresh eggs filled the air.

For the first time in two months, Clayton came down to have breakfast with her. He sat eagerly at the table in the strangest of clothes. She didn’t know why he was wearing 18th-century clothes, but who is she to judge? She wasn’t a writer. Maybe he was in cosplay to get in the mood to write his story?

Clayton had even set the table with utmost manners he never displayed in his life. He must be really committed to this elegant character he presented himself as.

She served him his plate and paused at the weird, pungent smell he had. That was odd… Clayton never smelled like that before.

“Clay? You have a rather… peculiar scent.” (Your name) softly notified him. She knew how much Clayton hated when she was too blunt, so she always had to dance around her words in order not to hurt his feelings.

Clayton froze for a moment before he gave her a smile. “ I must be dirty from all that time I spent in the study. I’m so sorry, my darling.”

There was a pet name again. The darling…

“Clay? Are you sure you’re alright? You’ve never called me, darling before…”

Clayton’s fork and knife paused mid cut of the bacon. Another weird habit she never saw before.

“I haven’t? Do you not like it?” He asked, his brow furrowed with worry. “How about I call you my love instead?”

She shook her head and smiled. “You’ve just never used pet names before… I like them.”

Clayton then gave her a warm smile as he spoke once more. “Then I’ll call you all the pet names you’d like.”

Her heart fluttered. It had been so long since her fiancé paid attention to her and it felt so nice.

Clayton watched the way her cheeks flushed in pure joy. She looked so pretty when she was happy. He’d make sure to always keep her like that… but first he had to solve his problem with this body.

He would hate to rot so quickly on her. He would have to shove some posies in his pockets to mask the scent until he found a better solution.

A few days went by and she noticed Clayton bloated a bit. She didn’t trigger his gluten allergy with the toast, did she?

“Clay, do you need your EpiPen?” (Your name) asked Clayton who gave her a reassuring look.

“No, I’m fine. I just hadn’t ate with you in so long.” She smiled at his response.

“Are you sure? I’m a bit worried about you. You’re bloating…”

“I’m fine, truly.” Clayton reassured her. He wouldn’t let her see how anxious he truly was.

This body was decaying too fast… he wouldn’t be able to hold onto it. And he didn’t want to scare her with an animated corpse… he had to think of a different solution now.

Clayton hobbled to the basement before his body fell to the floor with a thunk. The entity cursed as he noticed the rot began in the stomach area. The temporary body was no longer viable anymore.

“You’re so useless even in death.” The entity rubbed the bridge of his nose.

He floated around the basement that held portraits of his human form from back in the day. A stern looking man with dark hair and a hooked nose was painted on each art piece… but the ghost’s favorite was the one where he was beside his wife.

“I have to find a way to keep you here.” He cried in anguish. “I can’t let you slip away again. I don’t want to be all alone…”

He lovingly traces the portrait’s face. He had waited here for over a hundred years for this second chance.

The ghost went over to the coffin in the basement before he opened it to reveal the skeleton inside. A Victorian death mask covered the skeleton’s face. This wasn’t ideal… but his old body wouldn’t smell like decay.

He could stuff the body and wear gloves… he knew his (your name) deserved more, but it’s all he could offer.

“This is for us… it’s all for us.” The ghost reassured himself as he lifted the mask for the first time in over a century.

The charade was up… and he’d have to burn Clayton’s body in the incinerator. He didn’t want Clayton to stink up the place.

There was not a doubt in (your name)’s mind when Clayton came to her that he wasn’t Clayton. She could no longer lie to herself.

Whoever this was, they were far too nice to her. Too chivalrous. Too gentle.

Where her fiancé once treated her with disdain, this man treated her as if she was more precious than gold.

She felt arms wrapped around her around her as the cold mask leaned on her shoulder.

“…what’s your real name?” She felt the man pause.

“W-what do you mean, my love?” He stuttered. His voice was raspy. It no longer even sounded like Clayton.

“You know what I mean.” She pulled away to turn around. Her hands gently cradled the masked face. “You’re far too sweet to me and your voice… it’s not Clayton’s.”

Hands shot up to hold her hands as a sob racked through the body of the man. She frowned in worry. This wasn’t a reaction she thought he’d have.

“I’m sorry… please don’t leave me!” Now this was a man who was desperate… it was refreshing to her.

“Shh… it’s okay. I’m not scared.” She lifted off the mask to show the face of a skeleton. A black liquid oozed from its eye sockets like a grotesque imitation of tears. The sight was something out of a horror movie, but she knew this entity didn’t want to harm her.

“I’m… I’m Frederick Anderson.” Frederick grasped her hands and pressed kisses to the back of them. Yet it felt odd since he only had his teeth exposed…

“Frederick?” She softly asked and Frederick nodded.

“I’m your husband! Well… the one last time.” He told her as he nuzzled her hands. He continued to try to kiss them. “You’re my wife… my beautiful (your name).”

She could not bring herself to be scared of him. Not when he seemed so desperate and lonely.

“Is that why you have so many portraits of me?”

“I painted them myself!” He exclaimed. “When you… died. I was so lost without you. Nothing mattered anymore. The townspeople all said I went mad, and I did. Life had no meaning if you weren’t in it!”

She listened as he began to ramble about their past life.

“I lost purpose. I had worked so hard to have this home made for us. To have the perfect place for us to start a family. I spent too long away from you.” He told her. “It’s all my fault. I should have never left you all alone… can you ever forgive me? I’ve already waited over a hundred years for you… I do not know if I can wait another century.”

“…I forgive you, Frank.” If it were possible, the skeleton became more animated.

“Frank… you haven’t called me Frank since 1853!! Oh happy day! It is so wonderful to hear it on your pretty lips again…”

She was suddenly pulled into a waltz, the skeleton hummed a cheery song from his time. Frederick was indeed romantic…

“You always wanted to dance together… I’ll dance with you all the time now!” Frederick told her while he pulled her body along in an elegant waltz. “I won’t let you down this time, I swear. We’re together again! Just my wife and I!”

They danced for several minutes until she felt the question from the back of her mind.

“…you killed Clay, didn’t you?”

“He made you cry, my love! And anyone who makes you cry doesn’t deserve to live!” Frederick exclaimed, his arms pulled her close. “I’ll scorch this world for you! Whatever you want, I’ll do it! I’ll commit atrocities in your name! Please never leave me again.”

(Your name) was frozen in his arms before she gently hugged him back. She couldn’t imagine being alone for so long… and she had without a doubt he wouldn’t let her leave anyways.

“I won’t leave you Frank. I’ll stay.” She rubbed his back as he sighed in contentment.

“Then I will be giving you my utmost attention. You are my beloved. My everything…”

975 notes · View notes

spencersmopbucket · 2 months ago

Text

Behind the Ribcage | Spencer Reid

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader Summary: You're Spencer's best friend & his case partner — but things get weirdly distant after you begin dating a local cop. Themes & Warnings: jealous!Spence, violence, angst with happy ending really. This is very self indulgent tbh, theres a reference to Toby Cavanaugh from PLL bc he's my favorite hot cop

When you'd joined the BAU, you'd taken the place by storm. You were a new agent — smart, strong, calculating, charismatic, feisty — everything that the ideal agent had. You were immediately wrapped into the crazy world that was profiling, fitting in like the missing puzzle piece.

Despite being a lot different than him, you clicked almost instantly with the BAU's Spencer Reid, boy genius.

You were fire, and he was water — fast mouth and fast fists when needed, where he was all statistics and careful dissection. But somehow, it worked. You’d been paired together almost from the start, assigned as partners on cases, and over the months it became second nature. If he moved, you moved. If you spoke, he listened. And you always had his six.

Hotch had done it perfectly, just as he'd figured. When he paired you together, he'd created an unstoppable duo. Someone to ground Spencer, to make him stronger, and someone to rationalize you and introduce you more to critical thinking and less to impulse.

Spencer would never admit to how much he’d grown dependent on that rhythm — on you. On knowing you’d be at his side in every hotel, briefing, and takedown. On the way you’d toss him a protein bar when he forgot to eat or let your fingers linger on his wrist a little too long after passing him a file.

And you would never acknowledge how right Aaron Hotchner had been. Spencer taught you not to always rush in, not to fight fire with fire. Sometimes it took calculation, plotting, manipulation. He was also just a comforting presence, someone to run cold water over a wound or to have your back when talking down an unsub. He was your constant. Consistently there for you. You never had to guess if you'd have Spencer.

When you met Cavanaugh, it was almost as if the feelings of comfort amplified. But they weren't about just Spencer anymore.

Toby Cavanaugh was a local cop the team had partnered with during a particularly brutal serial assault case in Pennsylvania. Handsome in a carved-from-stone kind of way, quiet but not shy, with this protective edge that felt so familiar to you — like an echo of everything you thought you wanted.

He was solid. Calm. Confident in a way that didn’t feel arrogant. He treated you like an equal, didn’t flinch when you challenged him in a briefing, and didn’t blink when you barked orders during a takedown. You respected him immediately — and, more dangerously, you liked him too. You liked him so much.

He had these blue eyes that could read right through you. He was broad and muscular. Any woman had to admit that Detective Cavanaugh was easy on the eyes.

You liked the way his hand always brushed your lower back when he walked past. The way he called you “agent” like it was some sort of nickname. You liked that he offered to drive you to the hotel when the case wrapped, and you liked the way his voice dropped when he asked, “Can I see you again?”

And you didn’t think twice about saying yes.

From there on out, Toby, not Cavanaugh, was showing up everywhere for you. On the job, he protected you ruthlessly, shoving back any threat that came within 10 feet. Outside of the job, he picked you up from work if he wasn't on shift. He cooked you dinner and ran you baths to relax you. He held you while you slept, warding off nightmares about awful cases you'd seen.

It was good. Maybe too good. The universe probably sensed that you were too happy and too content.

Because slowly — almost imperceptibly — the patterns began to change.

Spencer changed.

At first, it was small things. He stopped joining you at the coffee machine in the mornings, where you'd usually trade quiet smiles and inside jokes while everyone else wiped sleep from their eyes. He stopped waiting for you after briefings, letting you catch up instead of walking with you in perfect sync like he always had.

Then it got worse.

He started volunteering for assignments without you — walking into Hotch’s office before you had a chance to speak. He’d take files from JJ without passing them to you first. On one occasion, he even snapped at you during a suspect interview, interrupting mid-question to redirect.

You blinked at him across the table, stunned.

He didn’t even look at you after.

That night, you got home late. Your body ached, your brain burned, and as you stepped into the familiar warmth of your apartment, you saw Toby in the kitchen with his sleeves rolled up, plating pasta and pouring wine like he was some domestic god.

He took one look at your face and said, “Rough day?”

You wanted to say Spencer.

Instead, you said, “Yeah. Long.”

But Spencer was the undercurrent of it all. The constant ringing tension in your ribs.

You weren’t blind. You’d seen the way his jaw clenched when you answered your phone and smiled at the sound of your boyfriend’s voice. You noticed the way he walked away now instead of waiting for you to finish calls. You noticed the way he didn’t laugh anymore — not when you teased him, not when Morgan did. He was quiet. Sharp-edged.

And cold.

Cold in a way you never thought he could be — not with you.

Toby hummed, walking around the island in the kitchen to press a soft kiss to your cheek.

"Wanna talk about it? I'm no stranger to long days, you know."

You knew you could be honest with Toby. You always could. So you did.

You let out a long breath and leaned back against the counter, arms crossed tightly over your chest like it would hold the frustration in. Toby stepped closer, waiting — patient and steady, like always.

“It’s Spencer,” you said finally, the name heavy on your tongue.

Toby raised his brows slightly, but didn’t interrupt.

“He’s been… off. Ever since we got together. It’s like he’s trying to distance himself. I mean, we’ve always been a team, Toby. He’s my partner, my best friend. But now? He won’t even look at me. Won’t talk unless it’s strictly case-related.”

Toby nodded slowly, processing. “You think it’s about me?”

“I don’t want it to be,” you admitted. “But yeah. I think it is.”

You expected a flicker of jealousy, maybe defensiveness. But Toby just tilted his head, giving you a knowing look.

“Sometimes guys don’t realize what they have until they think they’re losing it,” he said, gently. “And it sounds like, for Spencer, you’ve always been… his partner. Maybe in more ways than what you realize.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard by the kindness in his tone.

“That doesn’t make it okay,” he added. “You don’t deserve to be iced out because someone else can’t deal with their feelings.”

You nodded, and for a moment, the silence was thick with unspoken things. Guilt. Confusion. Hurt.

Toby reached for your hand.

“You want me to talk to him?”

Your eyes widened slightly. “No. God, no. That’d make it worse.”

He chuckled lightly. “Fair enough.”

And you appreciated that — how he didn’t press, didn’t push. Just stood beside you, solid as ever.

But even as you sat across from him at dinner and tried to focus on the warmth of his hand over yours and the smell of garlic and basil, your mind wandered.

To Spencer.

To the way he used to look at you when he thought you weren’t watching. To how he always sat beside you on the plane, even when the seat was cramped. To how his fingers would brush yours when you passed him notes during briefings. How his voice would soften when he said your name.

You chewed slowly, heart too full and too confused.

Because it was good with Toby. Safe. Easy. Healthy.

But Spencer Reid was a different kind of ache. A different kind of want.

And the way he was pulling away was starting to feel like losing a part of yourself.

The next case was local. Joint operation. Which meant — of course — local cops. Which meant Toby.

You hadn’t seen Spencer’s jaw lock that hard since the last time he got shot.

It started subtly. Spencer barely acknowledged Toby’s greeting at the precinct, opting instead for a clipped nod and a murmured “Detective.” No handshake. No eye contact. No warmth.

Toby had noticed.

So had Morgan.

“You wanna tell me what’s got pretty boy wound so tight?” Morgan murmured as you prepped in the conference room.

You only shrugged, feeling the storm brewing before the first thunder cracked.

Things really started to spiral when the team and local PD were combing through suspect profiles — a list of men matching a violent pattern across multiple counties. Spencer sat at one end of the table, you next to him, and Toby leaned over your other side, reading over your shoulder. His hand lightly rested on the back of your chair.

“Your unsub’s MO escalated recently,” Toby said. “Blunt force trauma now, not strangulation. Means he’s getting sloppy, impulsive.”

Spencer scoffed — an uncharacteristic, biting sound.

“Or it means he’s adapting,” he cut in, not looking up. “You’re assuming he’s losing control when there’s nothing to suggest that yet. Impulsivity is a subjective label when you don’t understand the baseline pattern.”

The air in the room shifted.

Toby raised a brow. “Pretty sure I’m allowed to draw from experience here, Doctor.”

“I’m sure you are,” Spencer said coolly, flipping a page in the file. “Though we tend to prefer evidence-based analysis over gut feelings.”

You blinked between them. “Okay, let’s just—”

“Right. Because feelings aren’t useful in profiling?” Toby asked, standing straighter. “That’s rich coming from someone who clearly can’t separate his own from the job.”

Silence.

A beat.

Then Morgan muttered under his breath, “Damn.”

“Toby,” you warned quietly, heart lurching.

But Spencer didn’t back down. His tone dropped a note colder.

“I’m not the one who started dating a federal agent while assisting on a case.”

That hit.

You stood so fast your chair screeched back. “Enough. Both of you.”

Spencer finally looked at you, and it was the worst part — his eyes were hard, yes, but underneath? They looked hurt. Like he hated everything he’d just said but didn’t know how to stop himself.

You excused yourself quickly and walked out into the hallway, needing space to breathe. Toby followed first, hand brushing your arm.

“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag it out like that. He just — he gets under my skin.”

You turned to him. “He’s always under your skin, Toby. And you’re always in his. And I’m stuck in the middle of it.”

He frowned. “You’re not stuck.”

You hesitated. “Aren’t I?”

Toby stepped closer. “Are you telling me you’d rather be on his side?”

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. The answer came slower than you expected.

“No, Toby, but—”

The door opened behind you both. Spencer walked past without a word, his shoulder brushing yours like static.

He didn’t look back.

And suddenly, for the first time since meeting Toby Cavanaugh, your heart wasn’t where it used to be.

The rest of the case went slowly. You slowly got closer to leads, but the tension between Spencer and Toby made everything feel ten times heavier.

Every time they were in the same room, it was a minefield. Spencer was clinical, detached — he didn't so much as glance at you unless it was absolutely necessary. Toby, on the other hand, stayed close. Too close. Like he was trying to claim territory Spencer had already been silently living in.

You and Toby laid side by side in a hotel room the night before confronting the unsub. The bed was cold, different than normal. The tension had escalated from just between Spencer and Toby.

Now, it affected Toby and you.

You heard him sigh, shifting slightly. He had turned towards you, his blue eyes analyzing you. You couldn't bare to look at them.

"I know what you're thinking. And I'm not mad at you, Name." He said, a hand coming over to rest comfortingly on your knee.

You didn’t respond right away. You stared at the ceiling, the cheap fan clicking above you like a metronome, keeping time with the awkward silence stretching between you.

“I’m not mad,” Toby repeated, softer this time. “But I know you’re thinking about him.”

Your stomach twisted.

You turned your head slowly to meet his eyes — those same gentle, ocean-colored eyes that had once made you feel calm and sure. But now, all they did was make you feel guilty.

“I’m trying not to,” you admitted. Your voice was quiet, honest and shaky. “But it’s like I don’t even know how to not think about him. He’s just... always there.”

Toby gave you a sad smile, thumb brushing gently over your knee. “That’s what makes it harder. He was there first.”

Your throat tightened. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

“I know,” he said. “I didn’t plan on falling for you either. But I did. And maybe I’m just now realizing that I’ve been fighting a losing battle since day one.”

You sat up then, wrapping your arms around your legs. “Toby…”

“I love you,” he said, steady and sure. “But I’m not going to ask you to choose between us. Because that's not fair.. And I think that your heart chose before your head did.”

Your eyes began to well up with tears, lip wobbling.

"I love you too. So much."

"I know you do. But you love him too."

"I don't know--"

Toby smiled sadly, shushing you.

"You do know, baby. You just aren't ready to admit it."

He kissed your forehead softly, like he was sealing a memory more than showing affection. “You’re going to be okay,” he said gently. “Even if it’s not with me. It's a choice you need to make. I'm here if you want me — and if its not me you want, that's okay too.”

You closed your eyes at his words, tears slipping down your cheeks. The finality in his voice wasn’t cruel — it was kind, too kind, and it made it hurt worse.

Toby didn’t leave. He just laid back down beside you, quiet, respectful of your silence. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, like he was trying to convince you that he was the right decision. He stayed — like someone waiting for the scenes that come on after the credits roll.

The next morning, you didn’t speak much. Toby offered you coffee with a soft “Here,” but nothing more. When you entered the precinct for the takedown briefing, the air between you and Spencer was as taut as a wire. He glanced at you — not coldly this time, but cautiously, like he didn’t trust himself to look too long.

When Garcia patched in the last lead, you split up into the new normal pairs: you with Toby, Spencer with Morgan.

The tension never left. Not during the briefing. Not during the gear-up. Not even when you were sliding into the passenger seat of the SUV beside Toby, your eyes catching Spencer’s just once across the lot.

And then the operation started.

The unsub had gone mobile — a panicked attempt to flee the pressure closing in. Garcia’s last location ping had led your team to an abandoned warehouse on the edge of the city. Cold. Echoing. Smelling of rust and dust and adrenaline.

You and Toby cleared the left wing. Morgan and Spencer swept right. Everyone moved with precision — voices low, steps practiced, hearts pounding just beneath Kevlar and clipped radios.

The unsub came out of nowhere.

One moment you were rounding the corner with your weapon raised, the next you were on the ground, a white-hot pain ripping through your side as the knife wedged between your ribcage and your heart. You choked, panicked, your fingers immediately reaching for where you felt pain. You pulled them back, thick crimson covering them.

Toby was screaming your name. You couldn’t answer.

Your hand pressed instinctively to your side again, feeling the sticky warmth bloom beneath your fingers. You tried to stay upright, to aim, to breathe, but your body folded against the concrete floor.

Everything was muffled after that — shouts, more gunfire, boots pounding, someone yelling “SUSPECT DOWN!”

And then —

“Name!” Spencer’s voice, panicked. Raw.

He was kneeling beside you before you could process it, gloved hands replacing yours on your wound. Blood soaked through them anyway.

“Stay with me,” he said, voice cracking. “Come on, stay with me, look at me.”

Your vision blurred. You blinked slowly, heavy, dazed. “Spence…?”

“I’ve got you. Okay? Just — just don’t close your eyes. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.” He kept pressure on your side, his hands trembling as he did it. “Why weren’t you behind cover — god, I should’ve—” He shook his head. “I should've been there.”

Toby dropped to your other side, face pale and stricken. “She’s losing too much—Spencer, we need an ambulance now.”

“I already called it!” Spencer snapped. Not at Toby — not really — just at the situation, at the horror of watching someone you love bleed out in front of you. “She’s going to be okay. You’re going to be okay, do you hear me?”

You wanted to nod. Instead, your eyes fluttered.

Spencer leaned closer, forehead nearly touching yours, voice breaking. “Don’t you dare give up. Not now. Stay awake.” He begged, breath hitching. “You can't leave me alone. Not when I haven't—” he cut himself off, tears welling up in his eyes.

Your blood was warm against his hands, soaking through the sleeves of his FBI jacket. Spencer barely noticed. His world had narrowed to you — your paling face, your shallow breaths, your barely-there grip on consciousness.

Toby hovered just as close, voice cracking. “Come on, baby. Just hold on, okay? The ambulance is close. You just gotta hold on a little longer.”

Your lips moved. No sound came at first — then, the faintest whisper: “I’m… I’m trying.”

Spencer broke. A sob escaped him as he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours. “That’s it. Just keep fighting. For me. For us. Please.”

Red and blue lights strobed faintly from outside the warehouse windows. Sirens howled in the distance, drawing closer.

Toby reached out and gripped Spencer’s forearm tightly, grounding them both. “We’ve got her. We’ve got her.”

Spencer nodded shakily, eyes locked to yours, never once looking away. “I’m right here,” he promised. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And when the EMTs burst in moments later, rushing toward you, it took two agents to pull Spencer away. He didn’t stop talking to you the entire time — even as they lifted you onto the stretcher, even as your eyes finally slid shut from the blood loss.

In the waiting room, there was pacing, crying, panicked phone calls. Toby sat in a chair with his head in his hands. Spencer paced back and forth. Garcia and Morgan sat side by side, Garcia's manicured hand held tightly by Derek.

The hospital’s fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, far too bright for the weight of what hung in the air. Spencer’s footsteps echoed through the near-empty waiting room — back and forth, back and forth, like if he stopped moving, the fear would crush him.

Toby hadn’t moved in nearly fifteen minutes. He sat hunched forward, elbows on his knees, his hands tangled in his hair. His shoulders trembled every so often, silently, like the grief and helplessness were leaking out in waves too heavy to contain.

Garcia whispered something to Morgan, who just shook his head, his grip on her hand tightening. This was a pain even he couldn’t fix.

Finally, Spencer stopped moving.

He stared at Toby, chest heaving with the force of his unshed emotion. “She didn’t have to be out there. She wasn’t supposed to be in that position.”

Toby looked up slowly. His face was blotchy, raw, but his voice was steady when he said, “Don’t you think I know that?”

“She was my partner,” Spencer snapped, not out of cruelty — just exhaustion and pain. “She was my partner before she was yours. I should’ve—” He cut himself off, fists clenching. “I should’ve been there.”

Toby stood, eyes flaring. “And what? You think I didn’t want to switch places with her the second I saw her go down? You think I haven’t been dying inside knowing I couldn’t stop it?”

Spencer stepped closer, voice sharp. “Then why the hell didn’t you keep her behind cover?”

Toby surged forward, their chests nearly brushing. “Because she’s not a goddamn pawn, Spencer! She made the call. And if you knew her like you think you do, you’d know she’d never let someone else go in alone.”

That hit too close. Spencer’s jaw flexed, his breathing uneven. “Don’t talk to me like I don’t know her.”

“Then maybe act like it,” Toby hissed. “This isn’t about who’s hurting more. It’s about her.”

Spencer’s voice broke. “Everything is about her.”

And just like that, the fight drained out of both of them. The fire turned to ash. Toby sank back into the chair, elbows on his knees again, but this time he looked up.

“I love her, man,” he said hoarsely. "She's the easiest woman in the world to love."

Spencer swallowed hard, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. She is.”

The two men sat in the quiet aftermath of their clash — the rawness between them not hatred, but shared devastation. The truth had stripped them both down to nothing but the ache they carried for the same person.

“She used to talk about you,” Spencer added after a moment, eyes distant. “Back when you first joined the team. I’d ask her how it was going, and she’d smile — that kind of smile that’s more in her eyes than her mouth — and say you were ‘solid.’ That’s what she called you. Solid.”

Toby let out a soft, broken laugh. “She said that to me once, too. I thought it meant she didn’t really like me. Turns out, it meant I mattered.”

Spencer nodded slowly. “She’s careful with her words. When she says something like that... it sticks.”

Toby let out a shaky breath, a few tears slipping from his bloodshot blue eyes.

"She loves me, yeah. I know she does. But she really, really loves you, Reid. And all I want is for her to be happy."

Spencer’s throat tightened at the words. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had said that about him — or rather, about them. Toby’s words weren’t laced with jealousy, but a raw truth that broke Spencer’s heart more than anything.

Spencer laughed humorlessly, his voice tinged with frustration.

"I might be the smartest man in the world, but with her, all I do is screw up. It's like trying to solve a Riemann Hypothesis without knowing the fundamental theorem of algebra — I keep missing the point, no matter how hard I try."

Toby raised an eyebrow, clearly lost. "A... Riemann Hypothesis?"

Spencer shook his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. "Never mind," he muttered. "It’s just a math thing. The point is, I screwed up. I hate seeing her with you, no offense."

Toby's eyes softened, but his posture remained guarded. "None taken," he said quietly, his voice rough with understanding. He sat back in the chair, arms crossed, looking down at his hands for a moment before meeting Spencer's gaze. "I know who she's going to choose. And if she's happy, I'll gladly walk away knowing that the woman I love is being taken care of. Even if it isn't me taking care of her."

Spencer stared at his feet, going silent for a few moments before speaking.

"That's the most unselfish thing I've ever heard. Somehow it just makes me hate you more, Cavanaugh."

Toby chuckled softly, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair. The tension between them remained, but there was something in his eyes — a softness, a recognition that this wasn’t just about rivalry or competition. It was about something bigger than both of them.

"You really know how to throw a compliment, don’t you?" Toby teased, the bitterness in his voice softened by a hint of humor.

"And you know how to make a man feel appreciated. You showed me up at my job, which is what I'm known for, and then stole the girl I love."

Toby’s grin faded into something more genuine, a tinge of sadness behind his eyes. He looked at Spencer for a moment, his fingers tapping absently on his knee.

"Sorry."

Spencer rolled his eyes, crossing his arms.

"You're not. But it's alright."

The nurse stepped into the quiet room, her crisp white uniform a stark contrast to the tension that still hung in the air between Spencer and Toby. She looked at them both with a professional yet empathetic expression, taking in their somber faces.

"Gentlemen," she said gently, "you can see her now. She's stable, but still unconscious. We're monitoring her closely, but... it's a good sign. One at a time, please."

Toby stands, wiping his hands on his knees.

"Reid.. You can go ahead. When she wakes up, tell her I was here. And tell her I love her. Please. I gotta go."

Spencer noted the look in Toby's eyes. Glazed with tears, with a tint of 'goodbye.' Toby was letting go.

Spencer stood frozen for a moment, taking in the sincerity in Toby's words, the weight of them settling in his chest. He had expected bitterness, resentment — anything but the quiet acceptance that hung in the air now. Toby wasn’t fighting anymore.

The silence between them stretched, thick with the unspoken understanding that neither man was going to win this. The tension had been replaced by something far heavier, a grief that mirrored the one in Spencer’s heart.

Toby’s shoulders sagged slightly, his eyes avoiding Spencer’s gaze. But before Spencer could respond, Toby turned and made his way toward the door, not looking back.

Spencer watched him go, a flicker of guilt catching in his chest, but he pushed it down. Toby’s selflessness had made it all the more complicated. He didn't know what was right, what he could offer you that would make things better. What if he wasn’t enough?

Shaking his head, Spencer exhaled sharply, trying to push the thoughts aside.

Taking a step forward, he walked into the room where you lay, the sterile hospital smell overwhelming as he approached your bedside. The sound of the heart monitor was steady, the beeping a reminder of the fragility of life.

You were still unconscious, pale, and bruised, the faintest of scrapes lining your skin, but at least you were breathing.

Spencer sat beside you, his hand hovering above yours before he finally reached out, gently resting it on top of your cold fingers.

His lips wobbled. A tear fell.

"Still beautiful, somehow."

Spencer's gaze lingered on your face, the familiar features now shadowed by the bruises and cuts, the signs of the struggle you’d endured. The world seemed so fragile in moments like this, everything around him holding its breath as he did. His heart ached with the weight of what had happened, with the fear that he'd lost you before he could ever make things right.

His fingers tightened gently around yours, grounding him in the present. It felt surreal, sitting there next to you, waiting for a sign that you would wake up, that you would open your eyes and return to him.

"I’m sorry," Spencer whispered hoarsely, his voice breaking slightly as the tears continued to fall, betraying the stoic facade he tried so hard to maintain. "I don’t know how I let it get this far... but I’ll fix this. I swear, I’ll fix it."

He plopped down in the chair beside you, leaning over the railing of the bed and hiding his head in his arms. He tried to fight it, he really did. But he wept. Sniffles filled the room, silent cries. His shoulders shook, but he made no sound, as if the tears were the only release he could allow himself.

He almost didn't notice the gentle weight on his head, fingers threading through his tousled hair.

Spencer tensed at the touch, unsure if it was real or if his mind was playing tricks on him in the haze of exhaustion and grief. But then, a soft, familiar voice broke through the fog, like a beacon pulling him back to reality.

"Spence..." Your voice was barely a whisper, hoarse and fragile, but it was enough to make his heart skip a beat. The warmth of your fingers in his hair was unmistakable. It was you. You were awake.

His head snapped up, eyes wide with disbelief, his breath caught in his throat. He looked down at your face, still marked by the violence you’d endured, but the flicker of recognition in your eyes made everything else fade into the background.

"You’re awake," Spencer stammered, his voice thick with emotion, barely able to grasp the reality of it. "I thought... Oh my god." His hand reached for yours again, holding it more firmly this time, like he never wanted to let go.

You blinked up at him, your gaze swimming in confusion, but there was something reassuring in your touch, something grounding.

"Of course I'm awake." you murmured weakly, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. "But... you’re really going to have to stop crying, Reid. You’ll ruin that genius face of yours. Make it all snotty."

Spencer’s breath caught in his throat, the lump in his chest threatening to choke him as he laughed softly, his smile breaking through the tension for the first time in what felt like forever.

"I’m... I’m just glad you're okay," he choked out, his voice trembling. "I don’t care about my face."

You squeezed his hand lightly, your thumb brushing over his knuckles in a gesture of comfort. It was almost like you were trying to reassure him, as if the roles had been reversed.

"I'm not going anywhere, Spence," you said softly, your voice steadying as you tried to sit up, but your strength failed you, and you collapsed back against the pillows.

Spencer was immediately at your side, his hand gently urging you to rest. "Take it easy. You’ve been through enough."

You nodded, eyes half-lidded, still recovering from the ordeal. The silence between you two felt different now, more comforting, like the storm had passed, at least for the moment.

"Not very nice to stick knives in people's ribs. Did we get him?" You asked weakly.

Spencer's expression darkened at the mention of the attack, but he quickly pushed it down, not wanting to bring more worry into the room. His thumb lightly stroked the back of your hand, offering comfort as you struggled to sit up.

"Yeah," he said quietly, his voice a little rough. "He's been dealt with. You don't need to worry about him anymore." He paused for a moment, the weight of the situation hitting him again. "You’re safe now."

You let out a soft sigh, relief flooding through you at his words. Despite how weak you felt, you managed to offer him a small, tired smile.

"I missed you. You're done being mean to me?"

Spencer’s chest tightened at your words, his heart ached, and for a moment, it felt like the world around him paused. He had been so caught up in the fear of losing you that he hadn't fully realized how much he missed you, how much he had missed this — being close to you, sharing moments like this without the weight of unspoken words hanging in the air.

His thumb continued to trace the back of your hand as he leaned in a little closer, his voice gentle yet full of sincerity.

"Never again. Never."

You smiled again.

Spencer remembered what he'd agreed to tell you.

"Toby was here. Until you got out of surgery and the nurse let us see you. He told me to tell you.. he loves you."

Your expression softened at Spencer's words, the mention of Toby a bittersweet reminder of everything that had unfolded. For a moment, you didn’t say anything, just took in a slow, steady breath, trying to process everything.

"I... I never meant for any of this to happen," you murmured, looking down at your hand in Spencer's, the weight of the situation pressing down on you. "I never wanted to hurt him."

Spencer squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your skin in a silent gesture of comfort. "You didn’t," he said softly, his voice unwavering. "You never meant for any of it. But what matters now is that you’re here. And Toby... well, as much as I hate his existence, he's completely unselfish. He's okay with whatever you do, as long as you're happy."

"Seems kind of like a brown-noser to me, but what would I know?" He muttered to himself.

A soft, tired laugh escaped your lips, the sound cracking slightly but genuine nonetheless. It was the first real laugh you'd let out in what felt like forever, and it made Spencer’s chest swell with something warm and fragile.

You gave his hand a weak squeeze. "Just because he's not the jealous type doesn't make him a brown-noser," you scold with a wry smile. "He’s a good guy. Just... not my guy."

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, something unreadable in his gaze. Hope. Fear. Relief. All tangled into one.

"I’m not good at this," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "I say the wrong things. I push people away. But I never stopped—" he stopped himself, cleared his throat. "I never stopped caring about you. Even when I was too proud or too angry to show it."

Your fingers found his again. "You're doing just fine, Spence."

He exhaled, slowly, like the weight of your forgiveness let him breathe again for the first time.

"You’re really not allowed to almost die again," he said, a small smile returning to his lips. "I don’t handle it well."

"Yeah?" you whispered, eyes fluttering closed. "Then I guess I’ll stick around."

He played with your fingers for a moment, gathering the courage to say what he wanted to say. To do what he wanted to do. He was tired of being a coward. Tired of never getting what he wanted because he couldn't speak up unless it was something venomous coming out of his mouth.

Spencer's gaze drifted to your joined hands, watching as his thumb traced absent circles on your skin. His mind was racing, heart pounding against his ribcage like it was trying to escape. You were here. You were alive. And for once, the world had given him a second chance.

He swallowed hard, then leaned in, his voice quiet but firm, like he didn’t want to lose the nerve halfway through.

"I don’t want to pretend anymore," he said, barely above a whisper. "I don’t want to act like I don’t care, or like it didn’t kill me to see you with someone else. I messed things up — God, I know I did — but if there’s even the smallest chance… that you still feel something for me, I want to try. For real. No more walls. No more pride."

Your eyes fluttered open, hazy but focused on him. He looked wrecked — eyes rimmed red, lips trembling, jaw clenched in restraint — but honest. So achingly honest.

"I love you," he added, the words rushing out before he could second-guess them. "I’ve been in love with you for longer than I want to admit. And if you’ll let me… I want to earn you back."

Your eyes softened impossibly, pupils blown wide.

You didn’t speak right away—how could you, when your heart was pounding louder than the monitor beside you? His words echoed in your chest, tearing down the last defenses you’d held up between you.

You blinked slowly, tears beginning to gather at the corners of your eyes, not from pain, but from the sheer, overwhelming relief of finally hearing the thing you’d needed most.

"Spence…" you breathed, your voice catching, raw. "You never lost me. I just didn’t think you wanted me anymore."

His face crumpled, that fractured look of disbelief giving way to something closer to joy — quiet, tentative, but real. He leaned forward, forehead resting gently against yours, so careful not to hurt you.

"I love you so much. I always have. You've been so close yet so far. And now," you took a shaky breath. "Now I'm ready to admit that it's you."

Spencer closed his eyes, and you felt the faintest shiver pass through him — not from cold, but from the overwhelming emotion that trembled in his chest.

He didn’t speak at first. He couldn’t. The words lodged somewhere in his throat, too swollen by the enormity of what you’d just said. Instead, he let the silence hold the moment, let the press of your foreheads be the vow neither of you had been brave enough to make before.

“You don’t know what that means to me,” he whispered. “To hear you say that. After everything.”

You cupped the side of his face with the little strength you had, your fingers brushing the tear that had fallen down his cheek.

“I do,” you said, soft but certain. “Because I mean it.”

Spencer kissed your hand. Once. Then again. Like he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m yours,” he said simply, earnestly. “If you’ll still have me.”

And even though you were bruised and broken, you smiled — wide, real, and with more love than words could carry.

“Always.”

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